Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(86)

‘Wait,’ said Gamache. ‘What’s happening?’

Olivier stopped in his tracks as though seeing an apparition.

‘Bon Dieu. I’d forgotten you were here. There’s a fire. The siren’s coming from the train station telling all the volunteer firefighters to get there. Ruth just called to tell me where the fire is. I’m the driver of the pump truck. She’s going there directly with Gabri.’

Gabri jogged down the corridor from their mudroom in his insulated khaki and yellow firefighter’s garb, reflecting strips round his arms, legs and chest, a black helmet under his arm.

‘I’m off.’ He kissed Olivier on the lips and squeezed his arm before running into the bitter cold.

‘What can we do?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Get into your warmest clothes and meet me at the old railway station.’ Olivier didn’t look back, disappearing into the night, his parka flapping as he ran. Lights were appearing at homes all round the village.

All three raced upstairs, reassembling in minutes near the front door. Running across the village green Beauvoir could barely breathe for the searing cold. With each breath his nostrils froze shut and the air was like an ice pick in his sinuses, shooting pain through his forehead and making his eyes tear and freeze. By the time they were halfway to the train station he could barely see. Of all nights for a fire, he thought, struggling to keep his eyes open and his breathing even. The cold was already inside him, as though he was naked, his sweaters and jeans and warm clothing useless against this barbarous chill. Beside him Nichol and Gamache were coughing, also trying to catch their breaths. It was like inhaling acid.

The siren stopped as they got partway across. Beauvoir didn’t know what was worse, the shriek of the alarm or the shriek of the ground as though the earth itself was crying out in pain with every step they took. In the dark he could hear invisible villagers coughing and stumbling, rushing like doughboys toward God knew what Hell.

Three Pines was mobilized.

‘Put those on.’ Olivier pointed to firefighting clothes hanging neatly in open lockers. The three of them did as they were told and soon the place was full of other volunteers. The Morrows, Myrna, Monsieur Béliveau and a dozen or so more villagers all rapidly and without panic putting on their equipment.

‘Em’s started the phone chain, and the buses are warming up,’ Clara reported to Olivier, who nodded his approval.

Glum-faced they stood at the wall staring at the huge map of the township.

‘Here’s the fire. Down the Old Stage Road toward St-Rémy. About four kilometers along there’s a turnoff to the left. Seventeen rue Tryhorn. It’s a kilometer up on your right. Let’s go. You come with me.’ He gestured to Gamache and the others and strode toward the pumper truck.

‘That’s Petrov’s place. I’m sure of it,’ said Beauvoir, swinging up into the truck beside Gamache while Nichol squeezed into the back seat.

‘What?’ said Olivier, heading the huge truck toward the Old Stage Road, the other vehicles following.

‘My God, you’re right.’ Gamache turned to Olivier, shouting over the noise. ‘There’s someone in the house. His name’s Saul Petrov. Could it be a false alarm?’

‘Not this time. A neighbor called in the report. She saw flames.’

Gamache stared out the window watching the headlights slice into the night along the snow-covered road, the truck almost outpacing the light.

‘Minus thirty,’ said Olivier, as though to himself. ‘God help us.’

There was silence in the cab then as they tore along, the vehicle skidding slightly on the ice and snow. Ahead they could see other vehicles turning.

What met them was even more horrible than Gamache imagined. He felt like a pilgrim in Hell. A pumper truck from Williamsburg had just arrived and was spraying water on the burning house. The water was freezing almost before it hit the flames and the spray was coating everything in a layer of ice. The volunteers looked like active angels coated in crystals as they directed their spray to the fire. Men and women of all ages worked together in well disciplined teams. Icicles hung from their helmets and clothing and the unscorched parts of the house looked like glass. It was like something out of a particularly macabre fairy tale, both spectacularly beautiful and horrible.

Gamache leaped out of the truck and made for Ruth Zardo, standing nearby in her fire chief’s outfit, directing operations.

‘We’ll soon need another water source,’ she said. ‘There’s a pond here somewhere.’ Peter and Clara turned to look for evidence of a frozen pond, but all they saw was darkness, and snow.

‘How’ll we find it?’ Peter asked.

Ruth looked around and pointed. ‘The neighbor’ll tell you.’

Peter ran to the pumper truck and grabbed a power auger while Clara ran to a woman standing alone, her gloved hand to her mouth as though she was in danger of inhaling the horror she was witnessing. Within moments the Morrows and the woman were no more than a flashlight bobbing in the distance.

The burning house was illuminated by the headlights of cars swung into preordained positions for that very purpose. Gamache knew a leader when he saw one, and now he understood why the people of Three Pines had elevated Ruth to fire chief. Gamache suspected she was used to Hell so this held no terror. She was calm and decisive.

‘There’s someone in that house,’ he shouted above the roar of the water and flames and rumbling vehicles.