“The Manoir Bellechasse.”
“For twenty years? You’ve been at a luxury inn for twenty years?”
“Oh, well, no. I’ve been there off and on all summer. I brought you that.” He gestured to the package sitting on a shelf in the shed. “It’s for you,” he said to Dominique. She picked it up.
“Granola,” she said. “From the Bellechasse. Thank you.”
“Granola?” asked Marc. “You come back from the dead and bring breakfast cereal?”
“I didn’t know what you needed,” said his father. “I’d heard from your mother that you’d bought a place down here so I came and watched every now and then.”
“You’re the one Roar Parra spotted in the woods,” said Dominique.
“Roar Parra? Roar? Are you kidding? Is he the troll? The dark, stocky man?”
“The nice man helping your son turn this place around, you mean?” asked Carole.
“I say what I mean.”
“Will you two please stop it.” Dominique glared at Marc’s parents. “Behave yourselves.”
“Why’re you here?” Marc finally asked.
Vincent Gilbert hesitated then sat on a nearby hay bale. “I’d kept in touch with your mother. She told me about your marriage. Your job. You seemed to be happy. But then she said you’d quit your job and moved to the middle of nowhere. I wanted to make sure you were all right. I’m not a complete fool, you know,” said Vincent Gilbert, his handsome, aristocratic face somber. “I know what a shock this is. I’m sorry. I should never have let your mother do it.”
“Pardon?” said Carole.
“Still, I wouldn’t have contacted you, but then that body was found and the police showed up and I thought you might need my help.”
“Yes, what about that body?” Marc asked his father, who just stared. “Well?”
“Well what? Wait a minute.” Vincent Gilbert looked from his son to Gamache, watching with interest, then back again. He laughed. “You’re kidding? You think I had something to do with it?”
“Did you?” demanded Marc.
“Do you really expect me to answer that?” The genial man in front of them didn’t just bristle, he radiated. It happened so quickly even Gamache was taken aback by the transformation. The cultured, urbane, slightly amused man suddenly overflowed with a rage so great it engulfed him then spilled off him and swallowed everyone. Marc had poked the monster, either forgetting he was in there or wanting to see if he still existed. And he had his answer. Marc stood stock still, his only reaction being a slight, telltale widening of his eyes.
And what a tale those eyes told Gamache. In them he saw the infant, the boy, the young man, afraid. Never certain what he would find in his father. Would he be loving and kind and warm today? Or would he sizzle the skin off his son? With a look, a word. Leaving the boy naked and ashamed. Knowing himself to be weak and needy, stupid and selfish. So that the boy grew an outer hull to withstand assault. But while those skins saved tender young souls, Gamache knew, they soon stopped protecting and became the problem. Because while the hard outer shell kept the hurt at bay, it also kept out the light. And inside the frightened little soul became something else entirely, nurtured only in darkness.
Gamache looked at Marc with interest. He’d poked the monster in front of him, and sure enough, it came awake and lashed out. But had he also awakened a monster inside himself? Or had that happened earlier?
Someone had left a body on their doorstep. Was it father? Or son? Or someone else?
“I expect you to answer, monsieur,” said Gamache, turning back to Vincent Gilbert and holding his hard eyes.
“Doctor,” Gilbert said, his voice cold. “I will not be diminished by you or anyone else.” He looked again at his son, then back to the Chief Inspector.
“Désolé,” said Gamache and bowed slightly, never taking his deep brown eyes off the angry man. The apology seemed to further enrage Gilbert, who realized one of them was strong enough to withstand insult and one of them wasn’t.
“Tell us about the body,” Gamache repeated, as though he and Gilbert were having a pleasant conversation. Gilbert looked at him with loathing. Out of the corner of his eye Gamache noticed Marc the horse approaching from the fields. He looked like something a demon might ride, bony, covered with muck and sores. One eye mad, the other eye blind. Attracted, Gamache supposed, by something finally familiar. Rage.
The two men stared at each other. Finally Gilbert snorted derision and waved, dismissing Gamache and his question as trivial. The monster retreated into his cave.
But the horse came closer and closer.
“I know nothing about it. But I thought it looked bad for Marc so I wanted to be here in case he needed me.”
“Needed you to do what?” demanded Marc. “Scare everyone half to death? Couldn’t you just ring the doorbell or write a letter?”
“I didn’t realize you’d be so sensitive.” The lash, the tiny wound, the monster smiled and retreated. But Marc had had enough. He reached over the fence and bit Vincent Gilbert on the shoulder. Marc the horse, that is.
“What the hell?” Gilbert yelped and jumped out of the way, his hand on his slimy shoulder.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Marc asked Gamache.
“Are you going to press charges?”
Marc stared at his father, then at the wreck of a creature behind him. Black, wretched, probably half mad. And Marc the man smiled.
“No. Go back to being dead, Dad. Mom was right. It is easier.”
He turned and strode back to his home.
* * *
“What a family,” said Beauvoir. They were strolling into the village. Agent Morin had gone ahead to the Incident Room, and they’d left the Gilberts to devour each other. “Still, there does seem a sort of equilibrium about this case.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gamache. Off to their left he noticed Ruth Zardo leaving her home followed by Rosa wearing a sweater. Gamache had written a thank-you note for the dinner the night before and stuck it in her rusty mailbox during his morning stroll. He watched as she collected it, glanced at it, and stuck it into the pocket of her ratty old cardigan.
“Well, one man’s dead and another comes alive.”
Gamache smiled and wondered if it was a fair exchange. Ruth spotted them just as Beauvoir spotted her.
“Run,” he hissed to the Chief. “I’ll cover you.”
“Too late, old son. The duck’s seen us.”
And indeed, while Ruth seemed happy to ignore them, Rosa was waddling forward at an alarming pace.
“She appears to like you,” said Ruth to Beauvoir, limping behind the duck. “But then she does have a birdbrain.”
“Madame Zardo,” Gamache greeted her with a smile while Beauvoir glared.
“I hear that Gilbert fellow put the body in Olivier’s Bistro. Why haven’t you arrested him?”
“You heard that already?” asked Beauvoir. “Who told you?”
“Who hasn’t? It’s all over the village. Well? Are you going to arrest Marc Gilbert?”
“For what?” asked Beauvoir.
“Murder for one. Are you nuts?”