A Great Reckoning (25 page)

There was a familiar smell. Not a scent. Not an aroma. Nothing that exotic. It was more earthy. It certainly wasn't cooking.

It was books. Musky words filled the air.

*   *   *

“I'm in here.”

Amelia dropped her bag in the kitchen and followed the voice.

At the door into the back room, she stopped.

Clara Morrow was sitting on a wooden stool with a wind-up seat, her back to the door. A paintbrush in her mouth. Staring at a canvas.

Amelia couldn't see that much of the painting. It was hidden behind a mass of Clara's hair.

“So what should I do?” asked Amelia. “Aren't you supposed to cook or something?”

Clara snorted, then turned. At her feet, a very tiny lion stirred.

She looked at her guest.

Jet-black hair. Luminous white skin, almost transparent. Piercings through her nose, her brows, her cheek. But the studs weren't black or blood-red. They were tiny faux diamonds. Gleaming where they caught the light. Like stars.

Her ears were encased in rings. Her fingers looked like they'd been dipped in metal.

It was as though this girl was encasing herself in armor.

And where skin was exposed, there were tattoos.

But the one thing this girl could not mark or pierce or hide were her eyes. The only original bit left. They were bright, like diamonds.

*   *   *

“What?” said Huifen when Gabri handed her an apron and pointed to the dishes in the bistro kitchen. “I'm—”

“Yes, I know. You're this close”—he brought his thumb and forefinger up—“to being a Sûreté officer. You've said. And I'm this close”—he brought the fingers even closer—“to kicking you out.”

“You can't.”

“Of course I can. This is a favor we're doing for Monsieur Gamache, not for you. I'm happy to put you up, but you have to work for your room and board. An hour a day here in the bistro or the B and B. Wherever we need you.”

“That's slave labor.”

“That's life in the real world. You sat here most of the afternoon ordering food. Then you went to the B and B and ate all the cake. Well, here's the bill.”

He tossed her a tea towel.

*   *   *

“We didn't get off to a good start,” said Myrna, putting a Coke down in front of Jacques. He was slumped on the sofa in her loft above the bookstore, hitting the screen of his iPhone with increasing force.

“Fucking thing doesn't work here.”

“Language,” said Myrna, sitting in a large chair in which her outline was permanently stamped.

“I heard that old woman say worse.”

“And when you're an old woman, we'll tolerate it from you too. For now, you're a guest in my home, in this village, and you'll watch your language. And you're right. There's no wireless here, no satellite coverage.”

Jacques shoved his iPhone into his pocket.

“Should we start again?” Myrna asked.

She'd calmed down since their confrontation in the bistro. Seeing Ruth as the reasonable one had been deeply humbling to her. She'd returned to her bookstore for the afternoon, then headed upstairs, made a bed for her guest, and began dinner.

“Do you want to talk about what happened at the academy?” she asked. “You were close to the professor?”

Jacques stood up. “You make me sick. A man's dead, murdered. And all you want is gossip.”

Myrna also stood and stared at him. Her look steady, unwavering.

“I know what you're going through.”

“Oh, really,” he laughed. “You know about murder? In books, maybe. You have no idea what it's like out there.” He waved out the window. “In the real world.”

“Oh, I have some idea,” she said quietly. “This isn't the peaceful village it appears.”

“What? Has your car been scratched? Did someone steal your recycling bin?”

“Before I had a bookstore, I was a psychologist in Montréal. Among my clients were inmates at the SHU. You know it?”

Myrna could see some of the anger turn to surprise, then interest. But he was too invested in his opinion to change now.

“The Special Handling Unit,” he said.

“The worst cases.”

“And did you cure anyone?”

“Now, you know that's unlikely, perhaps even impossible.”

“So you failed. And you came here. Like Gamache. A village filled with failures.”

Myrna wasn't going to be goaded again by this kid. Though she felt anger crooking its finger at her. Instead, she nodded toward the laptop, plugged into a phone line. “You're welcome to use it. Look up some things. Change the facts and you'll change the feelings.”

“Wow, thanks for that insight.”

He grabbed his jacket and took the stairs two at a time, down to Myrna's New and Used Bookstore, then out the door.

Myrna stood at the large window in her loft and saw him on the road below, visible in the light thrown by the bistro.

He turned and looked up at her. Then he took long strides away from the bookstore and the bistro. Past Clara's home. Myrna watched him until he disappeared into the night.

And then the darkness was broken, by a small light.

*   *   *

After checking the house, including under the beds in case the demented old woman had died and rolled under one, Nathaniel went to the bistro.

She wasn't there. But the big guy, one of the owners, had suggested the house along the road. Clara Morrow's.

He headed there but met Amelia on her way out.

“Ruth Zardo? No, she's not there. I wish. Just that old painter woman. She keeps staring at me. Gives me the creeps. I had to leave.”

“Why do you do that to yourself”—he indicated her piercings and tattoos—“if you don't want people to stare?”

“Why do you dress like that?” She waved her hand at him.

“What?” He looked down at his coat and jeans. “Everybody dresses like this.”

“Exactly. Why do you want to be everyone?”

“Why do you want to be no one?”

The truth was, Amelia hadn't left because of Clara.

When her host had gotten off her stool, Amelia had seen the painting. A full-on portrait. A self-portrait. It had blasted off the canvas, getting right up to Amelia. Getting in her face. They'd locked eyes, the painting and the person.

The painted woman glared at her. Like she knew Amelia. And knew what she'd done.

And Amelia had fled.

*   *   *

The light was on and the door was open.

Amelia couldn't remember the last time she'd been in a church. Probably her christening, though now that she thought of it, Amelia didn't know if she had been christened.

It was a tiny church, the smallest she'd ever seen. It was actually too dark to see the building itself. All they could see was the light through a stained-glass window.

The image, though, wasn't of a crucifix, or a saint, or a martyr. What glowed in the night were boys. Barely men. Slogging through a glass battlefield.

“Come on,” said Nathaniel, already up the stairs and at the door. “Gabri said if Madame Zardo wasn't at home or in the bistro or with the painter, she'd be here. Sleeping it off, probably.”

“Why're you so anxious to find her?” asked Amelia, stomping up the steps after him.

“Because she's my home,” he said. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

*   *   *

Ruth Zardo was indeed lying down, the duck nesting on her stomach. Her head propped on hymnals.

“Is she dead?” Nathaniel whispered.

“No, she's not fucking dead,” said a voice.

Ruth sat up, but didn't look at them. She looked at the person who'd just spoken.

Cadet Jacques Laurin was sitting off to the side, his boots on the pew in front. Drinking a beer he'd taken from that black woman's fridge and shoved into the pocket of his jacket.

He'd given a near-perfect imitation of Ruth's voice. Right down to the cadence and tone. Both angry and wounded. Somehow catching the slight vulnerability.

Nathaniel laughed and was horrified when both Jacques and Ruth turned to look at him.

God help me, he thought.

“What're you doing here?” they all asked each other at once, just as Huifen arrived.

“I saw you guys come up here. Oh, wonderful.” She sat down next to Jacques and, grabbing the bottle from him, she took a swig of beer. “Why're we here?”

“I'm here for some peace and quiet,” said Ruth, glaring at them.

Jacques tilted his beer toward her, and after a moment's hesitation, she nodded. He got up and handed Ruth the bottle, sitting down beside her.

“I was watching you,” he said. “Why're you staring at that?”

He lifted his chin toward the stained-glass window and the brittle boys.

“Where else am I supposed to look?” Ruth demanded, handing back the bottle.

The cadets scanned the chapel. There was a central aisle with wooden pews on either side that looked handmade, each slightly different. There were just a few rows of seats and then the altar, also handmade. Well made. Indeed, beautifully carved, with leaves and a huge spreading oak tree.

“I come here to write sometimes,” Ruth admitted, and they saw the notebook wedged between her and the back of the pew. “It's quiet. No one comes into churches anymore. God has left the building, and is wandering. Or wondering.”

“In the wilderness,” said Amelia.

Ruth glared at her, but Amelia had the impression it was more habit than conviction. But she also had the impression it was more than peace and quiet the old poet was after.

Amelia sat across the aisle, on the hard pew, and looked past Ruth to the stained glass. From the outside it looked like the soldiers were arriving. In here, it looked like they were leaving. Going. Gone.

Below the window was writing, which she couldn't make out.

There were other windows in the chapel, including a nice rose window over the door. But this was the only one with a picture.

Though it wasn't simply an image. There was a feeling about it. Whoever had made this had done it with great care. Had cared.

It was detailed. Intricate. Their unraveling and mud-encrusted socks. The skinned knuckles and filthy hands that held the rifles. The revolver in the holster of one of the boys. The brass buttons.

Yes, great care had been taken. Down to the last detail.

And then Amelia saw it. She stood up and walked between the pews. Closer, closer.

“Shouldn't you be bursting into flames?” said Ruth as she passed.

Amelia walked right up to the stained glass and stared at the one boy. The one with the revolver. In his leather satchel, peeking out of one end where the buckle had broken, there was a piece of paper.

As she leaned closer, closer, she saw three pine trees. And a snowman.

 

CHAPTER 21

“Holy shit,” said Myrna, taking a step back from the window.

“Language,” said Jacques.

“She said, ‘holy,'” said Ruth. “Weren't you listening?”

Myrna took another step back. Clara leaned in for a closer look.

Ruth had sent Amelia off to get Clara, Myrna, and Reine-Marie as soon as she'd seen what the boy soldier had in his satchel.

“The map,” whispered Reine-Marie, who'd replaced Clara at the window.

And now they sat together, studying the copy of the map Nathaniel had pulled from his bag.

“Why would the soldier have it?” asked Reine-Marie, her words forming a mist on the glass boy. “A map of France, of Belgium, maybe. Of Vimy or Flanders. A battlefield map, I could see. But Three Pines isn't a battlefield.”

“You obviously haven't been paying attention,” said Clara.

She stood up and once again stepped closer to the stained glass. “I've always admired this, but never really looked at it close up.”

“Who were they?” Huifen asked. “There're a bunch of names underneath. Are they there?”

She nodded toward the writing under the window.

They Were Our Children.

And then the list. No ranks. Just names. In death they were equal.

Etienne Adair. Teddy Adams. Marc Beaulieu.

Ruth's rickety voice filled the tiny chapel. But when they looked over, they saw the old poet wasn't reading the names. She was staring straight ahead, toward the altar. Reciting them.

Fred Dagenais. Stuart Davis.

“You memorized them?” asked Myrna.

“I guess so,” said Ruth.

She turned to look at the window, at the writing, at the boys she knew by heart.

“I'd assumed the window was a representation,” said Myrna. “A composite of all those lost in the war, and not specific boys from the village. But now I wonder.”

“Who they are,” said Reine-Marie.

“Who he is,” said Clara, pointing to the young man who was clearly the center of the work.

“He has a revolver, but the other boys only have rifles. Why is that?” asked Reine-Marie.

“I think officers had revolvers,” said Myrna.

“But he can't be an officer,” said Huifen. “He's a kid. He's our age. Maybe even younger. That's like saying he's”—she waved at Nathaniel—“a chief inspector. It's ridiculous.”

“One day, maybe,” said Nathaniel, though no one heard him.

“Not so ridiculous if everyone else is dead,” said Myrna. “A battlefield promotion.”

“But isn't the real question, why does he have that?” asked Clara, pointing to the map sticking out of his satchel.

They looked down at the map the cadets had brought. Even though theirs was a photocopy, they could still see all the tears and smears. They'd assumed it was dirty from being stuck in the walls for so long.

But maybe it wasn't just dirt.

*   *   *

“But that's incredible,” said Armand into his cell phone, catching the eyes of the others in the conference room at the academy and making an expression of apology.