Chapter 32

C HAPTER 32

Isabelle Lacoste, Claude Dussault, and Sister Irene walked toward the dented and scarred oak door. The breeze made a shhhhh -ing sound as it moved over the open meadow. As though telling them to be quiet. Shhhhh.

Lacoste felt foolish. She'd been so single-minded in getting there that she hadn't really formulated a plan on how to get in.

Brother Robert had effectively locked himself inside a safety-deposit box, and Sister Irene was the only key they had. But how could a Dominican nun get them into the fortress home of cloistered Carthusian monks?

A less effective key would be difficult to imagine.

"How did you three become friends? Was it singing?"

Isabelle's hand absently brushed the tops of the yellow and blue and bright pink wildflowers. Butterflies took flight, took fright, as they passed.

"No. Sébastien and I were drawn together because of our names."

Lacoste noticed that Claude Dussault suddenly smiled.

"What's so funny?"

"Sébastien and Irene," he said. Isabelle didn't understand and didn't care.

"And Robert?" asked Isabelle casually. "How did he fit in?" That's what she really wanted to know. Something, anything, about the man barricaded behind the tall wall.

"Through Sébastien. They were best friends."

"I know about the karaoke. All three of you did it, but only Sébastien was punished. What did he do to deserve that?"

Sister Irene kept walking, her eyes fixed ahead. Lacoste felt like they were hobbits approaching Mordor. Though this was not that. The monastery was not evil. It was simply a huge impediment.

More butterflies took off, flailing about in the slight breeze.

When she got no answer, Isabelle tried another tack. "Brother Robert wrote to Sébastien in Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, to get him to go to Rome. To tell him about what he'd discovered—"

Isabelle stopped. She could tell she'd said something wrong.

" Non ," she said, staring at the nun. "Robert didn't write him. You did. Robert sent for you, and you sent for Sébastien. And Sébastien sent for Dom Philippe, who met you all here. Why?"

Silence.

"Because Robert had run away and was already inside Grande Chartreuse. He refused to see either of you." Lacoste answered her own question since the nun would not. "But he might agree to talk with Dom Philippe. Why?"

Silence.

Isabelle grabbed the nun's arm so they were looking at each other.

"Did Brother Robert speak to Dom Philippe? Did he tell the Abbot what he knows? Did the Abbot tell you?"

Silence.

"For God's sake, Irene. I'm begging you. I'll get on my knees if that would help. We need to know. We need to stop whatever's about to happen."

"But I don't know what it is."

"You must," said Dussault, who'd been listening. "Why did Robert send for you, if not to ask for your help? And to do that, you'd have to know what was happening."

"No, you don't understand Robert. He sent for me because his conscience got the better of him. He ran away from Washington to the Curia, but his God followed him, of course, and demanded that he do something. He had to tell someone, so he sent for me."

"So he did tell you," said Dussault.

"No. He only said that something awful was going to happen, and he was afraid for his life. They said they'd kill him if it even looked like he might talk."

"Who's ‘they'?" demanded Lacoste.

"You don't think I've asked? But he wouldn't tell me anything else. I was furious. I'd given up my job and come all this way, and he chickened out. I should've known."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Brother Robert's a coward, okay?" It was practically spat out. "Always was. He wanted to give me his burden, hand it off to me."

"But he didn't," said Dussault.

"No. So I sent for Sébastien, thinking he might tell him. But Robert left as soon as Sébastien arrived. We followed him here. When he still refused to see us, Sébastien asked Dom Philippe to come."

"Why him?" asked Dussault.

"Wait a minute," said Lacoste. "Before we get to that, let's back up. Brother Robert must've heard about whatever was planned while he was in DC. Is that right?"

Irene nodded.

"How did he hear it?"

"From a parishioner, in confession."

"But he's a monk," said Dussault. "He can't hear confessions."

"Well, he can," said Irene. "But he can't give absolution."

"So what good is it?" asked Dussault.

"Not a lot. He used to fill in at the local church when the priest on duty was too tired."

Lacoste wondered if "too tired" was a euphemism.

"No one knew it was a monk, not a priest, on the other side. It was wrong, but Robert felt he had no choice. He was always cowed by authority. If a priest told him to do it…"

"But that would mean Brother Robert was not bound by what he heard. Not bound by the confessional," said Dussault.

"True."

"And if the person who confessed discovered that…"

"Yes."

"If he wasn't bound by the confessional," said Lacoste, "why not go to the police? Why not tell someone?"

"I tried to get him to, but you'd have to know Robert. He's very smart, brilliant, but fragile. These butterflies would terrify him."

They were flitting all around them now, and Isabelle had to admit, she was finding them a little off-putting. All that movement right in her face.

Dussault coughed, having inhaled what looked like a moth.

"Is that what happened with the karaoke?" asked Lacoste.

"When we got caught, Sébastien and I thought he was going to harm himself, he was so scared. So we drew straws, left it up to God to decide which of us would speak to the Bishop. Sébastien lost."

"That's why Robert hates him," said Lacoste. "Sébastien reminds him of his own weakness."

"His cowardice and, by extension, his lack of faith. Yes."

They now stood in the shadow of the great wall.

"Why did Sébastien send for Dom Philippe?" Dussault asked again.

"Because he respects the man, and knew Brother Robert might tell the Abbot what he knows. Robert practically idolizes Dom Philippe. Besides, an abbot outranks a monk, and Robert's respect for authority meant he might confide in him."

"Did Brother Robert agree to see him?" asked Dussault.

Sister Irene nodded.

"And?"

"The Abbot said what Robert told him was private. He wouldn't tell us."

"It could've been anything, not necessarily to do with any attack."

Irene paused. "True, but Dom Philippe looked pretty upset when he came out."

"Where's he now?" Dussault asked.

"I don't know. He went back to Canada."

"And Frère Sébastien?"

Silence. Though Lacoste felt a hand touch her arm. She turned to look at Claude Dussault, who was staring at the monastery.

The huge oak door had swung open, and standing there, made miniscule by the size of the opening, was a man in burlap robes and a straw hat.

"It's one of the lay monks," said Lacoste.

He was gesturing to them to hurry. Irene took off toward the opening, her robes cutting a swath through the meadow. Lacoste and Dussault ran after her, trailing butterflies.

Once at the gate they saw it was no lay monk. It was Frère Sébastien.

They'd flown through and past the rain and landed in Blanc-Sablon in bright sunshine.

At the bottom of the stairs Gamache stepped aside to let others pass and checked his phone.

Messages were piled up. He did a quick triage, read updates from Beauvoir and Lacoste, then clicked on the email from the Italian police.

It contained Paolo Parisi's official documents. Driver's license, passport details, his income tax file number, and a photo of the smiling young man in what looked like a bar or restaurant. It was a close-up of Parisi, so it didn't even show who he was with.

Gamache realized he'd been overly optimistic, hoping the head of the Anti-Mafia task force would send something useful. He put away his phone and looked around.

Armand had been to the Lower North Shore of Québec many times and was prepared. As expected, a cool breeze, verging on a cold wind, was blowing off the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The air was fresh and clean, with a very slight undercurrent of salt and fish.

He hiked his satchel farther up over his shoulder and turned to face the breeze. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath. The wind was just bracing enough to act as a small slap to the face. Exactly what he needed.

" Patron. "

He opened his eyes and smiled. There was the head of the Blanc-Sablon detachment.

"Valerie." Gamache extended his hand.

"I brought a jacket for you, but I see you dressed sensibly."

"Unlike the first time I came here. How long ago was that?"

They walked to her S?reté pickup truck.

"I looked it up. One hundred and twenty-three years. And five months."

He laughed. "And nothing has changed."

It was almost the literal truth. Though he knew the first time he'd been to Blanc-Sablon was more like thirty years ago, the village itself looked exactly the same. Perhaps a new home here, an old one torn down, or fallen down, over there. But as for the rest, it seemed much like Three Pines, as though time had blown right by this place.

He tossed his bag into her vehicle and climbed in.

Valerie Michaud got behind the wheel and glanced at the Chief Inspector. Armand. Her eyes drifted up his familiar face, following the lines past the thoughtful brown eyes, to the scar at his temple.

This was the first time they'd met since it happened, though she'd been at the funeral for his slain agents. Had walked in the cortège. Had seen him stumble on the steps into the cathedral, but not fall.

They'd first met when both were junior agents. He'd arrived on the coast to assist his inspector in a homicide investigation. This had been her first posting. She'd risen through the ranks, achieving the position of station commander. She'd married and had children here, and while often offered promotion to other postings that would have been considered more prestigious, she'd chosen to stay there.

This was home.

Commander Michaud started the truck. "Where to? You haven't told me why you're here. I'm presuming it's not a vacation."

" Non. I need to find a Dom Philippe—"

"A religieux ?"

"A monk, an abbot, yes."

"Wait a minute, is he the head of that order that did the recording of the chants?"

" Oui. Do you know him?"

"No, but I know his family. He's a Rousseau, right?"

"Yves Rousseau, before he took his vows and changed his name to Philippe. Can you take me to the family home?"

"No problem." She put the vehicle in gear and they headed off.

"Who else is in the family?"

"His sister, Eunice, died years ago, but he still has a brother here. Raymond. We call him Big Gars."

Big fella. It was very "coast" to have a phrase half in English, half in French.

"He's large?"

She laughed. "No, that's coast humor. He's actually quite small, slender, but he has a big personality." A few people waved as she drove by, and she waved back.

"Any nieces and nephews?"

"Niece. She's moved away. Most do. You think your fellow is here?"

"I hope so."

"I guess he could be. I haven't heard, but then I might not, especially if he didn't want anyone to know. At this point he'd just be another stranger. Is he hiding?"

"I think so."

"Well, he's found a good place for it. Can you tell me why you want him?"

"Afraid not. But I can say he isn't suspected of any crime. If anything, he might be a valuable witness."

As they bounced along the washboard dirt road, Gamache stared out the open window and once again marveled at the homes along the rocky shore. They were pastel-colored and beautifully kept up, though some were showing wear from the constant salt water splashed on them.

There wasn't a tree in sight, and never had been. Where there wasn't rock, there was scrub, all pushed in the same direction by the constant wind. As they passed the protected harbor, he saw fishing boats returning with their catch.

"You missed lobster season by ten days, patron ," she said, noticing his almost faraway expression as he stared out to the gulf. "But if you have time, my husband and daughter have just landed with a fresh catch of scallops. We're planning a bonfire at the cove tonight."

Armand's hunger came surging back. If only…

"I'm afraid I'm booked on the next flight out. I seem to remember that many people here go to Florida in the winter."

"True. Especially the older ones. A generation ago that would have been unthinkable, but—"

"Is Raymond Rousseau one of the ones who goes to the States?"

She was surprised by the abrupt interruption. "Yes. We know because they inform us so we don't worry when we haven't seen them for a week or so."

Gamache had to squint against the sun glaring off the water. No huge refrigeration ships here. Just the small fishing vessels a parent passed on to a son or daughter. When he'd first arrived, decades ago, the harbor was thick with boats. Now he could count them on both hands.

He committed the sight to memory in case even those were gone next time he visited.

"Something's just occurred to me, Armand. About the Rousseaus."

" Oui? "

"I realize I haven't seen Raymond and Miriam in a while."

"How long?"

She thought. "Four days maybe. Less than a week."

"Is that unusual?"

"Slightly. They'd normally be at Sunday night bingo and spaghetti supper at the fishermen's hall, but they weren't."

"They didn't tell you they were going away?"

" Non. "

Chief Inspector Gamache no longer had a faraway look. Now he was completely focused on the road ahead.

Commander Michaud pressed a little harder on the gas.