The Long Way Home(60)

“Following what? Her heart? Love droppings?” asked Beauvoir.

The Chief turned to him and lowered his voice. “And if Annie was missing? Would you let someone else look for her?”

Jean-Guy paled at the very thought. “Never.”

“Clara’s right, Jean-Guy. She has a better chance than anyone of knowing what Peter would do and where he’d go. If she follows her heart and we follow our heads, we might find him.”

“I guess that leaves me with the stomach,” said Myrna, who’d overheard their conversation. She held up a paper bag filled with sandwiches from Sarah’s boulangerie. “Who wants to follow me?”

She put the sandwiches and a cooler in the car while the others loaded up the men’s suitcases. They were about to get in themselves when Clara held out her hand.

Jean-Guy looked at Gamache, who nodded. Beauvoir dropped the keys into Clara’s palm, walked around the car and was about to get into the passenger side when Myrna stepped in front of him. Once again Jean-Guy looked at Gamache, and once again the Chief nodded.

The men got into the backseat.

Clara was in the driver’s seat.

“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” Beauvoir whispered to Gamache.

“Clara’s an excellent driver. We’ll be fine.”

“I don’t mean that, and you know it.”

“Clara will be fine,” said the Chief.

“Yeah. Fine.”

Jean-Guy leaned forward just as the car started to move.

“Are we there yet?” he asked.

“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” Myrna asked Clara.

“He’ll be fine.” She pressed the gas and turned the car toward the road out of the village. The north road.

“I’m hungry,” said Jean-Guy. “I have to pee.”

As they passed the bench at the top of the hill, inscribed with Surprised by Joy, Gamache turned in his seat. And looked back.

And there he saw Reine-Marie standing in the middle of the road.

He turned away, concentrating on the road ahead and trying to ignore the lump in his throat.





TWENTY-TWO

“Now what?” asked Jean-Guy.

He’d naturally turned to Gamache, but the Chief deflected the question over to Clara.

They’d gone around to all the B and Bs in Baie-Saint-Paul. All the country auberges. All the hotels, both shabby and high-end.

No Peter.

To make matters worse, Baie-Saint-Paul was enjoying the height of the summer tourist crush, and it became clear that while they were having trouble finding Peter, they would also have trouble finding a place to stay that night.

Clara looked this way and that, up and down the crowded main street. It was hot and she was frustrated. She’d thought they’d drive into Baie-Saint-Paul and find Peter standing on a street corner. Waiting.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Myrna said, and Clara nodded, grateful for the help. “I think we need to regroup. We have to find someplace to sit down and think.”

She looked around at the crowded terrasses and the happy tourists eating and drinking and laughing. It was all very annoying.

“We’ve thought enough,” said Clara. “That’s all we did for days and days in Three Pines. Now we need to act.”

“Thinking is an action,” said Gamache from a few paces away. “Running around might feel good, but it accomplishes nothing. And at this stage, wasting time is doing damage.”

“He’s right,” Myrna said, and received a filthy look from Clara.

“I have to use the toilet.”

“You said that all the way here,” snapped Clara.

“Well, this time it’s true.”

They turned to look at Jean-Guy, who was shifting from one foot to the other.

Clara surrendered. “Oh, Christ. Okay. Let’s regroup.”

“This way.” Jean-Guy pointed and led them down a slight hill, along a narrow side street, taking them further and further away from the tourist hubbub.

These streets, not much more than alleyways, were lined with row homes and old-fashioned, unfashionable businesses. Hardware stores, family-run drugstores, dépanneurs selling cigarettes and lottery tickets and soft, white POM bakery bread. Every now and then they caught a glimpse of grayish blue between the bright clapboard and fieldstone buildings. The river. So vast, so wide it looked like the ocean. Jean-Guy Beauvoir led them away from the tourist crush, into an area only locals knew.

“Over here.”

They followed Beauvoir to a shabby inn.

“But we’ve already asked here,” said Clara. “Haven’t we?”

She turned around. Beauvoir’s serpentine route had disoriented her.

“Oui,” he said. “But we came in the front way. This is the back.”

“And you expect a different answer depending on which door we go through?” asked Myrna. “I suspect Peter still isn’t here, even if we climb in through the window.”

Which, she thought, they might have to do if they didn’t find a place for the night soon.

“We’re asking a different question.” Beauvoir now looked like his hair was on fire. “Through here.”

He led them through a small archway, and suddenly they were confronted with the thing only hinted at through the cracks between buildings. Like catching glimpses of a huge creature, but just its tail, or nose, or teeth.