Bury Your Dead

The one thing she clearly could not do.

Listen.

That was her job now. Her only job. And now Chief Inspector Gamache was putting his whole career, and perhaps Agent Morin’s life, into these incompetent hands.

“Why haven’t they traced the call yet?” Agent Nichol asked, swinging her seat back to the monitors and hitting some keys on her computer. The Chief’s voice was crisper now, clear. As though he was standing with them.

“They can’t seem to get a fix,” said Beauvoir, leaning over her chair, staring almost mesmerized at the dancing waves on the screens. “When they do it shows Morin in a different place as though he’s moving.”

“Maybe he is.”

“One moment he’s by the U.S. border the next he’s in the Arctic. No, he’s not moving. The signal is.”

Nichol made a face. “I think the Chief Inspector might be right. This doesn’t sound like something rigged up by a panicked farmer.” She turned to Beauvoir. “What does the Chief think it is?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“It would have to be something big,” Nichol mumbled as she focused on the screen and the voices. “To kill an agent and kidnap another then to call the Chief Inspector.”

“He needs to be able to communicate with us without Chief Superintendent Francoeur knowing,” said Inspector Beauvoir. “Right now all his messages are monitored.”

“No problem. Get me the code to his computer and I can set up a secure channel.”

Beauvoir hesitated, examining her.

“What?” she demanded, then smiled. It was unattractive, and again Beauvoir felt a warning tingle. “You came to me remember. Do you want help or not? Sir?”

“. . . Zora’s a handful, apparently,” came Gamache’s voice. “Teething now. She loves the blanket you and Suzanne sent.”

“I’m glad,” said Morin. “I wanted to send a drum set but Suzanne said maybe later.”

“Marvelous. Perhaps you could also send some caffeine and a puppy,” laughed Gamache.

“You must miss them, sir. Your son and grandchildren.”

“And our daughter-in-law,” Gamache said. “Yes, but they’re enjoying Paris. Hard to begrudge them that.”

“Damn it. He needs to slow down,” snapped Nichol, annoyed. “He has to give me pauses.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Well, hurry up,” said Nichol. “And get that code.” She turned her back on Inspector Beauvoir as he strode out the door.

“Sir,” he muttered as he bounded back up the stairs. “Sir. Shit-head.”

At the eighth floor he wheezed to a stop and gasped for breath. Opening the door a little he could see Chief Superintendent Francoeur not far away. Over the monitors came the familiar voices.

“Has anybody spoken to my parents?” the young man asked.

“We’re giving them regular updates. I’ve sent an agent to be with your family and Suzanne.”

There was a longer pause.

“Are you all right?” Gamache jumped in.

“Fine,” came the voice, though it was thin and struggling. “I don’t mind for myself. I know I’m going to be all right. But my mother—”

There was silence again, but before it could go on too long the Chief Inspector spoke, reassuring the young agent.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur exchanged glances with the Inspector beside him.

Across the room Beauvoir could see the clock.

Sixteen hours and fourteen minutes left. He could hear Morin and the Chief Inspector discussing things they wished had gone differently in their lives.

Neither of them mentioned this.

Ruth exhaled. “This story you just told me, none of that was in the news.”

She said “story” as though it was a fairy tale, a children’s make-believe.

“No,” agreed Beauvoir. “Only a few know it.”

“Then why’re you telling me?”

“Who’d believe you if you said anything? They’d all just think you’re drunk.”

“And they’d be right.”

Ruth cackled and Beauvoir cracked a tiny smile.

Across the bistro Gabri and Clara watched.

“Should we save him?” Clara asked.

“Too late,” said Gabri. “He’s made a deal with the devil.”

They turned back to the bar and their drinks. “So, it’s between Mauritius and the Greek Islands on the Queen Mary,” said Gabri. They spent the next half hour debating fantasy vacations, while several feet away Jean-Guy Beauvoir told Ruth what really happened.

Armand Gamache and Henri entered the third and last shop on their list, Augustin Renaud’s list. The man while alive haunted the used bookstores in Quebec City buying anything that might have even a remote reference to Samuel de Champlain.

The little bell above the entrance tinkled as they entered and Gamache quickly closed the door before too much of the day crept in with him. It didn’t take much, a tiny crack and the cold stole in like a wraith.

It was dark inside, most of the windows being “booked” off. Stacks of dusty volumes were piled in the windows, not so much for advertisement as storage.