‘Prideful, stubborn, arrogant man,’ agreed Gamache, walking to the door.
‘You may have your Nichol,’ said Brebeuf, turning his back to look out the window.
‘
Gamache closed the door and walked to his own office to make some calls.
Alone now Superintendent Brebeuf picked up the phone and made a call of his own.
‘It’s Superintendent Brebeuf. You’ll be getting a call soon from Chief Inspector Gamache’s office. No, he doesn’t suspect. He thinks the problem is Nichol.’
Brebeuf took a few deep breaths. He’d gotten to the stage where just looking at Armand Gamache made him want to retch.
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir drove the Volvo over the Pont Champlain spanning the St Lawrence River and onto the Eastern Townships Autoroute, heading south toward the American border. Beauvoir had suggested the chief buy an MG when his last Volvo had finally died a year or so ago, but the chief for some reason thought he was joking.
‘So what’s the case?’
‘A woman was frightened to death last night in Three Pines,’ said Gamache, watching the countryside slip by.
‘
‘Closer than you might think. It happened at a seance. At the old Hadley house.’
Gamache turned to watch his young inspector’s lean and handsome face. It grew even tauter, the lips compressing and growing pale.
‘That fucking place,’ Beauvoir said at last. ‘Someone should tear it down.’
‘You think the house is to blame?’
‘Don’t you?’
It was a strange admission for Beauvoir. Normally so rational and driven by facts, he gave no credence to things unseen, like emotions. He was the perfect complement to his boss, who, in Beauvoir’s opinion, spent far too much time crawling into people’s heads and hearts. Inside there lived chaos, and Beauvoir wasn’t a big one for that.
But if there was ever a case for evil, in Beauvoir’s experience, it was the old Hadley house. He shifted his toned body in the driver’s seat, suddenly uncomfortable, and looked over at the boss. Gamache was watching him thoughtfully. They locked eyes, Gamache’s steady and calm and of the deepest brown and Beauvoir’s almost gray.
‘Who was the victim?’
ELEVEN
The road to Three Pines from the autoroute was one of the most scenic, and treacherous, Gamache knew. The car shuddered and thumped and careered from pothole to pothole until both Beauvoir and Gamache felt like scrambled eggs.
‘Watch out.’ Gamache pointed to a massive hole in the dirt road. Avoiding it Beauvoir steered into a larger one and then the nearly new Volvo washboarded over a series of waves cut deeply into the mud.
‘Any more advice?’ snarled Beauvoir, his eyes pinned to the road.
‘I just plan to yell “watch out” every few seconds,’ said Gamache. ‘Watch out.’
Sure enough an asteroid crater opened up in front of them.
‘Fuck.’ Beauvoir yanked the steering wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding it. ‘It’s as if that house doesn’t want us to get to it.’
‘And it’s commanded the roads to open up?’ Even Gamache, more than happy to entertain existential ideas, found this surprising. ‘Do you think maybe it’s the spring thaw?’
‘Well, I suppose it could be that. Watch out.’ They hit a hole and jerked forward. Lurching and swerving and swearing the two men made their slow progress deeper and deeper into the forest. The dirt road wound through pine and maple forests and along valleys and climbed the sides of small mountains. It passed streams throbbing with the spring run-off and gray lakes that had only recently lost their winter ice.
Then they arrived.
Ahead Gamache could see the familiar and strangely comforting sight of the Scene of Crime vehicles parked along the side of the road. He couldn’t see the old Hadley house yet.
Beauvoir pulled the car into a spot by the abandoned mill across from the house. Opening his door Gamache was met with an aroma so sweet he had to close his eyes and pause.
Inhaling deeply he knew immediately what it was. Fresh pine. Young buds, their fragrance strong and new. He changed into rubber boots, put his Barbour field coat on over his jacket and tie and slipped a tweed cap on his head.
Still not looking at the old Hadley house he walked instead to the brow of the hill. Beauvoir put his Italian leather jacket over his merino wool turtleneck and, scanning the results in the mirror, noticed he was closer than he appeared. After a moment’s happy reflection he walked up beside Gamache until the two men stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the valley.
