Bury Your Dead

“I left him outside,” she said into the silence.

As if to underscore that the doorbell shrieked again.

“What should we do?” Winnie asked, but instead of turning to Porter she looked at Elizabeth. They all did.

“We need to take a vote,” Elizabeth said at last. “Should we see him?”

“He’s not on the agenda,” Mr. Blake pointed out.

“That’s right,” said Porter, trying to wrestle back control. But even he looked at Elizabeth.

“Who’s in favor of letting Augustin Renaud speak to the board?” Elizabeth asked.

Not a hand was raised.

Elizabeth lowered her pen, not taking note of the vote. Giving one curt nod she stood. “I’ll tell him.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Winnie.

“No, dear, you stay here. I’ll be right back. I mean, really?” She paused at the door, taking in the board and General Wolfe above. “How bad could it be?”

But they all knew the answer to that. When Augustin Renaud came calling it was never good.

TWO

Armand Gamache settled into the worn leather sofa beneath the statue of General Wolfe. Nodding to the elderly man across from him he pulled the letters out of his satchel. After a walk through the city with Émile and Henri, Gamache had returned home, picked up his mail, collected his notes, stuffed it all into his satchel, then he and Henri had walked up the hill.

To the hushed library of the Literary and Historical Society.

Now he looked at the bulging manila envelope on the sofa beside him. Daily correspondence from his office in Montreal sent on to Émile’s home. Agent Isabelle Lacoste had sorted his mail and sent it with a note.

Cher Patron,

It was good to speak to you the other day. I envy you a few weeks in Québec. I keep telling my husband we must take the children to Carnaval but he insists they’re too young yet. He’s probably right. The truth is, I’d just like to go.

The interrogation of the suspect (so hard to call him that when we all know there are no suspicions, only certainties) continues. I haven’t heard what he’s said, if anything. As you know, a Royal Commission has been formed. Have you testified yet? I received my summons today. I’m not sure what to tell them.

Gamache lowered the note for a moment. Agent Lacoste would, of course, tell them the truth. As she knew it. She had no choice, by temperament and training. Before he left he’d ordered all of his department to cooperate.

As he had.

He went back to the note.

No one yet knows where it will lead, or end. But there are suspicions. The atmosphere is tense.

I will keep you informed.

Isabelle Lacoste

Too heavy to hold, the letter slowly lowered to his lap. He stared ahead and saw Agent Isabelle Lacoste in flashes. Images moved, uninvited, in and out of his mind. Of her staring down at him, seeming to shout though he couldn’t make out her words. He felt her small, strong hands gripping either side of his head, saw her leaning close, her mouth moving, her eyes intense, trying to communicate something to him. Felt hands ripping away the tactical vest from his chest. He saw blood on her hands and the look on her face.

Then he saw her again.

At the funeral. The funerals. Lined up in uniform with the rest of the famous homicide division of the Sûreté du Québec as he took his place at the head of the terrible column. One bitter cold day. To bury those who died under his command that day in the abandoned factory.

Closing his eyes he breathed deeply, smelling the musky scents of the library. Of age, of stability, of calm and peace. Of old-fashioned polish, of wood, of words bound in worn leather. He smelled his own slight fragrance of rosewater and sandalwood.

And he thought of something good, something nice, some kind harbor. And he found it in Reine-Marie, as he remembered her voice on his cell phone earlier in the day. Cheerful. Home. Safe. Their daughter Annie coming over for dinner with her husband. Groceries to buy, plants to water, correspondence to catch up on.

He could see her on the phone in their Outremont apartment standing by the bookcase, the sunny room filled with books and periodicals and comfortable furniture, orderly and peaceful.

There was a calm about it, as there was about Reine-Marie.

And he felt his racing heart settle and his breathing deepen. Taking one last long breath, he opened his eyes.

“Would your dog like some water?”

“I beg your pardon?” Gamache refocused and saw the elderly man sitting across from him motioning to Henri.

“I used to bring Seamus here. He’d lie at my feet while I read. Like your dog. What’s his name?”