Gamache pointed. Toward a rise, a hill. Where there were no dwellings, no buildings at all. It was just rock and scrub.

“There’s a diner.” Beauvoir waved at a weathered clapboard building. “You can wait for us there.”

Clara had forgotten that they’d been here before.

“I should go with you,” said Chartrand.

“You should stay here,” said Gamache. Then he turned to Clara. “You’ve brought us this far. Now you need to wait here. If we find Peter we’ll bring him to you. I promise.”

He gave a brief nod of thanks to the elderly man, who’d turned away and was again staring out at the harbor, and the river beyond.

And in that instant Gamache had the sense the elderly man hadn’t so much been watching for the ship, as waiting.

A mariner on dry land. But always a boatman. Perhaps even a voyageur.

Clara stopped at the door to the diner and watched as Armand and Jean-Guy walked out of town. And on the top of the hill, they paused.

Two figures, a few feet apart, against the morning sky.

Clara tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. Then she felt her heart squeeze. They looked like the ears of a hare. Like in Peter’s painting.

In the diner she unrolled one of his canvases. Marcel Chartrand brought over a plate of lemon meringue pie and put it on one of the corners, to keep it from curling up.

Then Clara sat down and stared into the painting, the closest she could come, for now, to being in Peter’s company.

*   *   *

Ahead of them, in the distance, Gamache and Beauvoir could see the village of Agneau-de-Dieu. And at their backs was Tabaquen.

And in between was a stretch of terrain. Desolate. Empty.

No Man’s land.

Except for one neat little house.

No Man’s home.

As they watched, a figure slowly unfolded from a chair. Lanky, gangly, like a puppet or scarecrow. He stood, framed in the dark rectangle of the door. Then he took a step toward them. Then another.

And then he stopped. Paralyzed.

*   *   *

The man stood up when he saw them on the hill. He stood, and he stared. And then he reached out to grasp the weather-beaten post holding up the porch. He gripped it tight, clinging to it, and to his reason. Knowing what he saw could not possibly be real.

It was a mirage, a jest, a trick. Conjured from exhaustion and shock.

He leaned against the rough post and stared at the men.

It could not be.

*   *   *

Gamache and Beauvoir stared at the man on the porch.

And then they broke into a rapid walk that verged on a run.

The man on the porch saw this and backed up. He looked behind him, into the cave of the small house.

Then he looked at the specters, making their way toward him. Swarming toward him, down the hill. From Tabaquen.