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“She’s cut her finger,” said Reine-Marie. “I’ll take her a bandage.”

“She’s not hurt badly,” said Sandra. “She’ll be fine. Leave her.”Advertisement

“I’ll come with you,” said Gamache, grabbing the flashlight on the table by the door. He and Reine-Marie followed the bright spot of the flashlight as it played on the rough stones of the terrasse, then the grass. They followed the light and the sobs and found Julia sitting on the lawn, near the edge of the forest. Near the statue.

“It’s all right,” said Reine-Marie, kneeling down and putting an arm round her.

“It’s. Not. All. Right.”

“Let me see your hand.”

All fight gone, Julia raised her hand. Reine-Marie examined it. “The other one, please.” She found the small cut on Julia’s finger and dabbed at the blood with a Kleenex. “It’s stopped bleeding. You’ll be fine.”

Julia laughed, sputtering slime from her nose and mouth. “You think?”

“We all get angry, we all shout and say things we don’t mean,” said Reine-Marie.

Gamache handed Julia his handkerchief and she blew into it.

“I meant them.”

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“Then things that didn’t need to be said.”

“They did.” She was stuffing her innards back, sewing herself up, putting her skin, her make-up, her party frock back on.

“They’ll never forgive me, you know.” She stood up, smoothed her dress, and wiped the tears and mucus from her face. “Morrows have long memories for things like this. It was a mistake to come back. Foolish, really.” She gave a small snort of laughter. “I think I might leave before breakfast tomorrow.”

“Don’t,” said Reine-Marie. “Talk to them. If you leave without seeing them it’ll just get worse.”

“And you think talking would help? You don’t know the Morrows. I’ve said way too much already.”

Gamache had been silent, watching and listening. And holding the torch. In the light he could just see her face, unnaturally pale, with harsh lines and shadows.

Not everything needed to be brought into the light, he knew. Not every truth needed to be told. And he knew she was right. He’d seen their faces as she’d fled. She’d said too much. He didn’t understand it, couldn’t see it, but he knew something foul had just come to light, come to life.

NINE

Gamache woke a few hours later to a rending, ripping sound as though something huge was tearing toward them. Then a sudden crash.

Thunder. Not quite on top of them, but close.

Drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled and soaking around his feet, he got up and quietly splashed cold water across his neck and on his face, tasting salt and feeling the stubble under his fingers and momentary relief from the sullen heat.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“Just woke up,” he said, returning to bed. He turned his sodden pillow over and laid his head on the cool pillowcase. But within moments it too was hot, and damp with perspiration. Any moment now, he felt, the air must surely turn to liquid.

“Oh,” said Reine-Marie.

“What?”

“The clock just went out.” She stretched out and he heard a click, though nothing happened. “The light’s gone as well. Storm’s knocked out the electricity.”

Gamache tried to fall back to sleep, but an image kept intruding. Of Charles Morrow, alone in the garden, illuminated by the flashes of lightning. Then in darkness again.

He’d expected the statue to be imperious, commanding. But as the canvas hood had slipped from the sculpture there’d been the most astonishing sight.

The statue was a deep undulating gray, and instead of holding his head high and proud he was bowed slightly. He looked off balance, as though about to step forward. But this Charles Morrow was not full of purpose and plans. This stooped, gray man hesitated on his pedestal.

There’d been silence when the canvas had collapsed to the ground and the Morrows looked once again upon their father.

Mrs. Finney had walked up to the statue. One by one the children followed, circling it like nuts around a bolt, then Mrs. Finney turned to the others.

“I think it’s time for a drink.”

And that was that.

Once they’d gone inside Gamache and Reine-Marie had approached and looked up into that handsome face. Straight noble nose. Forehead high. Lips full and slightly pursed. Not in judgment, nor, Gamache thought, in sour reflection, but with something to say. But his eyes were the most striking. They looked ahead and what they saw had turned this man to stone. pqdm.com