Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6)

Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6) Page 118

“Monsieur Comeau,” she said. “Émile.” She leaned over the cart, sorting books, not looking at Gamache.

“Oh, he’s fine. I’m seeing him in a few hours at the Château. There’s a meeting of the Société Champlain.”

“Interesting man,” she said then left, leaving Gamache alone in the library once again. He waited until he heard her steps disappear then looked around at the acres of books. Where to start?

“Are you close? Are you going to make it?”

Fatigue had finally worn Morin down, so that his fear, contained for so long, boiled out through frayed nerves and down the telephone line.

“We’ll make it. Trust me.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?” The voice was strained, almost squeaky.

“I’m sure. Are you afraid?”

There was no answer, just silence and then a keening.

“Agent Morin,” said Gamache, standing up at his desk. He waited and still there was no reply, except the sound which said it all.

Gamache talked for a few minutes, soothing words about nothing in particular. About spring flowers and wrapping presents for his grandchildren, about lunches at Leméac Bistro on rue Laurier and his father’s favorite song. And in the background was a wailing, a sobbing and coughing, a howling as Agent Morin finally broke down. It surprised Gamache the young man had been able to hold his terror in so long.

But now it was out, and fled down the phone line.

Chief Inspector Gamache talked about skiing at Mont Saint-Rémy and Clara Morrow’s art and Ruth Zardo’s poetry and slowly, in the background, the howling became a sob and the sob became a shuddering breath and the breath became a sigh.

Gamache paused. “Are you afraid?” he asked again.

Outside the office, through the large glass window, the agents, analysts, special investigators and Chief Superintendent Francoeur all stopped and stared at the Chief Inspector, and listened to the agent who had been so brave and was now falling apart.

Down in her dim studio Agent Yvette Nichol recorded it all and, glowing green, she listened.

“Are you with me, Agent Morin?”

“Yes sir.” But the voice was small, uncertain.

“I will find you in time.” Each word was said slowly, deliberately. Words made of rock and stone, firm words. “Stop imagining the worst.”

“But—”

“Listen to me,” the Chief commanded. “I know what you’re doing. It’s natural, but you must stop. You’re imagining the clock reaching zero, imagining the bomb going off. Am I right?”

“Sort of.” There was panting, as though Morin had run a race.

“Stop it. If you have to look ahead think about seeing Suzanne again, think about seeing your mother and father, think of the great stories you can bore your children with. Control your thoughts and you can control your emotions. Do you trust me?”

“Yes sir.” The voice was stronger.

“Do you trust me, Agent Morin?” insisted the Chief.

“Yes sir.” The voice more confident.

“Do you think I’d lie to you?”

“No sir, never.”

“I will find you in time. Do you believe me?”

“Yes sir.”

“What will I do?”

“You’ll find me in time.”

“Never, ever forget that.”

“Yes sir.” Agent Morin’s voice was strong, as certain as the Chief Inspector’s. “I believe you.”

“Good.” Gamache spoke and let his young agent rest. He talked about his first job, scraping gum off the Montreal Metro platforms and how he met Madame Gamache. He talked about falling in love.

Now there is no more loneliness.

As he spoke he followed all the instant messaging. The information. From Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Nichol as they isolated the recordings and reported on their findings. Sounds hidden in the background. Planes, birds, trains. Echoes. And things not heard. Cars and trucks.

Agent Lacoste finally reporting in from the Cree community. Leads she was following on the ground. Getting them closer to the truth.

He looked at the clock. Four hours and seventeen minutes left.

In his ear, in his head, Paul Morin talked about the Canadiens and their hockey season. “I think we finally have a shot at the cup this season.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “I think we finally have a chance.”

In the gallery of the Literary and Historical Society, Armand Gamache reached for the first book. Over the next few hours the library opened, the volunteers arrived and went about their work, Mr. Blake showed up and took his seat. A few other patrons appeared, found books, read periodicals, and left.