Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(88)

It was a root cellar. Cases of Molson beer, wine, boxes of potatoes and turnips and parsnips. It smelled of dirt and spiders and smoke. Beauvoir shone his light to the far end and saw a wave of smoke rolling its slow motion way toward him. It was almost mesmerizing. Almost.

‘Nichol? Petrov?’ he shouted, for form’s sake, backing toward the ladder. He knew they weren’t there.

‘Quickly, Jean Guy.’ Gamache’s voice was urgent. Beauvoir poked his head out of the trap door, noticing the door to the next room was smoking. Soon, they both knew, it would burst into flames.

Gamache hauled him out of the hole.

The noise was mounting as the flames approached. Outside the shouts were growing ever more frantic.

‘These old houses almost always have a second stairway up,’ said Gamache, sending his flashlight beam around the kitchen. ‘It’ll be small and maybe boarded up.’

Beauvoir yanked open cupboards while Gamache pounded on the tongue-in-groove walls. Beauvoir had forgotten the home of his grand-mère in Charlevoix, with its tiny secret staircase off the kitchen. He hadn’t thought of it in years. Hadn’t wanted to. Had buried it deep and covered it over, but here he was in a strange house, on fire, and now the memory decided to come back. Like that smoke in the basement it rolled inexorably toward him, slowly engulfing him, and suddenly he was back in that house, in that secret stairway. Hiding from his brother. Or so he thought until he’d grown bored and tried to leave. The door had been locked from the outside. He had no light and suddenly he had no air. The walls closed in, crushing him. The stairs moaned. The house, so comforting and familiar, had turned on him. His brother had said it was an accident when the hysterical child had been found and removed but Jean Guy had never believed it, and had never forgiven him.

Jean Guy Beauvoir had learned at the age of six that nowhere was safe and no one could be trusted.

‘Here,’ he shouted, staring into the half doorway. He’d taken it for a broom closet, but now his flashlight showed a set of steep, narrow steps leading up. Shining his light to the top he saw the trap door was closed. Please God, not locked.

‘Let’s go.’ Gamache moved ahead of Beauvoir into the stairway. ‘Come on.’ He looked back, puzzled, as Beauvoir hesitated then entered the dark, narrow space.

The stairs were built for tiny people from a century ago, undernourished Québecois farmers, not the well-fed S?reté officers of today, wearing outsized winter firefighting clothing. There was barely enough room to crawl. Gamache took off his helmet, and Beauvoir did the same, relieved to be free of the cumbersome piece of equipment. Gamache edged up the narrow steps, his coat scraping the walls. It was black up ahead and their flashing lights played on the closed trap door. Beauvoir’s heart was pounding and his breathing fast and shallow. Was the smoke getting thicker? It was. He was sure he could feel flames at his back and turned to stare behind him, but saw only darkness. It wasn’t much of a comfort. Please, let’s just get out of here. Even if the entire second floor was in flames, that was better than being entombed in the stairway.

Gamache put his shoulder to the trap door and shoved.

Nothing happened.

He shoved again, harder. It didn’t budge.

Beauvoir looked back down to where they’d been. Smoke was seeping under the door below. And the door above was locked.

‘Here, let me through.’ He tried to shove past Gamache, even though a piece of paper wouldn’t get by. ‘Use the axe,’ he said, his voice rising. He could feel his skin tingling and his breathing coming in quick shallow gulps. His head felt light and he thought he might pass out.

‘We need to get out of here,’ he said, hitting the walls with his fist. The stairway had him by the throat and was choking him. He could hardly breathe now. Trapped.

‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache called. His cheek was on the ceiling, his body pressed against it. He couldn’t go forward and he couldn’t go back and he couldn’t comfort Jean Guy, who was panicking.

‘Harder, push harder,’ Beauvoir shouted, his voice rising in hysteria. ‘God, the smoke’s coming in.’

Gamache could feel Beauvoir cramming his body against his in an effort to get further from the smoke and flames.

We’re going to die here, Beauvoir knew. The walls were closing in, dark and narrow, binding and suffocating him.

‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache shouted. ‘Stop it.’

‘She’s not worth it. For God’s sake, let’s go.’ He was shouting and tugging at Gamache’s arm, dragging him back down into the darkness. ‘She’s not worth it. We have to get out of here.’

‘Stop it,’ Gamache commanded. He turned as much as he could in the tight area, Beauvoir’s flashlight hitting his face, blinding him. ‘Listen to me. Are you listening?’ he barked. The frantic tugging eased. The stairwell was filling up with smoke now. Gamache knew there wasn’t much time. He strained to look past the light and catch the face beyond.

‘Who do you love, Jean Guy?’

Beauvoir thought he must be hallucinating. Dear God, was the chief about to quote poetry? He didn’t want to die with Ruth Zardo’s dreary words in his ears.

‘What?’

‘Think of someone you love.’ The chief’s voice was insistent and steady.

I love you. The thought came to Beauvoir without hesitation. Then he thought of his wife, his mother. But first was Armand Gamache.