His mother stood up and touched her son’s arm. “I really think you should leave this to the police. The man’s probably unwell.”
She looked to Gamache, but the Chief Inspector had no intention of stopping Marc Gilbert from confronting the intruder. Just the opposite. He wanted to see what happened.
“Come with me,” he said to Marc, then turned to the women. “You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”
“Well, I’m going,” said Dominique. “Maybe you should stay here,” she said to her mother-in-law.
“I’m coming too.”
As they approached the barn the horses looked up from the field. Beauvoir, who hadn’t seen them before, almost stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t seen that many horses in real life. On film, yes. And these didn’t look like any film horses. But then, most men didn’t look like Sean Connery and most women didn’t look like Julia Roberts. But even allowing for natural selection, these horses seemed, well, odd. One didn’t even look like a horse. They began to mosey over, one walking sideways.
Paul Morin, who had seen a lot of horses, said, “Nice cows.”
Dominique Gilbert ignored him. But she felt drawn to the horses. As their own lives so suddenly unraveled the horses’ calm attracted her. As did, she thought, their suffering. No, not their suffering, but their forbearance. If they could endure a lifetime of abuse and pain she could take whatever blow that barn had in store. As the others moved past her Dominique stopped and walked back to the paddock, where she stood on a bucket and leaned over the fence. The other horses, still shy, held back. But Buttercup, big, awkward, ugly and scarred, came forward. Buttercup’s broad, flat forehead pushed softly into Dominique’s chest, as though it fit there. As though it was the key. And as she walked away to join the others and confront whatever that shadow was they could see standing in the barn, she smelled horse on her hands. And felt the reassuring pressure between her breasts.
It took a moment or two for their eyes to adjust as they stepped into the dim barn. Then the shadow became solid, firm. Human. Before them appeared a tall, slender, graceful older man.
“You’ve kept me waiting,” the darkness said.
Marc, whose vision wasn’t quite as good as he pretended, could only just see the outline of the man. But the words, the voice, told him more than enough. He felt light-headed and reached out. His mother, standing next to him, took his hand and held him steady.
“Mother?” he whispered.
“It’s all right, Marc,” the man said.
But Marc knew it wasn’t all right. He’d heard the rumors about the old Hadley house, the ghouls that lived there. He’d loved the stories because it meant no one else had wanted the house, and they could get it dirt cheap.
Dirt to dirt. Something filthy had indeed risen. The old Hadley house had produced one more ghost.
“Dad?”
SEVENTEEN
“Dad?”
Marc stared from the shadow, darker than the shade, to his mother. The voice was unmistakable, indelible. The deep, calm voice that carried censure with a slight smile, so that the child, the boy, the man, had never really known where he stood. But he’d suspected.
“Hello, Marc.”
The voice held a hint of humor, as though this was in any way close to funny. As though Marc’s staggering shock was reason for mirth.
Dr. Vincent Gilbert walked out of the shed and out of the dead, into the light.
“Mom?” Marc turned to the woman beside him.
“I’m sorry, Marc. Come with me.” She tugged her only child out into the sun and sat him on a bale of hay. He felt it pricking into his bottom, uncomfortable.
“Can you get him something to drink?” Carole asked her daughter-in-law, but Dominique, hand to her face, seemed almost as stunned as her husband.
“Marc?” Dominique said.
Beauvoir looked at Gamache. This was going to be a long day if all they said was each other’s names.
Dominique recovered and walked quickly, breaking into a run, back to the house.
“I’m sorry, have I surprised you?”
“Of course you surprised him, Vincent,” snapped Carole. “How did you think he’d feel?”
“I thought he’d be happier than this.”
“You never think.”
Marc stared at his father, then he turned to his mother. “You told me he was dead.”
“I might have exaggerated.”
“Dead? You told him I was dead?”
She turned on her husband again. “We agreed that’s what I’d say. Are you senile?”
