But nothing had come. Not a word.

“I need to know, Armand.”

He looked away from her, across the forest that went on and on forever. He’d come here to heal and, perhaps, to hide. Certainly to rest.

To garden, and walk, and read. To spend time with Reine-Marie and their friends. To enjoy Annie and Jean-Guy’s weekend visits. The only problem he wanted to solve was how to hook up the garden hose. The only puzzle was whether to have the cedar plank salmon or the Brie and basil pasta for dinner at the bistro.

“Do you want my help?” he asked at last, not daring to look at her in case his face betrayed his offer.

He saw Clara’s shadow on the ground. It nodded.

He lifted his eyes to hers. And nodded. “We’ll find him.”

His voice was reassuring, confident.

Clara knew she was hearing the same voice, seeing the same face, so many others had. As the large, calm man had stood before them. And handed them their worst fears. And assured them he’d find the monster who had done it.

“You can’t know that. I’m sorry, Armand, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but you don’t know for sure.”

“C’est vrai,” Gamache conceded. “But I’ll do my best. How’s that?”

He didn’t ask if she was prepared for the answer to her question. He knew that while Clara wanted Peter, she also wanted peace. She was as prepared as she could be.

“You don’t mind?” she asked.

“I don’t mind at all.”

She studied him. “I think you’re lying.” Then she touched his large hand. “Thank you for that.” She got up, and he rose with her. “A brave man in a brave country.”

He was unsure what to say to that.

“It’s a prayer, from the other Gilead,” Clara explained. “It’s a dying father’s prayer for his young son.” She thought for a moment, remembering. Then she recited, “I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country. I will pray you find a way to be useful.”

Clara smiled.

“I hope I’m useful,” he said.

“You already have been.”

“Who do you want to know about this?”

“Might as well tell everyone now,” she said. “What do we do first?”

“First? Let me think about that. We can probably find out a lot and not even leave home.” He hoped his relief at that wasn’t too obvious. He watched her closely. “You can stop it at any time, you know.”

“Merci, Armand. But if I’m ever going to get on with my life, I need to know why he didn’t come home. I’m not expecting to like the answer,” she assured him. She left and walked down the hill.

He sat back down and thought about a dying father’s prayer for a young son. Had his own father thought of him, at the moment of impact? At the moment he knew he was dying? Did he think of his young son, at home, waiting for headlights that would never, ever arrive?