by Louise Penny
“I didn’t expect to come, but I wanted to talk in person. I spoke to both Olivier’s boss at the bank and his father.”
She lowered her voice and told them what the executive at the Banque Laurentienne had said. When she finished her salad had arrived. Shrimp, mango and cilantro, on baby spinach. But she looked with envy at the steaming plate of Portobello mushrooms, garlic, basil and Parmesan on top of homemade pasta in front of the Chief.
“So it wasn’t clear whether Olivier was going to steal the money or give it back,” said Beauvoir, eyeing his charcoal steak and biting into his seasoned thin fries.
“The man I talked to believed Olivier was making the money for the bank. Still, he’d probably have been fired, if he hadn’t quit.”
“Are they sure all the money he made in the Malaysian deal was given to the bank?” Gamache asked.
“They think it was, and so far we can’t find any other account for Olivier.”
“So we still don’t know where the money came from to buy all that property,” said Beauvoir. “What did Olivier’s father have to say?”
She told them about her visit to Habitat. By the time she finished their plates had been cleared away and dessert menus were placed in front of them.
“Not for me.” Lacoste smiled at Havoc Parra. He smiled back, motioned to another waiter to clear and set a nearby table.
“Who’ll share a profiterole with me?” asked Beauvoir. They’d have to solve this case soon or he’d need a whole new wardrobe.
“I will,” said Lacoste.
The choux pastries filled with ice cream and covered in warm chocolate sauce arrived. Gamache regretted not ordering some himself. He watched, mesmerized, as Beauvoir and Lacoste took spoonfuls of the now melting ice cream mixed with pastry and the warm, dark chocolate.
“So Olivier’s father’s never been here,” said Beauvoir, wiping his face with his napkin. “He has no idea where Olivier lives or what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know his son’s gay?”
“Can’t be the only son afraid to tell his father,” said Lacoste.
“Secrets,” said Beauvoir. “More secrets.”
Gamache noticed Morin’s face change as he looked out the window. Then the murmur of conversation in the bistro died away. The Chief followed his agent’s gaze.
A moose was galumphing down rue du Moulin, into the village. As it got closer Gamache rose. Someone was on its back, clinging to the massive neck.
“You, stay here. Guard the door,” he said to Agent Morin. “You come with me,” he said to the others. Before anyone else could react Gamache and his team were out the door. By the time anyone else wanted to follow Agent Morin was standing at the door. Short, weedy, but determined. No one was getting by him.
Through the glass panes they watched as the creature bore down, its long legs pumping, awkward and frantic. Gamache walked foward but it didn’t slow, its rider no longer in control. The Chief spread his arms to corral him and as it got closer they recognized it as one of the Gilbert animals. A horse, supposedly. Its eyes wild and white, and its hooves spastic and plunging. Beauvoir and Lacoste stood on either side of the Chief, their arms also out.
At his station by the door young Agent Morin couldn’t see what was happening outside. All he could see were the faces of the patrons as they watched. He’d been at enough accident scenes to know that at really bad ones people screamed. At the worst, there was silence.
The bistro was silent.
The three officers stood their ground and the horse came straight for them, then veered, shrieking like a creature possessed. The rider fell off onto the grass of the green and Agent Lacoste managed to grab the reins as the horse skidded and twisted. Beside her Gamache also grabbed the reins and between them they fought the horse to a halt.
Inspector Beauvoir was on his knees on the grass, bending over the fallen rider.
“Are you all right? Don’t move, just lie still.”
But like most people given that advice, the rider sat up and yanked off her riding helmet. It was Dominique Gilbert. Like the horse’s, her eyes were wild and wide. Leaving Lacoste to calm the skittish animal Gamache quickly joined Beauvoir, kneeling beside him.
“What’s happened?” asked Gamache.
“In the woods,” Dominique Gilbert gasped. “A cabin. I looked inside. There was blood. Lots of it.”
EIGHTEEN
The young man, not much more than a boy, heard the wind. Heard the moan, and heeded it. He stayed. After a day his family, afraid of what they might find, came looking and found him on the side of the terrible mountain. Alive. Alone. They pleaded with him to leave, but, unbelievably, he refused.
“He’s been drugged,” said his mother.
“He’s been cursed,” said his sister.
“He’s been mesmerized,” said his father, backing away.
But they were wrong. He had, in fact, been seduced. By the desolate mountain. And his loneliness. And by the tiny green shoots under his feet.
He’d done this. He’d brought the great mountain alive again. He was needed.
And so the boy stayed, and slowly warmth returned to the mountain. Grass and trees and fragrant flowers returned. Foxes and rabbits and bees came back. Where the boy walked fresh springs appeared and where he sat ponds were created.
The boy was life for the mountain. And the mountain loved him for it. And the boy loved the mountain for it too.
Over the years the terrible mountain became beautiful and word spread. That something dreadful had become something peaceful. And kind. And safe. Slowly the people returned, including the boy’s family.
A village sprang up and the Mountain King, so lonely for so long, protected them all. And every night, while the others rested, the boy, now a young man, walked to the very top of the mountain, and lying down on the soft green moss he listened to the voice deep inside.
Then one night while he lay there the young man heard something unexpected. The Mountain King told him a secret.
Olivier watched the wild horse and the fallen rider along with the rest of the bistro crowd. His skin crawled and he longed to break out, to scream and push his way out of the crowd. And to run away. Run, run, run. Until he dropped.
Because, unlike them, he knew what it meant.
Instead he stood and watched as though he was still one of them. But Olivier knew now he never would be again.
Armand Gamache walked into the bistro and scanned the faces.
“Is Roar Parra still here?”
“I am,” said a voice at the back of the bistro. The bodies parted and the stocky man appeared.
“Madame Gilbert’s found a cabin deep in the forest. Does that sound familiar?”
Parra, along with everyone else, thought. Then he, and everyone else, shook their heads. “Never knew there was one there.”
Gamache thought for a moment then looked outside where Dominique was just catching her breath. “A glass of water, please,” he said, and Gabri appeared with one. “Come with me,” the Chief Inspector said to Parra.
“How far was the cabin?” he asked Dominique after she’d swallowed the water. “Can we get there on ATVs?”
Dominique shook her head. “No, the forest’s too thick.”
“How’d you get there?” asked Beauvoir.
“Macaroni took me.” She stroked the sweating horse’s neck. “After what happened this morning I needed time alone, so I saddled up and decided to try to find the old bridle paths.”
“That wasn’t very smart,” said Parra. “You could’ve been lost.”
“I did get lost. That’s how I found the cabin. I was on one of the trails you cut, then it ended, but I could just make out the old path so I kept on. And that’s when I saw it.”
Dominique’s mind was filled with images. Of the dark cabin, of the dark stains on the floor. Of jumping on the horse and trying to find the path back, and holding down the panic. The warnings every Canadian hears since childhood. Never, ever go into the woods alone.
“Can you find your way back there?” asked Gamache.
Could she? She thought about it, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Would you like to rest?”
“I’d like to get this over with.”
Gamache nodded, then turned to Roar Parra. “Come with us, please.”
As they walked up the hill, Dominique leading Macaroni with Parra beside her and the Sûreté officers behind, Beauvoir whispered to the Chief.
“If we can’t get in with ATVs, how’re we going to go?”
“Can you say giddyup?”
“I can say whoa.” Beauvoir looked as though Gamache had suggested something obscene.
“Well, I suggest you practice.”
Within half an hour Roar had saddled Buttercup and Chester. Marc the horse was nowhere to be seen but Marc the husband emerged from the barn, a riding helmet on his head.
“I’m coming with you.”
“I’m afraid not, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Gamache. “It’s simple math. There are three horses. Your wife needs to be on one, and Inspector Beauvoir and I need to be with her.”
Beauvoir eyed Chester, who shuffled from one hoof to another as though listening to a Dixieland band in his head. The Inspector had never ridden a horse before and was pretty certain he wasn’t about to now.
They set out, Dominique leading, Gamache behind her with a roll of bright pink ribbon to mark their path and Beauvoir bringing up the rear, though Gamache chose not to describe it as that to him. The Chief had ridden many times before. When he’d started dating Reine-Marie they’d go on the bridle paths on Mont Royal. They’d pack a picnic and take the trails through the forest right in the center of Montreal, stopping at a clearing where they could tie up the horses and look over the city, sipping chilled wine and eating sandwiches. The stables on Mont Royal were now closed, but every now and then he and Reine-Marie would head out on a Sunday afternoon and find a place to go trail riding.
Riding Buttercup, however, was a whole other experience. More like being in a small boat on the high seas. He felt slightly nauseous as Buttercup swayed back and forth. Every ten paces or so he reached out and tied another pink ribbon to a tree. Ahead Dominique was way off the ground on Macaroni, and Gamache didn’t dare look behind him, but he knew Beauvoir was still there by the constant stream of swear words.
“Merde. Tabarnac. Duck.”
Branches snapped back so that it felt as though they were being spanked by nature.
Beauvoir, instructed to keep his heels down and his hands steady, quickly lost both stirrups and clung to the gray mane. Regaining the stirrups he straightened up in time to catch another branch in the face. After that it was an inelegant, inglorious exercise in holding on.
“Tabarnac, Merde. Duck.”
The path narrowed and the forest darkened, and their pace slowed. Gamache was far from convinced they were still on the path, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Agents Lacoste and Morin were gathering the Crime Scene kit and would join them on ATVs as soon as Parra had opened the path. But that would take a while.
How long would it take Lacoste to realize they were lost? An hour? Three? When would night fall? How lost could they get? The forest grew darker and cooler. It felt as though they’d been riding for hours. Gamache checked his watch but couldn’t see the dial in the dimness.
Dominique stopped and the following horses crowded together.
“Whoa,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache reached out and took the reins, settling the Inspector’s horse.
“There it is,” Dominique whispered.
Gamache swayed this way and that, trying to see around the trees. Finally he dismounted and tying his horse to a tree walked in front of Dominique. And still he couldn’t see it.
“Where?”
“There,” Dominique whispered. “Right beside that patch of sunlight.”
One thick column of sun beamed through the trees. Gamache looked beside it, and there it was. A cabin.
“Stay here,” he said to her, then motioned to Beauvoir who looked around, trying to figure out how to get off. Eventually he leaned over, hugged a tree and hauled himself sideways. Any other horse might have been upset but Chester had seen worse. He seemed quite fond of Beauvoir by the time the Inspector slid off his back. Not once had Beauvoir kicked him, whipped him, or punched him. In Chester’s lifetime, Beauvoir was by far the gentlest and kindest of riders.
The two men stared at the cabin. It was made of logs. A single rocking chair with a large cushion sat on the front porch. There were windows on either side of the closed door, each with boxes in full bloom. A stone chimney rose at the side of the cabin, but no smoke came out.
Behind them they could hear the soft rumble of the horses, and the swish of their tails. They could hear small creatures scurrying for cover. The forest smelt of moss and sweet pine needles and decaying leaves.
They crept forward. Onto the porch. Gamache scanned the floorboards. A few dry leaves but no blood. He nodded to Beauvoir and indicated one of the windows. Beauvoir quietly positioned himself beside it, his back against the wall. Gamache took the other window then gave a small signal. Together they looked in.
They saw a table, chairs, a bed at the far end. No lights, no movement.
“Nothing,” said Beauvoir. Gamache nodded agreement. He reached out for the door handle. The door swung open an inch with a slight creak. The Chief put his foot forward and pushed it open all the way. Then looked in.
The cabin was a single room and Gamache saw at once there was no one there. He walked in. But Beauvoir kept his hand on his gun. In case. Beauvoir was a cautious man. Being raised in chaos had made him so.
Dust swirled in the little light that struggled through the window. Beauvoir, by habit, felt for a light switch then realized he wouldn’t find one. But he did find some lamps and lit those. What came to light was a bed, a dresser, some bookcases, a couple of chairs and a table.
The room was empty. Except for what the dead man had left behind. His belongings and his blood. There was a large, dark stain on the wooden floor.
There was no doubt they’d finally found the crime scene.
An hour later Roar Parra had followed the Chief’s pink ribbons and used his chainsaw to widen the path. The ATVs arrived and with them the Crime Scene investigators. Inspector Beauvoir took photographs while Agents Lacoste, Morin and the others combed the room for evidence.
Roar Parra and Dominique Gilbert had mounted the horses and gone home, leading Chester behind them. Chester looked back, hoping to catch a peek at the funny man who had forgotten to beat him.
As the clip-clop of the hooves receded the quiet closed in.
With his team inside working, and the space cramped, Gamache decided to explore outside the cabin. Finely carved window boxes bloomed with cheery nasturtiums and greenery. He rubbed his fingers first on one plant then the others. They smelled of cilantro, rosemary, basil and tarragon. He walked over to the column of sunlight breaking through the trees beside the cabin.
A fence, made of twisted branches, formed a large rectangle about twenty feet wide by forty feet long. Vines grew through the fence, and as he got closer Gamache noticed they were heavy with peas. He opened the wooden gate and walked into the garden. Neat rows of vegetables had been planted and tended, intended for a harvest that would not now come. Up and down the long, protected garden the victim had planted tomatoes and potatoes, peas and beans, and broccoli and carrots. Gamache broke off a bean and ate it. A wheelbarrow with some dirt and a shovel stood halfway along the path and at the far end there sat a chair of bent branches, with comfortable and faded cushions. It was inviting and Gamache had an image of the man working in the garden, then resting. Sitting quietly in the chair.
The Chief Inspector looked down and saw the impression of the man in the cushions. He’d sat there. Perhaps for hours. In the column of light.
Alone.
Not many people, Gamache knew, could do that. Even if they wanted to, even if they chose to, most people couldn’t take the quiet. They grew fidgety and bored. But not this man, Gamache suspected. He imagined him there, staring at his garden. Thinking.
What did he think about?
“Chief?”
Turning around Gamache saw Beauvoir walking toward him.
“We’ve done the preliminary search.”
“Weapon?”
Beauvoir shook his head. “But we did find Mason jars of preserves and paraffin. Quite a bit of it. I guess we know why.” The Inspector looked around the garden, and seemed impressed. Order always impressed him.
Gamache nodded. “Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
Now the Chief Inspector turned fully to his second in command. “What do you mean? Did this cabin belong to our victim?”
“We think so. It’s almost certainly where he died. But we haven’t found any ID. Nothing. No photographs, no birth certificate, passport, driver’s license.”
“Letters?”
Beauvoir shook his head. “There’re clothes in the dressers. Old clothing, worn. But mended and clean. In fact, the whole place is clean and tidy. A lot of books, we’re just going through them now. Some have names in them, but all different names. He must have picked them up at used-book stores. We found woodworking tools and sawdust by one of the chairs. And an old violin. Guess we know what he did at night.”
Gamache had a vision of the dead man, alive. Healthy even. Coming in after working the garden. Making a simple dinner, sitting by the fire and whittling. Then, as the night drew in, he’d pick up the violin and play. Just for himself.
Who was this man who loved solitude so much?
“The place is pretty primitive,” Beauvoir continued. “He had to pump water into the sink in his kitchen. Haven’t seen that in years. And there’s no toilet or shower.”
Gamache and Beauvoir looked around. Down a winding well-worn path they found an outhouse. The thought almost made Beauvoir gag. The Chief opened the door and looked in. He scanned the tiny one-holer, then closed the door. It too was clean, though spider’s webs were beginning to form and soon, Gamache knew, more and more creatures and plants would invade until the outhouse disappeared, eaten by the forest.
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