The Brutal Telling

“So you thought they were stolen and you didn’t say anything?” asked Gamache, his voice still without criticism. “Didn’t call the police.”



“No. I know I should have, but I didn’t.”



For once Beauvoir didn’t sneer. This he found completely natural and understandable. How many people would, after all? It always amazed Beauvoir when he heard about people finding suitcases full of money, and turning it in. He had to wonder about the sanity of such people.



For his part Gamache was thinking about the other end of the deal. The people who’d owned the things. The fabulous violin, the priceless glassware, the china and silver and inlaid wood. If the Hermit was hiding in the woods someone had chased him there. “Did he say where he was from?” Gamache asked.



“No. I asked once but he didn’t answer.”



Gamache considered. “What did he sound like?”



“I’m sorry?”



“His voice.”



“It was normal. We spoke in French.”



“Quebec French, or France French?”



Olivier hesitated. Gamache waited.



“Quebec, but . . .”



Gamache was still, as though he could wait all day. All week. A lifetime.



“. . . but he had a slight accent. Czech, I think,” said Olivier in a rush.



“Are you sure?”



“Yes. He was Czech,” said Olivier in a mumble. “I’m sure.”



Gamache saw Beauvoir make a note. It was the first clue to the man’s identity.



“Why didn’t you tell us you knew the Hermit when the body was found?”



“I should have, but I thought you might not find the cabin.”



“And why would you hope that?”



Olivier tried to take a breath, but the oxygen didn’t seem to reach his lungs. Or his brain. His compressed lips felt cold and his eyes burned. Hadn’t he told them enough? But still Gamache sat across from him, waiting. And Olivier could see it in his eyes. He knew. Gamache knew the answer, and still he demanded Olivier say it himself.



“Because there were things in the cabin I wanted. For myself.”



Olivier looked exhausted, as though he’d coughed up his insides. But Gamache knew there was more.



“Tell us about the carvings.”



Clara walked along the road from the Incident Room, over the bridge into Three Pines, and stood looking first one way then the other.



What should she do?



She’d just been to the Incident Room to return the carving.



Fucking queers.



Two words.



Surely she could ignore them. Pretend Fortin hadn’t said it. Or, better still, maybe she could find someone who’d assure her what she’d done was quite right.



She’d done nothing. Said nothing. She’d simply thanked Denis Fortin for his time, agreed this was exciting, agreed to keep in touch as the show approached. They’d shaken hands and kissed on both cheeks.



And now she stood, lost, looking this way and that. Clara had considered talking to Gamache about it, then dismissed the idea. He was a friend, but he was also a cop, investigating a crime worse than nasty words.



And yet, Clara wondered. Was that where most murders began? Did they start as words? Something said that lodged and festered. That curdled. And killed.



Fucking queers.



And she’d done nothing.



Clara turned right and made for the shops.



What carvings?”



“This carving for one.” Gamache placed the sailing ship, with its miserable passenger hiding among the smiles, on the table.



Olivier stared at it.



They camped at the very edge of the world, crowded together, looking out to the ocean. Except the young man, who stared back. To where they’d come from.



It was impossible to miss the lights in the dark sky now. And the sky was almost perpetually dark. There was no longer a distinction between night and day. And yet, such was the villagers’ joy and anticipation, they didn’t seem to notice, or care.



The light sliced like a saber through the darkness, through the shadow thrown toward them. Almost upon them.



The Mountain King had arisen. Had assembled an army made of Bile and Rage and led by Chaos. Their wrath carved the sky ahead of them, searching for one man, one young man. Barely more than a boy. And the package he held.



They marched on, closer and closer. And the villagers waited on shore, to be taken to the world they’d been promised. Where nothing bad happened, and no one sickened or grew old.



The young man ran here and there, trying to find a hiding place. A cave perhaps, somewhere he could curl up and hide, and be very, very small. And quiet.