“What did you see when you arrived?”
“Everything looked normal. There was a light in the window and the lantern on the porch was lit.”
“He was expecting company.”
“He was expecting me. He always lit the lantern for me. I didn’t realize there was anything wrong until I was in the door and saw him there. I knew he was dead, but I thought he’d just fallen, maybe had a stroke or a heart attack and hit his head.”
“There was no weapon?”
“No, nothing.”
Gamache leaned forward again.
Were they beginning to believe him, Olivier wondered.
“Did you take him food?”
Olivier’s mind revved, raced. He nodded.
“What did you take?”
“The usual. Cheese, milk, butter. Some bread. And as a treat I took some honey and tea.”
“What did you do with it?”
“The groceries? I don’t know. I was in shock. I can’t remember.”
“We found them in the kitchen. Open.”
The two men stared at each other. Then Gamache’s eyes narrowed in a look that Olivier found harrowing.
Gamache was angry.
“I was there twice that night,” he mumbled into the table.
“Louder, please,” said the Chief.
“I returned to the cabin, okay?”
“It’s time now, Olivier. Tell me the truth.”
Olivier’s breath came in short gasps, like something hooked and landed and about to be filleted.
“The first time I was there that night the Hermit was alive. We had a cup of tea and talked.”
“What did you talk about?”
Chaos is coming, old son, and there’s no stopping it. It’s taken a long time, but it’s finally here.
“He always asked about people who’d come to the village. He peppered me with questions about the outside world.”
“The outside world?”
“You know, out here. He hadn’t been more than fifty feet from his cabin in years.”
“Go on,” said Gamache. “What happened then?”
“It was getting late so I left. He offered to give me something for the groceries. At first I refused, but he insisted. When I got out of the woods I realized I’d left it behind, so I went back.” No need to tell them about the thing in the canvas bag. “When I got there he was dead.”
“How long were you gone?”
“About half an hour. I didn’t dawdle.”
He saw again the tree limbs snapping back and felt them slapping him, smelled the pine needles, and heard the crashing through the woods, like an army, running. Racing. He’d thought it was just his own noise, magnified by fear and the night. But maybe not.
“You saw and heard nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“What time was that?” Gamache asked.
“About two I guess, maybe two thirty.”
Gamache laced his fingers together. “What did you do once you realized what had happened?”
The rest of the story came out quickly, in a rush. Once he’d realized the Hermit was dead, another idea had come to Olivier. A way the Hermit might help. He’d put the body in the wheelbarrow and taken him through the woods to the old Hadley house.
“It took a while, but I finally got him there. I’d planned to leave him on the porch, but when I tried the door it was unlocked, so I laid him in the front hall.”
He made it sound gentle, but he knew it wasn’t. It was a brutal, ugly, vindictive act. A violation of a body, a violation of a friendship, a violation of the Gilberts. And finally, it was a betrayal of Gabri and their lives in Three Pines.
It was so quiet in the room he could almost believe himself alone. He looked up and there was Gamache, watching him.
“I’m sorry,” said Olivier. He scolded himself, desperate not to be the gay guy who cried. But he knew his actions had taken him far beyond cliché, or caricature.
And then Armand Gamache did the most extraordinary thing. He leaned forward so that his large, certain hands were almost touching Olivier’s, as though it was all right to be that close to someone so vile, and he spoke in a calm, deep voice.
“If you didn’t kill the man, who else could have? I need your help.”
In that one sentence Gamache had placed himself next to Olivier. He might still be on the outer reaches of the world, but at least he wasn’t alone.
Gamache believed him.