Brutal Telling

He then worked on the code written under the hopeful people on the boat. OWSVI.

Within moments he had that too.

Emily.

Smiling he remembered flying over the mountains covered in mist and legend. Spirits and ghosts. He remembered the place forgotten by time, and John the Watchman, who could never forget. And the totems, captured forever by a frumpy painter.

What message was Jakob the Hermit sending? Did he know he was in danger and wanted to pass on this message, this clue? Or was it, as Gamache suspected, something much more personal? Something comforting, even?

This man had kept these two carvings for a reason. He’d written under them for a reason. He’d written Charlotte and Emily. And he’d made them out of red cedar, from the Queen Charlotte Islands, for a reason.

What does a man alone need? He had everything else. Food, water, books, music. His hobbies and art. A lovely garden. But what was missing?

Company. Community. To be within the pale. Two chairs for friendship. These carvings kept him company.

He might never be able to prove it, but Gamache knew without doubt the Hermit had been on the Queen Charlotte Islands, almost certainly when he’d first arrived in Canada. And there he’d learned to carve, and learned to build log cabins. And there he’d found his first taste of peace, before having it disrupted by the protests. Like a first love, the place where peace is first found is never, ever forgotten.

He’d come into these woods to re-create that. He’d built a cabin exactly like the ones he’d seen on the Charlottes. He’d whittled red cedar, to be comforted by the familiar smell and feel. And he’d carved people for company. Happy people.

Except for one.

These creations became his family. His friends. He kept them, protected them. Named them. Slept with them under his head. And they in turn kept him company on the long, cold, dark nights as he listened for the snap of a branch, and the approach of something worse than slaughter.

Then Gamache heard a twig crack and tensed.

“May I join you?”

Standing on the porch was Vincent Gilbert.

“S’il vous plaît.”

Gilbert walked in and the two men shook hands.

“I was at Marc’s place and saw your car. Hope you don’t mind. I followed you.”

“Not at all.”

“You looked deep in thought just now.”

“A great deal to think about,” said Gamache, with a small smile, tucking his notebook back into his breast pocket.

“What you did was very difficult. I’m sorry it was necessary.”

Gamache said nothing and the two men stood quietly in the cabin.

“I’ll leave you alone,” said Gilbert eventually, making for the door.

Gamache hesitated then followed. “No need. I’m finished here.” He closed the door without a backward glance and joined Vincent Gilbert on the porch.

“I signed this for you.” Gilbert handed him a hardcover book. “They’ve reissued it after all the publicity surrounding the murder and the trial. Seems it’s a bestseller.”

“Merci.” Gamache turned over the gleaming copy of Being and looked at the author photo. No more sneer. No more scowl. Instead a handsome, distinguished man looked back. Patient, understanding. “Félicitations,” said Gamache.

Gilbert smiled, then unfolded a couple of aluminum garden chairs. “I brought these with me just now. The first of a few things. Marc says I can live in the cabin. Make it my home.”

Gamache sat. “I can see you here.”

“Away from polite society,” smiled Gilbert. “We saints do enjoy our solitude.”

“And yet, you brought two chairs.”

“Oh, you know that quote too?” said Gilbert. “I had three chairs in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”

“My favorite quote from Thoreau is also from Walden,” said Gamache. “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone.”

“In your job you can’t let many things alone, can you?”

“No, but I can let them go, once they’re done.”

“Then why are you here?”

Gamache sat quietly for a moment then spoke. “Because some things are harder to let go than others.”

Vincent Gilbert nodded but said nothing. While the Chief Inspector stared into space the doctor pulled out a small Thermos from a knapsack and poured them each a cup of coffee.

“How are Marc and Dominique?” Gamache asked, sipping the strong black coffee.

“Very well. The first guests have arrived. They seem to be enjoying it. And Dominique’s in her element.”

“How’s Marc the horse?” He was almost afraid to ask. And the slow shaking of Vincent’s head confirmed his fears. “Some horse,” murmured Gamache.

“Marc had no choice but to get rid of him.”

Gamache saw again the wild, half-blind, half-mad, wounded creature. And he knew the choice had been made years ago.