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.
Matheo looked from his wife, Lea, to his friend Patrick. They were both exactly his age, thirty-three, but they appeared older, surely, than he did. The lines. The hint of gray. Had they always looked like that, or just since the robes and mask had appeared?
Lea, tall, willowy, when they’d met at university, was less willowy. She was now more like a maple. Rounded. Solid. He liked that. Felt more substantial. Less likely to weep.
They had two children, both at home with Lea’s parents. He knew that when they returned, it would be like walking into a ferret’s den. The kids, under the questionable influence of Lea’s mother, would have gone feral.
To be fair, it didn’t take much.
“Gamache’s in the bistro with his wife. Everyone’ll hear,” said Patrick. “Maybe we should wait.”
“But everyone should hear,” said Lea, getting up. “Right?