Brutal Telling

“That’s true. I’m at a loss. Perhaps Superintendent Brunel can tell us. She’ll be here this morning.”

“I found something else last night,” said Morin. “I took a picture of it. It’s still in my camera. You can’t see it too well, but . . .”

He turned on his digital camera and handed it to Beauvoir, who looked briefly at the image.

“Too small. I can’t make it out. I’ll throw it up onto the computer.”

They continued to discuss the case while Beauvoir sat at his computer, downloading the image.

“Tabarnac,” they heard him whisper.

“What is it?” Gamache walked to the desk. Lacoste joined him and they huddled round the flat screen.

There was the web, and the word.

Woe.

“What does it mean?” Beauvoir asked, almost to himself.

Gamache shook his head. How could a spider have woven a word? And why that one? The same word they’d found carved in wood and tossed under the bed.

“Some pig.”

They looked at Lacoste.

“Pardon?” Gamache asked.

“When I was in the outhouse yesterday I found a signed first edition.”

“About a girl named Jane?” Morin asked, then wished he hadn’t. They all looked at him as though he’d said “some pig.” “I found a book in the cabin,” he explained. “By a guy named Currer Bell.”

Lacoste looked blank, Gamache looked perplexed, and Morin didn’t even want to think what look Beauvoir was giving him.

“Never mind. Go on.”

“It was Charlotte’s Web, by E. B. White,” said Agent Lacoste. “One of my favorites as a child.”

“My daughter’s too,” said Gamache. He remembered reading the book over and over to the little girl who pretended she wasn’t afraid of the dark. Afraid of the closed closet, afraid of the creaks and groans of the house. He’d read to her every night until finally she’d fall asleep.

The book that gave her the most comfort, and that he’d practically memorized, was Charlotte’s Web.

“Some pig,” he repeated, and gave a low, rumbling laugh. “The book’s about a lonely piglet destined for the slaughterhouse. A spider named Charlotte befriends him and tries to save his life.”

“By weaving things about him into her web,” explained Lacoste. “Things like ‘Some pig’ so the farmer would think Wilbur was special. The book in the outhouse is signed by the author.”

Gamache shook his head. Incredible.

“Did it work?” asked Morin. “Was the pig saved?”

Beauvoir looked at him with disdain. And yet, he had to admit, he wanted to know as well.

“He was,” said Gamache. Then his brows drew together. Obviously in real life spiders don’t weave messages into their webs. So who had put it there? And why? And why “woe?”

He was itching to get back up there.

“There’s something else.”

All eyes once again turned to the simple-looking agent.

“It’s about the outhouse.” He turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything?”

“You mean besides the signed first edition and the stacks of money as toilet paper?”

“Not inside. Outside.”

She thought then shook her head.

“It was probably too dark,” said Agent Morin. “I used it last night and didn’t notice then either. It wasn’t until this morning.”

“What, for God’s sake?” Beauvoir snapped.

“There’s a trail. It runs to the outhouse, but doesn’t stop there. It goes on. I followed it this morning and it came out here.”

“At the Incident Room?” asked Beauvoir.

“Well, not exactly. It wound through the woods and came out up there.”

He waved toward the hill overlooking the village.

“I marked the place it comes out. I think I can find it again.”

“That was foolish of you,” said Gamache. He looked stern and his voice was without warmth. Morin instantly reddened. “Never, ever wander on your own into the woods, do you understand? You might have been lost.”