It was already two in the afternoon. It would be dark by four.
And when the winter sun set on a Québec forest, monsters crawled out of the shadows. Not the B-grade movie monsters, not zombies or mummies or space aliens. But older, subtler wraiths. Invisible creatures that rode in on plunging temperatures. Death by freezing, death by exposure, death by going even a foot off the path, and getting lost. Death, ancient and patient, waited in Québec forests for the sun to set.
“Come with me.”
Carole Gilbert, petite and refined, put on her bulbous coat and joined the alien army. They walked around the side of the inn and spa, through large soft flakes of snow. In the middle distance Inspector Beauvoir could see cross-country skiers striding across the field on well-marked paths. In a few minutes they’d be inside, sipping buttery rum toddies or hot chocolate by the fire, their cheeks rosy, their noses running, rubbing their feet to get the circulation back.
If they were staying at the inn they’d be healthy and wealthy and warm.
And he’d be heading deep into the forest, racing the setting sun, to a cabin where a murder had happened and an asshole now lived.
“Roar,” Carole Gilbert called and the short, squat man in the shed straightened up. His hair and eyes were almost black and he was powerfully built.
“Madame Gilbert,” he said, nodding to her. Not in an obsequious manner, but with respect. And Inspector Beauvoir realized this woman would naturally receive respect because she treated others with it. As she did now with this woodsman.
“You remember Inspector Beauvoir, I believe.”
There was an awkward hesitation before Roar Parra put out his hand. Beauvoir wasn’t surprised. He and the rest of the homicide team had made this man’s life miserable. He, his wife Hanna and son Havoc had been the chief suspects in the murder of the Hermit.
The Inspector looked at their former suspect. A man familiar with the forest, a man who’d been cutting a trail, straight for the recluse’s cabin. He was Czech. The dead man was Czech. His son Havoc worked for Olivier and could have followed him one night through the woods and found the cabin, and found the treasure.
The Hermit had amassed his treasures almost certainly by stealing them from people in the Eastern Bloc when the walls were crumbling. When communism was crumbling, when people were desperate to get out, to the West.
They’d entrusted their family treasures, guarded and hidden for generations of communist rule, to the wrong man. To the Hermit, before he was a hermit, when he was a man with a plan. To steal from them. But he’d stolen more than antiquities and works of art. He’d stolen hope, he’d stolen trust.
Had he stolen from Roar and Hanna Parra? Had they found him?
Had they killed him?
Carole Gilbert had left and the two men were alone in the shed.
“Why’re you heading back to the cabin?”
There was nothing subtle about this brick of a man.
“Just curious. You have a problem with that?”
They stared at each other.
“Are you here to cause trouble?”
“I’m here to relax. A nice trip through the woods, that’s all. If you don’t hurry it’ll get too late.”
Was that Parra’s goal, Beauvoir wondered as he put the helmet over his toque and straddled the machine, revving the motors. Was he deliberately going slow in the hopes Beauvoir would get stuck in the woods, after nightfall?
No, he decided. Too refined. This was a man who whacked his enemies on the head. As the Hermit had died.
With a wave Beauvoir was away, feeling the powerful machine vibrating beneath him. He’d been on dozens of Ski-Doos in the past decade, since joining homicide. He loved them. The noise, the power, the freedom. The bracing cold and snow on his face. His body, insulated by the suit, was toasty and warm, almost too warm. He could feel the perspiration.
Beauvoir gripped the handles and leaned into a corner, the heavy machine following him. But something was different.
Something was wrong.
Not with the machine, but with him. He felt a familiar ache in his abdomen.
Surely not. He was just sitting on the machine, it wasn’t like he was doing any real work.
Deeper along the narrow path he went, into the woods. Without leaves the forest looked cold and bare. The shadows were sharp and long as was the pain now, in his stomach, in his side, shooting down into his groin.
Beauvoir breathed deeply but the pain grew worse.
Finally he had to stop.
Clutching his middle he slowly fell forward, his arm folding over the handles of the idling Ski-Doo. His head dropped and rested on his arm. He tried to concentrate on the vibration, on the calming, deep, predictable, civilized sound. But his world had collapsed to a single sensation.
Pain.
An agonizing, familiar pain. One he’d thought was gone forever, but it had found him again in the darkening woods in winter.
Closing his eyes he concentrated on his breath, hearing it, feeling it. Long, relaxed breath in. Long, relaxed breath out.
How big a mistake was this? An hour, perhaps slightly more, until the woods were in darkness. Would anyone sound an alarm? Would he be missed? Would Roar Parra simply go home? Would Carole Gilbert lock the door and toss another log on the fire?
Then he felt a hand on his face and jerked his head up. But the hand restrained him. Not violently, but certainly. Beauvoir’s eyes flew open and he looked into very blue ones.
“Don’t move, just lie still.”
The man was old. His face worn, but his eyes sharp. His bare hand, which had started on Beauvoir’s face now slipped quickly beneath the scarf and collar and turtleneck to Beauvoir’s pulse.
“Shh,” the man said. And Beauvoir shushed.
He knew who this man was. Vincent Gilbert. Dr. Gilbert.
The asshole.
But Gamache, and Myrna, Old Mundin and others claimed he was also a saint.
Beauvoir hadn’t seen it. The man had seemed all asshole to him when they’d investigated the murder of the Hermit.