Gamache knew that face. Not the same expression, but the man.

He’d seen it on the dock, when they got off the ship. The elderly, grizzled fisherman in the wide-brimmed hat and thick, battered coat.

Not watching for the boat. But waiting for it.

The man who’d warned him to leave.

Had Clara and Myrna turned around, had they come closer, they might have recognized him. But they didn’t.

Vachon wasn’t setting it up to look like a murder-suicide. Massey was. If there was another body to be found, it would be Luc Vachon’s.

And Massey would be long gone. Presumed drowned. Another victim of Vachon. But actually safely on the ship.

“Damn.” Gamache shoved the device back into his pocket. He looked at his watch. He hadn’t heard the cry of the Loup de Mer’s horn. It was possible it hadn’t left port.

“Peter—”

Gamache turned to Peter, about to ask him to stay there while he ran back to Tabaquen to stop the boat. To find the fisherman. To tell Beauvoir to stop looking for Vachon, and start looking for Professor Massey.

But the words died when he saw Peter’s face, and followed his eyes.

To the door.

Clara Morrow was standing there. A knife to her throat.

Behind her was Massey, out of breath.

He held Clara to his chest. In his hand was a huge knife. A hunting knife. Used, Gamache knew, for gutting deer. Sharp enough to cut through sinew and bone. To cut a throat. As it had last night.

Armand Gamache put his hands up where Massey could see them, and Peter immediately did the same. Peter had gone pale, and Gamache thought he might pass out.

“Clara,” said Peter, but Clara couldn’t talk. The knife was against her skin, up under her jaw. Ready to slit.

Peter’s eyes went to Massey. “Professor. Please. You can’t.”

But Massey only had eyes for Gamache.

“I’m sorry you’re here,” Massey said, catching his breath. “I saw your assistant in Tabaquen. Asking about Luc. Trying to find him. I presumed you’d also be out looking. He even asked if I’d seen him. I had, of course.”

“Vachon didn’t know what you were doing, did he?” said Gamache.

He moved slightly to his right, so that he cleared the bed and had a direct path to Massey.

But Gamache knew he could never cover that short distance before Clara was dead, or dying. He hoped Peter knew the same thing. Massey was an elderly man, but still vigorous. And it didn’t take much for a sharp knife to go through flesh.