Brutal Telling

“Did it work?” asked Morin. “Was the pig saved?”

Beauvoir looked at him with disdain. And yet, he had to admit, he wanted to know as well.

“He was,” said Gamache. Then his brows drew together. Obviously in real life spiders don’t weave messages into their webs. So who had put it there? And why? And why “woe?”

He was itching to get back up there.

“There’s something else.”

All eyes once again turned to the simple-looking agent.

“It’s about the outhouse.” He turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything?”

“You mean besides the signed first edition and the stacks of money as toilet paper?”

“Not inside. Outside.”

She thought then shook her head.

“It was probably too dark,” said Agent Morin. “I used it last night and didn’t notice then either. It wasn’t until this morning.”

“What, for God’s sake?” Beauvoir snapped.

“There’s a trail. It runs to the outhouse, but doesn’t stop there. It goes on. I followed it this morning and it came out here.”

“At the Incident Room?” asked Beauvoir.

“Well, not exactly. It wound through the woods and came out up there.”

He waved toward the hill overlooking the village.

“I marked the place it comes out. I think I can find it again.”

“That was foolish of you,” said Gamache. He looked stern and his voice was without warmth. Morin instantly reddened. “Never, ever wander on your own into the woods, do you understand? You might have been lost.”

“But you’d find me, wouldn’t you?”

They all knew he would. Gamache had found them once, he’d find them again.

“It was an unnecessary risk. Don’t ever let your guard down.” Gamache’s deep brown eyes were intense. “A mistake could cost you your life. Or the life of someone else. Never relax. There are threats all around, from the woods, and from the killer we’re hunting. Neither will forgive a mistake.”

“Yes sir.”

“Right,” said Gamache. He got up and the rest jumped to their feet. “You need to show us where the path comes out.”

Down in the village, Olivier stood at the window of the bistro, oblivious of the conversation and laughter of breakfasters behind him. He saw Gamache and the others walk along the ridge of the hill. They paused, then walked back and forth a bit. Even from there he could see Beauvoir gesture angrily at the young agent who always looked so clueless.

It’ll be fine, he repeated to himself. It’ll be fine. Just smile.

Their pacing stopped. They stared at the forest, as he stared at them.

And a wave crashed over Olivier, knocking the breath he’d been holding for so long out of him. Knocking the fixed smile off his face.

It was almost a relief. Almost.

There it is,” said Morin.

He’d tied his belt around a branch. It had seemed a clever solution when he’d done it, but now searching for a thin brown belt on the edge of a forest didn’t seem such a brilliant idea.

But they found it.

Gamache looked at the path. Once you knew it was there it was obvious. It almost screamed. Like those optical illusions deliberately placed in paintings that once found you couldn’t stop seeing. The tiger in the crockery, the spaceship in the garden.

“I’ll join you at the cabin when I can,” said Gamache and watched with Lacoste as Beauvoir and Morin headed into the woods. Like nuns, he felt they were safe if not alone. It was, he supposed, a conceit. But it comforted him. He watched until he couldn’t see them anymore. But still he waited, until he could no longer hear them. And only then did he descend into Three Pines.

Peter and Clara Morrow were both in their studios when the doorbell rang. It was an odd, almost startling sound. No one they knew ever rang the bell, they just came in and made themselves at home. How often had Clara and Peter found Ruth in their living room? Feet up on the sofa reading a book and drinking a martini at ten in the morning, Rosa nestled on the worn carpet beside her. They thought they’d have to call a priest to get rid of them.

More than once they’d found Gabri in their bath.

“Anybody home?” sang a man’s deep voice.

“I’ll get it,” Clara called.

Peter didn’t bother to answer. He was wandering around his studio, circling the work on the easel, getting close, then heading away. His mind might be on his art, as it always was, but his heart was elsewhere. Since word of Marc Gilbert’s treachery had hit the village Peter had thought of little else.

He’d genuinely liked Marc. Was drawn to him in a way he felt drawn to cadmium yellow and marian blue, and Clara. He’d felt excited, almost giddy, at the thought of visiting Marc. Having a quiet drink together. Talking. Going for walks.

Marc Gilbert had ruined that as well. Trying to ruin Olivier was one thing, a terrible thing. But secretly Peter couldn’t help but feel this was just as bad. Like taking a rusty nail to something lovely. And rare. At least for Peter.

He hated Marc Gilbert now.

Outside his studio he heard Clara talking, and a familiar voice replying.

Armand Gamache.

Peter decided to join them.

“Coffee?” Clara offered the Chief Inspector, after he and Peter had greeted each other.