Armand Gamache knew exactly what it meant.
It took a certain kind of person to kill a child. Chief Inspector Gamache had tracked a few of them down in his long career. Fighting to find the murderer, but also fighting to keep his own repugnance, his own rage, at bay. Fighting to keep the thought of his own children out of an already complex and volatile mix.
That was the problem. They were the most difficult murderers to find, not simply because if they were willing to kill a child, they were willing to do anything, but also because the emotions of the family, the witnesses, the friends, the public and the investigators were heightened. Volcanic. It could obscure the truth, warp perceptions.
And that gave the murderer a huge advantage.
It was also the kind of murder that could pull a community apart. Even he, looking out the window at the villagers going about their lives, was thinking only one thing.
Was it one of them?
* * *
People from miles around volunteered to help scour the woods for the little boy’s stick. Armand hadn’t explained why they were looking, not the truth anyway. Instead he’d told people it would mean a great deal to Al and Evie to have Laurent’s prized possession.
It would take two days of searching the forest before they found it. And what they found wasn’t the stick. Not at first. The first thing they found was the monster.
CHAPTER 8
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had come down to Three Pines to help on the second day of the search.
It was mind-numbing, back-breaking, frigid work in the dark, dank forest. But none of the villagers had dropped out. They took it in rotations, two hours at a time, and just about everyone had volunteered for a stint.
“The coroner agreed it was possible Laurent’s injuries were caused by being hit, rather than hitting the ground,” said Jean-Guy. “He was a little kid, even for a nine-year-old. It wouldn’t take much. It’s a terrible thing, to take the life of a child.”
“Yes it is.”
“I also looked again at the photos from the scene and stopped there on my way out. You could be right.”
“Merci,” said Gamache, picking up a stick, examining it and tossing it behind him.
“And since you begged for my help, it was the least I could do.”
Armand smiled. “I’m lost without you.”
Jean-Guy looked around. They could hear the shuffling of the other searchers, but couldn’t see them.
“You might be lost with me.”
Decades’, centuries’ worth of fallen leaves had dried and decayed on the forest floor, so that as they walked it gave off a musky, woody scent that was not unpleasant.
The leaves overhead were changing, and with the bright sun on them it felt like they were walking under a massive stained-glass dome.
“Over here,” came a yell.
Gamache and Beauvoir stopped and turned in the direction of the voice.
“I’ve found something.”
It was Monsieur Béliveau, the grocer. He stood, tall and thin, in the middle of the woods, waving. Gamache and Beauvoir began to walk quickly, then broke into a jog.
Others, hearing the shout, also began to head over.
“Stop,” shouted Gamache, picking up speed, running between the trees, trying to get ahead of the stampede. “Arrêtez. Right now. Stop.”
And they did. Not all at once, but the authority in his voice eventually registered and everyone ground to a halt, scattered through the woods.
“Did you find Laurent’s stick?” Beauvoir asked as he approached the grocer.
“Non,” said Monsieur Béliveau. “I found that.”
“What?” demanded Antoinette. She stood deeper in the woods, Brian by her side. She was unmistakable and unmissable in a bright pink woolly sweater that was covered in dried leaves and bark. She looked like an escapee from a Dr. Seuss book. On the lam from green eggs and ham.
Monsieur Béliveau was pointing at something but they couldn’t see what.
“What is it?” Gamache asked quietly as he got closer.
“Can’t you see it?” Monsieur Béliveau whispered. He moved his hand in a circle, but all Gamache could see was a particularly thick section of forest.
“Holy shit,” Gamache heard someone say behind him. He thought it might be Clara, but he didn’t turn around. Instead Armand Gamache stopped. Then stepped back. And back again.
And tilted his head up.
“Merde,” he heard Jean-Guy whisper.
Then he peered at where Monsieur Béliveau was pointing. It was a small tear in the vines. And beyond that it was black.
