The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)

The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5) Page 142

Gamache moved his splayed hand over the photographs and shoved them toward Olivier, who stared as though petrified.

“I don’t know,” he stumbled.

“For God’s sake, Olivier, please,” Gabri begged.

Gamache radiated anger now. Anger, frustration and fear that the real murderer would slip away, hiding in another man’s lies. Olivier and the Chief Inspector stared at each other. One man who spent his life burying secrets and the other who spent his life unearthing them.

Their partners stared, aware of the battle but unable to help.

“The truth, Olivier,” Gamache rasped.

“How did you know?”

“The place of wonders. Ninstints on the Queen Charlotte Islands. The totem poles told me.”

“They told you?”

“In their way. Each image built on the last. Each told its own story and was a wonder unto itself. But when taken as a whole they told a larger story.”

Beauvoir, listening to this, thought about Ruth’s couplets. The Chief had told him they did the same thing. If put together, in the right order, they too would tell a story. His hand slipped into his pocket and touched the scrap of paper shoved under his door that morning.

“What story do these tell, Olivier?” Gamache repeated. It had actually come to him on the plane as he’d listened to the little boy and the intricate GI Joe world he created. He’d thought about the case, thought about the Haida, the Watchman. Who, driven by his conscience, had finally found peace. In the wilderness.

The Chief Inspector suspected the same thing had happened to the Hermit. He’d gone into the forest a greedy man, to hide. But he’d been found. Years ago. By himself. And so he used his money as insulation and toilet paper. He used his first editions for knowledge and companionship. He used his antiquities as everyday dishes.

And in that wilderness he found freedom and happiness. And peace.

But something still eluded him. Or, perhaps more to the point, something still clung to him. He’d unburdened himself of the “things” of his life, but one more burden remained. The truth.

And so he decided to tell it to someone. Olivier. But he couldn’t go quite that far. Instead, he hid the truth in a fable, an allegory.

“He made me promise never to tell.” Olivier had dropped his head and spoke into his lap.

“And you didn’t. Not while he was alive. But you need to tell now.”

Without another word Olivier reached out and moved the photographs about, hesitating briefly over a couple, switching the order at least once. Until finally, spread in front of them, was the Hermit’s story.

And then Olivier told them, placing his hand over each image as he spoke. And as Olivier’s soft, almost hypnotic voice filled the space between them Gamache could see the dead man, alive again. In his cabin late at night. His one visitor sitting across the flickering fireplace. Listening, to this tale of hubris, of punishment and love. And betrayal.

Gamache watched as the villagers, happy in their ignorance, left their homes. And the young man raced ahead, clutching his small package, encouraging them to hurry. Toward paradise, they thought. But the boy knew differently. He’d stolen the Mountain’s treasure.

And worse.

He’d stolen the Mountain’s trust.

Now each figure the Hermit had carved took on a significance. The men and women waiting by the shore, having run out of land. And the boy, cowering, having run out of hope.

Then the ship arrived, sent by gods jealous of the Mountain.

But behind was the ever-present shadow. And the threat of something unseen but very real. The ghastly army, assembled by the Mountain. Made up of Fury and Vengeance, promising catastrophe. Fueled by Rage. And behind them the Mountain itself. That couldn’t be stopped and wouldn’t be denied.

It would find all the villagers and it would find the young man. And it would find the treasure he’d stolen.

As this army pressed forward it provoked wars and famine, floods and plagues. It laid waste to the world. Chaos led the army and chaos was left behind.

Beauvoir listened to this. His hand in his pocket scrunched Ruth’s latest couplet and he could feel it damp with sweat. He looked down at the photos of the carvings and saw the happy, ignorant villagers slowly transformed as they too first sensed something approaching, then knew it.

And he shared their horror.

Finally the wars and famine arrived on the shores of the New World. For years the wars raged around their new home, not quite touching it. But then . . .

They all looked at the final image. Of the villagers bunched together. Emaciated, their clothing in tatters. Looking up. In terror.