The Long Way Home(120)
“There’s power enough in Heaven,” he’d read. “To cure a sin-sick soul.”
The words he needed to hear. It was as though his father had spoken to him. Taken him in his strong arms, and held him, and told him it would be all right.
He could stop.
Every morning after that he sat on the bench overlooking the village, and he had a small, private visit with his father.
“But you never read beyond the bookmark,” said Clara. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to go beyond it. I don’t want to leave him behind.”
He inhaled the maritime air. And closing his eyes, he tilted his head slightly back.
Something else had come out of that sealed box. Something so unexpected it had taken Gamache a long time to even recognize it. And admit it.
Gamache shifted his gaze to the pastille now wedged between two slats by the rolling of the ship.
“I read the report on my parents’ death.” He spoke to the white lozenge. “And the boy who’d survived. He was a minor. His name had been expunged.”
Clara couldn’t think of anything to say, so she said nothing.
“He only had his learner’s permit. Driving illegally. Drunk. He was less than ten years older than me. He’d be in his mid-sixties now. Probably still alive.”
Gamache put out his finger. It hovered over the cough drop until the slightest heave of the boat would have driven the pastille into his finger.
But the boat didn’t heave. It didn’t ho. The waves seemed to calm for a moment.
Gamache looked over the side. To the shore.
They’d cleared the Graves and were plowing through the waters, ever closer to the end of the journey.
He brought his hand back, to the book. And there it rested.
“Patron.”
Beauvoir wove across the unsteady floor like a cowboy just off a long trail ride. Myrna was behind him, lurching from bench to bench.
Gamache put the book back in his jacket just as Beauvoir arrived.
“The principal got back to us. He tried calling you, but you didn’t pick up.”
“The phone’s in my pocket,” said Gamache. “I didn’t hear it.”
“You asked where the asbestos in Massey’s studio was all found.”
“Yes. And?”
“They’ve sealed the room and are doing more tests but so far the asbestos seems concentrated in only one place.”
“The storeroom?” asked Gamache. “Where Massey probably kept No Man’s paintings.”
“No. It was at the back of the studio, on one of the paintings.”
Clara drew her brows together in concentration and some confusion. “But there was only one painting back there.” She paled. “I didn’t see it, but you did,” she said to Myrna.
Gamache felt his heart take a sudden leap, as though hit from behind. Reine-Marie had also seen that painting. Had stood close enough to appreciate it. To breathe it in.
“And it was covered in asbestos?” he demanded.
“Not covered. There were traces.” Beauvoir immediately understood the concern. “Only at the back. That science teacher was right. No Man put the asbestos where Massey would dislodge it when he handled the painting. But it wouldn’t be a danger to anyone else. It wasn’t in the air anymore. You couldn’t breathe it in.”
Gamache’s heart calmed while his mind picked up speed.
“That painting”—he turned to Clara—“it was the really good one, right?”
“I didn’t actually see it, but Myrna did.”
“It was wonderful,” Myrna confirmed. “Far better than the rest.”
“But it was painted by Professor Massey,” said Clara. “Not No Man. So how could it be infected?”
Gamache sat back on the bench, perplexed. It all fitted so well. Almost. If he just ignored that one question.
If Massey had painted that picture, how could No Man have put asbestos on it?
How had No Man gained access to it? And to asbestos, for that matter.
“We’re missing something,” said Gamache. “We’ve gone wrong somewhere.”
It was dinnertime, but the cooks didn’t dare put the ovens and stoves on, so they had sandwiches. And held on tight as the waves deepened and broadened. And as even the seasoned sailors’ faces grew strained.
The friends took their minds off the pitching ship by going over and over what they did know. The facts.
Peter’s trek across Europe. The Garden of Cosmic Speculation. The stone hare.
Beauvoir reached in his pocket and felt the rabbit’s foot, still there.
Peter’s trip to Toronto, and the art college. His meeting with Professor Massey.
And then taking off for Charlevoix. Baie-Saint-Paul. In search, it seemed, of the muse. The tenth muse. The untamed muse, who could both heal and kill. And her champion. No Man.