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Armand had put on latex gloves and slung the satchel over his shoulder. Where some might carry a briefcase to work, Chief Inspector Gamache carried the tools of his trade. Gloves. Evidence bags. Fingerprint kits. Swabs. Tweezers.
“Stay here.” Though it really didn’t need to be said.
Holding his phone in front of him, he pressed record and stepped over the low brick threshold and into the room.
Then stopped. There in front of him were bright eyes staring back.
He was prepared, having seen this a few minutes earlier, but still he felt his heart leap in his chest.
“What is it?” Reine-Marie asked from the other side. “What do you see?”
There was silence. It lasted just a second, but seemed to go on forever before he spoke.
“It’s a painting. Huge.”
He shone the light over it, taking in the detail, though there was so much of it, the only impression he was left with was one of a certain chaos. As though someone had thrown all their possessions at a canvas and they stuck. Including two children.
He stared at them for a moment. One, the little girl, looked familiar, and he wondered if he’d seen this painting, or a reproduction of it in a book, before.
“Can we come in now?” Olivier asked.
“In a moment.”
After staring at the extraordinary work for a few moments, he moved on, deeper into the hidden room.
“You okay?” Reine-Marie asked, leaning toward the hole.
“Just fine,” said Armand, and he heard Ruth chuckle and say something he couldn’t hear but could imagine.
“What do you see?” Myrna asked.
Armand was walking the perimeter of the room, ducking his head so as not to hit the eaves and shining the light over the walls, the floor, the ceiling. Into the corners. The room was small, about twelve feet by twelve feet, with wide plank wooden floors, and exposed beams in the ceiling.
There was no sign of life. Or death.
“Nothing alarming.”
His eyes fell on an assortment of items behind the painting. It looked like a small pile of junk, like most attics had. He moved on. His only interest was making sure the evidence kit could stay on his shoulder.
Finally he said, “It’s okay. You can come in.”
They stepped through, flashlights bobbing. And then the lights coalesced.
“Holy shit,” whispered Olivier.
The attic room seemed packed, jam-packed with conch shells and sculptures, clocks and chairs and musical instruments. And faces, people.
The friends stared, slack-jawed.
“Holy shit,” said Myrna.
It took a moment, but a long one, to realize what they were staring at.
The dots of their phone flashlights played over the painting, picking up details but not the entirety.
Billy had brought up construction lights, and now, with a flick of a switch, the place was bathed in blinding light.
And then the whole painting burst out at them.
