The Brutal Telling

“Killed. No, the vet’s been to see them and he says they’re fine, or will be.”



The barn smelled of disinfectant, soap and medication.



“Maybe physically, but you can’t tell me he’s okay.” Marc waved at Marc the horse, who flared his nostrils and snorted. “He isn’t even clean. Why not?”



Why did her husband have to be so observant? “Well, no one could get close to him.” Then she had an idea. “The vet says he needs a very special touch. He’ll only let someone quite exceptional near him.”



“Is that right?” Marc looked at the horse again, and walked toward him. Marc, the horse, backed up. Her husband reached out his hand. The horse put his ears back, and Dominique grabbed her husband away just as Marc the horse snapped.



“It’s been a long day and he’s disoriented.”



“Hmm,” said her husband, walking with her out of the barn. “What’s his name?”



“Thunder.”



“Thunder,” said Marc, trying the name out. “Thunder,” he repeated as though riding the steed and urging him on.



Carole greeted them at the kitchen door. “So,” she said to her son. “How’re the horses? How’s Marc?”



“I’m fine, thank you.” He looked at her quizzically and took the drink she offered. “And how’s Carole?”



Behind him Dominique gestured frantically at her mother-in-law who was laughing and just about to say something when she saw her daughter-in-law’s motions and stopped. “Just fine. Do you like the horses?”



“Like is a strong word, as is ‘horses,’ I suspect.”



“It’ll take a while for us all to get used to each other,” said Dominique. She accepted the Scotch from Carole and took a gulp. Then they walked out the French doors and into the garden.



As the two women talked, more friends than mother and daughter-in-law, Marc looked at the flowers, the mature trees, the freshly painted white fences and the rolling fields beyond. Soon the horses, or whatever they were, would be out there. Grazing.



Once again he had that hollow feeling, that slight rip as the chasm widened.



Leaving Montreal had been a wrench for Dominique, and leaving Quebec City had been difficult for his mother. They left behind friends. But while Marc had pretended to be sorry, had gone to the going-away parties, had claimed he would miss everyone, the truth was, he didn’t.



They had to be part of his life for him to miss them, and they weren’t. He remembered that Kipling poem his father loved, and taught him. And that one line. If all men count with you, but none too much.



And they hadn’t. Over forty-five years not a single man had counted too much.



He had loads of colleagues, acquaintances, buddies. He was an emotional communist. Everyone counted equally, but none too much.



You’ll be a man, my son. That was how the poem ended.



But Marc Gilbert, listening to the quiet conversation and looking over the rich, endless fields, was beginning to wonder if that was enough. Or even true.



The officers gathered round the conference table and Beauvoir uncapped his red Magic Marker. Agent Morin was beginning to appreciate that the small “pop” was like a starter’s gun. In the short time he’d been with homicide he’d developed a fondness for the smell of marker, and that distinctive sound.



He settled into his chair, a little nervous as always, in case he should say something particularly stupid. Agent Lacoste had helped. As they’d gathered up their papers for the meeting she’d seen his trembling hands and whispered that maybe he should just listen this time.



He’d looked at her, surprised.



“Won’t they think I’m an idiot? That I have nothing to say?”



“Believe me, there’s no way you’re going to listen yourself out of this job. Or any job. Just relax, let me do the talking today, and we’ll see about tomorrow. Okay?”



He’d looked at her then, trying to figure out what her motives might be. Everyone had them, he knew. Some were driven by kindness, some not. And he’d been at the Sûreté long enough to know that most in the famous police force weren’t guided by a desire to be nice.



It was brutally competitive, and nowhere more so than the scramble to get into homicide. The most prestigious posting. And the chance to work with Chief Inspector Gamache.



He was barely in, and barely hanging on. One wrong move and he’d slide right out the door, and be forgotten in an instant. He wasn’t going to let that happen. And he knew, instinctively, this was a pivotal moment. Was Agent Lacoste sincere?