Bury Your Dead

by Penny, Louise

  Could Chin be the name of the restaurant, or the owner?

  But there was no Chin. Perhaps it was someone’s first name. There weren’t many Chinese in Quebec City, it wouldn’t be hard to find out.

  There were no O’Maras, but there was an S. Patrick living on rue des Jardins, in the old city. Gamache knew it. The small street wound along beside the Ursuline convent and ended right in front of the Notre-Dame Basilica.

  And his address? 1809 rue des Jardins. 1809. Not a time then, but a street number. Were they to meet there first then head to the Lit and His?

  There were a few other names in Renaud’s diary, mostly, it seemed, officials he was arguing with or editors who’d turned down his manuscripts. Serge Croix, the Chief Archeologist, was mentioned a few times, always with the word merde as though his name was hyphenated. Serge Croix-Merde.

  Booksellers, mostly used, figured large in Augustin Renaud’s life. It seemed if he had a relationship with anyone it was with them. Gamache jotted down their names then looked at his watch.

  It was almost midnight, and Beauvoir was sitting on a plastic garden chair in Ruth’s kitchen. He’d never been in her home before. Gamache had, a few times, but Beauvoir had always begged off those interviews.

  He disliked the wretched old poet immensely which was why he was there.

  “OK, dick-head, talk.”

  Ruth sat across from him, a pot of watery tea on the white pre-formed table, and one cup. Her thin arms were strapped across her chest, as though trying to keep her innards in. But not her heart, Beauvoir knew. That had escaped years before, like the duck. In time all things fled Ruth.

  He needed to talk to someone, but someone without a heart, without compassion. Someone who didn’t care.

  “You know what happened?” he asked.

  “I read the papers you know.”

  “It wasn’t all in the papers.”

  There was a pause. “Go on.” Her voice was hard, unfeeling. Perfect.

  “I was sitting in the Chief’s office—”

  “I’m bored already. Is this going to be a long story?”

  Beauvoir glared at her. “The call came at 11:18 in the morning.”

  She snorted. “Exactly?”

  He met her eyes. “Exactly.”

  He saw again the Chief’s corner office. It was early December and Montreal was cold and gray through the windows. They’d been discussing a difficult case in Gaspé when the Chief’s secretary opened the door. She had a call. It was the Inspector in Ste-Agathe. There’d been a shooting. An agent down and one missing.

  But he wasn’t missing, he was on the phone asking to speak to the Chief.

  Things happened quickly after that, and yet seemed to go on forever.

  Agents poured in, the tactical teams were alerted. Satellites, imaging, analysis. Tracing. All swung into action. Within moments there was a near frenzy of activity visible through the large window in the Chief’s office. All going to a protocol Chief Inspector Gamache had designed.

  But in his office there was quiet. Calm.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Agent Morin said, when connected to the Chief.

  “It’s not your fault. Are you hurt?” Gamache had asked.

  By now Beauvoir was listening on the other line. For reasons he didn’t yet understand they’d so far been unable to trace the call and the man who held Agent Morin and had shot the other agent seemed unconcerned. He’d handed the phone back to the young agent but not before making something clear.

  He would neither let Morin go, nor would he kill him. Instead, he’d bind the young agent and leave him there.

  “Thank you,” said Gamache.

  Through the glass Beauvoir could see agents at computers, recording, listening in, pin-pointing the location of the call. He could even see their fingers flying over the keys.

  They’d know where Agent Morin was being held within moments. But Beauvoir felt a little uneasy. Why was it taking so long? This should be almost instantaneous.

  “You’ll follow me, I know you will,” the farmer was saying. “So I need you not to.”

  “I won’t,” lied Gamache.

  “Maybe,” the man said in his broad country accent. “But I can’t risk it.”

  Something stirred inside Beauvoir and he looked at Gamache. The Chief was standing, staring ahead, concentrating, listening, thinking. Trying not to make a mistake.

  “What have you done?” Gamache asked, his voice hard, unyielding.

  There was a pause. “I’ve tied your agent up and attached something to him.”

  “What?”

  “It’s something I made myself.” The man’s voice was defensive, weak, explaining. It was a fearful voice and that meant unpredictable and that meant trouble. The worst possible hostage-taker to deal with, they could panic at any moment. Their reason had fled and they were going on nerves not judgment.

  “What is it?” Gamache asked.

  Beauvoir knew what the Chief was doing. He was trying to become the sturdy center, the thing a weak, fearful man would move toward. Something firm, solid, predictable. Strong.

  “From fertilizer. I didn’t want to but it’s the only way you’ll leave me alone.”

  The voice was becoming more and more difficult to understand. The combination of the thick accent and words muffled by desperation.

  “It’s set to go off in twenty-four hours. At 11:18 tomorrow morning.”

  Beauvoir wrote that down, though he doubted he’d forget it. And he was right.

  He heard the Chief inhale sharply, then pause, trying to control his anger.

  “This is a mistake,” he said, his voice steady. “You must dismantle that bomb. You’re making this worse for yourself.”

  “Worse? How could it be worse? That other agent’s dead. I killed a Sûreté agent.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know we’ll find you eventually. You don’t want to spend your whole life running, do you? Wondering where we are?”

  There was a hesitation.

  “Give yourself up,” said Gamache, his voice deep and calm and reasonable. A smart friend with a good idea. “I promise you won’t be hurt. Tell me where to meet you.”

  Beauvoir stared at the Chief and the Chief stared at the wall, at the huge map of Québec. Both willing the man to see reason.

  “I can’t. I need to go. Good-bye.”

  “Stop,” Gamache called into the phone, then contained himself with great effort. “Stop. Wait. Don’t do this thing. If you run you’ll regret it the rest of your life. If you hurt Paul Morin you’ll regret it.”

  His voice was barely more than a whisper, but even Beauvoir felt his skin grow cold from the threat in Gamache’s voice.

  “I have no choice. There’s one other thing.”

  “What?”

  Outside in the homicide offices more sophisticated equipment was being set up. Beauvoir could see Chief Superintendent Francoeur striding toward the Chief’s door. Gamache also saw him and turned his back, fully focused on the voice at the other end of the line.

  “I don’t want you coming after me.”

  The door opened and Chief Superintendent Francoeur stepped in, his distinguished, handsome face determined. Gamache’s back remained to him. Inspector Beauvoir took Francoeur by the arm.

  “You need to leave, sir.”

  “No, I need to speak to the Chief Inspector.”

  They were outside the door now. “The Chief is on the line with the hostage-taker.”

  “With the murderer. Agent Bissonette died of his wounds five minutes ago.”

  He thrust his right hand into his jacket pocket. It was a signal they all knew, a sign the Chief Superintendent was agitated, angry. The room, previously a buzz of activity, grew still and silent except for the two voices, loud and clear. The Chief, and the killer, over the monitors.

  “I’m taking over here,” said Francoeur and made for the door again but Beauvoir block
ed him.

  “You might take over, I can’t stop you, but this is Chief Inspector Gamache’s private office and he needs privacy.”

  As the two men stared at each other they heard Gamache’s voice.

  “You have to stop this,” said the Chief. “Give yourself up.”

  “I can’t. I killed that cop.” Now his voice had risen almost to hysterics.

  “Then even more reason to surrender yourself to me. I’ll guarantee your safety.” The Chief sounded reasonable, convincing.

  “I have to get away.”

  “Then why didn’t you just leave? Why call me?”

  “Because I needed to.”

  There was a pause. Beauvoir could see the Chief in profile now. He saw his eyes narrow and his brows lower.

  “What have you done?” Gamache almost whispered.

  Gamache packed up the diaries and left a scribbled receipt with his address and phone number on Renaud’s desk, then he walked back through the streets.

  It was past midnight and the revelers were just revving up. He could hear hoots on the plastic horns and unintelligible shouts a few streets over.

  College kids, drunk and rowdy.

  Gamache smiled. Some would end up in jail getting sober. It would make a great story one day, for disbelieving grandchildren.

  A rowdy gang of young men rounded the corner and stumbled up rue Ste-Ursule. Then one spotted Gamache and stopped. The others, blind drunk, bumped into him and started shoving. A small skirmish broke out but the leader pulled them apart and nodded toward Gamache, who was standing in the middle of the road in front of them.

  Watching.

  They stared at each other, then Gamache smiled.

  “Bonne nuit,” he said to them, putting his large mittened hand on the leader’s shoulder as he passed.

  “Really?” said Ruth. “You can make a bomb out of shit?” She seemed interested. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Chemical fertilizer, not shit. And don’t believe it. I don’t care,” said Beauvoir. In fact, he preferred it that way. There were times he didn’t believe it himself. They were the best times. “Hag,” he mumbled.

  “Numb nuts,” Ruth said, and poured him a cup of tea that looked like rancid water. She sat and rewrapped her torso with her arms. “So what was the other thing the crazy farmer said he’d done?”

  Beauvoir still saw Gamache’s face, would always see his face. The look of disbelief and surprise. Not yet dismay, not yet alarm. That would come in a moment.

  “What have you done?” Gamache had asked.

  “I’ve rigged it up.”

  “How?”

  “I need you to be occupied, to give me time.” Again the voice was wheedling, whiny, as though asking Gamache’s permission, or understanding, or forgiveness.

  Outside in the large common area of their division office, agents were bending over computer screens, tapping away, grabbing headphones. Giving and taking orders.

  Chief Superintendent Francoeur stared at Beauvoir then turned and marched away. Beauvoir took a breath, unaware he’d been holding it, then quickly stepped back into the Chief’s office.

  “Tell me,” said Gamache, his voice authoritative.

  And the man did. Then he handed the phone back to Agent Paul Morin.

  It was the last they ever heard from the man, though he might have been among the dead.

  “I’m sorry,” Agent Morin repeated. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Are you hurt?” Gamache had asked.

  “No.” He sounded terrified and trying not to show it.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find you.”

  There was a pause. “Yes sir.”

  “But you still haven’t answered my question,” said Ruth, impatiently. “Do you think I have all night? What had the farmer done, besides the shit bomb?”

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir looked down at the white, plastic garden table, feeling its rough edges. No doubt the demented old poet had found it by the side of some road or in a Dumpster.

  Some piece of trash no one else wanted. She’d brought it home with her.

  He stared for a very long time at the table, in a daze. No one had been told this, it hadn’t been made public. And Beauvoir knew he shouldn’t be saying anything now.

  But he had to tell someone and who better than someone who didn’t care? There’d be no sympathy, no pity, no real understanding. There’d be no awkwardness when they saw each other in the village, because while he’d bared his soul to her she wouldn’t care.

  “The bomb was wired to the phone line,” he finally said, still staring at his hands and the expanse of white table. “It would go off if the line was cut.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “And it would be cut if there was dead air. If they stopped talking for more than a few seconds.”

  There was silence then. “So you all took turns talking,” said Ruth.

  Beauvoir took a deep breath and sighed. There was something in the corner, by Ruth’s chair, something he couldn’t quite make out. A sweater she’d dropped or a dish towel.

  “It didn’t work that way. He needed Gamache tied to Morin, so he couldn’t search for him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘tied to Morin’?”

  “There was voice recognition. It needed to be the two of them. Morin and the Chief.”

  “Oh, come on,” laughed Ruth. “There’s no such thing. You’re making this up.”

  Beauvoir was silent.

  “Well, okay, maybe you’re not, but the farmer sure was. Are you telling me some backwoods bumpkin made a bomb, then a timer, then attached it to the phone line with, what did you call it? Voice recognition?”

  “Would you risk it?” he growled, his eyes hard, daring her to go further. Hating her, as he knew he would, for seeing him so vulnerable. For not caring, for mocking. But he already hated her, what was a little more bile?

  He pressed his lips together so hard he could feel his teeth cutting through.

  In the office he watched his Chief as Gamache realized what this meant.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the young voice said down the phone line.

  “I’m going to find you,” the Chief promised.

  “They talked the whole time?” Ruth asked.

  “Every moment. For twenty-four hours. Until 11:18 the next morning.”

  Beauvoir glanced into the corner and knew what was curled there. It was a blanket, a soft, flannel blanket made into a nest. Ready. Just in case.

  Armand Gamache woke, groggy, and looked at the bedside clock.

  Three twenty in the morning.

  He felt the chill of the night air on his face and the warmth of the sheets and duvet around him. Lyng there, he hoped maybe this time he’d fall back asleep but eventually he got up. Slowly, stiffly. Putting on one light he dressed. As he sat on the side of the bed gathering himself he stared at the small pill bottle on the bedside table. Beside him Henri watched, his tail swishing back and forth, his eyes bright, a fluorescent yellow tennis ball in his mouth. Gamache gripped the bottle in his large hand, feeling it there. Then he placed it in his pocket and walked quietly downstairs, making sure not to waken Émile. Gamache put on his parka, his scarf, his toque and mitts. Lastly, he picked up the Chuck-it and they stepped out into the night.

  Up the street they walked, their feet squeaking on the hard snow. At rue St-Louis they turned out the gate through the walls of the fortified and frozen city and past the ice palace. Bonhomme’s palace.

  Then onto the Plains of Abraham to toss the ball and contemplate a general’s fatal mistakes. Henri, Chief Inspector Gamache and Agent Morin.

  THIRTEEN

  Armand Gamache slid the diary across the wooden table toward Émile Comeau.

  “Look what I found last night.”

  Émile put on his reading glasses. As he examined the small book Gamache glanced out the window and patted Henri, sleeping beneath the table. They were having breakfast at Le Petit Coin Latin, a tiny resta
urant on rue Ste-Ursule. It had been there forever and was a local favorite, with its dark wood interior, the fireplace, the simple tables. It was far enough off the main streets not to be found by accident. People went there on purpose.

  The owner put their bowls of café au lait on the table and withdrew. Gamache sipped and watched the snow fall. It always seemed to snow in Quebec City. It was as though the New World was actually a particularly beautiful snow globe.

  Finally Émile lowered the diary and removed his reading glasses.

  “Poor man.”

  Gamache nodded. “Not many friends.”

  “None, as far as I can tell. The price of greatness.”

  “Greatness? You’d consider Augustin Renaud that? I was under the impression you and the other members of the Champlain Society considered him a kook.”

  “Aren’t most great people? In fact, I think most of them are both brilliant and demented and almost certainly unfit for polite society. Unlike us.”

  Gamache stirred his coffee and watched his mentor.

  He considered him a great man, one of the few he’d met. Great not in his singularity of purpose, but in his multiplicity. He’d taught his young protégé how to be a homicide investigator, but he’d taught him more besides.

  Gamache remembered being shown into Chief Inspector Comeau’s office his first week on the job, certain he was about to be fired for some mysterious transgression. Instead the wiry, self-contained man had stared at him for a few seconds then invited him to sit and told him the four sentences that lead to wisdom. He’d said them only once, never repeating them. But once had been enough for Gamache.

  I’m sorry. I was wrong. I need help. I don’t know.

  He’d never forgotten them and when he took over as Chief Inspector, Gamache passed them on to each and every one of his agents. Some took them to heart, some forgot them immediately.

  That was their choice.

  But those four statements had changed Armand Gamache’s life. Émile Comeau had changed his life.

  Émile was a great man because he was a good man, no matter what was happening around him. Gamache had seen cases explode around his Chief, he’d seen accusations thrown, he’d seen internecine politics that would stagger Machiavelli. He’d seen his Chief bury his own beloved wife, five years earlier.