Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(110)

‘Yvette.’

‘What is it?’ She turned round, a dull gray sweater bunched into a ball in her hands. Her voice was petulant, a tone he’d heard her use with others with some satisfaction, but never with himself. Now he noticed the smell of smoke. It seemed to get stronger as he approached her, as though his daughter had been scorched.

‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. She’d told him about the fire, of course. But hearing her on the phone describing it from Three Pines had seemed unreal. Now, actually smelling the smoke, imagining her that close to the flames, he felt overcome with terror. Had he really come that close to losing her? For a lie? A fictitious Uncle Saul?

‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. I told you everything already.’ She turned her back to him. For the first time. In one fluid, vicious, calculated move she changed his life for ever. She turned away from him.

Gutted, barely able to speak, Ari Nikolev tried to find the courage to tell his daughter she’d almost lost her life because of a lie he’d told. And retold. All her life.

She’d hate him, of course. Nikolev, staring at his daughter’s back, had a vision of his life stretching forward for years, bleak and cold. All the warmth and laughter and love turned to ice and buried beneath years of lies and regret. Was the truth worth it?

‘I want—’

‘What do you want?’ She turned back to him now, willing him to ask her again. To get her to open up. To get her to tell him again and again about the devastating fire until it became a part of the family lore, its jagged edges worn and softened by repetition.

Please, please, please, she silently begged him. Please ask me again.

‘I want to give you this.’ He reached into his pocket and dropped into her free hand a single butterscotch candy, its cellophane crackling as it landed, like the very beginning of a fire. As he walked down the gloomy corridor the smoke clung to him, in the way his daughter once did.





‘Who were you speaking to?’ Reine-Marie asked, getting into the car.

‘Michel Brébeuf.’ Gamache put the car into gear. The plan begins, he thought. As they drove out of Three Pines they passed a motorist who waved.

‘Was that Denis Fortin?’ asked Gamache, who knew the art dealer slightly.

‘I didn’t see, but that reminds me,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I met a friend of yours in the bistro. He said it was good to see you again.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘Billy Williams.’

‘And you understood what he said?’ asked Gamache in amazement.

‘Every word. He asked me to give you this.’ She held up the small paper bag on her lap, protecting it from their latest family member. Henri sat in the back seat, listening alertly to their conversation and wagging his tail. Reine-Marie opened the bag to show Gamache a slice of lemon meringue pie. Gamache felt goose bumps on his arms.

‘Look, there’s a napkin in here with something written on it,’ said Reine-Marie, diving into the bag and pulling it out. ‘Isn’t that funny?’

Gamache pulled the car to the side of the road near the top of du Moulin.

‘Let me guess,’ he said, feeling his heart thudding in his chest.



‘Where there is love, there is courage



Where there is courage, there is peace



Where there is peace, there is God.



And when you have God, you have everything.’





‘How did you know?’ Reine-Marie asked, her eyes wide with astonishment, her hands delicately holding the napkin.

In the rearview mirror Armand Gamache could see Three Pines. He got out of the car and stared down at the village, each home glowing with warm and beckoning light, promising protection against a world sometimes too cold. He closed his eyes and felt his racing heart calm.

‘Are you all right?’ Reine-Marie’s mittened hand slipped into his.

‘I’m more than all right.’ He smiled. ‘I have everything.’





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS




As ever, and always, the first person to thank is Michael, my amazing, lovely, brilliant and patient husband.

Thank you to Gary Matthews and James Clark for fielding urgent questions about electricity. To Lili de Grandpré for making sure the French is correct, especially the swear words, which I, of course, never normally use, but apparently she does. Thank you to Marc Brault for lending me his fine name. To Dr Robert Seymour and Dr Janet Wilson for thinking about the medical issues and coming up with the answers I needed.

There’s a fair amount of curling in A Fatal Grace, a sport I happen to love. I played it a bit in Thunder Bay and Montreal and respect the focus and poise the players have, never mind their ability to make amazing shots under pressure. It’s a thrilling sport, despite what Inspector Beauvoir might think. I visited the Sutton Curling Club and spoke to Wayne Clarkson, Ralph Davidson and Bob Douglas, who explained strategy to me. Thank you for your time and patience.

I met Anne Perry at a mystery conference in Canada before my first book, Still Life, had been published. She agreed to read it and became the first established writer to endorse the book, a massive event for any debut novelist. Anne Perry is lovely, both inside and out, and I’m deeply grateful to her for giving me the time of day, never mind the endorsement. I’m extremely grateful to all the other writers who also endorsed the book. This is no small task, having to read the whole thing on top of the million other calls on their time. But Margaret Yorke, Reginald Hill, Ann Granger, Peter Lovesey, Deborah Crombie and Julia Spencer-Fleming all gave me that time. And I will do it for others, if asked.