We’re going to die here, Beauvoir knew. The walls were closing in, dark and narrow, binding and suffocating him.
‘Jean Guy,’ Gamache shouted. ‘Stop it.’
‘She’s not worth it. For God’s sake, let’s go.’ He was shouting and tugging at Gamache’s arm, dragging him back down into the darkness. ‘She’s not worth it. We have to get out of here.’
‘Stop it,’ Gamache commanded. He turned as much as he could in the tight area, Beauvoir’s flashlight hitting his face, blinding him. ‘Listen to me. Are you listening?’ he barked. The frantic tugging eased. The stairwell was filling up with smoke now. Gamache knew there wasn’t much time. He strained to look past the light and catch the face beyond.
‘Who do you love, Jean Guy?’
Beauvoir thought he must be hallucinating. Dear God, was the chief about to quote poetry? He didn’t want to die with Ruth Zardo’s dreary words in his ears.
‘What?’
‘Think of someone you love.’ The chief’s voice was insistent and steady.
I love you. The thought came to Beauvoir without hesitation. Then he thought of his wife, his mother. But first was Armand Gamache.
‘Imagine we’re here to save them.’ This wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.
Beauvoir imagined Gamache trapped in this burning house, injured, calling his name. Suddenly the narrow staircase wasn’t so narrow, the darkness not as threatening.
Reine-Marie, thought Gamache, over and over, and had thought ever since he’d known he had to enter the burning building. Not after Agent Yvette Nichol. Not Saul Petrov. But Reine-Marie. The idea of saving her erased all thoughts of personal safety. No fear existed or could exist. All that mattered was finding her. Nichol became Reine-Marie and terror became courage.
He shoved and shoved against the door. He coughed now and could hear Beauvoir coughing as well.
‘It moved,’ he shouted to Beauvoir, and redoubled his efforts. Someone, he realized, must have put a piece of furniture on it. A refrigerator by the feel of it.
He stepped back for a split second and gathered himself. He stared at the door and was silent. Then he closed his eyes. Opening them, he gave it a mighty heave. It moved enough to wedge the axe into the gap. Using it as leverage he forced the trap door up, the smoke pouring in and blinding him. He buried his face in his shoulder, trying to breathe through the clothing. He heard and felt the piece of furniture tumble to the ground and the door flew open.
‘Nichol,’ he bellowed, taking in a lungful of smoke then coughing it out again. He could barely see but the flashlight told him he was in a small bedroom. A chest of drawers was on its side beside the trap door. Beauvoir scrambled out after him, noticing that the smoke was heavier here than in the stairway. Time was almost up.
Beauvoir could hear the fire close now and feel its warmth. He’d gone from freezing cold to blistering hot in no time, something his grand-mère said would be the death of him.
‘Nichol! Petrov!’ both men shouted.
They listened, then moved into the corridor and there it was. The wall of flames licking the ceiling then contracting as though drawing breath. Gamache moved quickly down the corridor away from it, crouching, and ducked into the next room, tripping over something as he stepped across the threshold.
‘I’m here.’ Nichol got to her knees and threw herself at Gamache. ‘Thank you, thank you.’ It felt as though she was trying to crawl into his skin. ‘I am worth it. I really am. I’m sorry.’ She clung to him as though drowning.
‘Petrov? Listen to me. Where’s Petrov?’
She shook her head.
‘Right. Take this.’ He handed her his light. ‘Beauvoir, lead the way.’
Beauvoir turned and all three crouched and raced back down the corridor, toward the flames and smoke. Ducking into the small bedroom Beauvoir almost fell into the hole in the floor. It was hot. He shone his light down and could see a froth of smoke and flames beneath.
‘We can’t,’ he shouted. The roaring was close now. Almost upon them. Gamache went to the window and broke it with his elbow.
‘There,’ he heard Ruth shout. ‘Up there. Get the ladders.’
Within moments Billy Williams’s face appeared at the window. Soon all three were staggering away from the building. Gamache turned to see the building swallowed up, bright orange embers, smoke and Saul Petrov shooting heavenward.
THIRTY-TWO
They woke up late the next morning to an enchanted day. The cold spell had broken and snow was falling heavily, lying thick upon the cars, the houses, the people as they languidly went about their lives. From his room Gamache could see Peter Morrow at the birdfeeder, pouring seed into it. As soon as he left black-capped chickadees and blue jays descended, followed quickly by hungry squirrels and chipmunks. Billy Williams was shoveling the rink, a rearguard action at best as the snow piled up behind him. Émilie Longpré was walking Henri. Slowly. Everyone seemed to be at half speed this day. Strange, thought Gamache as he showered and got into his corduroys, turtleneck and warm pullover, the village seemed more diminished by the death of the unknown photographer than by CC’s.
It was ten in the morning. They’d gotten back to the B. & B. at six thirty. Gamache had run a long, hot bath and had lain in it, trying not to think. But one phrase kept coming back.
‘I’m worth it, I really am,’ Nichol had said, slobbering and weeping and grabbing at him. I’m worth it.
Gamache didn’t know why, but it gave him pause.
Jean Guy Beauvoir had gone to bed after a quick shower, pumped. He felt as though he’d just run a triathlon and won. He wondered, briefly, whether curlers ever felt that way. He was physically at his limit. Cold, exhausted. But he was mentally buzzing.
They’d lost Petrov, but they’d gone into the burning building and saved Nichol.
Ruth Zardo had bathed then sat at her plastic kitchen table, sipping Scotch and writing poetry.
Yvette Nichol had gone straight to bed, filthy, stinking, exhausted, but feeling something else. She lay in bed, safe and warm.
Gamache had saved her. Literally. From a burning building. She was beyond buoyant, she was overjoyed. Finally, someone cared for her. And not just anyone, but the Chief Inspector.
Could this be hope?
The thought had warmed her and sent her off to sleep wrapped in the promise of belonging, of finally taking a seat in the living room.
She’d told Gamache about Uncle Saul.
‘Why did you go in there?’ he’d asked when they were warming up in the school bus, elderly volunteers handing out sandwiches and hot drinks.
‘To save him,’ she’d said, feeling herself falling into his eyes, wanting to curl up in his arms. Not as a lover, but as a child. Safe and loved. He’d saved her. He’d fought his way through the fire, for her. And now he offered her something she’d longed for and looked for all her life. Belonging. He wouldn’t have saved her if he didn’t care for her. ‘You’d said the photographer was in there and I wanted to save him.’
Gamache had sipped his coffee and continued to stare at her. He’d waited until no one else was around then lowered his voice. ‘It’s all right, Yvette. You can tell me.’
And she had. He’d listened closely, never interrupting, never laughing or even smiling. At times his eyes seemed full of sympathy. She told him things that had never left the walls of her immaculate home. She’d told him about stupid Uncle Saul in Czechoslovakia, who’d flunked out of the police and failed to save his family. Had he succeeded he’d have been able to warn them of the putsch, to protect them. But he couldn’t, he didn’t and he died. They all died. They died because they didn’t belong.