The Brutal Telling (36 page)

But he didn’t believe her.

She went inside, climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to the small bedroom.

A
rmand Gamache took the carving and stared into the crowd on deck.

It was easy to miss, but still he could have kicked himself. It now appeared so obvious. The small figure at the very back of the boat, crouching just in front of the matronly woman and her large sack.

He felt his skin crawl as he examined the face of the tiny wooden man, barely more than a boy, looking over his shoulder. Past the matronly woman. Looking behind the boat. While everyone else was gazing ahead, he was slumped down and staring back. To where they’d been.

And the look on his face turned Gamache’s blood cold. Cold to the bone, cold to the marrow. Cold to the core.

This was what terror looked like. Felt like. The small, wooden face was a transmitter. And its message was horrific. Gamache suddenly had the nearly uncontrollable urge to look behind himself, see what might be lurking there. Instead, he put his glasses on and leaned closer.

In his arms the young man was gripping a package.

Finally Gamache put it down and removed his glasses. “I see what you mean.”

Superintendent Brunel sighed. “Evil. There’s evil on that voyage.”

Gamache didn’t disagree. “Does it look familiar? Could the carving be on your active list of stolen art?”

“There’re thousands of items on that list,” she smiled. “Everything from Rembrands to engraved toothpicks.”

“And I bet you have them all memorized.”

Her smile broadened and she inclined her head slightly. He knew her well.

“But nothing like this. It would stand out.”

“Is it art?”

“If you mean is it valuable, I’d say it’s almost priceless. If one of these had come on the market while I was at the Musée des Beaux Arts I’d have jumped at it. And paid a small fortune.”

“Why?”

She looked at the large, calm man in front of her. So like an academic. She could see him in cap and gown moving like a ship of state through the halls of an ancient university, eager students in his wake. When she’d first met him, lecturing at the police college, he’d been twenty years younger but still a commanding figure. Now he carried that authority
with even greater ease. His wavy dark hair was receding, his temples were graying as was his trim mustache, his body was expanding. As was, she knew, his influence.

He’d taught her many things. But one of the most valuable was not to just see, but to listen. As he listened to her now.

“What makes a work of art unique isn’t its color or composition or subject. It has nothing whatsoever to do with what we see. Why are some paintings masterpieces while others, perhaps even more competent, are forgotten? Why are some symphonies still beloved hundreds of years after the composer has died?”

Gamache thought about it. And what came to mind was the painting placed so causally on an easel after dinner a few nights ago. Badly lit, unframed.

And yet he could have stared at it forever.

It was the painting of the elderly woman, her body headed forward, but her face turned back.

He’d known her longing. That same root which spasmed when gazing at the carving had ached when he’d looked at that woman. Clara hadn’t simply painted a woman, hadn’t even painted a feeling. She’d created a world. In that one image.

That was a masterpiece.

He suddenly felt very badly for Peter, and hoped deeply that Peter was no longer trying to compete with his wife. She was nowhere to be found on that battlefield.

“That,” Superintendent Brunel pointed with one manicured finger at the carving, “will be remembered long after you and I are dead. Long after this charming village has fallen to dust.”

“There’s another one, you know,” he said and had the rare pleasure of seeing Thérèse Brunel surprised. “But before we see it I think we should head to the cabin.”

He looked at her feet. She wore elegant new shoes.

“I’ve brought boots with me, Chief Inspector,” she said, her voice holding a faint and mocking reproach as she walked briskly ahead of him to the door. “When have you ever taken me anywhere that didn’t have mud?”

“I believe they hosed down Place des Arts before the last symphony we were at,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at Agent Lacoste as they left.

“Professionally, I meant. Always mud and always a body.”

“Well this time there is certainly mud, but no body.”

“Sir.” Lacoste jogged over to the car, holding a printout. “I thought you’d like to see this.”

She handed the paper to him and pointed. It was a lab report. The results were beginning to come in, and would continue all day. And this one brought a satisfied smile to his face. He turned to Thérèse Brunel.

“They found woodchips, sawdust really, beside a chair in the cabin. They also found traces on his clothes. The lab says it was red cedar. From British Columbia.”

“I guess we found the artist,” she said. “Now if we only knew why he carved so much terror.”

Why indeed, thought Gamache as he got into the car and drove up du Moulin. ATVs were waiting for them and they headed deep into the Quebec forest. A professor and an elegant expert on art. Neither was as they appeared, and they were heading for a rustic cabin that certainly wasn’t.

G
amache stopped the ATV just before the final turn in the path. He and Superintendent Brunel dismounted and walked the rest of the way. It was another world inside the forest, and he wanted to give her a feeling for where the victim had chosen to live. A world of cool shadows and diffuse light, of rich dark scents of things decaying. Of creatures unseen but heard, scampering and scurrying.

Gamache and Brunel were very aware of being the outsiders here.

And yet it wasn’t threatening. Not now. In twelve hours, when the sun was down, it would feel different again.

“I see what you mean.” Brunel looked around. “A man could easily live here without being found. It’s very peaceful, isn’t it?” She sounded almost wistful.

“Could you live here?” Gamache asked.

“I think I could, you know. Does that surprise you?”

Gamache was silent but smiled as he walked.

“I don’t need much,” she continued. “I used to. When I was younger. Trips to Paris, a nice apartment, good clothes. I have all that now. And I’m happy.”

“But not because you have those thing,” suggested Gamache.

“As I get older I need less and less. I really believe I could live here. Between us, Armand? Part of me yearns for it. Could you?”

He nodded and saw again the simple little cabin. One room.

“One chair for solitude, two for friendship and three for society,” he said.

“
Walden
. And how many chairs would you need?”

Gamache thought about it. “Two. I don’t mind society, but I need one other person.”

“Reine-Marie,” said Thérèse. “And I only need Jérôme.”

“There’s a first edition of
Walden
in the cabin, you know.”

Thérèse sighed. “
Incroyable
. Who was this man, Armand? Do you have any idea?”

“None.”

He stopped and beside him she stopped too, following his gaze.

At first it was difficult to see, but then, slowly, she made out the simple log cabin, as though it had materialized just for them. And was inviting them in.

C
ome in,” he said.

Carole Gilbert breathed deeply then stepped forward, past the solid ground she’d cultivated for decades. Past the quiet lunches with lifelong friends, past the bridge nights and volunteer shifts, past the enjoyable rainy afternoons reading by the window watching the container ships move slowly up and down the St. Lawrence river. She plunged past this gentle widow’s life within the fortified old walls of Quebec City, constructed to keep anything unpleasant out.

“Hello, Carole.”

The tall, slender man stood in the center of the room, contained. Looking as though he’d been expecting her. Her heart pounded and her hands and feet had gone cold, numb. She was a little afraid she’d fall down. Not faint, but lose all ability to stand up for herself.

“Vincent.” Her voice was firm.

His body had changed. That body she knew better than most. It had shrunk, shriveled. His hair, once thick and shiny, had thinned and grown almost white. His eyes were still brown, but where they’d been sharp and sure now they were questioning.

He held out one hand. It all seemed to happen excruciatingly slowly.
The hand had spots on it she didn’t recognize. How often had she held that hand in the first years, then later longed for it to hold her? How often had she stared at it as it held
Le Devoir
up to his face? Her only contact with the man she’d given her heart to, those long, sensitive fingers holding the daily news that was clearly more important than her news. Those fingers were evidence of another human in the room, but barely. Barely there and barely human.

And then one day he’d lowered the paper, stared at her with laser eyes and said he wasn’t happy.

She’d laughed.

It was, she remembered, a genuinely mirthful laugh. Not that she thought it was a joke. It was because he was serious. This brilliant man actually seemed to think if he wasn’t happy it was a catastrophe.

It was, in many ways, perfect. Like so many men his age he was having an affair. She’d known it for years. But this affair he was having was with himself. He adored himself. In fact, that was just about the only thing they had in common. They both loved Vincent Gilbert.

But suddenly that wasn’t enough. He needed more. And like the great man he knew he was, the answer could never be found close to home. It would have to be hiding in some mountain cave in India.

Because he was so extraordinary, his salvation would have to be too.

They’d spent the rest of the breakfast plotting his death. It appealed to Vincent’s sense of drama, and her sense of relief. It was, ironically, the best talk they’d had in years.

Of course, they’d made one very big mistake. They should have told Marc. But who’d have thought he’d care?

Too late she’d realized—was it less than a day ago?—that Marc had been deeply damaged by his father’s death. Not the actual death, mind. That he’d accepted easily. No, it was his father’s resurrection that had created the scars, as though Vincent, in rising, had clawed his way past Marc’s heart.

And now the man stood, shriveled, dotted and maybe even dotty, with one unwavering hand out. Inviting her in.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He lowered his hand and nodded. She waited for him to point out her faults and flaws, all the mistakes she’d made, the immeasurable hurt she’d caused him.

“I’m sorry,” said Vincent. She nodded.

“I know you are. So am I.” She sat on the side of the bed and patted it. He sat next to her. This close she could see worry lines crawling over his face. It struck her as interesting that worry lines only appeared on the head.

“You look well. Are you?” he asked.

“I wish none of this had happened.”

“Including my coming back?” He smiled and took her hand.

But instead of setting her heart racing, it turned her heart to stone. And she realized she didn’t trust this man, who’d blown in from the past and was suddenly eating their food and sleeping in their bed.

He was like Pinocchio. A man made of wood, mimicking humanity. Shiny and smiling and fake. And if you cut into him you’d see rings. Circles of deceit and scheming and justification. It’s what he was made of. That hadn’t changed.

Lies within lies within lies lay within this man. And now he was here, inside their home. And suddenly their lives were unravelling.