Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(54)

Gamache noticed that when she did it, it was a virtue, whereas when CC did it it was grotesque.

‘Though Isaiah is the Old Testament, so you’re off the Christian hook.’ Gamache smiled. ‘Why did you choose that particular saying?’

‘It’s actually quite close to the Buddhist belief that if we’re quiet and calm we’ll find God,’ Mother explained. ‘It’s a beautiful thought.’

‘It is indeed,’ said Gamache, and meant it. ‘Quiet and calm.’ He turned away from the saying and looked down directly into the eyes of the elderly woman beside him. ‘And still.’

Mother barely hesitated. ‘And still, Chief Inspector.’

‘Merci, Madame.’ He put a firm hand on Beauvoir’s arm and guided him to the door. Beauvoir didn’t even bother zipping his coat. He dived out the door and into the frigid evening feeling as though he’d plunged into a cold mountain stream. He coughed and sputtered as the freezing air hit his lungs, but he didn’t care. He was finally coming back to his senses.

‘Here, give me the keys.’ Gamache held out his hand and Beauvoir, without protest, dropped them in. ‘You all right?’ He got the Inspector into the passenger’s seat.

‘I’m fine. That woman, that place.’ He waved a weary hand around his head. He still felt nauseous and hoped he’d be able to hold it in until they got back to the B. & B. But he couldn’t.

Five minutes later Gamache was holding Beauvoir’s head at the side of the road as he vomited and coughed and cursed that woman and her cloying claustrophobic calm.





TWENTY




‘I’ll be fine.’ Beauvoir looked like death.

‘Eventually, yes,’ said Gamache as he practically carried the man up the stairs and into Beauvoir’s bedroom at the B. & B. He helped Beauvoir undress and ran a bath, and eventually, clean and warm, Beauvoir subsided into the large comfortable bed, with its soft flannel sheets and eiderdown duvet. Gamache fluffed up the pillows and brought the duvet up to Beauvoir’s chin, all but tucking him in. He placed the tray with tea and crackers within reach.

Beauvoir’s feet rested on a hot water bottle, wrapped in a cozy, the warmth spreading slowly from his freezing feet up his shivering body. Beauvoir had never felt so sick or so relieved.

‘Feel better?’

Beauvoir nodded, trying not to let his teeth chatter. Gamache put his huge cool hand on the younger man’s brow and held it there a moment, looking into Beauvoir’s feverish eyes.

‘I’ll get you another hot water bottle. How does that sound?’

‘Yes please.’

Beauvoir felt as if he was about three years old, sick, and looking beseechingly into his father’s strong and certain eyes. Gamache returned a few minutes later with the hot water bottle.

‘She cursed me,’ said Beauvoir, curling himself round the hot water bottle, no longer caring whether he looked like a little girl.

‘You have the flu.’

‘That Mother woman cursed me with the flu. Oh, God, do you think I’ve been poisoned?’

‘It’s the flu.’

‘Bird flu?’

‘People flu.’

‘Or SARS.’ Beauvoir struggled up. ‘Am I dying of SARS?’

‘It’s the flu,’ Gamache said. ‘I need to leave. Here’s the cell phone, here’s a cup of tea. Here’s the wastepaper basket.’ He held the tin bucket up for Beauvoir to see, then placed it on the floor by the bed. His own mother had called it a ‘burp bowl’ when he’d been sick as a child, though they both knew burping wasn’t the problem. ‘Now rest and sleep.’

‘I’ll be dead when you get back.’

‘I’ll miss you.’ Gamache straightened the fluffy white duvet, felt the man’s forehead again, and tiptoed out. Beauvoir was already asleep.

‘How is he?’ Gabri asked as Gamache descended the staircase.

‘Asleep. Will you be here for a while?’

‘I’ll make sure I am.’

Gamache put his coat on and stood at the threshold. ‘Getting colder.’

‘Snow’s stopped. I hear tomorrow’s supposed to get down to minus twenty.’

Both men looked out the door. The sun had long since set and the trees and pond were lit. A few people were walking their dogs and skating. The bistro was throwing its welcoming light and the door opened and closed as villagers went for their late afternoon toddy.

‘Must be five,’ said Gabri, nodding toward the village green. ‘Ruth. She looks almost lifelike.’

Gamache left the warmth of the B. & B. and hurried round the Commons. He considered pausing to speak to Ruth but decided against it. Something about the woman warned against casual, or any kind of, conversation. His feet squeaked on the snow, a sure sign that the temperature was plunging. His face felt as though he was walking through a cloud of tiny needles and his eyes watered slightly. With regret he walked past the bistro. It had been his intention to sit in the bistro each afternoon with a quiet drink to review his notes and meet the villagers.

The bistro was his secret weapon in tracking down murderers. Not just in Three Pines, but in every town and village in Quebec. First he found a comfortable café or brasserie, or bistro, then he found the murderer. Because Armand Gamache knew something many of his colleagues never figured out. Murder was deeply human, the murdered and the murderer. To describe the murderer as a monstrosity, a grotesque, was to give him an unfair advantage. No. Murderers were human, and at the root of each murder was an emotion. Warped, no doubt. Twisted and ugly. But an emotion. And one so powerful it had driven a man to make a ghost.