Penny, Louise - All the Devils Are Here

Once off the autoroute, the small procession took smaller and smaller roads until finally turning onto a dirt road.

There were no signs pointing the way. The GPS showed that they’d left the known routes and were now wandering in a sort of wilderness. But they knew they weren’t lost.

Just the opposite.

At the crest of the hill, Armand stopped the car, and by mutual and unspoken consent, he and Reine-Marie got out. And helped Stephen out.

The three of them stood in the cold October evening. A light snow was falling, and they could just make out the forests and the rolling hills stretching to the horizon. While below them in the valley, as though in the palm of some great hand, was a small village.

Buttery light shone from the fieldstone, brick, and clapboard homes that surrounded the green, turned white with freshly fallen snow. The crisp night air held a hint of maple smoke, from the chimneys.

And in the very center of the village, three great pines swayed in the breeze.

Reine-Marie touched Armand’s arm and pointed.

Someone had put the lights on in their home so that their wide front verandah was illuminated.

Getting back in the car, they drove slowly around the village green, passing Monsieur Beliveau’s general store, the boulangerie, the bistro.

They could see Olivier and Gabri chatting with patrons. At the sight of their headlights Gabri turned and, nudging Olivier, they waved.

Myrna’s bookstore was dark, but there were lights in her loft above.

Roslyn and Daniel pulled up behind his parents, and Jean-Guy and Annie behind them. Together they unloaded the vehicles of luggage and children.

One by one, villagers came over to lend a hand.

Clara Morrow opened her front door, and across the green came bounding Henri. His huge satellite ears forward, his tail wagging furiously, the shepherd raced across the snow-covered grass and plowed straight into Armand, almost knocking him off his feet.

Fred came next, trotting as fast as his old legs would take him, and Gracie, frantic to reach them, brought up the rear.

Stephen, with Reine-Marie on one side and Ruth on the other steadying him, said, “A chipmunk just ran into your house.”

“That’s not a chipmunk, you senile old man,” said Ruth. “That’s a badger. My God, you look awful. Are you sure you didn’t die?”

“If I did, and you’re here, this must be Hell.”

Ruth laughed while Rosa, waddling beside them, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Annie and Jean-Guy got Honoré and Idola settled while Roslyn and Daniel had the girls bathed, then changed into their flannel pajamas.

By the time the children came back down, the fire was lit, and the home was filled with the aroma of the cottage pies Gabri and Olivier had brought over.

The old pine table in the kitchen held a huge bouquet of fall flowers and foliage from Myrna. As well as her signature butter tarts.

Drinks were poured as Clara, Ruth, Myrna, Gabri, and Olivier brought everyone up to speed on the events in the village since the Gamaches had been gone.

Honoré fell asleep against Ruth, with Rosa nestled on his lap, while the girls sat with Myrna and Clara.

Gabri held Idola, gently rocking her in his arms.

“I want one,” he said quietly to Olivier.

“You are one,” said Olivier.

Claude Dussault put down their suitcases as Monique drew back the curtains and threw open a window.

Their small stone home in Saint-Paul-de-Vence hadn’t been lived in for months.

Dussault had been busy in Paris with the investigations into GHS. And answering questions into his own behavior.

Finally it was decided that he should, for the good of the Préfecture, step aside. Step down. Step back. Way back.

“Retire, Claude,” the Minister of the Interior had said. “Go plant roses. Enjoy your life.”

It was framed as a reward for decades of service. Though everyone knew it was a punishment. A consequence.

Still, neither Claude nor his wife regretted his actions. Though he did deeply regret that he couldn’t prevent the murder of Alexander Plessner or the attack on Stephen Horowitz.

“Here’s a postcard from Xavier Loiselle,” said Monique, checking the mail their housekeeper had put on the dining table. “He’s accepted the job you found him, but not the one in Paris.”

“Non?” said Claude as he opened more curtains and windows to air out the place.

Their home looked across the rolling hills of the Côte d’Azur, toward the Mediterranean, not quite visible in the distance.

“No. He’s with the Commissariat de Police in Nice. Just a few kilometers from us.”

“Huh. I wonder why.”

Monique looked at her husband and smiled. “I don’t.” She went back to the postcard. “Get this. He’s started saxophone lessons. And sounds like he’s smitten.”

“With the sax?”

Claude had opened the French doors to their stone terrasse and stepped out. He felt the sun on his face and breathed in the fresh air, scented with lemons from the grove just below them.

“With his teacher,” said Monique. “He’d like to bring her by one Sunday. Oh.”

“What is it?”

“A letter from the bank.” She ripped it open. “That’s strange.”

“What? Are they calling our mortgage? That’s all we need.”

“No.” She stepped onto the terrasse and showed him the paper. “This says the mortgage had been paid.”

Sure enough, the balance owing was zero.

“I wonder who did that?” he said.

Armand put on his coat and hat and, opening the door, he called to the dogs. And Gracie. Who might, or might not, have been a ferret. Though it didn’t matter. She was family.

The animals ran out the door, skidding slightly on the snow-covered porch.

The children had been fed and put to bed. Stories were read to them as they drifted off to sleep, snug and warm under their duvets as a cool breeze puffed out the curtains.

Daniel stood beside his daughters’ beds in the dark, and looked through the window at his father walking around the village green.

Then he put his hand in the pocket of his cardigan and brought out a scuffed envelope. On it, in his father’s hand, was written, For Daniel.

It was what his father had slipped him that day, years ago, on Mount Royal. Daniel, assuming it was money, and a not-very-subtle message that he couldn’t provide for his own family, hadn’t opened it.

He’d told his father he’d thrown it away, but had actually shoved it to the back of a drawer, and only found it again when they were packing up.

Now he tore it open. There was a short note inside, and something else.

Tipping the envelope up, out slid a thin silver chain, and a tiny crucifix.

Dearest Daniel . This was what your grandfather, my father, wore throughout the war. He always said it protected him. He gave it to me on my ninth birthday. The last, and most precious, gift he gave me, besides, of course, the gift of his love. He said it would keep me safe. I’ve worn it since. And now, I want you to have it.

Love, Dad

Closing his fist around it, Daniel watched as Jean-Guy sprinted across the snow to join his father. Then, after kissing his sleeping children and whispering that he loved them, Daniel went downstairs to join Stephen, who was nodding by the fire.

“What’ve you got there?” Stephen asked.

“You’re ninety-three and were run over by a truck, shouldn’t you be blind or demented by now?”

Stephen laughed. “Unfortunately for you, that truck seems to have knocked some sense into me.”

He nodded toward the chain in Daniel’s hand. And Daniel told him.

“May I see it?”

When Daniel gave it to him, Stephen gestured for Daniel to turn around. As he fixed it around Daniel’s neck, he whispered, “See this for what it is.”