The Long Way Home(131)

He held Clara to his chest. In his hand was a huge knife. A hunting knife. Used, Gamache knew, for gutting deer. Sharp enough to cut through sinew and bone. To cut a throat. As it had last night.

Armand Gamache put his hands up where Massey could see them, and Peter immediately did the same. Peter had gone pale, and Gamache thought he might pass out.

“Clara,” said Peter, but Clara couldn’t talk. The knife was against her skin, up under her jaw. Ready to slit.

Peter’s eyes went to Massey. “Professor. Please. You can’t.”

But Massey only had eyes for Gamache.

“I’m sorry you’re here,” Massey said, catching his breath. “I saw your assistant in Tabaquen. Asking about Luc. Trying to find him. I presumed you’d also be out looking. He even asked if I’d seen him. I had, of course.”

“Vachon didn’t know what you were doing, did he?” said Gamache.

He moved slightly to his right, so that he cleared the bed and had a direct path to Massey.

But Gamache knew he could never cover that short distance before Clara was dead, or dying. He hoped Peter knew the same thing. Massey was an elderly man, but still vigorous. And it didn’t take much for a sharp knife to go through flesh.

“Of course not. Why would I tell him that the canvases he was taking back and forth were riddled with asbestos? Do you think he’d have done it?” Massey glanced quickly over to the bed. “He served his purpose. But he had one last thing to do for me.”

“Take the blame,” said Gamache.

In his peripheral vision he could see Peter. Petrified.

Turned to stone. And wishful thinking.

Clara stared ahead. At Peter.

And Peter stared at her.

Massey, on the other hand, was staring at Gamache.

“Yes. And it almost worked. I came here to confess to something that was now obvious. I’d put asbestos on the canvases. In my dotage, and as I prepared to meet my own maker, I was consumed with guilt and regret. So I came here to beg Sébastien for forgiveness. And then turn myself in. But my accomplice, Vachon, couldn’t allow it. He’d be implicated. So he killed Sébastien, then me. And it worked. Your man was looking for Vachon, to arrest him. For murder.”

“Oui. That’s what I thought,” Gamache admitted.

“What changed your mind?” asked Massey.

“The picture.”

“What picture?” Massey was getting agitated.

“The portrait from the yearbook. Everyone assumed it was a self-portrait, by Norman. But it wasn’t, was it? It was you. He recognized the rage, the fear in you. And you hated him all the more for it.”

“You recognized me from the dock just now. I thought maybe you had. I actually thought Clara would. And when she left the diner in such haste, I was sure she was coming here. Looking for you. To tell you.”

“So you followed her.”

“I’m sorry, Clara.” The professor held her tighter and breathed into her ear. “You moved faster than I expected. I couldn’t get to you before you got here.”

His breathing had settled down. He seemed to expect Gamache to say something, but instead he remained silent.

“I was going to get on the plane,” Massey explained. “But the storm delayed it. So I had to wait for the boat. Otherwise I’d be long gone. Bad luck, all around. And then when the ship arrived, what did you do? You came straight for me.”

“That must have been a bad moment for you,” said Gamache, as though this was a cocktail party, and a man with a knife was perfectly normal.

He needed to get Massey calm. To have him see the reality of the situation.

The man was clearly terrified. Terrified animals ran off cliffs.

And Massey looked headed for a cliff.

“It was. But then you headed away and I thought I was free. But then I got to thinking about Clara. And your portraits. And how closely you must look at faces.” He spoke to the woman clutched to his chest, but he watched Gamache. “I knew if anyone would recognize me, you would, Clara. It might take some time, but you’d get there eventually. And then when you ran out of the diner, I knew you knew.”

“But she didn’t,” said Gamache. “She came here to see Peter.”

He watched as the reality dawned. Had Professor Massey stayed where he was. Had his nerves not failed him, he might have gotten away. But now here he stood, a knife to Clara Morrow’s throat.

“It’s too late,” said Gamache. “Let her go.”

“I haven’t painted in years, you know,” said Massey, as though Gamache hadn’t spoken. “Nothing. Empty.”

He looked at Gamache, and the former head of homicide’s heart froze. There was the face from the portrait. Filled with hate, for those who had what he did not. Not a canvas filled with paint, but a home, and friends and people who cared about the man more than the work.