“I do some.”
Gamache reached out and slowly pushed the wood shaving along the glass table until it sat in front of Havoc. He waited.
“I was in the woods whittling,” admitted Havoc. “When I finish my work I like to sit quietly and shave down a piece of wood. It’s relaxing. A chance to think. To cool off. I make little toys and things for Charles Mundin. Old gives me chunks of old wood and showed me how. Most of the stuff I make is crap and I just throw it away or burn it. But sometimes it’s not too bad, and I give it to Charles. Why do you care if I whittle?”
“A piece of wood was found near the dead man. It was carved into the word Woo. Jakob didn’t do it. We think the murderer did.”
“You think Havoc—” Roar couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I have a search warrant and a team on the way.”
“What’re you looking for?” asked Hanna, blanching. “Just the whittling tools? We can give them to you.”
“It’s more than that, madame. Two things are missing from Jakob’s cabin. The murder weapon and a small canvas sack. We’re looking for them too.”
“We’ve never seen them,” said Hanna. “Havoc, get your tools.”
Havoc led Beauvoir to the shed while Gamache waited for the search team, who showed up a few minutes later. Beauvoir returned with the tools, and something else.
Chunks of wood. Red cedar. Whittled.
It was agreed that Beauvoir would direct the search while Gamache returned to the Incident Room. At the car the two men talked.
“Which of them did it, do you think?” Beauvoir asked, handing the keys to Gamache. “Havoc could’ve followed Olivier and found the cabin. But it might’ve been Roar. He might’ve found the cabin when he was clearing the trail. Could’ve been the mother, of course. The murder didn’t take a lot of strength. Anger, yes, adrenaline, but not strength. Suppose Jakob stole from the Parra family back in Czechoslovakia then when he came here they recognized him. And he recognized them. So he took off into the woods and hid there.”
“Or perhaps Jakob and the Parras were in it together,” said Gamache. “Maybe all three convinced friends and neighbors in Czechoslovakia to give them their precious things, then disappeared with them.”
“And once here Jakob screwed his partners, taking off into the woods. But Roar found the cabin as he cut the trails.”
Gamache watched the search teams start their methodical work. Before long there wouldn’t be anything they didn’t know about the Parras.
He needed to gather his thoughts. He handed the car keys to Beauvoir. “I’ll walk.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Beauvoir, for whom walking was a punishment. “It’s miles.”
“It’ll do me good, clear my mind. I’ll see you back in Three Pines.” He set off down the dirt road, giving Beauvoir a final wave. A few wasps buzzed in the ripe autumn air but were no threat. They were fat and lazy, almost drunk on the nectar from apples and pears and grapes.
It felt a little as though the world was on the verge of rotting.
As Gamache strolled, the familiar scents and sounds receded and he was joined by John the Watchman, and Lavina who could fly, and the little boy across the aisle on Air Canada. Who also flew, and told stories.
This murder seemed to be about treasure. But Gamache knew it wasn’t. That was just the outward appearance. It was actually about something unseen. Murder always was.
This murder was about fear. And the lies it produced. But, more subtly, it was about stories. The tales people told the world, and told themselves. The Mythtime and the totems, that uneasy frontier between fable and fact. And the people who fell into the chasm. This murder was about the stories told by Jakob’s carvings. Of Chaos and the Furies, of a Mountain of Despair and Rage. Of betrayal. And something else. Something that horrified even the Mountain.
And at its heart there was, Gamache now knew, a brutal telling.
THIRTY-SIX
The search parties had already been over the structure a couple of times, but they looked again. Even more closely this time. Beneath floorboards, beneath eaves, behind paintings. They looked and they looked and they looked.
And finally, they found.
It was behind the bricks in the huge stone fireplace. Behind what seemed a perpetual fire. The fire had had to be extinguished and the smoldering logs removed. But there the Surete team found first one, then two, then four loose bricks. Removed, they revealed a small compartment.
Inspector Beauvoir reached a gloved hand in carefully, but not before smearing soot on his arm and shoulder.
“I have something,” he said. All eyes were on him. Everyone stared as his arm slowly came out of the cavity. On the table in front of the Chief Inspector he placed a silver candelabra. A menorah. Even Beauvoir, who knew nothing about silver, recognized it as something remarkable. It was simple and refined and old.
This menorah had survived sieges, pogroms, slaughters, the holocaust. People had cherished it, hidden it, guarded it, prayed before it. Until one night in a forest in Quebec, someone had ruined it.
The menorah had killed a man.
“Paraffin?” Inspector Beauvoir pointed to bits of translucent material stuck to it. Mixed with dried blood. “He
