Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(61)

‘I know men,’ he’d said, when she’d protested.

‘But men won’t find me attractive in these.’ She’d jabbed her finger at the pile of clothes. ‘I thought you said you wanted Gamache to like me.’

‘Not to date. Believe me, he’ll like you in those.’

As she turned to find her toiletry bag he slipped a couple of butterscotch candies into the suitcase, where she’d find them that night. And think of him. And with any luck never realize he had his own little secret.

There was no Uncle Saul. No slaughter at the hands of the communists. No noble and valiant flight across the frontier. He’d made all that up years ago to shut up his wife’s relatives camped in their home. It was his lifeboat, made of words, which had kept him afloat on their sea of misery and suffering. Genuine suffering. Even he could admit that. But he’d needed his own stories of heroics and survival.

And so, after helping to conceive little Angelina and then Yvette, he’d conceived Uncle Saul. Whose job it was to save the family, and who had failed. Saul’s spectacular fall from grace had cost Ari his entire fictional family.

He knew he should tell Yvette. Knew that what had started as his own life raft had become an anchor for his little girl. But she worshipped him, and Ari Nikolev craved that look in her gray eyes.

‘I’ll call you every day,’ he said, lifting her light case from the bed. ‘We need to stick together.’ He smiled and cocked his head toward the cacophony that was the living room as the relatives shouted at each other from entrenched positions. ‘I’m proud of you, Yvette, and I know you’ll do well. You have to.’

‘Yes, sir.’

None of the f*cking relatives lifted their heads as she left, her father carrying her case to the car and putting it in the trunk. ‘In case there’s a crash, it won’t hit you on the head.’

He hugged her and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t mess up.’





And now she approached Three Pines. At the top of du Moulin she slowed, her car skidding slightly to the side on the slippery road. Below her the village glowed, the lights off the tall trees reflected red and green and blue on the snow and the ice, like a giant stained glass window. She could see figures moving back and forth in front of the windows of the shops and homes.

A feeling roiled in her chest. Was it anxiety? Resentment perhaps about leaving her own warm home to come here? No. She sat in the car for a few minutes, her shoulders slowly sagging from up round her ears and her breath coming in long, even puffs. Trying to identify this strange feeling. Then, knitting her brows together and staring out the windshield at the cheery little village, she suddenly knew what she was feeling.

Relief. Was this what it felt like to let the weight down, the guard down?

Her cell phone rang. She hesitated, knowing who it was, and not wanting to leave her last thought.

‘Oui, bonjour. Yes sir, I’m in Three Pines. I’ll be polite. I’ll win him over. I know how important this is. I won’t mess up,’ she said in response to his warning.

She hung up and took her foot off the brake. Her car glided into the village and came to a stop in front of the B. & B.





Eleanor and Henry were going at it hammer and tongs. Their sons were fracturing, turning on each other and their parents. Each character was exploding, sending shards into each other. It was devastating and brilliant. By the end Gamache looked down, surprised to see his plate empty. He didn’t remember eating. He didn’t remember breathing.

But he did know one thing. Given a choice, Eleanor and Henry would be the last people on earth he’d want as parents. Gamache sat staring at the closing credits, wondering what he’d missed, because he’d surely missed something. There was a reason CC had the tape and a reason she’d taken the name de Poitiers, and presumably a reason she’d thrown out a perfectly good video. This tape was found in her garbage. Why?

‘Maybe she bought a DVD,’ suggested Clara when he’d asked them for their theories. ‘We’ve been slowly switching our collection over to DVD. All Peter’s favorite movies eventually go screwy because he watches the good parts over and over.’

‘Hello, everyone,’ Gabri’s cheerful voice called from the kitchen. ‘I heard about the movie night. Am I too late?’

‘The film just finished,’ said Peter. ‘Sorry, old son.’

‘Couldn’t get away earlier. Had to minister to the sick.’

‘How is Inspector Beauvoir?’ Gamache asked, walking into the kitchen.

‘Still asleep. He has the flu,’ Gabri explained to the rest. ‘Am I feverish? Hope I didn’t get it.’ He offered his forehead to Peter, who ignored him.

‘Well, even if you’ve picked it up we’re not at risk,’ Ruth commented. ‘The chances of it jumping from Gabri to a human are pretty small.’

‘Bitch.’

‘Slut.’

‘So who’s looking after him?’ Gamache asked, wondering if he should head for the door.

‘That Agent Nichol showed up and booked herself in. Even paid for it herself using little rolled up bills. Anyway, she said she’d look after him.’

Gamache hoped Beauvoir was unconscious.





Beauvoir was having a nightmare. Through his fever he dreamed he was in bed with Agent Nichol. He felt nauseous again.