The Brutal Telling

EIGHTEEN

The young man, not much more than a boy, heard the wind. Heard the moan, and heeded it. He stayed. After a day his family, afraid of what they might find, came looking and found him on the side of the terrible mountain. Alive. Alone. They pleaded with him to leave, but, unbelievably, he refused.

“He’s been drugged,” said his mother.

“He’s been cursed,” said his sister.

“He’s been mesmerized,” said his father, backing away.

But they were wrong. He had, in fact, been seduced. By the desolate mountain. And his loneliness. And by the tiny green shoots under his feet.

He’d done this. He’d brought the great mountain alive again. He was needed.

And so the boy stayed, and slowly warmth returned to the mountain. Grass and trees and fragrant flowers returned. Foxes and rabbits and bees came back. Where the boy walked fresh springs appeared and where he sat ponds were created.

The boy was life for the mountain. And the mountain loved him for it. And the boy loved the mountain for it too.

Over the years the terrible mountain became beautiful and word spread. That something dreadful had become something peaceful. And kind. And safe. Slowly the people returned, including the boy’s family.

A village sprang up and the Mountain King, so lonely for so long, protected them all. And every night, while the others rested, the boy, now a young man, walked to the very top of the mountain, and lying down on the soft green moss he listened to the voice deep inside.

Then one night while he lay there the young man heard something unexpected. The Mountain King told him a secret.

Olivier watched the wild horse and the fallen rider along with the rest of the bistro crowd. His skin crawled and he longed to break out, to scream and push his way out of the crowd. And to run away. Run, run, run. Until he dropped.

Because, unlike them, he knew what it meant.

Instead he stood and watched as though he was still one of them. But Olivier knew now he never would be again.

Armand Gamache walked into the bistro and scanned the faces.

“Is Roar Parra still here?”

“I am,” said a voice at the back of the bistro. The bodies parted and the stocky man appeared.

“Madame Gilbert’s found a cabin deep in the forest. Does that sound familiar?”

Parra, along with everyone else, thought. Then he, and everyone else, shook their heads. “Never knew there was one there.”

Gamache thought for a moment then looked outside where Dominique was just catching her breath. “A glass of water, please,” he said, and Gabri appeared with one. “Come with me,” the Chief Inspector said to Parra.

“How far was the cabin?” he asked Dominique after she’d swallowed the water. “Can we get there on ATVs?”

Dominique shook her head. “No, the forest’s too thick.”

“How’d you get there?” asked Beauvoir.

“Macaroni took me.” She stroked the sweating horse’s neck. “After what happened this morning I needed time alone, so I saddled up and decided to try to find the old bridle paths.”

“That wasn’t very smart,” said Parra. “You could’ve been lost.”

“I did get lost. That’s how I found the cabin. I was on one of the trails you cut, then it ended, but I could just make out the old path so I kept on. And that’s when I saw it.”

Dominique’s mind was filled with images. Of the dark cabin, of the dark stains on the floor. Of jumping on the horse and trying to find the path back, and holding down the panic. The warnings every Canadian hears since childhood. Never, ever go into the woods alone.

“Can you find your way back there?” asked Gamache.

Could she? She thought about it, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Would you like to rest?”

“I’d like to get this over with.”

Gamache nodded, then turned to Roar Parra. “Come with us, please.”

As they walked up the hill, Dominique leading Macaroni with Parra beside her and the Sûreté officers behind, Beauvoir whispered to the Chief.

“If we can’t get in with ATVs, how’re we going to go?”

“Can you say giddyup?”

“I can say whoa.” Beauvoir looked as though Gamache had suggested something obscene.

“Well, I suggest you practice.”

Within half an hour Roar had saddled Buttercup and Chester. Marc the horse was nowhere to be seen but Marc the husband emerged from the barn, a riding helmet on his head.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I’m afraid not, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Gamache. “It’s simple math. There are three horses. Your wife needs to be on one, and Inspector Beauvoir and I need to be with her.”

Beauvoir eyed Chester, who shuffled from one hoof to another as though listening to a Dixieland band in his head. The Inspector had never ridden a horse before and was pretty certain he wasn’t about to now.

They set out, Dominique leading, Gamache behind her with a roll of bright pink ribbon to mark their path and Beauvoir bringing up the rear, though Gamache chose not to describe it as that to him. The Chief had ridden many times before. When he’d started dating Reine-Marie they’d go on the bridle paths on Mont Royal. They’d pack a picnic and take the trails through the forest right in the center of Montreal, stopping at a clearing where they could tie up the horses and look over the city, sipping chilled wine and eating sandwiches. The stables on Mont Royal were now closed, but every now and then he and Reine-Marie would head out on a Sunday afternoon and find a place to go trail riding.

Riding Buttercup, however, was a whole other experience. More like being in a small boat on the high seas. He felt slightly nauseous as Buttercup swayed back and forth. Every ten paces or so he reached out and tied another pink ribbon to a tree. Ahead Dominique was way off the ground on Macaroni, and Gamache didn’t dare look behind him, but he knew Beauvoir was still there by the constant stream of swear words.

“Merde. Tabarnac. Duck.”

Branches snapped back so that it felt as though they were being spanked by nature.

Beauvoir, instructed to keep his heels down and his hands steady, quickly lost both stirrups and clung to the gray mane. Regaining the stirrups he straightened up in time to catch another branch in the face. After that it was an inelegant, inglorious exercise in holding on.

“Tabarnac, Merde. Duck.”

The path narrowed and the forest darkened, and their pace slowed. Gamache was far from convinced they were still on the path, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Agents Lacoste and Morin were gathering the Crime Scene kit and would join them on ATVs as soon as Parra had opened the path. But that would take a while.

How long would it take Lacoste to realize they were lost? An hour? Three? When would night fall? How lost could they get? The forest grew darker and cooler. It felt as though they’d been riding for hours. Gamache checked his watch but couldn’t see the dial in the dimness.

Dominique stopped and the following horses crowded together.

“Whoa,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache reached out and took the reins, settling the Inspector’s horse.

“There it is,” Dominique whispered.

Gamache swayed this way and that, trying to see around the trees. Finally he dismounted and tying his horse to a tree walked in front of Dominique. And still he couldn’t see it.

“Where?”

“There,” Dominique whispered. “Right beside that patch of sunlight.”

One thick column of sun beamed through the trees. Gamache looked beside it, and there it was. A cabin.

“Stay here,” he said to her, then motioned to Beauvoir who looked around, trying to figure out how to get off. Eventually he leaned over, hugged a tree and hauled himself sideways. Any other horse might have been upset but Chester had seen worse. He seemed quite fond of Beauvoir by the time the Inspector slid off his back. Not once had Beauvoir kicked him, whipped him, or punched him. In Chester’s lifetime, Beauvoir was by far the gentlest and kindest of riders.

The two men stared at the cabin. It was made of logs. A single rocking chair with a large cushion sat on the front porch. There were windows on either side of the closed door, each with boxes in full bloom. A stone chimney rose at the side of the cabin, but no smoke came out.

Behind them they could hear the soft rumble of the horses, and the swish of their tails. They could hear small creatures scurrying for cover. The forest smelt of moss and sweet pine needles and decaying leaves.

They crept forward. Onto the porch. Gamache scanned the floorboards. A few dry leaves but no blood. He nodded to Beauvoir and indicated one of the windows. Beauvoir quietly positioned himself beside it, his back against the wall. Gamache took the other window then gave a small signal. Together they looked in.

They saw a table, chairs, a bed at the far end. No lights, no movement.

“Nothing,” said Beauvoir. Gamache nodded agreement. He reached out for the door handle. The door swung open an inch with a slight creak. The Chief put his foot forward and pushed it open all the way. Then looked in.

The cabin was a single room and Gamache saw at once there was no one there. He walked in. But Beauvoir kept his hand on his gun. In case. Beauvoir was a cautious man. Being raised in chaos had made him so.

Dust swirled in the little light that struggled through the window. Beauvoir, by habit, felt for a light switch then realized he wouldn’t find one. But he did find some lamps and lit those. What came to light was a bed, a dresser, some bookcases, a couple of chairs and a table.

The room was empty. Except for what the dead man had left behind. His belongings and his blood. There was a large, dark stain on the wooden floor.

There was no doubt they’d finally found the crime scene.

An hour later Roar Parra had followed the Chief’s pink ribbons and used his chainsaw to widen the path. The ATVs arrived and with them the Crime Scene investigators. Inspector Beauvoir took photographs while Agents Lacoste, Morin and the others combed the room for evidence.

Roar Parra and Dominique Gilbert had mounted the horses and gone home, leading Chester behind them. Chester looked back, hoping to catch a peek at the funny man who had forgotten to beat him.

As the clip-clop of the hooves receded the quiet closed in.

With his team inside working, and the space cramped, Gamache decided to explore outside the cabin. Finely carved window boxes bloomed with cheery nasturtiums and greenery. He rubbed his fingers first on one plant then the others. They smelled of cilantro, rosemary, basil and tarragon. He walked over to the column of sunlight breaking through the trees beside the cabin.

A fence, made of twisted branches, formed a large rectangle about twenty feet wide by forty feet long. Vines grew through the fence, and as he got closer Gamache noticed they were heavy with peas. He opened the wooden gate and walked into the garden. Neat rows of vegetables had been planted and tended, intended for a harvest that would not now come. Up and down the long, protected garden the victim had planted tomatoes and potatoes, peas and beans, and broccoli and carrots. Gamache broke off a bean and ate it. A wheelbarrow with some dirt and a shovel stood halfway along the path and at the far end there sat a chair of bent branches, with comfortable and faded cushions. It was inviting and Gamache had an image of the man working in the garden, then resting. Sitting quietly in the chair.

The Chief Inspector looked down and saw the impression of the man in the cushions. He’d sat there. Perhaps for hours. In the column of light.

Alone.

Not many people, Gamache knew, could do that. Even if they wanted to, even if they chose to, most people couldn’t take the quiet. They grew fidgety and bored. But not this man, Gamache suspected. He imagined him there, staring at his garden. Thinking.

What did he think about?

“Chief?”

Turning around Gamache saw Beauvoir walking toward him.

“We’ve done the preliminary search.”

“Weapon?”

Beauvoir shook his head. “But we did find Mason jars of preserves and paraffin. Quite a bit of it. I guess we know why.” The Inspector looked around the garden, and seemed impressed. Order always impressed him.

Gamache nodded. “Who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

Now the Chief Inspector turned fully to his second in command. “What do you mean? Did this cabin belong to our victim?”

“We think so. It’s almost certainly where he died. But we haven’t found any ID. Nothing. No photographs, no birth certificate, passport, driver’s license.”

“Letters?”

Beauvoir shook his head. “There’re clothes in the dressers. Old clothing, worn. But mended and clean. In fact, the whole place is clean and tidy. A lot of books, we’re just going through them now. Some have names in them, but all different names. He must have picked them up at used-book stores. We found woodworking tools and sawdust by one of the chairs. And an old violin. Guess we know what he did at night.”

Gamache had a vision of the dead man, alive. Healthy even. Coming in after working the garden. Making a simple dinner, sitting by the fire and whittling. Then, as the night drew in, he’d pick up the violin and play. Just for himself.

Who was this man who loved solitude so much?

“The place is pretty primitive,” Beauvoir continued. “He had to pump water into the sink in his kitchen. Haven’t seen that in years. And there’s no toilet or shower.”

Gamache and Beauvoir looked around. Down a winding well-worn path they found an outhouse. The thought almost made Beauvoir gag. The Chief opened the door and looked in. He scanned the tiny one-holer, then closed the door. It too was clean, though spider’s webs were beginning to form and soon, Gamache knew, more and more creatures and plants would invade until the outhouse disappeared, eaten by the forest.

“How did he wash?” asked Beauvoir as they walked back to the cabin. They knew he had, and regularly, according to the coroner.

“There’s a river,” said Gamache, pausing. Ahead sat the cabin, a tiny perfect gem in the middle of the forest. “You can hear it. Probably the Bella Bella, as it heads into the village.”

Sure enough Beauvoir heard what sounded strangely like traffic. It was comforting. There was also a cistern beside the cabin, designed to catch rainfall.

“We’ve found fingerprints.” Beauvoir held the door open for the Chief as they entered the cabin. “We think they belong to two different people.”

Gamache’s brows rose. The place looked and felt as though only one person lived here. But judging by events, someone else had found the cabin, and the man.

Could this be their break? Could the murderer have left his prints?

The cabin was growing dimmer. Morin found a couple more lamps and some candles. Gamache watched the team at work. There was a grace to it, one perhaps only appreciated by another homicide officer. The fluid motions, stepping aside, leaning in and out and down, bowing and lifting and kneeling. It was almost beautiful.

He stood in the middle of the cabin and took it in. The walls were made of large, round logs. Strangely enough there were curtains at the windows. And in the kitchen a panel of amber glass leaned against the window.

A hand pump at the sink was attached to the wooden kitchen counter, and dishes and glasses were neatly placed on the exposed shelves. Gamache noticed food on the kitchen counter. He walked over and looked, without picking anything up. Bread, butter, cheese. Nibbled, and not by anything human. Some Orange Pekoe tea in an open box. A jar of honey. A quart of milk sat opened. He sniffed. Rancid.

He motioned Beauvoir over.

“What do you think?”

“The man did his shopping.”

“How? He sure didn’t walk into Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t walk to Saint-Rémy. Someone brought this food to him.”

“And killed him? Had a cup of tea then bashed his head in?”

“Maybe, maybe,” murmured the Chief Inspector as he looked around. The oil lamps threw light very unlike anything an electric bulb produced. This light was gentle. The edges of the world seemed softer.

A woodstove separated the rustic kitchen and the living area. A small table, covered in cloth, seemed to be his dining table. A riverstone fireplace was on the opposite wall with a wing chair on either side. At the far end of the cabin was a large brass bed and a chest of drawers.

The bed was made, the pillows fluffed and ready. Fabric hung on the walls, presumably to keep out the cold drafts, as you’d find in medieval castles. There were rugs scattered about the floor, a floor marred only, but deeply, by a dark stain of blood.

A bookcase lining an entire wall was filled with old volumes. Approaching it Gamache noticed something protruding from between the logs. He picked at it and looked at what he held.

A dollar bill.

It’d been years, decades, since Canada used dollar bills. Examining the wall more closely he noticed other paper protruding. More dollar bills. Some two-dollar bills. In a couple of cases there were twenties.

Was this the man’s banking system? Like an old miser, instead of stuffing his mattress had he stuffed his walls? After a tour of the walls Gamache concluded the money was there to keep the cold out. The cabin was made of wood and Canadian currency. It was insulation.

Next he walked over to the riverstone fireplace, pausing at one of the wing chairs. The one with the deepest impressions in the seat and back. He touched the worn fabric. Looking down at the table beside the chair he saw the whittling tools Beauvoir had mentioned, and leaning against the table was a fiddle and bow. A book, closed but with a bookmark, sat beside the tools. Had the man been reading when he was interrupted?

He picked it up and smiled.

“I had three chairs in my house,” Gamache read quietly. “One for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”

“Pardon?” said Lacoste, from where she was crouching, looking under the table.

“Thoreau. From Walden.” Gamache held up the book. “He lived in a cabin, you know. Not unlike this, perhaps.”

“But he had three chairs,” smiled Lacoste. “Our man had only two.”

Only two, thought Gamache. But that was enough, and that was significant. Two for friendship. Did he have a friend?

“I think he might have been Russian,” she said, straightening up.

“Why?”

“There’re a few icons on the shelf here, by the books.” Lacoste waved behind her, and sure enough, in front of the leather-bound volumes were Russian icons.

The Chief frowned and gazed around the small cabin. After a minute he grew very quiet, very still. Except for his eyes, which darted here and there.

Beauvoir approached. “What is it?”

The Chief didn’t answer. The room grew hushed. He moved his eyes around the cabin again, not really believing what he saw. So great was his surprise he closed his eyes then opened them again.

“What is it?” Beauvoir repeated.

“Be very careful with that,” he said to Agent Morin, who was holding a glass from the kitchen.

“I will,” he said, wondering why the Chief would suddenly say that.

“May I have it, please?”

Morin gave it to Gamache who took it to an oil lamp. There, in the soft light, he saw what he expected to see, but never expected to hold in his own hands. Leaded glass, expertly cut. Hand cut. He couldn’t make out the mark on the bottom of the glass, and even if he could it would be meaningless to him. He was no expert. But he was knowledgeable enough to know what he held was priceless.

It was an extremely old, even ancient, piece of glass. Made in a method not seen in hundreds of years. Gamache gently put the glass down and looked into the kitchen. On the open rustic shelves there stood at least ten glasses, all different sizes. All equally ancient. As his team watched, Armand Gamache moved along the shelves, picking up plates and cups and cutlery, then over to the walls to examine the hangings. He looked at the rugs, picking up the corners, and finally, like a man almost afraid of what he’d find, he approached the bookcases.

“What is it, patron?” asked Beauvoir, joining him.

“This isn’t just any cabin, Jean Guy. This is a museum. Each piece is an antiquity, priceless.”

“You’re kidding,” said Morin, putting down the horse figurine jug.

Who was this man? Gamache wondered. Who chose to live this far from other people? Three for society.

This man wanted no part of society. What was he afraid of? Only fear could propel a man so far from company. Was he a survivalist, as they’d theorized? Gamache thought not. The contents of the cabin argued against that. No guns, no weapons at all. No how-to magazines, no publications warning of dire plots.

Instead, this man had brought delicate leaded crystal with him into the woods.

Gamache scanned the books, not daring to touch them. “Have these been dusted?”

“They have,” said Morin. “And I looked inside for a name, but they’re no help. Different names written in most of them. Obviously secondhand.”

“Obviously,” whispered Gamache to himself. He looked at the one still in his hand. Opening it to the bookmark he read, I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and to see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Gamache turned to the front page and inhaled softly.

It was a first edition.