He screamed so loud the last word was barely audible. He thought he’d stripped his vocal cords. He looked around the room for something to throw. Marianna was staring at him, frightened. He liked that. But Thomas? Thomas was smiling.
Peter stepped toward him. He finally knew how to get that smile off his face.
“You want to kill me, don’t you?” said Thomas, actually walking to meet Peter. “I knew it. Always knew you were the unstable one. Everyone thought it was Julia or Marianna—”
“Hey—”
“But it’s always the quiet ones. Isn’t that what your neighbors in that dreary little village will be telling the CBC tomorrow? He always seemed so nice, so normal. Never a harsh word, never a complaint. You going to throw me off the balcony, Peter? Then there’ll only be two of you to inherit. Will that be enough? Or should Marianna start worrying too? All the affection and all the money. The mother-lode.”
Peter could see himself tilting his head back and opening his mouth, and flames spewing out, like vomit. From the tips of his toes the rage would streak through his body, and shoot out, destroying everything around him. He was Nagasaki and Hiroshima, he was the Bikini Atoll and Chernobyl. He would annihilate everything.
Instead he clamped his mouth shut and felt the bitterness and bile burn in his throat and chest. He fought to shove the rage back in, stuffing it down there with anger and jealousy and fear and hate, hate, hate.
But Pandora’s box wouldn’t be shut. Not again. The demons had already escaped and were swirling around the Manoir Bellechasse, feeding and growing. And killing.
Peter turned a twisted, pinched face on Marianna.
“I might be a puppy, but you’re something much worse, Magilla.”
He spat the last word in her fearful face. It felt good to see her afraid. Then he turned to Thomas.
“Magilla and Spot,” he said to the smug face. “And do you know what we called you?”
Thomas waited.
“Nothing. You were nothing to us then and still are. Nothing.”
Peter walked out, feeling calmer than he had in days. But he knew that was because he was curled up in the back seat, and something else was driving. Something rancid and stinking and horrible. The something he’d hidden all his life. It was finally in charge.
TWENTY-THREE
Armand Gamache stood in what little shade the maple tree offered at high noon and stared once again at the white marble cube. The yellow police tape fluttered and the wretched hollow was still in the lawn.
Why had she been killed? Who benefited by Julia Martin’s death?
She’d been dead almost two days now and he still didn’t know why she’d been murdered, never mind how. He put his hands behind his back and stood very still, knowing something would come to him.
“Oh, bonjour.”
What had come to the Chief Inspector was the gardener, Colleen.
“You look deep in thought. I could come back.”
But she seemed reluctant to leave. He smiled and strolled over to her on the lawn. The two stared for a moment at the spot where Julia Martin had died. Gamache was silent, curious to see what Colleen would say next. After a minute or so she waved at the marble cube.
“The ants are gone. I’m glad. They were giving me nightmares.”
“You’ll sleep easier with each passing day,” said Gamache. Colleen nodded, then looked sadly at the flowers.
“I came to see how they were doing. I should’ve transplanted them earlier.”
Gamache looked at the flowers. Most were withered now. Beyond saving.
Then something occurred to him. Something that should have struck him much sooner.
“Why were you out here that morning?”
“Gardening,” she said.
He looked at her closely. “But it was raining. Pouring. No one else was outside working. Why were you?”
Did her eyes widen slightly? Were her cheeks suddenly burning? Colleen was a blusher, he knew. Any attention was enough to bring it on. Best not to read too much into it. But still, she suddenly looked both guilty and furtive.
“I was gardening,” she insisted. “It’s best to move plants when it’s wet and cool. They have a better chance to take. These seemed to need all the help they could get.”
They both looked again at the wilting flowers.
“Most of the other workers were inside, relaxing,” he pressed. “I find it hard to believe you’d choose to be outside in the rain.”
“Well I was.”
“Why, Colleen? Tell me.”
He sounded so reasonable, so patient, she almost did. But at the last moment she closed her mouth. Instead of chastising or pushing this large man simply waited.
