Brutal Telling

“I’m sorry,” said Carole, and opened her arms. Silently Marc moved across the stones and almost fell into them. He was tall and she wasn’t, but still she held him and rubbed his back and whispered, “There, there.”

Then they sat, the tray with croissants and fresh strawberry jam between them. The world looked very green that morning, very fresh, from the tall maples and oaks to the meadow. Marc poured coffee while Carole pulled the mohair throw round her shoulders and watched as the horses ate grass in the field and occasionally looked up into a day they should not have seen, into a world they should have left two days ago. Even now, standing in the mist, they seemed to straddle the two worlds.

“They almost look like horses,” said Marc, “if you squint.”

Carole looked over at her son and laughed. He was making a face, trying to morph the creatures in the field into the magnificent hunters he’d been expecting.

“Seriously, is that really a horse?” He pointed to Chester, who in the uncertain light looked like a camel.

Carole was suddenly very sad that they might have to leave this house, cast out by their own actions. The garden had never looked lovelier, and with time it would only get better as it matured and the various plants mingled and grew together.

“I’m worried about that one.” Marc pointed to the darkest horse, off on his own. “Thunder.”

“Yes, well.” Carole shifted uncomfortably to look at him. “About him . . .”

“Suppose he decides to bite one of the guests? Not that I don’t appreciate what he did to Dad.”

Carole suppressed a smile. Seeing the Great Man with horse slime on his shoulder was the only good thing about a very bad day.

“What do you suggest?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Carole was silent. They both knew what Marc was suggesting. If the horse didn’t learn manners in a month, by Thanksgiving he’d have to be put down.

“For wretched, blind pit ponies,” she murmured. “And little hunted hares.”

“Pardon?” asked Marc.

“His, ah, his name isn’t really Thunder. It’s Marc.”

“You’re kidding.” But neither was laughing. Marc looked out into the field at the malevolent, mad animal keeping his distance from the others. A black blotch in the misty meadow. Like a mistake. A mar.

A Marc.

Later, when Marc headed off with Dominique to get groceries and building supplies, Carole found four carrots in the kitchen and fed them to the horses, who at first were reluctant to trust. But first Buttercup, then Macaroni and finally Chester tiptoed forward and seemed to kiss the carrot off her palm.

But one remained.

She whispered to Marc the horse, cooing at him. Enticing him. Begging him. Standing at the fence she leaned forward, quietly holding the carrot out as far as she could. “Please,” she coaxed. “I won’t hurt you.”

But he didn’t believe her.

She went inside, climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to the small bedroom.

Armand Gamache took the carving and stared into the crowd on deck.

It was easy to miss, but still he could have kicked himself. It now appeared so obvious. The small figure at the very back of the boat, crouching just in front of the matronly woman and her large sack.

He felt his skin crawl as he examined the face of the tiny wooden man, barely more than a boy, looking over his shoulder. Past the matronly woman. Looking behind the boat. While everyone else was gazing ahead, he was slumped down and staring back. To where they’d been.

And the look on his face turned Gamache’s blood cold. Cold to the bone, cold to the marrow. Cold to the core.

This was what terror looked like. Felt like. The small, wooden face was a transmitter. And its message was horrific. Gamache suddenly had the nearly uncontrollable urge to look behind himself, see what might be lurking there. Instead, he put his glasses on and leaned closer.

In his arms the young man was gripping a package.

Finally Gamache put it down and removed his glasses. “I see what you mean.”

Superintendent Brunel sighed. “Evil. There’s evil on that voyage.”

Gamache didn’t disagree. “Does it look familiar? Could the carving be on your active list of stolen art?”

“There’re thousands of items on that list,” she smiled. “Everything from Rembrands to engraved toothpicks.”

“And I bet you have them all memorized.”

Her smile broadened and she inclined her head slightly. He knew her well.

“But nothing like this. It would stand out.”

“Is it art?”

“If you mean is it valuable, I’d say it’s almost priceless. If one of these had come on the market while I was at the Musée des Beaux Arts I’d have jumped at it. And paid a small fortune.”

“Why?”