Brutal Telling

“Non, merci. I can’t stay long. I’ve come on business.”

Clara thought that was a funny way of putting it. Murder business.

“You had a busy day yesterday,” said Clara, as the three of them sat at the kitchen table. “It’s all Three Pines can talk about. It’s hard to know what’s the most shocking. That Marc Gilbert was the one who moved the body, that Vincent Gilbert’s here or that the dead man seemed to be living in the forest all along. Did he really live there?”

“We think so, but we’re just waiting for confirmation. We still don’t know who he was.”

Gamache watched them closely. They seemed as puzzled as he was.

“I can’t believe no one knew he was there,” said Clara.

“We think someone knew. Someone was taking him food. We found it on the counter.”

They looked at each other in amazement.

“One of us? Who?”

One of us, thought Gamache. Three short words, but potent. They more than anything had launched a thousand ships, a thousand attacks. One of us. A circle drawn. And closed. A boundary marked. Those inside and those not.

Families, clubs, gangs, cities, states, countries. A village.

What had Myrna called it? Beyond the pale.

But it went beyond simple belonging. The reason “belonging” was so potent, so attractive, so much a part of the human yearning, was that it also meant safety, and loyalty. If you were “one of us” you were protected.

Was that what he was up against, Gamache wondered. Not just the struggle to find the killer, but the efforts of those on the inside to protect him? Was the drawbridge up? The pale closed? Was Three Pines protecting a killer? One of them?

“Why would someone take him food then kill him?” asked Clara.

“Doesn’t make sense,” agreed Peter.

“Unless the murderer didn’t show up intending to kill,” said Gamache. “Maybe something happened to provoke him.”

“Okay, but then if he lashed out and murdered the man, wouldn’t he have just run away? Why take the body all the way through the woods to the Gilbert place?” asked Clara.

“Why indeed,” asked Gamache. “Any theories?”

“Because he wanted the body found,” said Peter. “And the Gilberts’ is the nearest place.”

The murderer wanted the body found. Why? Most murderers went to huge lengths to hide the crime. Why had this man advertised it?

“Either the body found,” Peter continued, “or the cabin.”

“We think it would have been found in a few days anyway,” Gamache said. “Roar Parra was cutting riding paths in that area.”

“We’re not being much help,” said Clara.

Gamache reached into his satchel. “I actually came by to show you something we found in the cabin. I’d like your opinions.”

He brought out two towels and placed them carefully on the table. They looked like newborns, protected against a chilly world. He slowly unwrapped them.

Clara leaned in.

“Look at their faces.” She looked up directly into Gamache’s. “So beautiful.”

He nodded. They were. Not just their features. It was their joy, their vitality, that made them beautiful.

“May I?” Peter reached out and Gamache nodded. He picked up one of the sculptures and turned it over.

“There’s writing, but I can’t make it out. A signature?”

“Of sorts, perhaps,” said Gamache. “We haven’t figured out what the letters mean.”

Peter studied the two works, the ship and the shore. “Did the dead man carve them?”

“We think so.”

Though, given what else was in the cabin, it wouldn’t have surprised Gamache to discover they were carved by Michelangelo. The difference was every other piece was in plain sight, but the dead man had kept these hidden. Somehow these were different.

As he watched he saw first Clara’s then Peter’s smile fade until they both looked almost unhappy. Certainly uncomfortable. Clara fidgeted in her chair. It had taken the Morrows less time than it took the Sûreté officers that morning to sense something wrong. Not surprising, thought Gamache. The Morrows were artists and presumably more in tune with their feelings.

The carvings emanated delight, joy. But beneath that was something else. A minor key, a dark note.

“What is it?” Gamache asked.

“There’s something wrong with them,” said Clara. “Something’s off.”

“Can you tell me what?”

Peter and Clara continued to stare at the pieces, then looked at each other. Finally they looked at Gamache.

“Sorry,” said Peter. “Sometimes with art it can be subliminal, unintended by the artist even. A proportion slightly off. A color that jars.”

“I can tell you though,” said Clara, “they’re great works of art.”

“How can you tell?” asked Gamache.

“Because they provoke a strong emotion. All great art does.”

Clara considered the carvings again. Was there too much joy? Was that the problem? Was too much beauty and delight and hope disquieting?

She thought not, hoped not. No, it was something else about these works.

“That reminds me,” said Peter. “Don’t you have a meeting with Denis Fortin in a few minutes?”

“Oh, damn, damn, damn,” said Clara, springing up from the table.

“I won’t keep you,” said Gamache, rewrapping the sculptures.