Page 16 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Takacs sighed, shook his head, but didn’t protest. They’d come this far … Besides, he was curious. He started off but stopped when Gamache called. “Wait.” Armand pulled out his phone. Up high, in the clearing there might be … There was.

A number of messages had come in, including quite a few from Lacoste and Beauvoir.

He sent off a quick text, clicked off his phone, and followed Takacs down the slope. Skirting the cliff.

He could feel, and even hear, his sodden socks squelching in his boots. He lost his footing more than once in the steep descent. Up ahead, the chef also skidded to one knee.

“I’m okay,” he said as Gamache hauled him up and saw a line of blood down Takacs’s face where a branch had scratched him.

The forest, while beautiful, seemed not too pleased about human intrusion. And rightly so. Few things were improved when people showed up. They stumbled and skidded until, finally, the slope became less steep. And the ground flattened out.

The sun barely made its way through here. They were, it seemed, in near perpetual twilight.

“Look,” said Takacs, clearly astonished. “There.”

Up ahead amid the old tree trucks and young leaves, Armand could see bleached white stones. Headstones scattered about, as though people had been buried where they’d fallen.

There was about this place an expectation. As though the two men had stepped into a breath that had been held for a very long time.

And then Armand saw it.

The body in Lost Nation.

CHAPTER 8

Isabelle Lacoste, leading the team of local Sûreté agents scouring the woods, heard it before she saw anything.

It was the crashing sound a person makes when moving swiftly through the woods.

She knew the Chief’s gait, his footfall. This wasn’t it. This wasn’t him.

Just then, Monsieur Takacs came into view. Running, stumbling. As though chased.

“What is it?” demanded Lacoste. “Where’s Gamache?”

Takacs waved behind him. Bending over, he tried to catch his breath. The entire right side of his body was covered in mud and leaves. His hands were filthy, his face scratched.

“Back there. Cemetery. A body.” His words came out staccato. “He stayed. Told me to come get you.” He paused. “It’s pretty bad. I wasn’t expecting…”

He bent over and threw up.

“Show us.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not going back there. I’m a chef, not a tour guide.”

Armand heard them coming. It would be hard not to. It sounded like a herd of moose. Though moose moved more delicately.

“Patron!” said Lacoste.

Behind her was the chef, who’d come back after all.

Gamache held out a gloved hand, and they stopped. “Careful. There’re prints in the mud over there. Almost washed away, but still visible.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “Must’ve been made by whoever called me this morning.”

Close behind Isabelle came Beauvoir with the forensics team. Two of the veteran homicide cops peeled away from the group to examine the prints.

“Dr. Harris should arrive soon,” said Lacoste. “I left an agent there, but someone will need to guide her in.”

“Maybe you can go back to the road,” said Gamache to Takacs, who, after all, was a chef, not a homicide investigator. “Perreault.” The Chief Inspector pointed to a young agent. “Go out with Monsieur Takacs and come back with the coroner.”