The Long Way Home(113)

“He arrived a couple days ago, I think.” The voice drifted in through the open door as though the wider world was speaking to them. “I’ve lost track of time.”

“When did this happen?” Beauvoir asked. “Not a couple of days ago. He died fairly recently.”

“Last night. Early this morning maybe. I found him like that this morning.”

There was a pause and Gamache walked to the door. Peter was sitting, collapsed in the chair, stunned.

“Look at me,” said Gamache, his voice calm, reasonable. Trying to bring Peter back to reality. He could see Peter detaching, drifting away. From the cabin, from the coast, from the horrific discovery.

From the blood-sodden bed, and the stone man with the slit throat. Like a grotesque sculpture. Gamache couldn’t decide if the look of extreme peace made it better or worse.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t here. Professor Norman sent me away, asked me to leave the two of them alone and come back in the morning. This morning. When I did, I found—” He waved toward the cabin door.

Gamache could hear Beauvoir taking pictures and dictating into his device.

“White male. Cause of death, a wound to the throat made with a large knife, cutting from the carotid artery to the jugular. No sign of struggle. No sign of the weapon.”

“Did you touch anything?” Gamache asked.

“No, nothing.” And Peter sounded so revolted that Gamache believed him.

“Has anyone else been here since you arrived this morning?”

“Only Luc. He comes by every morning. I sent him away to call for help.”

Now Peter really focused on Gamache.

“Isn’t that why you’re here, Armand?” Then Peter became confused, flustered. “But what time is it?” He looked around. “It can’t be that late. How’d you get here so fast?”

“By Luc you mean Luc Vachon?” said Gamache, sidestepping the question for the moment. Peter nodded.

“A follower of No Man?” asked Beauvoir from inside the cabin.

“I suppose. A student, really.”

“Did Vachon get close to the body?” Gamache asked.

“Close enough to know what had happened,” said Peter. His own eyes widened, remembering the sight.

“Close enough to take something?” asked Beauvoir. “Like the knife?”

He’d come out onto the porch and was staring at Peter. So like the Peter they’d known for years, but so unlike him too. This Peter was vague, unsteady. At sea. His hair was long and windswept and his clothing, while clean, was disheveled. It was as though he’d been turned upside down and shaken.

“I don’t know,” said Peter, “he might have gotten close enough.”

“Think,” said Gamache, his voice firm, not bullying, but commanding.

Peter seemed to steady himself. “It was all so chaotic. We were yelling at each other. Demanding to know what had happened. He wanted to move the pillow, but I stopped him. I knew enough to know nothing should be touched.”

“But was Vachon close enough to take the knife?” Beauvoir asked.

“Yes, I guess so.” Peter was getting upset now, belligerent, feeling badgered. “But I didn’t see a knife and I didn’t see him take one. He seemed as shocked and upset as me. You don’t think Luc did it?”

Gamache looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon.”

But that meant nothing to Peter.

“When did you send Vachon to call?” asked Beauvoir.

“I got here about seven, as usual. Luc came a few minutes later.”

“Five hours.” Beauvoir looked at Gamache.

“Where would Vachon have gone to call?” Gamache asked. “Tabaquen?”

“Probably. Phone service is sketchy here, but the harbormaster generally has a good line. Needs it in case there’s an emergency on the water.”

“As far as we know, Luc Vachon never made that call,” said Gamache. “Either because he didn’t want to, or because he couldn’t.”

“If Luc did it, why’d he come back?” Peter demanded, his brain kicking in.

“Maybe he left the knife behind,” Gamache suggested. “Maybe he needed to make sure the professor was really dead. Maybe whoever did it sent him back, to retrieve the knife or other evidence.”

“‘Whoever did it’?” Peter asked. “Who do you mean?”

Gamache was looking at him. Not with the eyes of Armand, his friend. But the sharp, assessing, unrelenting gaze of the head of homicide.

“Me? You think I killed him? But why?”

“Maybe the Muse told you to do it,” Gamache suggested.

“The Muse? What’re you talking about?”

Gamache was still staring at him and Peter’s eyes widened.

“You think I’ve gone mad, don’t you? That this place has driven me insane.”

“Not just the place,” said Gamache. “But the company. Professor Norman lectured on the tenth muse. Isn’t that why you came here? To find him. And her?”

Peter flushed, either with rage or embarrassment at being caught out.

“Maybe it was all too much for you, Peter. You were lost, desperate to find a direction. Maybe the combination of Norman’s beliefs and this place was too much.” Gamache looked out at the vast, open, empty terrain. Sky and rock and water. “It would be easy to lose touch with reality.”