The Brutal Telling

NINETEEN

“Peter?” Clara knocked lightly on the door to his studio.

He opened it, trying not to look secretive but giving up. Clara knew him too well, and knew he was always secretive about his art.

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” he said, longing to close the door and get back to it. All day he’d been picking up his brush, approaching his painting then lowering the brush again. Surely the painting wasn’t finished? It was so embarrassing. What would Clara think? What would his gallery think? The critics? It was unlike anything else he’d ever done. Well, not ever. But certainly since childhood.

He could never let anyone see this.

It was ridiculous.

What it needed, clearly, was more definition, more detail. More depth. The sorts of things his clients and supporters had come to expect. And buy.

He’d picked up and lowered his brush a dozen times that day. This had never happened to him before. He’d watched, mystified, as Clara had been racked by self-doubt, had struggled and had finally produced some marginal piece of work. Her March of the Happy Ears, her series inspired by dragonfly wings, and, of course, her masterpiece, the Warrior Uteruses.

That’s what came of inspiration.

No, Peter was much more clear. More disciplined. He planned each piece, drew and drafted each work, knew months in advance what he’d be working on. He didn’t rely on airy-fairy inspiration.

Until now. This time he’d come into the studio with a fireplace log, cut cleanly so that the rings of age were visible. He’d taken his magnifying glass and approached it, with a view to enlarging a tiny part of it beyond recognition. It was, he liked to tell art critics at his many sold-out vernissages, an allegory for life. How we blow things out of all proportion, until a simple truth was no longer recognizable.

They ate it up. But this time it hadn’t worked. He’d been unable to see the simple truth. Instead, he’d painted this.

When Clara left Peter plopped down in his chair and stared at the bewildering piece of work on his easel and repeated silently to himself, I’m brilliant, I’m brilliant. Then he whispered, so quietly he barely heard it himself, “I’m better than Clara.”

Olivier stood on the terrasse outside the bistro and looked into the dark forest on the hill. In fact, Three Pines was surrounded by forest, something he’d never noticed, until now.

The cabin had been found. He’d prayed this wouldn’t happen, but it had. And for the first time since he’d arrived in Three Pines he felt the dark forest closing in.

“But if all these things,” Beauvoir nodded to the interior of the single room, “are priceless why didn’t the murderer take them?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Gamache from the comfort of the large wing chair by the empty fireplace. “What was the murder about, Jean Guy? Why kill this man who seems to have lived a quiet, secret life in the woods for years, maybe decades?”

“And then once he’s dead, why take the body but leave the valuables?” Beauvoir sat in the chair opposite the Chief.

“Unless the body was more valuable than the rest?”

“Then why leave it at the old Hadley house?”

“If the murderer had just left the body here we’d never have found it,” reasoned Gamache, perplexed. “Never known there’d been a murder.”

“Why kill the man, if not for his treasure?” asked Beauvoir.

“Treasure?”

“What else is it? Priceless stuff in the middle of nowhere? It’s buried treasure, only instead of being buried in the ground it’s buried in the forest.”

But the murderer had left it there. And instead, had taken the only thing he wanted from that cabin. He’d taken a life.

“Did you notice this?” Beauvoir got up and walked to the door. Opening it he pointed upward, with a look of amusement.

There on the lintel above the door was a number.

16

“Now, you can’t tell me he got mail,” said Beauvoir as Gamache stared, puzzled. The numbers were brass and tarnished green. Almost invisible against the dark wooden door frame. Gamache shook his head then looked at his watch. It was almost six.

After a bit of discussion it was decided Agent Morin would stay at the cabin overnight, to guard the possessions.

“Come with me,” Gamache said to Morin. “I’ll drive you in while the others finish the job. You can pack an overnight bag and arrange for a satellite phone.”

Morin got on the ATV behind the Chief Inspector and searched for something to grip, settling on the bottom of the seat. Gamache started up the machine. His investigations had taken him into tiny fishing out-ports and remote settlements. He’d driven snowmobiles, power boats, motorcycles and ATVs. While appreciating their convenience, and necessity, he disliked them all. They shattered the calm with their banshee screams, polluting the wilderness with noise and fumes.

If anything could wake the dead, these could.

As they bounced along Morin realized he was in trouble, and letting go of the seat he flung his small arms around the large man in front of him and held on tight, feeling the Chief’s wax coat against his cheek and the strong body underneath. And he smelled sandalwood and rosewater.

The young man sat up, one hand on the Mountain, the other to his face. He couldn’t quite believe what the Mountain had told him. Then he started to giggle.

Hearing this, the Mountain was puzzled. It wasn’t the shriek of terror he normally heard from creatures who came near him.

As he listened the Mountain King realized this was a happy sound. An infectious sound. He too started to rumble and only stopped when the people in the village grew frightened. And he didn’t want that. Never again did he want to scare anything away.

He slept well that night.

The boy, however, did not. He tossed and turned and finally left his cabin to stare up at the peak.

Every night from then on the boy was burdened by the Mountain’s secret. He grew weary and weak. His parents and friends commented on this. Even the Mountain noticed.

Finally, one night well before the sun rose the boy nudged his parents awake.

“We need to leave.”

“What?” his bleary mother asked.

“Why?” his father and sister asked.

“The Mountain King has told me of a wonderful land where people never die, never grow sick or old. It’s a place only he knows about. But he says we need to leave now. Tonight. While it’s still dark. And we need to go quickly.”

They woke up the rest of the village and well before dawn they’d packed up. The boy was the last to leave. He took a few steps into the forest and kneeling down he touched the surface of the sleeping Mountain King.

“Good-bye,” he whispered.

Then he tucked the package under his arm, and disappeared into the night.

Jean Guy Beauvoir stood outside the cabin. It was almost dark and he was starving. They’d finished their work and he was just waiting for Agent Lacoste to pack up.

“I have to pee,” she said, joining him on the porch. “Any ideas?”

“There’s an outhouse over there.” He pointed away from the cabin.

“Great,” she said and grabbed a flashlight. “Isn’t this how horror movies start?”

“Oh no, we’re well into the second reel by now,” said Beauvoir with a smirk. He watched Lacoste pick her way along the path to the outhouse.

His stomach growled. At least, he hoped it was his stomach. The sooner they got back to civilization, the better. How could anyone live out here? He didn’t envy Morin spending the night.

A bobbing flashlight told him Lacoste was returning.

“Have you been into the outhouse?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? The Chief looked in, but I didn’t.” Even thinking about it made him gag.

“So you didn’t see what was in there.”

“Don’t tell me, the toilet paper was money too.”

“Actually it was. One- and two-dollar bills.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. And I found this.” She held a book in her hand. “A first edition. Signed by E. B. White. It’s Charlotte’s Web.”

Beauvoir stared at it. He had no idea what she was talking about.

“It was my favorite book as a child. Charlotte the spider?” she asked. “Wilbur the pig?”

“If they didn’t get blown up I didn’t read it.”

“Who leaves a signed first edition in an outhouse?”

“Who leaves money there?” Beauvoir suddenly felt an urge to go.

“Salut, patron,” waved Gabri from the living room. He was folding tiny outfits and putting them into a box. “So, the cabin in the woods. Was it where the guy lived? The dead man?”

“We think so.” Gamache joined him. He watched Gabri fold the small sweaters.

“For Rosa. We’re collecting them from everyone to give to Ruth. Is this too big for Rosa?” He held up a boy’s blazer. “It’s Olivier’s. He says he made it himself but I can’t believe that, though he’s very good with his hands.” Gamache ignored that.

“It’s a little big. And masculine, for Rosa, don’t you think?” he said.

“True.” Gabri put it in the reject pile. “In a few years it might fit Ruth though.”

“Did no one ever mention a cabin before? Not old Mrs. Hadley?”

Gabri shook his head but continued working. “No one.” Then he stopped folding and put his hands in his lap. “I wonder how he survived? Did he walk all the way to Cowansville or Saint-Rémy for food?”

One more thing we don’t know, thought Gamache as he went up the stairs. He showered and shaved and called his wife. It was getting dark and in the distance he could hear the shriek from the forest. The ATVs returning. To the village and to the cabin.

In the living room of the B and B, Gabri had been replaced by someone else. Sitting in the comfortable chair by the fire was Vincent Gilbert.

“I’ve been over to the bistro but people kept bothering me, so I came here to bother you. I’ve been trying to get out of my son’s way. Funny how coming back from the dead isn’t as popular as it once was.”

“Did you expect him to be happy?”

“You know, I actually did. Amazing, isn’t it, our capacity for self-deceit.”

Gamache looked at him quizzically.

“All right, my capacity for it,” snapped Gilbert. He studied Gamache. Tall, powerfully built. Probably ten pounds overweight, maybe more. Go to fat if he’s not careful. Die of a heart attack.

He imagined Gamache suddenly clutching his chest, his eyes widening then closing in pain. Staggering against the wall and gasping. And Dr. Vincent Gilbert, the celebrated physician, folding his arms, doing nothing, as this head of homicide slipped to the ground. It comforted him to know he had that power, of life and death.

Gamache looked at this rigid man. In front of him was the face he’d seen staring, glaring, from the back of that lovely book, Being. Arrogant, challenging, confident.

But Gamache had read the book, and knew what lay behind that face.

“Are you staying here?” They’d told Gilbert not to leave the area and the B and B was the only guesthouse.

“Actually, no. I’m the first guest at Marc’s inn and spa. Don’t think I’ll ask for a treatment, though.” He had the grace to smile. Like most stern people, he looked very different when he smiled.

Gamache’s surprise was obvious.

“I know,” agreed Gilbert. “It was actually Dominique who invited me to stay, though she did suggest I might want to be . . .”

“Discreet?”

“Invisible. So I came into town.”

Gamache sat in an armchair. “Why did you come looking for your son now?”

It had escaped no one that both Gilbert and the body had shown up at the same time. Again Gamache saw the cabin, with its two comfortable chairs by the fire. Had two older men sat there on a summer’s night? Talking, discussing? Arguing? Murdering?

Vincent Gilbert looked down at his hands. Hands that had been inside people. Hands that had held hearts. Repaired hearts. Got them beating again, and restored life. They trembled, unsteady. And he felt a pain in his chest.

Was he having a heart attack?

He looked up and saw this large, steady man watching him. And he thought if he was having a heart attack this man would probably help.

How to explain his time at LaPorte, living with men and women with Down’s syndrome? At first he’d thought his job was to simply look after their bodies.

Help others.

That’s what the guru had told him to do. Years he’d been at the ashram in India and the guru had finally acknowleged his presence. Almost a decade he’d spent there, in exchange for two words.

Help others.

So that’s what he did. He returned to Quebec and joined Brother Albert at LaPorte. To help others. It never, ever occurred to him that they’d help him. After all, how could people that damaged have anything to offer the great healer and philosopher?

It had taken years, but he’d woken up one morning in his cottage in the grounds of LaPorte and something had changed. He’d gone down to breakfast and realized he knew everyone’s name. And everyone spoke to him, or smiled. Or came up and showed him something they’d found. A snail, a stick, a blade of grass.

Mundane. Nothing. And yet the whole world had changed, as he slept. He’d gone to bed helping others, and woken up healed himself.

That afternoon, in the shade of a maple tree, he’d started writing Being.

“I’d kept an eye on Marc. Watched his successes in Montreal. When they sold their home and bought down here I knew the signs.”

“Signs of what?” Gamache asked.

“Burnout. I wanted to help.”

Help others.

He was just beginning to appreciate the power of those two simple words. And that help came in different forms.

“By doing what?” asked Gamache.

“By making sure he was all right,” Gilbert snapped. “Look, they’re all upset up there about the body. Marc did a stupid thing moving it, but I know him. He’s not a murderer.”

“How do you know?”

Gilbert glared at him. His rage back in full force. But Armand Gamache knew what was behind that rage. What was behind all rage.

Fear.

What was Vincent Gilbert so afraid of?

The answer was easy. He was afraid his son would be arrested for murder. Either because he knew his son had done it, or because he knew he hadn’t.

A few minutes later a voice cut across the crowded bistro, aimed at the Chief Inspector, who’d arrived seeking a glass of red wine and quiet to read his book.

“You bugger.”

More than one person looked up. Myrna sailed across the room and stood next to Gamache’s table, glaring down at him. He got up and bowed slightly, indicating a chair.

Myrna sat so suddenly the chair gave a little crack.

“Wine?”

“Why didn’t you tell me why you wanted that?” She gestured toward Being in his hand. Gamache grinned.

“Secrets.”

“And how long did you think it’d remain a secret?”

“Long enough. I hear he was over here having a drink. Did you meet him?”

“Vincent Gilbert? If you can call ogling and sputtering and fawning ‘meeting,’ then yes. I met him.”

“I’m sure he’ll have forgotten it was you.”

“Because I’m so easily mistaken for someone else? Is he really Marc’s father?”

“He is.”

“Do you know, he ignored me when I tried to introduce myself? Looked at me like I was a crumb.” The wine and a fresh bowl of cashews had arrived. “Thank God I told him I was Clara Morrow.”

“So did I,” said Gamache. “He might be growing suspicious.”

Myrna laughed and felt her annoyance slip away. “Old Mundin says it was Vincent Gilbert in the forest, spying on his own son. Was it?”

Gamache wondered how much to say, but it was clear this was not much of a secret anymore. He nodded.

“Why spy on his own son?”

“They were estranged.”

“First good thing I’ve heard about Marc Gilbert,” said Myrna. “Still, it’s ironic. The famous Dr. Gilbert helps so many kids, but is estranged from his own.”

Gamache thought again about Annie. Was he doing the same thing to her? Was he listening to the troubles of others, but deaf to his own daughter? He’d spoken to her the night before and reassured himself she was fine. But fine and flourishing were two different things. It had clearly gotten bad when she was willing to listen to Beauvoir.

“Patron,” said Olivier, handing Gamache and Myrna menus.

“I’m not staying,” said Myrna.

Olivier hovered. “I hear you found out where the dead man lived. He was in the forest all along?”

Lacoste and Beauvoir arrived just then and ordered drinks. With one last gulp of wine, and taking a large handful of cashews, Myrna got up to leave.

“I’m going to be paying a lot more attention to the books you buy,” she said.

“Do you happen to have Walden?” Gamache asked.

“Don’t tell me you found Thoreau back there too? Anyone else hiding in our woods? Jimmy Hoffa perhaps? Amelia Earhart? Come by after dinner and I’ll give you my copy of Walden.”

She left and Olivier took their orders then brought warm rolls smothered in melting monarda butter and spread with pâté. Beauvoir produced a sheaf of photographs of the cabin from his satchel and handed them to the Chief.

“Printed these out as soon as we got back.” Beauvoir took a bite of his warm roll. He was starving. Agent Lacoste took one as well and sipping on her wine she looked out the window. But all she could see was the reflection of the bistro. Villagers eating dinner, some sitting at the bar with beer or whiskey. Some relaxing by the fire. No one paying attention to them. But then she met a pair of eyes in the reflection. More specter than person. She turned just as Olivier disappeared into the kitchen.

A few minutes later a plate of escargots bathed in garlic butter was placed in front of Beauvoir with a bowl of minted sweetpea soup for Lacoste and cauliflower and stilton soup with pear and date relish for Gamache.

“Hmm,” said Lacoste, taking a spoonful. “Fresh from the garden. Yours too, probably.” She nodded to Beauvoir’s snails. He smirked but ate them anyway, dipping the crusty bread into the liquid garlic butter.

Gamache was looking at the photographs. Slowly he lowered the pictures. It was like stumbling across King Tut’s tomb.

“I have a call in to Superintendent Brunel,” he said.

“The head of property crime?” asked Lacoste. “That’s a good idea.”

Thérèse Brunel was an expert in art theft and a personal friend of Gamache.

“She’s going to die when she sees that cabin,” Beauvoir laughed. Olivier removed their dishes.

“How could the dead man have collected all these things?” Gamache wondered. “And gotten them in there?”

“And why?” said Beauvoir.

“But there were no personal items,” said Lacoste. “Not a single photograph, no letters, bank books. ID. Nothing.”

“And no obvious murder weapon,” said Beauvoir. “We sent the fireplace poker and a couple of garden tools to be tested, but it doesn’t look promising.”

“But I did find something after you left.” Lacoste put a bag onto the table and opened it. “It was way under the bed, against the wall. I missed it the first time I looked,” she explained. “I fingerprinted it and took samples. They’re on the way to the lab.”

On the table was a carved piece of wood, stained with what looked like blood.

Someone had whittled a word in the wood.

Woe.