The Long Way Home(111)

Clara smiled, but saw Myrna and Gamache watching Chartrand. And Clara could guess what they were thinking. Exactly what she was thinking.

It was a miraculous, and timely, recovery on the part of Marcel Chartrand. So sick for so long. But resurrected just in time to arrive in Tabaquen.

Clara knew he’d been genuinely seasick. But perhaps not quite as sick as he seemed.

And now all five leaned against the railing as the Loup de Mer sailed down the coast, almost eerie now in the extreme calm.

Myrna switched her gaze to Armand. Where the others watched the shore, Gamache was facing forward. Not looking at where they were, or had been, but where they were going.

Here was a mariner. A man before the mast. But he also, this bright morning, looked like what he was by nature. A homicide detective. In the land God gave to Cain.

And Myrna knew then that this day might begin with startling calm, but it would almost certainly end in death.





THIRTY-EIGHT

“That’s Agneau-de-Dieu,” said Jean-Guy.

Clara hadn’t spoken in half an hour. No one had spoken in fifteen minutes.

In silence they’d watched the coastline and listened to the familiar sound of the hull through the tranquil water.

The sun was up, revealing a land almost unspeakably beautiful. Simple. And clear. Rocks, lichen, shrubs. Some determined trees.

And then the small harbor and the homes built on stone.

Agneau-de-Dieu. A few children stood on the shore and waved. Greeting the ship that didn’t pause.

Clara forced herself to wave back and noticed that Chartrand did too.

Did he know them? Is that why he waved?

But her mind couldn’t rest on that thought. It went back to the only thing it could contain.

Peter. Peter was here, somewhere.

Then Agneau-de-Dieu was behind them, out of sight, and they couldn’t yet see Tabaquen. A jagged fist of rock jutting into the river separated the two.

Clara’s breathing came in quick shallow gasps, as though she’d run a great distance. She felt her hands grow cold. Was she turning to stone, she wondered. Like the hares.

They rounded the outcropping and Clara squared her shoulders and finally took a deep breath, preparing herself. Steeling herself.

And then she caught her first sight of Tabaquen.

The harbor was a natural shelter, the rocks reaching into the river on both sides, like stone arms. Here, unexpectedly, there were trees. Dwarfed, clinging to the ground. But determined to live. It looked like stubble on a worn face.

The harbor formed a sun trap, a rocky bowl. So that things lived here that would perish elsewhere. It was an oddity of nature and geology and geography.

As the ship glided to the long quai, the harbor felt like a sort of a haven.

Was that how a sorcerer lured his victims?

Was that how a muse might do it? Lull you in, lure you in. From the storm. With the promise of eternal safety. Eternal peace.

Was this what death felt like?

Clara took a step back from the railing, but Myrna stopped her. Held her firm.

“It’s all right,” she whispered.

And Clara, her heart pounding, stopped. And stepped forward again.

They grabbed their cases and waited for the gangway.

Gamache was first in line, but Clara, wordlessly, stepped in front of him. And he, wordlessly, stepped back.

When the bridge from ship to shore appeared, Clara was the first to take it.

Down, down, down. She led them, until she was standing on the dock. Her friends behind her.

“With your permission,” Gamache said, and Clara could see that something had shifted. He was asking, to be courteous. But that was all.

Clara nodded and Armand Gamache did not hesitate.

He walked briskly to the first person he saw, an elderly man with a large oiled hat, watching the Loup de Mer unload.

“We’re looking for a fellow named Norman,” he said. “He might go by the name No Man.”

The man looked away, out to the open river.

“Get back on the boat. There’s nothing here for you.”

“We need to see No Man,” Gamache repeated, his voice friendly but firm.

“You should leave.”

“Armand?” Myrna asked.

She and Clara were standing a distance away, scanning the harbor and the village for Peter. But there was no one about. No man, no woman, no child. The place felt more abandoned than deserted. As though everyone had fled. One step ahead of a disaster.

Myrna could feel her resolve slipping away. Flowing and flooding away. Pouring through the cracks in her courage. Behind them was the ship. With the croissants and the bathtub and the soft, rhythmic rocking.

It would take them home. To her croissants and her bathtub, and the solid ground of Three Pines.

Gamache and Beauvoir walked over to them.

“Jean-Guy and I need to find Norman. And you need to stay here.”

“But—” Clara was silenced by the slightest movement of his hand, and the determination in his face.

Whether he held the rank of Chief Inspector or not, this man would always lead, and would always be followed. Even if following sometimes meant staying behind.

“We’ve come this far,” said Clara.

“And this is far enough,” said Gamache. His look was so kindly she felt herself calming down.

“I need to find Peter,” she insisted.