“Congratulations.” Myrna embraced the grandfather.
“I need fresh air,” said Gabri, suddenly restless. At the door he turned to Gamache. “Well?”
The Chief Inspector and Myrna joined him and together they walked slowly round the village green. Where all could see. Gamache and Gabri, together. The wound not healed, but neither was it getting deeper.
“Olivier didn’t do it, you know,” said Gabri, stopping to look at Gamache directly.
“I admire you for standing by him.”
“I know there’s a lot about him that sucks. Not surprisingly, those are some of my favorite parts.” Gamache gave a small guffaw. “But there’s one question I need answered.”
“Oui?”
“If Olivier killed the Hermit, why move the body? Why take it to the Hadley house to be found? Why not leave it in the cabin? Or stick it in the woods?”
Gamache noticed the “he” had become an “it.” Gabri couldn’t accept that Olivier had killed, and he certainly couldn’t accept that Olivier had killed a “he” not an “it.”
“That was answered in the trial,” said Gamache, patiently. “The cabin was about to be found. Roar was cutting a path straight for it.”
Gabri nodded, reluctantly. Myrna watched and willed her friend to be able to accept the now undeniable truth.
“I know,” said Gabri. “But why move it to the Hadley house? Why not just take it deeper into the woods and let the animals do the rest?”
“Because Olivier realized the body wasn’t the most damning evidence against him. The cabin was. Years of evidence, of fingerprints, of hairs, of food. He couldn’t hope to clean it all up, at least not right away. But if our investigation focused on Marc Gilbert and the Hadley house he might stop the progress of the paths. If the Gilberts were ruined there was no need of horse trails.”
Gamache’s voice was calm. No sign of the impatience Myrna knew it could hold. This was at least the tenth time she’d heard the Chief Inspector explain it to Gabri, and still Gabri didn’t believe it. And even now Gabri was shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, and clearly meant it. “There was no other conclusion.”
“Olivier isn’t a murderer.”
“I agree. But he did kill. It was manslaughter. Unintentional. Can you really tell me you believe he’s not capable of killing out of rage? He’d worked years to get the Hermit to give him the treasure, and feared he might lose it. Are you sure Olivier wouldn’t be driven to violence?”
Gabri hesitated. Neither Gamache nor Myrna dared breathe, for fear of chasing away timid reason fluttering around their friend.
“Olivier didn’t do it.” Gabri sighed heavily, exasperated. “Why would he move the body?”
The Chief Inspector stared at Gabri. Words failed him. If there was any way to convince this tormented man, he would. He’d tried. He hated the thought that Gabri would carry this unnecessary burden, the horror of believing his partner falsely imprisoned. Better to accept the wretched truth than struggle, twisting, to make a wish a reality.
Gabri turned his back on the Chief Inspector and walked onto the green, to the very center of the village, and sat on the bench.
“What a magnificent man,” said Gamache, as he and Myrna resumed their walk.
“He is that. He’ll wait forever, you know. For Olivier to come back.”
Gamache said nothing and the two strolled in silence. “I ran into Vincent Gilbert,” he finally said. “He says Marc and Dominique are settling in.”
“Yes. Turns out when he’s not moving bodies around the village Marc’s quite nice.”
“Too bad about Marc the horse.”
“Still, he’s probably happier.”
This surprised Gamache and he turned to look at Myrna. “Dead?”
“Dead? Vincent Gilbert had him sent to LaPorte.”
Gamache snorted and shook his head. The asshole saint indeed.
As they passed the bistro he thought about the canvas bag. The thing that had, more than anything else, condemned Olivier when found hidden behind the fireplace.
Ruth’s door opened and the old poet, wrapped in her worn cloth coat, hobbled out, followed by Rosa. But today the duck was without clothing. Just feathers.
Gamache had grown so used to seeing Rosa in her outfits it seemed almost unnatural that she should be without one now. The two walked across the road to the green where Ruth opened a small paper bag and tossed bread for Rosa, who waddled after the crumbs, flapping her wings. A quacking could be heard overhead, getting closer. Gamache and Myrna turned to the sound. But Ruth’s eyes remained fixed, on Rosa. Overhead, ducks approached in V formation flying south for the winter.
And then, with a cry that sounded almost human Rosa rose up and flew into the air. She circled and for an instant everyone thought she would return. Ruth raised her hand, offering bread crumbs from her palm. Or a wave. Good-bye.
And Rosa was gone.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Myrna.
Ruth stared, her back to them, her face and hand to the sky. Bread crumbs tumbling to the grass.
Myrna took out the crumpled paper from her pocket and gave it to Gamache.
“Rosa,” whispered Myrna. “Ruth.”
Gamache watched the old poet. He knew what was looming behind the Mountain. What crushed all before it. The thing the Hermit most feared. The Mountain most feared.
Conscience.
Gamache remembered opening the coarse sack, his hand sliding over the smooth wood inside. It was a simple carving. A young man in a chair, listening.
Olivier. He’d turned it over and found three letters etched into the wood. GYY.
He’d decoded them in the cabin just minutes before and had stared at the word.
Woo.
Hidden in the rude rough sack it was far finer, even, than the more detailed carvings. This was simplicity itself. Its message was elegant and horrific. The carving was beautiful and yet the young man seemed utterly empty. His imperfections worn away. The wood hard and smooth so that the world slid right off it. There would be no touch and therefore no feeling.
It was the Mountain King, as a man. Unassailable, but unapproachable. Gamache felt like throwing it deep into the forest. To lie where the Hermit had put himself. Hiding from a monster of his own making.
But there was no hiding from Conscience.
Not in new homes and new cars. In travel. In meditation or frantic activity. In children, in good works. On tiptoes or bended knee. In a big career. Or a small cabin.
It would find you. The past always did.
Which was why, Gamache knew, it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you.
And found you. As it had the Hermit. As it had Olivier. Gamache stared at the cold, hard, lifeless treasure in his hand.
Who wouldn’t be afraid of this?
Ruth limped across the green to the bench and sat. With a veined hand she clutched her blue cloth coat to her throat while Gabri reached out and taking her other hand in his and rubbing it softly and murmured, “there, there.”