The Brutal Telling
“Do you live in a cabin?”
Did John hesitate? “No, I have a room at the Holiday Inn Ninstints,” he laughed. “Yes. I built my own cabin a few years ago. Want to see it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
While Will Sommes and his granddaughter wandered around, John the Watchman took Gamache deeper into the forest. “Some of these trees are more than a thousand years old, you know.”
“Worth saving,” said Gamache.
“Not all would agree.” He stopped and pointed. To a small cabin, in the forest, with a porch, and one rocking chair.
The image of the Hermit’s.
“Did you know him, John?” asked Gamache, suddenly very aware he was alone in the woods with a powerful man.
“The dead man?”
Gamache nodded.
John smiled again. “No.” But he’d come very close to Gamache.
“Did you teach him to build a log cabin?”
“No.”
“Did you teach him to carve?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you had?”
“I have nothing to fear from you. Nothing to hide.”
“Then why are you here, all alone?”
“Why are you?” John’s voice was barely a whisper, a hiss.
Gamache unwrapped a carving. John stared at the men and women in the boat and backed away.
“It’s made from red cedar. From Haida Gwaii,” said Gamache. “Perhaps even from these trees in this forest. The murdered man made it.”
“That means nothing to me,” said John and with a last glance at the carving he walked away.
Gamache followed him out and found Will Sommes on the beach, smiling.
“Have a nice talk with John?”
“He hadn’t much to say.”
“He’s a Watchman, not a Chatter.”
Gamache smiled and started rewrapping the carving, but Sommes touched his hand to stop him and took the carving once again.
“You say it’s from here. Is it old growth?”
“We don’t know. The scientists can’t say. They’d have to destroy the carving to get a big enough sample and I wouldn’t let them.”
“This is worth more than a man’s life?” Sommes held the carving up.
“Few things are worth more than a man’s life, monsieur. But that life has already been lost. I’m hoping to find who did it without destroying his creation as well.”
This seemed to satisfy Sommes, who handed the carving back, but reluctantly.
“I’d like to have met the man who did that. He was gifted.”
“He might have been a logger. Might have helped cut down your forests.”
“Many in my family were loggers. It happens. Doesn’t make them bad men or lifelong enemies.”
“Do you teach other artists?” Gamache asked, casually.
“You think maybe he came here to talk to me?” asked Sommes.
“I think he came here. And he’s a carver.”
“First he was a logger, now he’s a carver. Which is it, Chief Inspector?”
It was said with humor, but the criticism wasn’t lost on Gamache. He was fishing, and he knew it. So did Sommes. So did Esther. We’re all fishermen, she’d said.
Had he found anything on this visit? Gamache was beginning to doubt it.
“Do you teach carving?” he persisted.
Sommes shook his head. “Only to other Haida.”
“The Hermit used wood from here. Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all. Some stands are now protected, but we’ve agreed on areas that can be logged. And replanted. It’s a good industry, if managed properly. And young trees are great for the ecosystem. I advise all wood carvers to use red cedar.”
“We should be going. The weather’s changing,” said Lavina.
As the float plane took off and banked away from the sheltered bay Gamache looked down. It appeared as though one of the totem poles had come alive, and waved. But then he recognized it as John, who guarded the haunting place but had been afraid of the small piece of wood in Gamache’s hand. John, who’d placed himself beyond the pale.
“He was involved in the logging dispute, you know,” Sommes shouted over the old engine.
“Seems a good person to have on your side.”
“And he was. On your side, I mean. John was a Mountie. He was forced to arrest his own grandmother. I can still see him as he led her away.”
“John’s my uncle,” Lavina shouted from the cockpit. It took Gamache a moment to put it all together. The quiet, somber, solitary man he’d met, the man who watched their plane fly away, had arrested Esther.