A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #7)

A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #7) Page 119

He was always wanting. But up until now he hadn’t really known what he wanted, so he’d gone after everything.

Now, at least, he knew.

He sat in Clara’s studio and waited. God, he knew, lived here too. Not just in St. Thomas’s on the hill. But here, in the cluttered space, with the dried-up apple cores, the tins with oil-hardened brushes shoved into them. The paintings.

The big fiberglass feet and the uteruses rampant.

Across the hall in his pristine studio he’d made space for inspiration. All clean and tidy. But inspiration had mistaken the address, and landed here instead.

No, thought Peter, it wasn’t just inspiration he was looking for, it was more.

That had been the problem. All his life he’d mistaken the one for the other. Thinking inspiration was enough. Mistaking the created for the Creator.

He’d brought a bible with him into Clara’s studio, in case that would help. In case God needed proof he was sincere. He flipped through it, finding the apostles.

Thomas. Like their church. Doubting Thomas.

How odd that Three Pines would have a church named after a doubter.

And his own name? Peter. He was the rock.

To pass the time until God found him Peter skimmed the bible for any references to his name.

He found lots of very satisfying ones.

Peter the rock, Peter the apostle, Peter the saint. A martyr even.

But then Peter was something else too. Something Jesus had said to Peter when the apostle had been faced with an obvious miracle. A man walking on water. And Peter, though he himself was also walking on water, hadn’t believed it.

Hadn’t believed all the evidence, all the proof.

“O, ye of little faith.”

It had been said of Peter.

He closed the book.

*   *   *

It was twilight by the time Agent Isabelle Lacoste parked the car and entered the Incident Room. She’d called ahead and Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir were waiting for her.

She’d read them the review over the phone, but still both men met her, anxious to actually see it.

She handed a copy to each of them and watched.

“Holy shit,” said Beauvoir, having raced through it. They both turned to Gamache, who had his reading glasses on and was taking his time. Finally he lowered the paper and removed his glasses.

“Well done.” He nodded gravely to Agent Lacoste. To say what she found was surprising was an understatement.

“Well, that just about does it, don’t you think?” said Beauvoir. “He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,” he quoted without looking at the review. “How’d so many get it wrong, though?”

“Over time things can get a little warped,” said Gamache, “we all know that from interviewing witnesses. People remember things differently. Fill in the blanks.”

“So, what now?” asked Beauvoir. It was clear what he thought should happen. Gamache considered for a moment then turned to Agent Lacoste.

“Would you do the honors? Inspector, perhaps you could go with her.”

Agent Lacoste laughed. “You don’t expect trouble, surely.”

But she instantly regretted it.

The Chief, though, smiled. “I always expect trouble.”

“So do I,” said Beauvoir, checking his gun, as did Lacoste. The two headed out into the night while Chief Inspector Gamache sat down, and waited.

*   *   *

Monday being a quiet night at the bistro it was only half full.

As Lacoste entered she scanned the room, not taking anything for granted. Just because it was familiar, and comfortable, didn’t mean it was safe. Most accidents happen close to home, most murders happen in the home.

No, this was not the time, or place, to let her guard down.

Myrna and Dominique and Clara were having tisane and dessert, talking quietly at a table by the mullioned window. In the far corner, by the stone fireplace, she could see the artists, Normand and Paulette. And at a table across from them sat Suzanne and her dinner companions, Chief Justice Thierry Pineault and Brian, dressed in torn jeans and a worn leather jacket.

Denis Fortin and François Marois shared a table, Fortin telling some anecdote that amused him. Marois looked polite and slightly bored. There was no sign of André Castonguay.

“Après toi,” Beauvoir murmured to Lacoste as they moved into the bistro. By now most had noticed the two Sûreté officers. At first the patrons looked, some smiled, then went back to their conversations. But after a moment some looked up again, sensing something different.