A Fatal Grace ciag-2

by Louise Penny

‘My God. It’s not the Arnot case? Tell me that isn’t it.’ He could feel his anger, and his dinner, rising. He felt this way whenever he thought of Pierre Arnot and what he’d done. To others, to the Sûreté. To Gamache. Surely, though, it was past. And it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Nichol. Could it?

  ‘Tell me,’ he demanded. ‘Enough.’ Now the younger man was almost shouting. He caught himself, looked around to see if anyone else had heard, and lowered his voice to an urgent growl. ‘You can’t keep this from me. You can’t take this on yourself. You did the first time and Arnot almost killed you. What is it with Nichol and Arnot?’

  ‘Leave it be, Jean Guy.’ Gamache reached across the table and gently tapped Beauvoir’s hand. ‘There is no connection. I’m just wary of her, that’s all. Nichol is certainly more agreeable than she was last time. Maybe I’m being too hard on her.’

  Beauvoir studied him for a moment. ‘Bullshit. You’re humoring me now. What do you really think?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling.’ Gamache smiled wryly, waiting for Beauvoir to roll his eyes.

  ‘Your feelings aren’t always delusional.’

  ‘Just sometimes? It’s not important, Jean Guy.’

  Gamache sipped his cappuccino and wondered whether he was turning cynical at last, thinking people couldn’t and didn’t change. All the evidence was that Agent Yvette Nichol had shed her arrogance and that huge chip she lugged around. Since joining them the day before she’d proved she could take orders, could take guidance and criticism. She’d worked hard and proved herself a self-starter, and had done good work finding out about Crie. And she’d even booked herself into the B. & B., and had paid for it herself.

  This was indeed a new Nichol.

  So why don’t I trust her?

  Gamache leaned back in his chair and signaled Olivier, then turned back to Beauvoir.

  ‘I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have countermanded your orders, and certainly not in front of the team. May I offer you a cognac?’

  Beauvoir recognized the bribe, but was willing to take it. Olivier delivered the amber drinks in their plump glasses and the two men discussed the case, talking about everything but thinking about only one thing. Agent Yvette Nichol.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The alarm sounded at twenty past two in the morning. The siren blasted through the frozen air and into every house in the village, traveling through fieldstone and mortar, through thick pink insulation and clapboard, through sweet dreams and restless sleeps, and announced a nightmare.

  Fire.

  Gamache leaped out of bed. Through the wail he could hear footsteps and shouting and the phone ringing. Tugging on his dressing gown he looked down the corridor and saw the vague outline of someone else in the darkness.

  Beauvoir.

  Downstairs he heard a woman’s voice, high and strained.

  ‘What is it, what’s happening?’

  Gamache took the stairs rapidly, Beauvoir silent and following.

  ‘I don’t smell smoke,’ said Gamache, striding up to Nichol who was standing in the door to her room wearing pink flannel pajamas. She was wild-eyed and hyper-alert. ‘Come with me.’ His voice was even and composed. Nichol could feel herself breathing again.

  As they descended they heard Gabri and Olivier calling to each other.

  ‘It’s along the Old Stage Road. Ruth has the address,’ Olivier shouted. ‘I’m heading over.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Gamache. ‘What’s happening?’

  Olivier stopped in his tracks as though seeing an apparition.

  ‘Bon Dieu. I’d forgotten you were here. There’s a fire. The siren’s coming from the train station telling all the volunteer firefighters to get there. Ruth just called to tell me where the fire is. I’m the driver of the pump truck. She’s going there directly with Gabri.’

  Gabri jogged down the corridor from their mudroom in his insulated khaki and yellow firefighter’s garb, reflecting strips round his arms, legs and chest, a black helmet under his arm.

  ‘I’m off.’ He kissed Olivier on the lips and squeezed his arm before running into the bitter cold.

  ‘What can we do?’ Beauvoir asked.

  ‘Get into your warmest clothes and meet me at the old railway station.’ Olivier didn’t look back, disappearing into the night, his parka flapping as he ran. Lights were appearing at homes all round the village.

  All three raced upstairs, reassembling in minutes near the front door. Running across the village green Beauvoir could barely breathe for the searing cold. With each breath his nostrils froze shut and the air was like an ice pick in his sinuses, shooting pain through his forehead and making his eyes tear and freeze. By the time they were halfway to the train station he could barely see. Of all nights for a fire, he thought, struggling to keep his eyes open and his breathing even. The cold was already inside him, as though he was naked, his sweaters and jeans and warm clothing useless against this barbarous chill. Beside him Nichol and Gamache were coughing, also trying to catch their breaths. It was like inhaling acid.

  The siren stopped as they got partway across. Beauvoir didn’t know what was worse, the shriek of the alarm or the shriek of the ground as though the earth itself was crying out in pain with every step they took. In the dark he could hear invisible villagers coughing and stumbling, rushing like doughboys toward God knew what Hell.

  Three Pines was mobilized.

  ‘Put those on.’ Olivier pointed to firefighting clothes hanging neatly in open lockers. The three of them did as they were told and soon the place was full of other volunteers. The Morrows, Myrna, Monsieur Béliveau and a dozen or so more villagers all rapidly and without panic putting on their equipment.

  ‘Em’s started the phone chain, and the buses are warming up,’ Clara reported to Olivier, who nodded his approval.

  Glum-faced they stood at the wall staring at the huge map of the township.

  ‘Here’s the fire. Down the Old Stage Road toward St-Rémy. About four kilometers along there’s a turnoff to the left. Seventeen rue Tryhorn. It’s a kilometer up on your right. Let’s go. You come with me.’ He gestured to Gamache and the others and strode toward the pumper truck.

  ‘That’s Petrov’s place. I’m sure of it,’ said Beauvoir, swinging up into the truck beside Gamache while Nichol squeezed into the back seat.

  ‘What?’ said Olivier, heading the huge truck toward the Old Stage Road, the other vehicles following.

  ‘My God, you’re right.’ Gamache turned to Olivier, shouting over the noise. ‘There’s someone in the house. His name’s Saul Petrov. Could it be a false alarm?’

  ‘Not this time. A neighbor called in the report. She saw flames.’

  Gamache stared out the window watching the headlights slice into the night along the snow-covered road, the truck almost outpacing the light.

  ‘Minus thirty,’ said Olivier, as though to himself. ‘God help us.’

  There was silence in the cab then as they tore along, the vehicle skidding slightly on the ice and snow. Ahead they could see other vehicles turning.

  What met them was even more horrible than Gamache imagined. He felt like a pilgrim in Hell. A pumper truck from Williamsburg had just arrived and was spraying water on the burning house. The water was freezing almost before it hit the flames and the spray was coating everything in a layer of ice. The volunteers looked like active angels coated in crystals as they directed their spray to the fire. Men and women of all ages worked together in well disciplined teams. Icicles hung from their helmets and clothing and the unscorched parts of the house looked like glass. It was like something out of a particularly macabre fairy tale, both spectacularly beautiful and horrible.

  Gamache leaped out of the truck and made for Ruth Zardo, standing nearby in her fire chief’s outfit, directing operations.

  ‘We’ll soon need another water source,’ she said. ‘There’s a pond here somewhere.’ Peter and Clara turned to look for evidence of a frozen pond, but all they saw was darkness, and sn
ow.

  ‘How’ll we find it?’ Peter asked.

  Ruth looked around and pointed. ‘The neighbor’ll tell you.’

  Peter ran to the pumper truck and grabbed a power auger while Clara ran to a woman standing alone, her gloved hand to her mouth as though she was in danger of inhaling the horror she was witnessing. Within moments the Morrows and the woman were no more than a flashlight bobbing in the distance.

  The burning house was illuminated by the headlights of cars swung into preordained positions for that very purpose. Gamache knew a leader when he saw one, and now he understood why the people of Three Pines had elevated Ruth to fire chief. Gamache suspected she was used to Hell so this held no terror. She was calm and decisive.

  ‘There’s someone in that house,’ he shouted above the roar of the water and flames and rumbling vehicles.

  ‘No, the owners are away in Florida. I asked the neighbor.’

  ‘She’s wrong,’ Gamache shouted. ‘We were here earlier today. It’s rented to a man named Saul Petrov.’

  Now he had Ruth’s complete attention.

  ‘We need to get him out.’ She turned to look at the home. ‘Gabri, call an ambulance.’

  ‘Already have. It’s on its way. Ruth, the house is almost gone.’

  The implication was clear.

  ‘We need to try.’ Ruth looked around. ‘We can’t leave him in that.’ She gestured to the house. Gabri was right. Half of it was engulfed, the flames hissing and roaring as though the firefighters were using holy water on a home possessed. Gamache didn’t think ice and fire could live together, but now he saw it. An ice house burning.

  The firefighters were losing.

  ‘Where’s Nichol?’ Beauvoir shouted into Gamache’s ear. The noise was almost deafening. Gamache swung round. She couldn’t have wandered off. She couldn’t be that stupid.

  ‘I saw her go over there,’ Monsieur Béliveau, the grocer, his face covered with ice from the spray, yelled.

  ‘Find her,’ said Gamache to Beauvoir, who took off in the direction Monsieur Béliveau pointed, his heart pounding. Don’t be that stupid, please, dear Lord, don’t be that stupid.

  But she was.

  Beauvoir ran, following the footsteps in the snow. Fuck her, his mind screamed. The prints went directly into the back door of the house. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He turned round twice, desperately hoping he’d see her outside. He shouted her name into the house, and heard nothing back.

  Fuck, his mind shrieked.

  ‘Where is she?’ Gamache was at his elbow, calling into his ear. It was a little quieter round this side, but not much. Beauvoir pointed to the door and saw Gamache’s face harden. Beauvoir thought he heard the chief whisper ‘Reine-Marie,’ but decided it was a trick of the scene, the turmoil creating its own conversation.

  ‘Stay here.’ Gamache left, returning a minute later with Ruth.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Ruth said. The elderly woman was limping badly and her words were muffled, her face frozen. Beauvoir’s own face was numb and his hands were getting there. He looked at the firefighters, the baker, the grocer, the handyman, and wondered how they did it. They were covered in ice, and squinting into the spray and flames, their faces black from the smoke. Every minute or so they’d sweep their huge gloved hands in front of their faces to knock the icicles from their helmets.

  ‘Gabri, get half a dozen hoses over here. Concentrate on this part of the house.’ Ruth waved at the quarter of the structure that wasn’t yet in flames.

  Gabri understood immediately and took off, disappearing into the smoke or spray, Beauvoir could no longer tell them apart.

  ‘Here,’ she turned to Gamache, ‘take this.’ She handed him an axe.

  Gamache took it gratefully and tried to smile but his face was frozen. His eyes were watering furiously from the smoke and extreme cold and every time he blinked he had to struggle to get his eyes open again. His breath came in rasps and he could no longer feel his feet. His clothing, damp from the sweat of the adrenalin rush, was now cold and clammy and clinging to his body.

  ‘Damn her,’ he said under his breath, and advanced on the house.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Beauvoir grabbed his arm.

  ‘What do you think, Jean Guy?’

  ‘But you can’t.’ Beauvoir thought his mind would explode. What was happening was inconceivable and moving at lightning speed. Too fast for him to keep up.

  ‘I can’t not,’ said Gamache, staring at Beauvoir, and the frantic noise seemed to recede for a moment. Beauvoir dropped his grip on Gamache.

  ‘Here.’ He took the heavy axe from the chief’s hand. ‘You’ll put someone’s eye out with that. Come on.’

  Beauvoir felt as though he’d just walked off a cliff. Still, like Gamache, he had no choice. He wasn’t capable of seeing the chief walk into a burning building alone. Not alone.

  Inside, the house was eerily quiet. Not silent, but it seemed like a cloistered monastery compared to the tumult outside. The electricity was off and both men turned on their flashlights. It was at least warm though the reason didn’t bear thinking of. They were in the kitchen and Beauvoir knocked against something, sending a wooden box of cutlery clattering to the floor. So ingrained was his upbringing he actually considered stooping to clean it up.

  ‘Nichol,’ Gamache shouted.

  Silence.

  ‘Petrov,’ he tried again. Silence, except for the dull roar that sounded like a hungry thing growling. Both men turned and looked behind them. The door into the next room was closed, but beneath it they could see a flickering light.

  The fire was approaching.

  ‘The stairs to the second floor are through there.’ Beauvoir pointed to the door. Gamache didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Outside they could hear Ruth issuing orders in her slurred, frozen voice.

  ‘This way.’ Gamache led Beauvoir away from the flames.

  ‘Here, I found something.’ Beauvoir yanked open a trap door in the kitchen floor and shone his light down. ‘Nichol?’

  Nothing.

  He could see a ladder and handed his light to Gamache, hardly believing he was about to do this. But he knew one thing: the sooner this was over, the better. He swung his legs into the hole, found the ladder and climbed down quickly. Gamache gave him his flashlight and shone his own down as well.

  It was a root cellar. Cases of Molson beer, wine, boxes of potatoes and turnips and parsnips. It smelled of dirt and spiders and smoke. Beauvoir shone his light to the far end and saw a wave of smoke rolling its slow motion way toward him. It was almost mesmerizing. Almost.

  ‘Nichol? Petrov?’ he shouted, for form’s sake, backing toward the ladder. He knew they weren’t there.

  ‘Quickly, Jean Guy.’ Gamache’s voice was urgent. Beauvoir poked his head out of the trap door, noticing the door to the next room was smoking. Soon, they both knew, it would burst into flames.

  Gamache hauled him out of the hole.

  The noise was mounting as the flames approached. Outside the shouts were growing ever more frantic.

  ‘These old houses almost always have a second stairway up,’ said Gamache, sending his flashlight beam around the kitchen. ‘It’ll be small and maybe boarded up.’

  Beauvoir yanked open cupboards while Gamache pounded on the tongue-in-groove walls. Beauvoir had forgotten the home of his grand-mère in Charlevoix, with its tiny secret staircase off the kitchen. He hadn’t thought of it in years. Hadn’t wanted to. Had buried it deep and covered it over, but here he was in a strange house, on fire, and now the memory decided to come back. Like that smoke in the basement it rolled inexorably toward him, slowly engulfing him, and suddenly he was back in that house, in that secret stairway. Hiding from his brother. Or so he thought until he’d grown bored and tried to leave. The door had been locked from the outside. He had no light and suddenly he had no air. The walls closed in, crushing him. The stairs moaned. The house, so comforting and familiar, had turned on him. His brother had said it was an accident when
the hysterical child had been found and removed but Jean Guy had never believed it, and had never forgiven him.

  Jean Guy Beauvoir had learned at the age of six that nowhere was safe and no one could be trusted.

  ‘Here,’ he shouted, staring into the half doorway. He’d taken it for a broom closet, but now his flashlight showed a set of steep, narrow steps leading up. Shining his light to the top he saw the trap door was closed. Please God, not locked.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Gamache moved ahead of Beauvoir into the stairway. ‘Come on.’ He looked back, puzzled, as Beauvoir hesitated then entered the dark, narrow space.

  The stairs were built for tiny people from a century ago, undernourished Québecois farmers, not the well-fed Sûreté officers of today, wearing outsized winter firefighting clothing. There was barely enough room to crawl. Gamache took off his helmet, and Beauvoir did the same, relieved to be free of the cumbersome piece of equipment. Gamache edged up the narrow steps, his coat scraping the walls. It was black up ahead and their flashing lights played on the closed trap door. Beauvoir’s heart was pounding and his breathing fast and shallow. Was the smoke getting thicker? It was. He was sure he could feel flames at his back and turned to stare behind him, but saw only darkness. It wasn’t much of a comfort. Please, let’s just get out of here. Even if the entire second floor was in flames, that was better than being entombed in the stairway.

  Gamache put his shoulder to the trap door and shoved.

  Nothing happened.

  He shoved again, harder. It didn’t budge.

  Beauvoir looked back down to where they’d been. Smoke was seeping under the door below. And the door above was locked.

  ‘Here, let me through.’ He tried to shove past Gamache, even though a piece of paper wouldn’t get by. ‘Use the axe,’ he said, his voice rising. He could feel his skin tingling and his breathing coming in quick shallow gulps. His head felt light and he thought he might pass out.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ he said, hitting the walls with his fist. The stairway had him by the throat and was choking him. He could hardly breathe now. Trapped.

  ‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache called. His cheek was on the ceiling, his body pressed against it. He couldn’t go forward and he couldn’t go back and he couldn’t comfort Jean Guy, who was panicking.