Bury Your Dead

The amateur archeologist seemed exultant, as though arranging the meeting had been a coup. Gamache found the phone book and looked up Chin. It sounded like a Chinese name and he remembered that Augustin Renaud had once, famously, dug through a wall looking for Champlain and ended up in the basement of a Chinese restaurant.

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 Gaspe 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.