Chapter 19

C HAPTER 19

The first thing Beauvoir did when he'd scrambled out of the plane and was standing on a pontoon, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping in the waves, was throw up.

The storm, like some cosmic joke, had blown itself out as soon as they'd landed. But the wind was still strong, churning up the water and their stomachs.

They'd managed to motor over to the dock, and soon all three stood on the wharf, their legs weak, their heads still spinning.

The fresh air was bracing and reviving. Armand closed his eyes for a moment and turned his face into the wind. He took a deep breath and smelled pine. It smelled of home.

The next thing Jean-Guy Beauvoir did, once his brain focused, was attack the pilot.

"You fucker." Beauvoir lunged at the man. "You almost got us killed."

Gamache just managed to grab Beauvoir, dropping the phone he'd been clutching.

"Stop it!" he yelled, stepping between the two men.

"I saved us, you moron," shouted the pilot. "Without me you'd be dead."

"Without you I'd be safe at home. You took off when you shouldn't have." He was glaring over Gamache's shoulder and almost weeping now. "I have two children. A wife. I can't… I can't…" He pulled himself together and stood straight, gathering himself. "I'm not getting back in that thing." He threw his arm out toward the plane. "It's a death trap. It's falling apart."

The pilot flung his own arm out toward the craft. "It held together, which is more than I can say for you."

Beauvoir lunged forward again, but again Gamache, predicting it, held him back.

"Enough! Inspector Beauvoir is right. We should never have taken off. But I'm as responsible as the pilot. I agreed. But we're here now. We have a job to do. We can't turn on each other."

Gamache glared from one to the other, and waited for each to nod. Then he stepped closer to Beauvoir, looking the younger man in the eyes. He saw fury in them. And something else. Some other strong emotion. No, thought Gamache. A strong memory, provoking this outburst.

And he knew what it was. It was the same memory he'd been struggling with. One that had come on him suddenly, the moment they'd stepped onto the dock. As they'd listened to the waves lapping, and the pontoon bumping up against the fenders, and the birds shrieking, and the wind through the forest and flapping their clothing.

They were both recalling, reliving, the last time they'd stood on this dock. On this very spot. When Dom Philippe had told him about the grey wolf, and Jean-Guy had made a choice.

What Armand saw in those familiar, those beloved eyes was shame.

"It's okay. We're okay," he said quietly to Jean-Guy. He smiled, and saw his second-in-command, his son-in-law, relax.

Jean-Guy took a deep breath and smiled too. " Oui. " He looked over Gamache's shoulder to the pilot. " Désolé. I was just…"

"So was I," the pilot admitted. "I'm sorry too." Then he turned to Gamache. "I'll get the plane ready for the return flight, patron ."

" Bon, merci. "

Armand bent down and picked his phone off the wharf. Wiping the moisture off on his slacks, he looked at its face, hoping, in all the jostling and dropping, the message hadn't been sent to Reine-Marie.

He scrolled and searched with increasing anxiety but couldn't find it. That meant it had either been erased or…

"Oh no," he mumbled. "Oh no, oh no, no, no."

Now he really needed to get a message to her.

All's well. Arrived safely , he wrote and hit send. Not expecting it to, and it did not. There was no service there. Or at least it was intermittent.

"Can you get anything?" He raised his phone to Jean-Guy and the pilot, who shook their heads.

"Nothing," said Jean-Guy. "I just tried texting Annie."

"Can you send a message from the plane?"

"No," said the pilot. "I can set off the emergency beacon, but that probably won't get far enough, and if it does…"

Armand could imagine the reaction back in Montréal if they picked up an emergency beacon, normally sent by a plane that had crashed. It would trigger an unnecessary search and rescue. It would also trigger a panic. If he hadn't already.

"Probably don't do that."

He took a few steps away from the others, and staring out at the vast, grey lake and the dense evergreen forest beyond, he held the phone above his head and walked around the long dock, in hopes the message he wrote might catch a single bar and fly off home.

"You expecting a call from the higher power, Chief Inspector?" came a voice behind him. "I'm afraid even the Almighty struggles with the internet here."

"Though He does like a good calling," came another voice, followed by a small chuckle.

The two monks Armand had seen standing on the rocks were now walking out of the mist and down the long wharf toward them, their hands shoved up their drooping sleeves. Their black robes flapping in the gusts of wind.

Neither man was the Abbot.

"Where are they?" Reine-Marie demanded.

She was in the study at home. It was quiet. The children, and Ruth, were having naps, though the poet and her duck were more passed out than asleep. The others were in the kitchen preparing dinner.

Reine-Marie stared out the window. The storm had blown itself out, and the early-evening sky was tinged with a pretty pink. Tomorrow promised to be a lovely day.

Reine-Marie stared at the sky with loathing. The storm hadn't ended soon enough. And tomorrow held…

I love you. I'm sorry.

Reine-Marie hadn't heard from Armand since that terrifying text.

She'd tried calling. Texting. She'd tried Jean-Guy's phone. Nothing. And now she was on the line with Isabelle Lacoste. Trying to keep her mounting hysteria just below outright panic.

Reine-Marie looked at the closed door and wondered when she had to tell the others.

Armand and Jean-Guy were on a flight, through a storm. And were missing. And sorry.

"We're trying to contact the pilot," said Isabelle, struggling to keep her own alarm under control. "And the monastery. No answer yet, but we'll keep trying."

Until Reine-Marie called, she'd had no idea the Chief and Beauvoir were missing. She'd checked her messages a few times, but when there was nothing, she hadn't been worried.

"There's almost no signal up there," Isabelle said.

"I know that," snapped Reine-Marie, then took a breath, a beat. "I'm sorry. It just, his last message…"

She'd forwarded it to Isabelle, who looked at it again and felt her own heart contract.

I love you. I'm sorry.

She hated, hated, hated to admit that it was the sort of message a person who knows they're about to die would send. Coupled with the silence, it was ominous.

"I'll send searchers to the lake."

"Tonight? Now?"

"If possible, yes." Though both knew, with approaching nightfall, it was not going to be possible. "We'll find them."

Bells sounded. Tolling out from the monastery and joining the far-off call of a loon. Both haunting. All the more so for the mist that clung in wisps to the forest.

The monks turned and, without a word, followed the sound of the bells. Beauvoir and the pilot looked at the Chief Inspector, who signaled them to follow.

At the huge wooden doors that guarded Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, the monks stopped.

One of them picked up an iron rod and pounded. Behind them, from the lake, Gamache heard the flutter and splashing as ducks, startled by the unfamiliar sound, took off.

A small slit appeared, followed by bright blue eyes. Then the slit slammed shut and there was a grinding of old metal against old metal. And the thick door slowly swung open.

Not a word was exchanged. These were monks who had taken a vow of silence. And yet had become, in an act of grand irony, world-famous for their voices. The Gregorian chants they'd recorded as a modest fundraiser to repair the monastery roof had become a global hit. A phenomenon. A miracle, some thought. But one that had plunged the quiet order into chaos.

A chaos that had culminated in murder and brought Gamache and Beauvoir to this place years earlier.

"There's no way I'm getting in that plane again," said Jean-Guy.

He glanced at the pilot, who was staring wide-eyed at his surroundings.

Like the rest of Québec, he'd heard of these cloistered monks who never let anyone past that thick door. But somehow, he'd gotten in. Thanks to the setting sun.

So there they were. Admitted to the inadmissible.

The pilot looked around, his mouth dropping open. Even in the weakening light, the place was magical. From the outside it looked frightening, foreboding. But inside? It was glorious.

The windows, high up in the long, long corridor, captured every last ray available in the dying light and magnified it, brought it to life. The stone hallway was giddy with the evening sun.

Everything about this building, every stone, every sound, every ray of light, every movement, every moment of the monastic day and night, was symbolic. Multilayered. Planned. With purpose.

"Just so you know, patron ," Jean-Guy said. "I'm signing up. Taking the vow."

"I'll break the news to Annie."

"He did hit a perfect high C," one of the monks said to the other.

"Yes. We could use a boy soprano."

Jean-Guy's eyes narrowed as he glared at the backs of the two monks. The thick doors had been shut and locked behind them. The world was kept out, and they were now kept in.

When the monks had first appeared, Gamache had asked to see the Abbot.

"Please follow us, Chief Inspector," said the older of the Gilbertine brothers. One he recognized as Frère Auguste. And who clearly recognized him.

And now, finally, he was about to get answers from Dom Philippe.

At the end of the corridor they stepped into a vast open space. The chapel, the heart of Saint-Gilbert.

It was stark, austere in the fading light. Just a few rows of wooden pews on the flagstone floor. And at the front, two rows of benches faced each other.

No art. No altar. No ornamentation. No crucifix. No lights. The sun had finally set, and what had been giddy light had descended into gloom that was fast becoming complete darkness.

As Beauvoir watched, Armand made a tiny dip, then an almost unnoticeable sweep of his right hand. Jean-Guy did not.

"What's that?" demanded the pilot, now spooked. His voice bounced off the stone walls and echoed. Until that too faded, as though swallowed by the void. The peace he'd felt moments earlier had also descended into gloom.

A weak glow was visible off to their left, and they could hear a faint sound, a kind of moan that joined with the deep tolling of the bell.

Backing up a pace, the pilot stepped right into the Chief Inspector. And gave a little yelp.

"Steady," whispered Gamache. "It's all right."

The pilot, taking no chances, crossed himself.

They stood in complete darkness now except for the glow, which was getting brighter.

Closer.

Then a single monk, hood up, appeared. He brought with him a candle and a low, rhythmic chant.

Then another voice, another monk, another steady light. And another, and another. Until the empty space was filled with their clear voices, and the darkness was broken.

The bells stopped, but the chanting continued, prayers sung by men who believed with all their heart and soul that what they did was divine.

And it was hard to disagree. Even the pilot, frightened moments earlier, seemed overcome. His eyes caught the candlelight and glistened as he watched the solemn, simple procession.

The monks, in single file, walked across the stone floor and took their places at the front, facing each other.

The singing ended. They sat. And silence descended.

The only light came from the candles that wavered and flickered.

Armand, Jean-Guy, and the pilot sat on the hard benches and watched as the monks of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups held vespers, one of the canonical hours of the monastic day. "Vespers" translated literally as "shadows." It signaled the end of day. When light became shadow, and shadow became night.

One of the lights rose, and the silence was broken by a single voice, pure and strong. Lifting and falling, it was joyful and mesmerizing and hypnotic. Then the others stood as one and joined in as one. At once. Filling the huge space with song. With prayer that swooped and swirled and rode on robust notes. It whirled around the men, the monks and those watching. It entered them, embraced them, filled them. Kept them company so that they knew they were not, were never, alone.

Armand glanced at Jean-Guy and saw that his eyes were closed and his face tipped slightly back, as the younger man let the words, the music, the peace wash over him.

But the Chief Inspector's eyes were wide open, taking it all in. What he saw was less important than what he did not see.

Dom Philippe was not there.

"Maman, what is it?" asked Annie.

She was making a potato salad, while Daniel and Roslyn shucked corn on the cob and Isabelle's husband shaped burgers for the barbecue.

Reine-Marie could wait no longer. Annie and Daniel had a right to know. They'd be furious if they found out that their mother was keeping this information about Annie's husband and their father from them.

Still, she'd waited. Staying in, hiding in, the study. Staring out the window, then checking her phone. Then staring again. Until the shadows lengthened in the little village and twilight became night and she was standing in complete darkness. Except for the light that came from her phone when she checked. And rechecked. And checked again.

Nothing.

Before leaving the study, she'd called Isabelle, who confirmed there was no news.

"I was just about to call you. It's too dark to send search planes and there's a heavy fog. The local S?reté commander said he would organize boats to go look at first light, along with the search planes. There was no emergency beacon, so that's a good sign. And we know where they were headed. If they landed on the water, well, it's a float plane. There's every reason to hope."

" Oui. Are you coming down?"

"No. I'm staying here. I want to go up at first light with the planes."

Reine-Marie hung up and turned once again to the window, staring at the village. At the three soaring pines. She tried to sense it. Armand alive. She could not. But neither did she feel he was dead. She thought she'd know. Surely she'd know. Wouldn't she?

Finally, she knew it was time.

Reason to hope, reason to hope , she repeated as she walked slowly toward the kitchen, where she could hear Annie and Daniel teasing each other.

"Maman?" said Daniel, who spotted her first and saw his mother's face.

Then Annie spoke—"Maman?"—putting down the knife and stepping toward the door.

Just then, there was a small sound. A ding.

Reine-Marie looked down at her phone.

All's well. Arrived safely.

She looked at Annie and Daniel, then turned and walked quickly back to the study, where, her back against the closed door, she slid to the floor. And wept.