The Brutal Telling
And all she had to do was say nothing.
She could do that.
No, I didn’t kill him.”
But even as Olivier said it he realized the disaster of what he’d done. In lying at every turn he’d made the truth unrecognizable.
“He was already dead when I arrived.”
God, even to his own ears it sounded like a lie. I didn’t take the last cookie, I didn’t break the fine bone china cup, I didn’t steal the money from your purse. I’m not gay.
All lies. All his life. All the time. Until he’d come to Three Pines. For an instant, for a glorious few days he’d lived a genuine life. With Gabri. In their little rented wreck of an apartment above the shop.
But then the Hermit had arrived. And with him a trail of lies.
“Listen, it’s the truth. It was Saturday night and the place was hopping. The Labor Day long weekend’s always a madhouse. But by midnight or so there were only a few stragglers. Then Old Mundin arrived with the chairs and a table. By the time he left the place was empty and Havoc was doing the final cleanup. So I decided to visit the Hermit.”
“After midnight?” Gamache asked.
“That’s normally when I went. So no one could see.”
Across from Olivier the Chief Inspector slowly leaned back, distancing himself. The gesture was eloquent. It whispered that Gamache didn’t believe him. Olivier stared at this man he’d considered a friend and he felt a tightening, a constriction.
Gamache asked it so simply, and in that instant Olivier knew the genius of the man. He was able to crawl into other people’s skins, and burrow beyond the flesh and blood and bone. And ask questions of deceptive simplicity.
“It’s not the dark I’m afraid of,” said Olivier. And he remembered the freedom that came only after the sun set. In city parks, in darkened theaters, in bedrooms. The bliss that came with being able to shed the outer shell and be himself. Protected by the night.
It wasn’t the dark that scared him, but what might come to light.
“I knew the way and it only took about twenty minutes to walk it.”
“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?”
Gamache leaned forward again.
“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.
“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.”