And then. And then. First water, then plants, then fish. Then trees started to grow, in the rich soil. Bugs, flies, bats, birds, bear, moose, deer.

What had been a wasteland became a cauldron, a crucible of life. So rich, so diverse, it created an ecosystem unique in the world.

Porpoises, seals, blue whales.

Men. Women. Children.

All drawn here. All made their home here. In the crater.

This was Charlevoix.

This was where the four friends stood, in search of a fifth. Below them the river wound into and over and past the wound in the earth. Where all life ended. And began, again.

A terrible impact had created one of the most magical, most remarkable places on earth.

That’s what Peter had tried to capture. This catastrophe. This miracle.

Armand Gamache turned, slowly, full circle. Like Clara, he half expected to see Peter Morrow watching them.

Peter had traveled from Scotland to here. From cosmic speculation to cosmic fact. A purely rational man was chasing the magical. Had tried to paint it.

As Gamache looked over the cliff to the St. Lawrence, the setting sun caught the waves of the great river, turning their foaming crests bright red. Turning them into frowns, then smiles. Then frowns. That morphed again into brilliant, giddy red smiles. A river of eternal emotion.

Gamache stood, captivated. He sensed more than saw Clara and Myrna and Jean-Guy beside him, also staring. Astonished.

They watched until the sun had set and all that was left was a dark river and a pink glow in the sky.

Peter had been here. He’d committed this sight to canvas, as best he could. Trying to record wonder. Awe. Not just beauty, but glory.

And he’d mailed it off. Away from here. Why?

And where was he now? Had he moved on, heading deeper into his own wound? Still searching?

Or— Gamache stared into the crater. Had Peter never left? Was he with them now, lying in the woods at the bottom of the cliff? Becoming part of the landscape? His silence profound because it was now unending?

Beside him, Clara stared at the river Peter had painted, and let the emotions roll over her. Her own, and his. She felt Peter very keenly.

Not his presence but his absence.

Chapter 23

TWENTY-THREE

“Where’re we going to stay?” Jean-Guy whispered.

They were heading back to the village of Baie-Saint-Paul, and reality. Leaving behind the cosmic in favor of down-to-earth concerns. Like food and shelter.

“I don’t know,” Gamache whispered back.

“Aren’t you worried?” Beauvoir asked.

“We can sleep in the car if we have to,” said Armand. “Not for the first time.”

“Sure, we can. But do we want to? We can’t do nothing, patron. We have to plan our next move. Clara’s a nice person, but this’s beyond her.”