Louise Penny - Brutal Telling

John smiled again. “No.” But he’d come very close to Gamache.

“Did you teach him to build a log cabin?”

“No.”

“Did you teach him to carve?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

“I have nothing to fear from you. Nothing to hide.”

“Then why are you here, all alone?”

“Why are you?” John’s voice was barely a whisper, a hiss.

Gamache unwrapped a carving. John stared at the men and women in the boat and backed away.

“It’s made from red cedar. From Haida Gwaii,” said Gamache. “Perhaps even from these trees in this forest. The murdered man made it.”

“That means nothing to me,” said John and with a last glance at the carving he walked away.

Gamache followed him out and found Will Sommes on the beach, smiling.

“Have a nice talk with John?”

“He hadn’t much to say.”

“He’s a Watchman, not a Chatter.”

Gamache smiled and started rewrapping the carving, but Sommes touched his hand to stop him and took the carving once again.

“You say it’s from here. Is it old growth?”

“We don’t know. The scientists can’t say. They’d have to destroy the carving to get a big enough sample and I wouldn’t let them.”

“This is worth more than a man’s life?” Sommes held the carving up.

“Few things are worth more than a man’s life, monsieur. But that life has already been lost. I’m hoping to find who did it without destroying his creation as well.”

This seemed to satisfy Sommes, who handed the carving back, but reluctantly.

“I’d like to have met the man who did that. He was gifted.”

“He might have been a logger. Might have helped cut down your forests.”

“Many in my family were loggers. It happens. Doesn’t make them bad men or lifelong enemies.”

“Do you teach other artists?” Gamache asked, casually.

“You think maybe he came here to talk to me?” asked Sommes.

“I think he came here. And he’s a carver.”

“First he was a logger, now he’s a carver. Which is it, Chief Inspector?”

It was said with humor, but the criticism wasn’t lost on Gamache. He was fishing, and he knew it. So did Sommes. So did Esther. We’re all fishermen, she’d said.

Had he found anything on this visit? Gamache was beginning to doubt it.

“Do you teach carving?” he persisted.

Sommes shook his head. “Only to other Haida.”

“The Hermit used wood from here. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all. Some stands are now protected, but we’ve agreed on areas that can be logged. And replanted. It’s a good industry, if managed properly. And young trees are great for the ecosystem. I advise all wood carvers to use red cedar.”

“We should be going. The weather’s changing,” said Lavina.

As the float plane took off and banked away from the sheltered bay Gamache looked down. It appeared as though one of the totem poles had come alive, and waved. But then he recognized it as John, who guarded the haunting place but had been afraid of the small piece of wood in Gamache’s hand. John, who’d placed himself beyond the pale.

“He was involved in the logging dispute, you know,” Sommes shouted over the old engine.

“Seems a good person to have on your side.”

“And he was. On your side, I mean. John was a Mountie. He was forced to arrest his own grandmother. I can still see him as he led her away.”

“John’s my uncle,” Lavina shouted from the cockpit. It took Gamache a moment to put it all together. The quiet, somber, solitary man he’d met, the man who watched their plane fly away, had arrested Esther.

“And now he’s a Watchman, guarding the last of the totem poles,” said Gamache.

“We all guard something,” said Sommes.

Sergeant Minshall had left a message for him at the guesthouse, and an envelope. Over a lunch of fresh fish and canned corn, he opened it and drew out more photographs, printed from the sergeant’s computer. And there was an e-mail.

Armand,

We’ve tracked down four of the remaining carvings. There are two we still can’t find, the one Olivier sold on eBay and one of the ones auctioned in Geneva. None of the collectors has agreed to send us the actual work of art, but they did send photos (see attached). No other carving has printing underneath.

Jérôme continues to work on your code. No luck yet.

What do you make of these pictures? Quite shocking, don’t you think?

I’ve been working on the items from the cabin. So far none has been reported stolen and I can’t seem to find a connection among them. I thought a gold bracelet might be Czech, but turns out to be Dacian. An astonishing find. Predates the current Romanians.

But it’s very odd. The items don’t seem to be related. Unless that’s the key? Will have to think about it some more. I’m trying to keep the lid on these finds, but already I’m getting calls from around the world. News agencies, museums. Can’t imagine how the word spread, but it has. Mostly about the Amber Room. Wait until they find out about the rest.

I hear you’re on the Queen Charlotte Islands. Lucky man. If you meet Will Sommes tell him I adore his work. He’s a recluse, so I doubt you’ll see him.

Thérèse Brunel

He pulled out the photographs and looked at them as he ate. By the time the coconut cream pie arrived he’d been over them all. He’d laid them out on the table in a fan in front of him. And now he stared.

The tone of them had shifted. In one the figures seemed to be loading up carts, packing their homes. They seemed excited. Except the young man, who was gesturing anxiously to them to hurry. But in the next there seemed a growing unease among the people. And the last two were very different. In one the people were no longer walking. They were in huts, homes. But a few figures looked out the windows. Wary. Not afraid. Not yet. That was saved for the very last one Superintendent Brunel sent. It was the largest carving and the figures were standing and staring. Up. At Gamache, it seemed.

It was the oddest perspective. It made the viewer feel like part of the work. And not a pleasant part. He felt as though he was the reason they were so afraid.

Because they were, now. What had Will Sommes said the night before, when he’d spotted the boy huddled inside the ship?

Not just afraid, but terrified.

Something terrible had found the people in his carvings. And something terrible had found their creator.

What was odd was that Gamache couldn’t see the boy in the last two carvings. He asked the landlady for a magnifying glass and feeling like Sherlock Holmes he leaned over and minutely examined the photographs. But nothing.

Leaning back in his chair he sipped his tea. The coconut cream pie remained untouched. Whatever terror had taken the happiness from the carvings had also stolen his appetite.

Sergeant Minshall joined him a few minutes later and they walked once more through town, stopping at Greeley’s Construction.

“What can I do for you?” An older man, beard and hair and eyes all gray, but his body green and powerful.

“We wanted to talk to you about some of the workers you might’ve had back in the eighties and early nineties,” said Sergeant Minshall.

“You’re kidding. You know loggers. They come and go. Especially then.”

“Why especially then, monsieur?” asked Gamache.

“This is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Sûreté du Québec.” Minshall introduced the men and they shook hands. Gamache had the definite impression that Greeley wasn’t a man to be crossed.