Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(90)

Could this be hope?

The thought had warmed her and sent her off to sleep wrapped in the promise of belonging, of finally taking a seat in the living room.

She’d told Gamache about Uncle Saul.

‘Why did you go in there?’ he’d asked when they were warming up in the school bus, elderly volunteers handing out sandwiches and hot drinks.

‘To save him,’ she’d said, feeling herself falling into his eyes, wanting to curl up in his arms. Not as a lover, but as a child. Safe and loved. He’d saved her. He’d fought his way through the fire, for her. And now he offered her something she’d longed for and looked for all her life. Belonging. He wouldn’t have saved her if he didn’t care for her. ‘You’d said the photographer was in there and I wanted to save him.’

Gamache had sipped his coffee and continued to stare at her. He’d waited until no one else was around then lowered his voice. ‘It’s all right, Yvette. You can tell me.’

And she had. He’d listened closely, never interrupting, never laughing or even smiling. At times his eyes seemed full of sympathy. She told him things that had never left the walls of her immaculate home. She’d told him about stupid Uncle Saul in Czechoslovakia, who’d flunked out of the police and failed to save his family. Had he succeeded he’d have been able to warn them of the putsch, to protect them. But he couldn’t, he didn’t and he died. They all died. They died because they didn’t belong.

‘You went in there because his name was Saul?’ Gamache had asked, not mocking, but wanting to be clear.

She’d nodded, not even feeling defensive or needing to explain or blame. He’d sat back in the seat, staring out the window at the still burning house, the efforts of the firefighters no longer to save it but to let it burn itself out.

‘May I give you a piece of advice?’

Again she’d nodded, eager to hear what he might say.

‘Let it go. You have your own life. Not Uncle Saul’s, not your parents’.’ His face had grown very serious then, his eyes searching. ‘You can’t live in the past and you certainly can’t undo it. What happened to Uncle Saul has nothing to do with you. Memories can kill, Yvette. The past can reach right up and grab you and drag you to a place you shouldn’t be. Like a burning building.’

He’d looked out again at the hungry, licking flames, then back at her. He’d leaned forward then until their heads were almost touching. It was the most intimate moment she’d known. In a soft voice he’d whispered, ‘Bury your dead.’

Now she lay in bed, warm and safe. It’s going to be all right, she said to herself, noticing the soft snow falling on the windowsill. She brought the duvet up to her chin and buried her nose in the bedding. It smelled of smoke.

And with the smell came a ragged phrase, shouted through the smoke. Cutting through and finding her curled on the floor, terrified and alone. She was going to die, she knew. Alone. And instead of the rescuers finding her, their words did.

She’s not worth it.

She was going to burn to death, alone. Because she wasn’t worth saving. The voice had belonged to Beauvoir. What didn’t chase those words down that corridor, through the acrid smoke, was Gamache’s voice saying, ‘Yes she is.’

All she’d heard was the roar of the approaching fire, and her own heart howling.

Fucking Gamache would have left her to die. He wasn’t looking for her, he wanted to find Petrov. Those were the first words out of his mouth when he’d found her. ‘Where’s Petrov?’ Not ‘Are you all right,’ not ‘Thank God we found you’.

And he’d tricked her into telling him about Uncle Saul. Into betraying her father. Her family. Now he knew everything. Now he knew for sure she wasn’t worth it.

God damn Gamache.





‘It must have been arson,’ said Beauvoir, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. He was famished.

‘Ruth doesn’t think so,’ said Gamache, spreading strawberry jam on his croissant and sipping his strong, hot coffee. They were in the dining room of the B. & B., a warm, cozy room dominated by a huge fireplace and a window with a view of the forests and the mountains beyond, obscured now by the heavily falling snow.

Both men were whispering, their throats raw from the smoke and the shouting of the night before. Gabri looked like hell, and Olivier had closed the bistro and would only reopen for lunch.

‘You’re getting what you’re getting this morning. No special orders,’ Gabri had snapped when they’d shown up. Then he’d produced an exquisite breakfast of eggs and maple-cured back bacon, French toast and syrup. And steaming, buttery croissants. ‘Fortunately for you, I cook when I’m stressed. What a night. Tragic.’

After he’d retreated to the kitchen Beauvoir turned back to Gamache.

‘What d’you mean she thinks it wasn’t arson? What else could it be? A main suspect, at the very least a witness in a murder case, dies in a fire and it isn’t murder?’

‘She says the neighbor saw flames shooting out the chimney.’

‘So? Flames were shooting out everywhere. They were almost shooting out my ass.’

‘The neighbor thinks it was an accident, a chimney fire. We’ll see. The fire inspector’ll be there now. We’ll get a report by this afternoon. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, Jean Guy.’