‘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.