*
“Chief Superintendent Gamache, you testified this morning that the figure on the village green in Three Pines returned the next day. How did that make you feel?”
“Objection. Irrelevant.”
Judge Corriveau considered. “I’m going to allow it. The trial is about facts, but feelings are also a fact.”
Chief Superintendent Gamache thought before he answered.
“I felt angry, that the peace of our little village was being violated. Our lives disrupted.”
“And yet, he was just standing there.”
“True. You asked how I felt, and that’s the answer.”
“Were you afraid of him?”
“Maybe a little. Our myths are so deeply ingrained. He looked like Death. Rationally I knew he wasn’t that, but inside, I could feel the chill. It was”—he searched for the word—“instinctive.”
“And still, you did nothing.”
“As I told you before the break, there was nothing that I could do, beyond speaking with him. If I could have done something more, I would have.”
“Really? Judging by the S?reté track record of late, that’s not exactly true.”
That brought outright laughter from the courtroom.
“Enough,” said Judge Corriveau. “Approach the bench.”
The Chief Crown did.
“You will not treat anyone like that in my courtroom, do you understand? That was a disgrace—to you, to your office, and to this court. You will apologize to the Chief Superintendent.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Crown, then turned to Gamache. “I apologize. I let my astonishment get the better of me.”
The judge gave a small sigh of annoyance but let it stand.
“Merci. I accept your apology,” said Gamache.
But still, Gamache glared at the Crown attorney with such focus, the man took a step back. Neither the jury nor the audience could fail to see both the look and the reaction.
In the gallery, Beauvoir nodded approval.
“So you did speak to him again, that next morning?” asked Zalmanowitz. “What did you say?”
“I told him again to be careful.”
“Clearly not of you,” said the Crown.
“No. Of whoever he’d targeted.”
“So you no longer thought it was a joke?”
“If it had been, I don’t think he’d have returned. He’d spooked the village with his first appearance. That would have been enough, had it been a joke, or even vindictive. No, this went deeper. There was commitment. There was a purpose.”
“Did you think he meant to do harm?” asked the Crown.
That was a more difficult question, and Chief Superintendent Gamache considered it. And slowly shook his head.
“I didn’t really know what he intended. Harm of some sort, it seemed. He was intentionally threatening. But did he have an act of violence in mind? If he did, why warn the person? Why wear that getup? Why not just do it, under cover of darkness? Hurt, even kill the person? Why just stand there for everyone to see?”
Gamache stared ahead of him, deep in thought.
The Crown seemed at a loss. So unusual was it for someone to actually think on the witness stand. They answered clear questions by telling the rehearsed truth, or a preplanned lie.
But they rarely actually thought.
“Of course, there are different ways of hurting, aren’t there?” said Gamache, as much to himself as the Crown.
“But whatever the original intention,” said Monsieur Zalmanowitz, “it led to murder.”
Now Gamache did focus, but not on the prosecution. He turned to the defense desk, and looked at the person accused of that murder.
“Yes, it did.”
Maybe, he thought, but didn’t say, it wasn’t enough to just kill. Maybe the point was to first terrify. Like the Scots and their shrieking bagpipes as they marched into battle, or the Maori and their haka.
It is death. It is death, they chant. To terrify, to petrify.
The dark thing wasn’t a warning, it was a prediction.
“You took a picture of him, I believe,” said the Crown, stepping in front of his witness, placing himself between Gamache and the defendant. Intentionally breaking that contact.
“Yes,” said Gamache, refocusing on the prosecution. “I sent it off to my second-in-command. Inspector Beauvoir.”
The Crown turned to the clerk.
“Exhibit A.”
An image appeared on the large screen.
If the Crown was expecting gasps behind him as those in the courtroom saw the photograph, he was disappointed.
Behind him there was complete and utter silence, as though the entire gallery had disappeared. So profound was the silence, he turned around to make sure they were indeed still there.
To a person they were staring, dumbfounded. Some openmouthed.
There on the screen was a quiet little village. The leaves were off the trees, leaving them skeletal. Three huge pines rose from the village green.
In contrast to the bright, sunny summer day beyond the courtroom window, the day in this photo was overcast. Gray and damp. Which made the fieldstone and clapboard and rose brick homes, with their cheery lights at the windows, all the more inviting.
It would have been an image of extreme peace. Sanctuary even. Would have been, but wasn’t.
In the center of the photo there was a black hole. Like something cut out of the picture. Out of the world.
Behind the Crown attorney there was a sigh. Long, prolonged, as life drained from the courtroom.
It was the first look most of them had had of the dark thing.
CHAPTER 4
“Now?” asked Matheo Bissonette, turning from the window to look at Lea. They’d finished breakfast at the B&B and now sat in the living room in front of the fireplace.
Despite the fire in the grate, and the sweater he wore, he still felt chilled.
“He just took a photo of the thing,” said Matheo. “If we wait much longer, it looks bad.”
“Bad?” said Lea. “Don’t you mean worse?”
“We should’ve said something yesterday,” said Patrick. His voice, slightly whiny at the best of times, was now almost infantile. “They’ll wonder why we didn’t.”
“Okay,” said Matheo, trying not to snap at Patrick. “Then we’re agreed. Now’s the time.”
It wasn’t what Patrick said that was so annoying, it was how he said it. He’d always been the weakest of them, and yet, somehow, Patrick always got his way. Maybe they just wanted the whining to stop, thought Matheo. It was like nails on a blackboard. So they gave in to him.
And, with age, it was getting worse. Matheo now felt like not just yelling at the guy, but also giving him a swift kick in the pants.
Gabri had brought in a fresh French press of coffee and asked, “Where’s Katie?”
“There’s a glass house nearby,” said Patrick. “Not a classic one, like we make, but interesting. She wants to see it. Might work for the one we’re building on the Magdalen Islands.”
Gabri, who’d asked just to be polite, drifted, uninterested, back to the kitchen.