Blowback

Harvath had come over to join her and was hoping to spot Rayburn in one of the photos, when a petite, gray-haired woman of about sixty, her face as craggy as the mountains in the photos, emerged from the kitchen and said, “Bon soir. Puis-je vous aider?”

“Bon soir,” replied Harvath. “Avez-vous une chambre?”

Wearing a white, lace-trimmed apron over a loose-fitting peasant’s smock, the experienced hotelier recognized Harvath’s accent and replied in perfect English, “You’re American.”

“Yes.”

“And British,” added Jillian.

“You’re on your honeymoon,” said the woman, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. “I can always tell.”

For some reason, people often came to that conclusion when they saw Harvath with an attractive woman. He had no idea why. He figured he must have had a look about him that suggested he was perfect marriage material. He had learned the hard way, though, that at this point in his life, marriage or any kind of reasonable relationship was not in the cards for him. “No, we’re not here on our honeymoon. We came to climb. We’ve heard very good things about your hotel.”

“Really?” said the woman as she looked at the ground and smoothed the creases of her apron. “We don’t get many guests here anymore. Not since Bernard has gone.”

“Was Bernard your husband?” asked Jillian as she turned toward the photographs. “Is he the one I see in all of these?”

“Yes,” she said, managing a small smile. “Guests used to say they came for three things-Bernard, the climbing, and my cooking, in that order.”

“He sounds like he was very special.”

“He was. Everyone loved him.”

“What happened?” replied Harvath. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Bernard went climbing about a year ago and never came back.”

Tears began to form at the corners of the woman’s eyes, but she removed a tissue from her sleeve and quickly dabbed them away.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Jillian.

“It’s how he would have wanted to go,” responded the woman, “but you didn’t come to listen to the sad stories of an old woman. You came for a room. I have one available for fifty euros a night. I hope you don’t think it is too expensive, it’s just that-”

“No,” said Harvath, interrupting her with a smile. “Fifty euros is fine.”

“But we’ll need two rooms if possible, please,” Jillian added.

Definitely not on a honeymoon, Harvath thought to himself.

After unpacking his few belongings, Harvath walked downstairs for dinner. A small table had been set in the kitchen, and Marie, not expecting guests, apologized that all she had available was pottage. That didn’t bother Harvath. The temperature had dipped below freezing outside, and the weather was forecasted to get worse. It was a perfect night for soup. Actually, it was a perfect night for the fireplace, a good book, and a large glass of bourbon, but Harvath knew there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

As they ate their pottage, Marie explained that her husband, Bernard, had named the hotel the Carré de l’Ours after an old French saying, Don’t try to sell the skin of the bear until you have already gone out and killed it. She spoke fondly of him and of how Bernard had been born in Ristolas and had started hiking and climbing as soon as he could walk. Mount Viso and its surrounding mountains, valleys, and gorges had been his métier. The people of the village joked that his body had been formed from the mountain’s granite and that glacier water ran through his veins.

They still had a hard time believing that he had just gone off on a climb one day and never returned. Marie Lavoine had a hard time believing it too.

Without Bernard, the hotel had suffered. He had been the draw-the larger-than-life personality who organized and led top-of-the-line climbing and hiking trips throughout the area. Without him there anymore, even the most loyal clients began finding other guides and inns to stay at. When Bernard disappeared, it heralded the end of an era. It was obvious that Marie Lavoine had been struggling since his disappearance both emotionally and financially. As hard as it was going to be, Harvath decided it was time to address why they had come. “Marie, we need to ask you a question about one of your guests.”

“One of my guests? Who?”

“Elliot Burnham. An American.”

Lavoine looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if trying to recall the name and then back at Harvath. “I’m sorry, we usually received more Europeans than Americans, so you would think it would be easy for me to remember, but I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Harvath could see Marie Lavoine was lying to him. “Marie, this man is very dangerous. People have died because of him.”

At the mention that people had died because of Burnham, a sudden change came over her. Marie grew tense, and even Jillian could read it in the strained creases of her face. Lavoine’s small hands nervously twisted the napkin in her lap. “Who are you? Why are you asking me these questions?”