‘Sorry, old son. But I did find something in this one. Our missing cheerleader. You’ll never guess.’
‘Jeanne?’ Beauvoir got up and took the book from Gamache. He scanned the page until he found a picture of Jeanne Potvin. Then he looked at Gamache, taking a sip of tea and watching him over the rim of the mug.
‘I’m glad it was your hunch and not mine. Not exactly caul-worthy.’
Jeanne Potvin, the missing cheerleader, was black.
‘Well, it was worth a try,’ said Beauvoir, not trying very hard to hide his amusement. Picking up The Dictionary of Magical Places he started flipping through it.
‘There’s an interesting section on caves in France in there.’
‘Oh boy.’ Beauvoir looked at the pictures for a while. Stone circles, old houses, mountains. There was even a magical tree. A ginkgo. ‘Do you believe in this stuff?’
Gamache looked at Beauvoir over his half-moon glasses. The younger man’s hair was disheveled and he had a small shadow of beard. He brought his hand up to his own face and felt it rough. He then brought his hand to his head and felt the telltale ends there. What little hair he had was standing on end. They must look a fright.
‘Frogs get you too?’ Jeanne Chauvet wandered into the room in her dressing gown. ‘Is there more?’ She nodded to the tea.
‘Always more,’ Gamache smiled and poured the rest for her. She took the tea and was amazed to discover that even at almost three in the morning he smelled just a little of sandalwood and rosewater. It felt peaceful.
‘We were just talking about magic,’ said Gamache, sitting down once Jeanne had taken a seat.
‘I asked if he believed in these things.’ Beauvoir tapped the book Myrna had given them.
‘You don’t?’ asked Jeanne.
‘Not a bit.’
He looked over at the chief who’d snorted.
‘Sorry,’ Gamache apologized. ‘It got away from me.’
Beauvoir, who knew nothing got away from the chief unless he wanted it to, scowled.
‘Well, really.’ Gamache sat forward. ‘Who has his lucky belt? And his lucky coin? And his lucky meal before each hockey game?’ Gamache turned to Jeanne. ‘He’ll only eat Italian poutine with his left hand.’
‘We beat the Montreal Metro police drug squad in hockey. I scored a hat trick, and that night I’d eaten Italian poutine with my left hand.’
‘Makes sense to me,’ said Jeanne.
‘Every time we get on a plane you have to sit in seat 5A. And you have to listen to the safety announcements all the way through. If I interrupt you you pay no attention.’
‘That’s not magic, that’s common sense.’
‘Seat 5A?’
‘It’s a comfortable seat. OK, it’s my favorite. If I sit there the plane won’t crash.’
‘Do the pilots know? Maybe they should sit there,’ said Jeanne. ‘If it’ll make you feel better, everyone has their superstitions. It’s called magical thinking. If I do this, that will happen, even if the two aren’t connected. If I step on a crack it’ll break my mother’s back. Or walk under a ladder, or break a mirror. We’re taught early to believe in magic then spend the rest of our lives being punished for it. Did you know most astronauts take some sort of talisman with them into space to keep them safe? These are scientists.’
Beauvoir got up. ‘I’m going to try to get some sleep. Want the book?’ He offered it to Gamache who shook his head.
‘I’ve already looked at it. Quite interesting.’
Beauvoir clumped up the stairs and when he was gone Jeanne turned to Gamache. ‘You asked why I came here and I said it was for a rest, and that was true, but not the whole truth. I’d been sent a brochure but it wasn’t until yesterday when I saw the others Gabri had that I realized mine was different. Here.’
She pulled two shiny brochures for the B. & B. out of her dressing gown pocket and handed them to Gamache. He stared at them. On the front were photographs of the B. & B. and Three Pines. The brochures were identical. Except for one thing. Across the top of the one mailed to Jeanne Chauvet was typed, Where lay lines meet – Easter Special.
‘I’ve heard of lay lines, but what are they?’
‘Whoever wrote this didn’t know much either. They misspelled it. It’s l-e-y, not l-a-y,’ said Jeanne. ‘They were first described in the 1920s—’
‘As recently as that? I thought they were supposed to be ancient. Stonehenge, that sort of thing.’
‘They are, but no one noticed until about ninety years ago. Some fellow in England, I’ve forgotten his name, looked at stone circles and standing stones and even the oldest cathedrals and noticed that they all line up. They’re built miles and miles apart, but if you connect the dots they’re in straight lines. He came to the conclusion there was a reason for this.’
‘And it was?’
‘Energy. The earth seems to give off more energy along these ley lines. Some people’, she leaned forward and darted her eyes to make sure no one else was listening, ‘don’t believe this.’
‘No,’ he whispered back. Then he picked up her brochure. ‘Someone knew you well enough to know how to get you here.’
And someone needed the psychic here at Easter. To contact, and create, the dead.
Ruth Zardo was also up, though she hadn’t actually gone to bed. Instead she’d been sitting at the preformed white resin garden furniture she called her kitchen set, staring into the oven. It was on the lowest setting. Just enough to keep Rosa and Lilium warm.
It wasn’t true what Gabri said. There was no way simply cracking the shell had hurt Lilium. She hadn’t done much, just a little crack, just enough to give Lilium the idea, really.
Ruth got up, her hip and knees fighting her, and limped over to the oven, instinctively putting her shrunken and veined hand in to make sure the element was still on, but not too hot.
Then she bent over the little ones, watching for breath.
Lilium looked fine. She actually looked as though she’d grown. Ruth was sure she saw the little chest rise and fall. Then she slowly made her way back to the white resin chair. She stared a little longer at the pan in the oven then pulled a notebook toward her.
When they came to harvest my corpse
(open your mouth, close your eyes)
cut my body from the rope,
Surprise, surprise:
I was still alive.
She could see the pink scalp and yellow beak poking through the shell. She was sure the little one had looked at her, and squealed. Called for help. She’d heard that geese bond with the first thing they see. What she hadn’t heard was that it goes both ways. She’d reached out then, not capable of just watching the little one struggle. She’d cracked the shell. Freed little Lilium.
How could that be wrong?
Ruth laid down her pen and put her head in her hands, her knotty fingers clutching at the short white hair. Trying to contain the thoughts, trying to stop them from becoming feelings. But it was too late. She knew.
She knew that kindness kills. All her life she’d suspected this and so she’d only ever been cold and cruel. She’d faced kindness with cutting remarks. She’d curled her lips at smiling faces. She’d twisted every thoughtful, considerate act into an assault. Everyone who was nice to her, who was compassionate and loving, she rebuffed.
Because she’d loved them. Loved them with all her heart, and wouldn’t see them hurt. Because she’d known all her life that the surest way to hurt someone, to maim and cripple them, was to be kind. If people were exposed, they die. Best to teach them to be armored, even if it meant she herself was forever alone. Sealed off from human touch.
But, of course, her feelings had to come out somehow, and so in her sixties the string of words she’d coiled inside came out. In poetry.
Jeanne was right, of course, thought Ruth. I do believe. In God, in Nature, in magic. In people. She was the most credulous person she knew. She believed in everything. She looked down at what she’d written.