Bury Your Dead

“Homicide,” his secretary had said, answering the phone.

Beauvoir had been in his office when the call came through, discussing a case in Gaspé. She’d stuck her head in the door.

“It’s Inspector Norman, in Ste-Agathe.”

Gamache looked up. She rarely interrupted him. They’d worked together for years and she knew when to handle it herself, and when not to.

“Put him through,” said the Chief. “Oui, Inspector. What can I do for you?”

And so the battle had begun.

Je me souviens, thought Gamache. The motto of Québec. The motto of the Québécois. I remember.

“I was at Carnaval once,” Agent Morin said. “It was great. My dad took us and we even played fiddle at the skating rink. Mom tried to stop him. She was embarrassed, and my sister could have died, but Dad and I took out our fiddles and started playing and everyone seemed to really like it.”

“That piece you played for us? ‘Colm Quigley’?”

“No, that’s a lament. It gets faster, but the beginning’s too slow for skaters. They wanted something peppier, so we did some jigs and reels.”

“How old were you?” Gamache asked.

“Thirteen, maybe fourteen. It was about ten years ago. Never went back.”

“Maybe this year.”

“Oui. I’ll take Suzanne. She’d love it. Might even take the fiddle again.”

Je me souviens, thought Gamache. That was the problem. Always the problem. I remember. Everything.

In the cabin in the woods Beauvoir lay awake. Normally he slept soundly, even after what happened. But now he found himself staring into the dark rafters, then at the glow of the fireplace. He could see Dr. Gilbert asleep on the two chairs he’d pulled together. The asshole saint had given Beauvoir the bed. Beauvoir felt horrible, having an elderly man who’d been so kind, sleep on a couple chairs. And he wondered, briefly, if that was the point. Why be a saint unless you could also be a martyr?

Perhaps it was the peaceful cabin, perhaps it was exhaustion after pushing himself too far, or the little half pill, but Beauvoir’s defenses were down.

And over the wall swarmed the memories.

“Homicide,” the Chief’s secretary had said. Gamache had taken the call.

11:18 the clock had said. Beauvoir had looked around the room, letting his mind wander, as the Chief spoke on the phone with the Ste-Agathe detachment.

“Agent Morin’s on the phone.” Gamache’s secretary appeared again at the doorway a moment later. The Chief covered the mouthpiece and said, “Ask him to call back in a few minutes.”

Gamache’s voice was hard and Beauvoir immediately looked at him. He was taking notes as Inspector Norman spoke.

“When was this?” Gamache’s sentences were clipped. Something had happened.

“He says he can’t.” The Chief’s secretary hovered, uncomfortable, but insistent.

Gamache nodded to Beauvoir to take the Morin call, but Gamache’s secretary stood her ground.

“He says he needs to speak to you, sir,” she said. “Now.”

Both Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir stared at her, amazed she would contradict the boss. Then Gamache made up his mind.

“Désolé,” he said into the receiver to Inspector Norman. “I have to give you to Inspector Beauvoir. Wait, I have a question. Was your agent alone?”

Beauvoir saw Gamache’s face change. He waved for Beauvoir to take the other phone in his office. Beauvoir picked up the receiver and saw the Chief take Agent Morin’s call on the other line.

“Oui, Norman, what’s happened?” Beauvoir remembered asking. For something had, something serious. The worst, in fact.

“One of our agents has been shot,” Norman said, obviously on a cell phone. He sounded far away, though Beauvoir knew he was only about an hour north of Montreal, in the Laurentian Mountains. “He was checking out a car stopped on the side of a secondary road.”

“Is he—?”

“He’s unconscious, on his way to the Ste-Agathe hospital. But reports I’m getting aren’t hopeful. I’m on my way to the scene.”

“We’ll be right there, give me the location.” Beauvoir knew not only was time crucial, but so was coordination. In a case like this every cop and every department was in danger of descending and then they’d have chaos.

Across the room he could see Gamache standing at his desk, the phone to his ear, his hand gesturing for calm. Not to anyone in the room, but to whoever he was speaking with, presumably Agent Morin.