A Fatal Grace (44 page)

Nothing.

The power had been knocked out. Climbing out of bed he closed his window, put on his dressing gown and slippers and opened his door. He could hear some hushed voices down below. On the main floor he met a magical sight. Gabri and Olivier had lit oil lamps and hurricane candles. The room was made up of pools of amber light. It was exquisite, a world lit only by fire. The fireplace was on and threw flickering light and heat. He moved closer to it. The furnace must have been off for hours and the house had chilled.

‘
Bonjour, monsieur l’inspecteur
,’ came Olivier’s cheerful voice. ‘The heat’s back on, thanks to our emergency generator, but it’ll take an hour or so for the house to warm up.’

Just then the place gave a shudder. ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ said Olivier. ‘It’s really kicking up outside. News last night said we could get fifty centimeters, almost two feet.’

‘What time is it?’ Gamache asked, trying to get his watch close to an oil lamp.

‘Ten to six.’

Gamache woke the others and they breakfasted as the original inhabitants of this old stagecoach inn might have. By firelight. On toasted English muffins, jam and
café au lait
.

‘Gabri plugged the oven and the espresso machine into the generator,’ explained Olivier. ‘No lights, but we have the necessities.’

The electricity was back on but flickering by the time they fought their way across to the Incident Room. The snow slashed out of the sky, hitting them sideways. Leaning into it and bowing their heads they tried not to lose their way in the short slog across the familiar village. The snow drove into them, finding its way up their sleeves and down their collars, into their ears and into every cranny of their clothing as though searching for skin. And finding it.

At the Incident Room they unwound their scarves, shook packed snow from their sodden tuques and kicked their boots against the building to get the worst of the snow off.

Lacoste was stuck in Montreal with the storm and would spend the day at headquarters. Beauvoir spent the morning on the phone and finally found a pharmacist in Cowansville who had recorded selling niacin in the last few weeks. He decided to head over there, even though the snow made the roads almost impassable.

‘Nothing to it,’ he said, exhilarated to be at the end of the case and heading into a storm. The hero, the hunter, challenging the odds, meeting adversity, fighting the worst snowstorm anyone had ever seen anywhere. He was astonishing.

He dashed out, only to find the new snow up to his knees. He waded through to his car and spent the next half hour shoveling it out. Still, it was fluffy and light and brought back memories of prayed-for storm days off school.

The storm didn’t keep the villagers inside and a few were doing their errands on snowshoes and cross-country skis, barely visible through the gusts. Beauvoir’s was the only car on the road.

‘Sir.’ Lemieux came up to him an hour later. ‘I found this under the door.’

He held an envelope, long and thick and damp from melted snow.

‘Did you see who brought it?’ Gamache looked from Lemieux to Nichol. She shrugged and went back to her computer.

‘No sir. In this storm someone could be right at the building and we wouldn’t know.’

‘Someone was,’ said Gamache. On it was written in precise, exquisite script, ‘Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, Sûreté du Québec’. He tore it open, dread rising in him. Scanning the two pages rapidly he shot to his feet and strode across the room, throwing his coat on and not even bothering to do it up before plunging into the brutal day.

‘May I help?’ Lemieux called after him.

‘Get your coat on. Agent Nichol, come here. Get your coat on and help clear my car.’

She glared at him, no longer bothering to hide how she felt, but did as she was told. Working hard the three of them had his Volvo dug out within minutes, though the snow just kept piling up.

‘Good enough.’ He yanked open the door and threw the scraper and shovel in. Lemieux and Nichol raced to the other side of the car, trying to be the first to get into the passenger’s seat.

‘Stay here,’ Gamache called before shutting the door and heading out. The tires spun, trying to get a grip. Suddenly the car lurched forward. Looking in the rearview mirror Gamache saw Lemieux still hunched over where he’d given the back of the car a push. Nichol was lounging behind him, her hands at rest on her hips.

Gamache’s heart was pounding but he forced himself not to step on the gas. So much snow had fallen it was getting difficult to distinguish the road from the off-road. At the top of du Moulin he hesitated. The windshield wipers were working furiously, barely keeping up. Snow was piling high and he knew if he stopped too long he’d be stuck. But which way?

He leaped out of the car and stood on the road looking one way then the other. Which way? To St-Rémy? To Williamsburg? Which way?

He forced himself to settle down, to be calm. To be still. He heard the howl of the wind and felt the cold snow plaster against him. Nothing came. There was no wall for writing, no voice whispered through the wind. But there was a voice in his head. The brittle, bitter, clear voice of Ruth Zardo.

When my death us do part

Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again,

Or will it be, as always was, too late?

Jumping back in the car he headed as fast as he dared for Williamsburg, to where forgiven and forgiving would meet again. But would he be too late?

How long had that letter sat there?

After what seemed an eternity the Legion came into view. Driving beyond it he turned right. And there was the car. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. He pulled in behind and leaped out.

Standing on the brow of the small hill he looked out onto Lac Brume, snow hitting his face full on and near blinding him. In the distance, between gusts, he could just make out three figures struggling on the ice.

‘Namaste, namaste,’ Mother repeated, over and over until her lips dried and cracked and bled and she couldn’t speak any more. The word was stuck inside and there she repeated it. But it kept sliding off the terror in her heart and could find no purchase. Mother fell silent with just her terror and disbelief to keep her company.

Kaye struggled in the middle, her legs barely working any more, propped up between her friends, as she realized she’d been all her life. Why had it taken until now to understand that? And now, in the end, for it was the end, she was totally dependent upon them. They held her up, sustained her, and would guide her into the next life.

She knew then the answer to her riddle. Why her father and his friends had cried ‘Fuck the Pope’ as they went to their deaths.

There was no answer. They were his words, his life, his path and his death.

This was hers. She’d spent her entire life trying to solve something that had nothing to do with her. She’d never understand and she didn’t have to. All she had to understand was her own life and death.

‘I love you,’ she croaked, but the words were stolen by the wind and scattered far from old ears.

Em held up Kaye as the three stumbled further onto the lake. Mother had stopped shivering or trembling and even her crying had stopped until there was just the howling of the storm.

They were near the end now. Em could no longer feel her feet or hands. The only consolation was that she wouldn’t have to endure the pins and needles agony of feeling them thaw. The wind blew and through its keening she could hear something else. Across the lake there came the strains of a single violin.

Em opened her eyes, but all she could see was white.

Ice here.

Armand Gamache stood on the bank. The barbarian wind raced out of the mountains, across the lake, past the three women, past the buried curling rink and the spot where CC had died, gathering strength and pain and terror and finally hitting him in the face. He gasped for breath and clutched Em’s letter, the white paper invisible against the white snow behind and in front and all around him. He was enveloped in white, as were they.

He took a step forward, yearning to race onto the lake after them. Every part of who he was demanded he save them, but he stopped, sobbing with the effort. In her letter Émilie had begged him to let them die, like the fabled Inuit elders who walked onto an ice flow and drifted to their deaths.

They’d murdered CC, of course. He’d known that since the day before. He suspected he might have known it for much longer. All along he’d known it was impossible no one saw the murder. Kaye could not have been sitting beside CC and not seen her killer.

And then there was the murder itself. It was far too complicated. The niacin, the melted snow, the tilted chair, the jumper cables. And finally the electrocution perfectly timed for when Mother cleared the house, and all eyes and ears were on her.

And then to clear up the cables afterwards.

No one person could have done it without being seen

The bitter niacin was in the tea Mother served at the Boxing Day breakfast. Em had spread the anti-freeze when she’d delivered the chairs to the site. She’d sat in the chair herself, to keep CC away from it.

Kaye was pivotal. Gamache had assumed whoever had electrocuted CC had attached the cables to the chair first, then hovered around Billy’s truck waiting for the right moment to attach them to the generator. But Em’s letter said otherwise. They’d attached the cables to Billy’s generator and then Kaye had waited for a signal from Em that Mother was about to clear the house. When it came, she’d gone to the empty chair, leaned on one corner to knock it off kilter, and attached the cables. From that moment on it had electricity coursing through it.

By then the niacin was working and CC had removed her gloves.

Mother was winding up to ‘clear the house’. All eyes were on her.

The rock was thrown, moving like thunder down the ice, the stands cheering, everyone on their feet, and CC got up. She went forward, stepped in the puddle, put her bare hands on the back of the metal chair and that was it.

They’d taken risks, of course. Kaye had to detach the cord and throw it clear, a bright orange cord lying where no cord should be. But they’d gambled that everyone would be so focused on CC they could gather it up again. Em did so, and threw it in the back of Billy’s truck. She’d almost gotten caught when Billy ran toward her to start the truck and clear the back for CC. She’d covered up by saying she’d had the same idea and was going to clean a spot in his pickup for CC and the resuscitation team.

The only thing Gamache had been missing was a motive. But Em and Mother had provided that.

Crie.

They had to save El’s granddaughter from the monster who was her mother. They’d heard Crie sing, and they’d heard CC crush and humiliate her. And they’d seen the girl themselves.

Crie was clearly dying, suffocating beneath layers of fat and fear and silence. She’d withdrawn into her own world so far she could barely get out any more. CC was murdering her daughter.

Now he watched as the middle dot, the smallest of them, sank to the ground. The others stumbled and tried to pull her up. To go on a little longer. Gamache felt his knees quaking and he longed to collapse onto the snow, to bury his horror in his hands. To look away as the Three Graces died.

Instead he stood erect, the snow insinuating itself down his collar and up his sleeves, plastering against his face and into his unblinking eyes. He forced himself to watch as first one then the other sank to her knees. He stayed with them, a prayer on his cracked lips, repeated over and over.

But another thought insinuated itself.

Gamache looked down at the letter crushed in his hand, then back at the black sprawls on the snow. He was frozen for a moment, stunned.

‘No,’ he screamed and started forward. ‘No,’ he shouted and spun round, looking at his car behind him half buried already in the snow. As were the women. He ran toward the car, frantic to reach it.

It was too late, he knew, but still he had to try.

THIRTY-SEVEN