The Brutal Telling (34 page)

“My daughter’s too,” said Gamache. He remembered reading the book over and over to the little girl who pretended she wasn’t afraid of the dark. Afraid of the closed closet, afraid of the creaks and groans of the house. He’d read to her every night until finally she’d fall asleep.

The book that gave her the most comfort, and that he’d practically memorized, was
Charlotte’s Web
.

“Some pig,” he repeated, and gave a low, rumbling laugh. “The book’s about a lonely piglet destined for the slaughterhouse. A spider named Charlotte befriends him and tries to save his life.”

“By weaving things about him into her web,” explained Lacoste.
“Things like ‘Some pig’ so the farmer would think Wilbur was special. The book in the outhouse is signed by the author.”

Gamache shook his head. Incredible.

“Did it work?” asked Morin. “Was the pig saved?”

Beauvoir looked at him with disdain. And yet, he had to admit, he wanted to know as well.

“He was,” said Gamache. Then his brows drew together. Obviously in real life spiders don’t weave messages into their webs. So who had put it there? And why? And why “woe?”

He was itching to get back up there.

“There’s something else.”

All eyes once again turned to the simple-looking agent.

“It’s about the outhouse.” He turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything?”

“You mean besides the signed first edition and the stacks of money as toilet paper?”

“Not inside. Outside.”

She thought then shook her head.

“It was probably too dark,” said Agent Morin. “I used it last night and didn’t notice then either. It wasn’t until this morning.”

“What, for God’s sake?” Beauvoir snapped.

“There’s a trail. It runs to the outhouse, but doesn’t stop there. It goes on. I followed it this morning and it came out here.”

“At the Incident Room?” asked Beauvoir.

“Well, not exactly. It wound through the woods and came out up there.”

He waved toward the hill overlooking the village.

“I marked the place it comes out. I think I can find it again.”

“That was foolish of you,” said Gamache. He looked stern and his voice was without warmth. Morin instantly reddened. “Never, ever wander on your own into the woods, do you understand? You might have been lost.”

“But you’d find me, wouldn’t you?”

They all knew he would. Gamache had found them once, he’d find them again.

“It was an unnecessary risk. Don’t ever let your guard down.” Gamache’s deep brown eyes were intense. “A mistake could cost you your life. Or the life of someone else. Never relax. There are threats all
around, from the woods, and from the killer we’re hunting. Neither will forgive a mistake.”

“Yes sir.”

“Right,” said Gamache. He got up and the rest jumped to their feet. “You need to show us where the path comes out.”

D
own in the village, Olivier stood at the window of the bistro, oblivious of the conversation and laughter of breakfasters behind him. He saw Gamache and the others walk along the ridge of the hill. They paused, then walked back and forth a bit. Even from there he could see Beauvoir gesture angrily at the young agent who always looked so clueless.

It’ll be fine
, he repeated to himself.
It’ll be fine. Just smile
.

Their pacing stopped. They stared at the forest, as he stared at them.

And a wave crashed over Olivier, knocking the breath he’d been holding for so long out of him. Knocking the fixed smile off his face.

It was almost a relief. Almost.

T
here it is,” said Morin.

He’d tied his belt around a branch. It had seemed a clever solution when he’d done it, but now searching for a thin brown belt on the edge of a forest didn’t seem such a brilliant idea.

But they found it.

Gamache looked at the path. Once you knew it was there it was obvious. It almost screamed. Like those optical illusions deliberately placed in paintings that once found you couldn’t stop seeing. The tiger in the crockery, the spaceship in the garden.

“I’ll join you at the cabin when I can,” said Gamache and watched with Lacoste as Beauvoir and Morin headed into the woods. Like nuns, he felt they were safe if not alone. It was, he supposed, a conceit. But it comforted him. He watched until he couldn’t see them anymore. But still he waited, until he could no longer hear them. And only then did he descend into Three Pines.

P
eter and Clara Morrow were both in their studios when the doorbell rang. It was an odd, almost startling sound. No one they knew ever rang
the bell, they just came in and made themselves at home. How often had Clara and Peter found Ruth in their living room? Feet up on the sofa reading a book and drinking a martini at ten in the morning, Rosa nestled on the worn carpet beside her. They thought they’d have to call a priest to get rid of them.

More than once they’d found Gabri in their bath.

“Anybody home?” sang a man’s deep voice.

“I’ll get it,” Clara called.

Peter didn’t bother to answer. He was wandering around his studio, circling the work on the easel, getting close, then heading away. His mind might be on his art, as it always was, but his heart was elsewhere. Since word of Marc Gilbert’s treachery had hit the village Peter had thought of little else.

He’d genuinely liked Marc. Was drawn to him in a way he felt drawn to cadmium yellow and marian blue, and Clara. He’d felt excited, almost giddy, at the thought of visiting Marc. Having a quiet drink together. Talking. Going for walks.

Marc Gilbert had ruined that as well. Trying to ruin Olivier was one thing, a terrible thing. But secretly Peter couldn’t help but feel this was just as bad. Like taking a rusty nail to something lovely. And rare. At least for Peter.

He hated Marc Gilbert now.

Outside his studio he heard Clara talking, and a familiar voice replying.

Armand Gamache.

Peter decided to join them.

“Coffee?” Clara offered the Chief Inspector, after he and Peter had greeted each other.

“
Non, merci
. I can’t stay long. I’ve come on business.”

Clara thought that was a funny way of putting it. Murder business.

“You had a busy day yesterday,” said Clara, as the three of them sat at the kitchen table. “It’s all Three Pines can talk about. It’s hard to know what’s the most shocking. That Marc Gilbert was the one who moved the body, that Vincent Gilbert’s here or that the dead man seemed to be living in the forest all along. Did he really live there?”

“We think so, but we’re just waiting for confirmation. We still don’t know who he was.”

Gamache watched them closely. They seemed as puzzled as he was.

“I can’t believe no one knew he was there,” said Clara.

“We think someone knew. Someone was taking him food. We found it on the counter.”

They looked at each other in amazement.

“One of us? Who?”

One of us, thought Gamache. Three short words, but potent. They more than anything had launched a thousand ships, a thousand attacks. One of us. A circle drawn. And closed. A boundary marked. Those inside and those not.

Families, clubs, gangs, cities, states, countries. A village.

What had Myrna called it? Beyond the pale.

But it went beyond simple belonging. The reason “belonging” was so potent, so attractive, so much a part of the human yearning, was that it also meant safety, and loyalty. If you were “one of us” you were protected.

Was that what he was up against, Gamache wondered. Not just the struggle to find the killer, but the efforts of those on the inside to protect him? Was the drawbridge up? The pale closed? Was Three Pines protecting a killer? One of them?

“Why would someone take him food then kill him?” asked Clara.

“Doesn’t make sense,” agreed Peter.

“Unless the murderer didn’t show up intending to kill,” said Gamache. “Maybe something happened to provoke him.”

“Okay, but then if he lashed out and murdered the man, wouldn’t he have just run away? Why take the body all the way through the woods to the Gilbert place?” asked Clara.

“Why indeed,” asked Gamache. “Any theories?”

“Because he wanted the body found,” said Peter. “And the Gilberts’ is the nearest place.”

The murderer wanted the body found. Why? Most murderers went to huge lengths to hide the crime. Why had this man advertised it?

“Either the body found,” Peter continued, “or the cabin.”

“We think it would have been found in a few days anyway,” Gamache said. “Roar Parra was cutting riding paths in that area.”

“We’re not being much help,” said Clara.

Gamache reached into his satchel. “I actually came by to show you something we found in the cabin. I’d like your opinions.”

He brought out two towels and placed them carefully on the table.
They looked like newborns, protected against a chilly world. He slowly unwrapped them.

Clara leaned in.

“Look at their faces.” She looked up directly into Gamache’s. “So beautiful.”

He nodded. They were. Not just their features. It was their joy, their vitality, that made them beautiful.

“May I?” Peter reached out and Gamache nodded. He picked up one of the sculptures and turned it over.

“There’s writing, but I can’t make it out. A signature?”

“Of sorts, perhaps,” said Gamache. “We haven’t figured out what the letters mean.”

Peter studied the two works, the ship and the shore. “Did the dead man carve them?”

“We think so.”

Though, given what else was in the cabin, it wouldn’t have surprised Gamache to discover they were carved by Michelangelo. The difference was every other piece was in plain sight, but the dead man had kept these hidden. Somehow these were different.

As he watched he saw first Clara’s then Peter’s smile fade until they both looked almost unhappy. Certainly uncomfortable. Clara fidgeted in her chair. It had taken the Morrows less time than it took the Sûreté officers that morning to sense something wrong. Not surprising, thought Gamache. The Morrows were artists and presumably more in tune with their feelings.

The carvings emanated delight, joy. But beneath that was something else. A minor key, a dark note.

“What is it?” Gamache asked.

“There’s something wrong with them,” said Clara. “Something’s off.”

“Can you tell me what?”

Peter and Clara continued to stare at the pieces, then looked at each other. Finally they looked at Gamache.

“Sorry,” said Peter. “Sometimes with art it can be subliminal, unintended by the artist even. A proportion slightly off. A color that jars.”

“I can tell you though,” said Clara, “they’re great works of art.”

“How can you tell?” asked Gamache.

“Because they provoke a strong emotion. All great art does.”

Clara considered the carvings again. Was there too much joy? Was
that the problem? Was too much beauty and delight and hope disquieting?

She thought not, hoped not. No, it was something else about these works.

“That reminds me,” said Peter. “Don’t you have a meeting with Denis Fortin in a few minutes?”

“Oh, damn, damn, damn,” said Clara, springing up from the table.

“I won’t keep you,” said Gamache, rewrapping the sculptures.

“I have a thought,” she said, joining Gamache at the door. “Monsieur Fortin might know more about sculpture than us. Hard to know less, really. Can I show one to him?”

“It’s a good idea,” said Gamache. “A very good idea. Where’re you meeting him?”

“In the bistro in five minutes.”

Gamache took one of the towels out of his satchel and handed it to Clara.

“This is great,” she said as they walked down the path to the road. “I’ll just tell him I made it.”

“Would you have liked to?”

Clara remembered the blossoming horror in her chest as she’d looked at the carvings.

“No,” she said.