A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2) Page 103

‘Petrov? Listen to me. Where’s Petrov?’

She shook her head.

‘Right. Take this.’ He handed her his light. ‘Beauvoir, lead the way.’

Beauvoir turned and all three crouched and raced back down the corridor, toward the flames and smoke. Ducking into the small bedroom Beauvoir almost fell into the hole in the floor. It was hot. He shone his light down and could see a froth of smoke and flames beneath.

‘We can’t,’ he shouted. The roaring was close now. Almost upon them. Gamache went to the window and broke it with his elbow.

‘There,’ he heard Ruth shout. ‘Up there. Get the ladders.’

Within moments Billy Williams’s face appeared at the window. Soon all three were staggering away from the building. Gamache turned to see the building swallowed up, bright orange embers, smoke and Saul Petrov shooting heavenward.

THIRTY-TWO

They woke up late the next morning to an enchanted day. The cold spell had broken and snow was falling heavily, lying thick upon the cars, the houses, the people as they languidly went about their lives. From his room Gamache could see Peter Morrow at the birdfeeder, pouring seed into it. As soon as he left black-capped chickadees and blue jays descended, followed quickly by hungry squirrels and chipmunks. Billy Williams was shoveling the rink, a rearguard action at best as the snow piled up behind him. Émilie Longpré was walking Henri. Slowly. Everyone seemed to be at half speed this day. Strange, thought Gamache as he showered and got into his corduroys, turtleneck and warm pullover, the village seemed more diminished by the death of the unknown photographer than by CC’s.

It was ten in the morning. They’d gotten back to the B. & B. at six thirty. Gamache had run a long, hot bath and had lain in it, trying not to think. But one phrase kept coming back.

‘I’m worth it, I really am,’ Nichol had said, slobbering and weeping and grabbing at him. I’m worth it.

Gamache didn’t know why, but it gave him pause.

Jean Guy Beauvoir had gone to bed after a quick shower, pumped. He felt as though he’d just run a triathlon and won. He wondered, briefly, whether curlers ever felt that way. He was physically at his limit. Cold, exhausted. But he was mentally buzzing.

They’d lost Petrov, but they’d gone into the burning building and saved Nichol.

Ruth Zardo had bathed then sat at her plastic kitchen table, sipping Scotch and writing poetry.

Now here’s a good one: you’re lying on your deathbed.

You have one hour to live.

Who is it, exactly, you have needed

all these years to forgive?

Yvette Nichol had gone straight to bed, filthy, stinking, exhausted, but feeling something else. She lay in bed, safe and warm.

Gamache had saved her. Literally. From a burning building. She was beyond buoyant, she was overjoyed. Finally, someone cared for her. And not just anyone, but the Chief Inspector.

Could this be hope?

The thought had warmed her and sent her off to sleep wrapped in the promise of belonging, of finally taking a seat in the living room.

She’d told Gamache about Uncle Saul.

‘Why did you go in there?’ he’d asked when they were warming up in the school bus, elderly volunteers handing out sandwiches and hot drinks.

‘To save him,’ she’d said, feeling herself falling into his eyes, wanting to curl up in his arms. Not as a lover, but as a child. Safe and loved. He’d saved her. He’d fought his way through the fire, for her. And now he offered her something she’d longed for and looked for all her life. Belonging. He wouldn’t have saved her if he didn’t care for her. ‘You’d said the photographer was in there and I wanted to save him.’

Gamache had sipped his coffee and continued to stare at her. He’d waited until no one else was around then lowered his voice. ‘It’s all right, Yvette. You can tell me.’

And she had. He’d listened closely, never interrupting, never laughing or even smiling. At times his eyes seemed full of sympathy. She told him things that had never left the walls of her immaculate home. She’d told him about stupid Uncle Saul in Czechoslovakia, who’d flunked out of the police and failed to save his family. Had he succeeded he’d have been able to warn them of the putsch, to protect them. But he couldn’t, he didn’t and he died. They all died. They died because they didn’t belong.

‘You went in there because his name was Saul?’ Gamache had asked, not mocking, but wanting to be clear.

She’d nodded, not even feeling defensive or needing to explain or blame. He’d sat back in the seat, staring out the window at the still burning house, the efforts of the firefighters no longer to save it but to let it burn itself out.