Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(10)

‘But still,’ said Gabri, ‘it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘What is?’ Mother asked, her voice and face serene, but her shoulders up round her ears.

‘Well, that CC should call her book Be Calm. That’s the name of your meditation center.’

There was silence.

‘What?’ said Gabri, knowing he’d somehow put his foot into it.

‘It must be a coincidence,’ said émilie, evenly. ‘And it’s probably a tribute to you, ma belle.’ She turned to Mother, laying a thin hand on her friend’s plump arm. ‘She’s been in the old Hadley place for about a year now; she’s no doubt been inspired by the work you do. It’s a homage to your spirit.’

‘And her pile of crap is probably higher than yours,’ Kaye reassured her. ‘That must be a comfort. I didn’t think it was possible,’ she said to Ruth, who looked at her hero with delight.

‘Nice hair.’ Olivier turned to Clara, hoping to break the tension.

‘Thank you.’ Clara ran her hands through it, making it stand on end as though she’d just had a scare.

‘You’re right.’ Olivier turned to Myrna. ‘She looks like a frightened doughboy from the trenches of Vimy. Not many people could carry off that look. Very bold, very new millennium. I salute you.’

Clara narrowed her eyes and glared at Myrna whose smile went from ear to ear.

‘Fuck the Pope,’ said Kaye.





CC straightened the chair again. She stood dressed and alone in the hotel room. Saul had left without a goodbye kiss offered or expected.

She was relieved to see him go. Now, finally, she could do it.

CC held a copy of Be Calm and stood at the window. Slowly she brought the book up to her chest and pressed it there as though it was the piece that had been missing all her life.

She tilted her head back and waited. Would this be the year they eluded her? But no. Her lower lip trembled slightly. Then her eyes fluttered and a small lump fizzed in her throat. And then they came, racing cold down her cheeks and into her now open, cavernous, silent mouth. And she tumbled down that dark chasm after them and found herself in a familiar room, at Christmas.

Her mother stood beside a long dead and undecorated pine tree propped in the corner of the stark, dark room, a sprinkling of sharp needles on the floor. A single ball hung on the tree and now her mother, hysterical and howling, yanked it off. CC could still hear the storm of needles hitting the floor and see the ball racing toward her. She hadn’t meant to catch it. Had only put her hands up to protect her face, but the ball had landed right in her palms, and stuck there, as though finding a home. Her mother was on the floor now, rocking and crying, and CC was desperate for her to stop. Desperate to shut her up, silence her, calm her before the neighbors called the police again and again her mother was taken away. And CC was left alone, in the company of strangers.

For an instant, though, CC hesitated and looked at the ball in her hands. It glowed and was warm to the touch. On it was painted a simple image. Three tall pine trees grouped together like a family, snow nestled on the bowing branches. Below it was written, in her mother’s hand, No?l.

CC leaned into the ball, losing herself in its peace and calm and light. But she must have looked too long. A banging on the door tore her away from the three pines and back to the horror in front of her.

‘What’s going on in there? Let us in,’ the man’s voice demanded from the other side of the door.

And CC had, though it was the last time she ever let anyone in, anywhere.





Crie walked by the Ritz, stopping to stare into the plush hotel. A doorman ignored her, not offering to let her in. She moved on slowly, her boots sodden with slush, her woolen mittens hanging off her hands, the caked snow dragging them to the ground.

She didn’t care. She trudged along the dark, snowy, congested streets, pedestrians bumping into her and giving her disgusted looks, as though fat children had spread their feelings like icing on slabs of cake, and swallowed them.

Still she walked, her feet freezing now. She’d left the house without proper winter boots, and when her father had vaguely suggested maybe she wanted something warmer she’d ignored him.

Like her mother ignored him. Like the world ignored him.

She ground to a stop in front of Monde de la musique. There was a poster of Britney Spears, dancing on a hot, steamy beach, her happy backup singers grinning and gyrating.

Crie stood before the window a long time, no longer feeling her feet or her hands. No longer feeling anything.





‘I beg your pardon?’ Clara asked.

‘Fuck the Pope,’ Kaye repeated, as clear as day. Mother Bea pretended she hadn’t heard and émilie stepped slightly closer to her friend, as though positioning herself in case Kaye collapsed.

‘I’m ninety-two and I know everything,’ Kaye said. ‘Except one thing,’ she conceded.

There was another long silence. But curiosity had replaced embarrassment. Kaye, normally so taciturn and abrupt, was about to speak. The friends gathered closer.

‘My father was with the Expeditionary Force in the Great War.’ Of all the things they thought she might say, this wasn’t one of them. She was speaking softly now, her face relaxing and her eyes drifting off to stare at the books on the shelves. Kaye was time-traveling, something Mother Bea claimed to do while yogic flying, but had never achieved to this degree.