“Tabaquen. To paint. Like he does every summer. This year I took him all the way there, but most summers I drop him in Sept-Îles, to catch the boat. All the artists prefer the boat. It’s—”

“—safer, yes, we know,” said Beauvoir.

The pilot laughed. “I was going to say prettier. I think artists like pretty. Mais, franchement, it’s not really safer. There’s no safe way to get to the Lower North Shore. We have turbulence and the ship has the Graves. So it’s all a crapshoot.”

“Do not open your mouths,” hissed Myrna, catching their eyes with a searing look.

The small plane lurched in an air current. Dipping and falling, and climbing again. The pilot quickly turned his attention to flying. In the back, their eyes widened and Clara grabbed Myrna’s hand.

Jean-Guy, seeing this, envied the women, and he wondered how the Chief would take it if he held on to his.

The plane pitched again and Beauvoir grabbed, then let go of, Gamache’s hand when the plane righted itself.

Gamache looked at him, but said nothing. It was not, they both knew, the first time one had held on to the other, for dear life. And the way things were going it might not be the last.

“Peter,” Clara yelled with such force Beauvoir was tempted to look around in case the man had joined them.

Clara leaned forward. “Did you fly my husband? Peter Morrow?”

“Désolé, lady,” said the pilot, who was perfectly bilingual and seemed to speak in a mixture of both languages. Frenglish. “I don’t remember names. Just luggage. And fruit. Now, lemons—”

“He’d have gone to Tabaquen,” Clara quickly cut in. “Tall guy. English.”

The pilot shook his head. “Means nothing to me.”

Myrna pulled out her device and after a few clicks she handed it to Clara, who hesitated for a moment.

“Oh, what the hell,” she said. “We’re all going to die anyway.”

She showed the photo to the pilot, and when he stopped laughing he pointed. “Is that you?”

“That’s not important. You recognize the man?”

“Yeah. Tall, old. English.”

“Old?” said Clara.

“That might not be the most important thing he’s said,” said Myrna. “We all look old to him. He’s barely begun to rot.”

The plane gave a little shudder, as though nudged.

“Oh, Christ, here it comes,” said Jean-Guy.

“What’s that?” asked Clara.

“What?” demanded Myrna, looking frantically out the window where Clara was pointing.

“That’s the supply ship,” said the pilot.

“The one the artists take?” Clara asked.

Below them was the river, and on it they saw a ship. From above it looked like a cigar.

“Oui.”

“How long does it take for the ship to get to Tabaquen?” she asked.

“From Sept-Îles?” The pilot considered. “About a day, maybe two. Depends on the weather.”

“Take us there.”

“Where?”

“Sept-Îles.”

“Clara?” asked Myrna.

“Clara?” asked Gamache.