Beauvoir knew what they were talking about. Everyone in Québec did. A seven-year-old child had been blown up along with a few members of the Hell’s Angels when a car bomb exploded. It was all over the news.
“Up until then, we’d been pretty successful at feeding rival gangs information,” said Tessier, “and having them go at each other.”
Beauvoir had come to appreciate the beauty of this strategy, though it had shocked him at first. Let the criminals kill each other. All the S?reté had to do was guide them a little. Drop a bit of information here. A bit there. Then get out of the way. The rival gangs took care of the rest. It was easy and safe and, above all, effective. True, sometimes a civilian got in the way, but the S?reté would plant suggestions in the media that the dead man or woman wasn’t perhaps as innocent as their family claimed.
And it worked.
Until this child.
“What’re you doing about it?” Francoeur asked.
“Well, we need to respond. Hit one of their bunkers. Since the Rock Machine planted the bomb that killed the kid, we should plan a raid against them.”
Jean-Guy Beauvoir lowered his eyes, studying the carpet. Studying his hands.
Not me. Not me. Not again.
“I’m not interested in the details.” Francoeur got up and they all rose. “Just get it done. The sooner the better.”
“Yessir,” said Tessier, and followed him out the door.
Beauvoir watched them go, then exhaled. Safe.
At the elevator the Chief Superintendent handed Tessier a small vial.
“I think our newest recruit is a little anxious, don’t you?” Francoeur pressed the pill bottle into Tessier’s hand. “Put Beauvoir on the raid.”
He got in the elevator.
*
Beauvoir sat at his desk, staring blankly at the computer screen. Trying to get the meeting out of his mind. Not with Francoeur, but with Gamache. He’d structured his days, done everything he could, to avoid seeing the Chief. And for months it had worked, until tonight. His whole body felt bruised. Except for one small patch, on his hand. Which still felt moist and warm no matter how hard he rubbed it dry.
Beauvoir sensed a presence at his elbow and looked up.
“Good news,” said Inspector Tessier. “You’ve impressed Francoeur. He wants you on the raid.”
Beauvoir’s stomach curdled. He’d already taken two OxyContin, but now the pain returned.
Leaning over the desk, Tessier placed a pill bottle by Beauvoir’s hand.
“We all need a little help every now and then.” Tessier tapped the top of the bottle, his voice light and low. “Take one. It’s nothing. Just a little relaxant. We all take them. You’ll feel better.”
Beauvoir stared at the bottle. A small warning sounded, but it was too deep and too late.
SEVEN
Armand Gamache turned off the lights, then he and Henri walked down the corridor, but instead of pressing the down button, he pressed up. Not to the very top floor, but the one just below it. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty. Perfect.
A minute later he knocked on a door and went in without waiting for a response.
“Bon,” said Superintendent Brunel. “You made it.”
Thérèse Brunel, petite and soignée as always, rose and indicated a chair next to her husband, Jér?me, who was also on his feet. They shook hands and everyone sat.
Thérèse Brunel was beyond the S?reté retirement age, but no one had the stomach, or other organs, to tell her. She’d come late to the force, been trained by Gamache, then rapidly lapped him, partly through her own hard work and ability, but partly, they all knew, because his career had hit a wall, constructed by Chief Superintendent Francoeur.
They’d been friends since the academy, when she was twice the age of any other recruit and he was her professor.
The roles, the offices, the ranks they now enjoyed should have been reversed. Thérèse Brunel knew that. Jér?me knew that. And Gamache knew that, though he alone didn’t seem to care.
They sat on the formal sofa and chairs, and Henri stretched out between Gamache and Jér?me. The older man dropped an arm, absently stroking the shepherd.
Jér?me, hovering on the far side of seventy, was almost completely round, and had he been slightly smaller, Henri would have been tempted to chase him.
Despite the difference in their ranks, it was clear that Armand Gamache was in charge. This was his meeting, if not his office.
“What’s your news?” he asked Thérèse.
“We’re getting closer, I think, Armand, but there’s a problem.”
“I’ve hit a few walls,” Jér?me explained. “Whoever’s done this is clever. Just when I get up a head of steam, I find I’m actually in a cul-de-sac.”
His voice was querulous, but his manner was jovial. Jér?me had rolled forward, his hands clasped together. His eyes were bright and he was fighting a smile.
He was enjoying himself.