Brutal Telling

“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.

Jerome 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.

Therese 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 Surete du Quebec.” Minshall introduced the men and they shook hands. Gamache had the definite impression that Greeley wasn’t a man to be crossed.

“Long way from home,” said Greeley.

“I am. But I’m being made to feel most welcome. What was so special about that time?”

“The late eighties and early nineties? Are you kidding? Ever heard of Lyall Island? The roadblocks, the protests? There’re thousands of acres of forest and the Haida suddenly get all upset about the logging. You didn’t hear about it?”

“I did, but I wasn’t here. Maybe you can tell me what happened.”

“It wasn’t the Haida’s fault. They were wound up by the shit-disturbers. Those uber-environmentalists. Terrorists, nothing more. They recruited a bunch of thugs and kids who just wanted attention. It had nothing to do with the forests. Listen, it wasn’t like we were killing people, or even killing animals. We were taking down trees. Which grow back. And we were the biggest employer around. But the environmentalists got the Haida all worked up. Fed the kids a bunch of bullshit.”

Beside Gamache, Sergeant Minshall shifted his feet. But said nothing.

“And yet the average age of the arrested Haida was seventy-six,” said Gamache. “The elders placed themselves between the young protesters and you.”

“A stunt. Means nothing,” Greeley snapped. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about it.”

“I said I wasn’t here. I’ve read the reports, but it’s not the same thing.”

“Fucking right. Media swallowed it whole. We looked like the bad guys and all we were trying to do was log a few hundred acres that we had a right to.”