My God, thought Gamache. He feels sorry for me.
“I’m not making this up,” he insisted. “Something’s going on.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” the Chief admitted, and realized how lame that sounded. “But it goes high up. To the top.”
“Are these the same people who were supposed to have hacked into my files and stolen the notes on your therapy?”
Gamache could hear the slightly patronizing tone.
“Not just mine,” said Gamache. “They stole the files of everyone who was involved in that raid. Who came to you for help. Who told you everything. All their fears, their vulnerabilities. What they want from life. What matters to them. A road map into their heads.”
His voice was getting louder, more intense. His right hand started to tremble and he took hold of it with his left. Gripping it.
“Jean-Guy Beauvoir came to you. He sat right here, and opened up to you. He didn’t want to, but I ordered him to. I forced him to. And now they know everything about him. Know how to get inside his head and under his skin. They turned him against me.”
Gamache’s tone slid from sulky to pleading. Begging this therapist to believe him. Begging just one person to believe him.
“So you still think my records have been hacked?” Fleury’s normally steady voice was incredulous. “If you really believe that, why’re you here now, Armand?”
That stopped the Chief. They held each other’s eyes.
“Because there’s no one else to talk to,” Gamache finally said, his voice almost a whisper. “I can’t talk to my wife, my colleagues. I can’t tell my friends. I don’t want to involve them. I could tell Lacoste. I’ve been tempted. But she has a young family…”
His voice trailed off.
“In the past, when things got bad, who did you speak to?”
“Jean-Guy.” The words were almost inaudible.
“Now you’re alone.”
Gamache nodded. “I don’t mind that. I prefer it.” He was resigned now.
“Armand, you need to believe me when I say that my files haven’t been stolen. They’re secure. No one but me knows what we’ve talked about. You’re safe here. What you’re telling me now will go no further. I promise.”
Fleury continued to regard the man in front of him. Sunken, sad. Trembling. This was what was beneath the fa?ade.
“You need help, Armand.”
“I do need help, but not the sort you think,” said Gamache, rallying.
“There’s no threat,” said Fleury, his voice convincing. “You’ve created it in your mind, to explain things you don’t want to see or admit.”
“My department’s been gutted,” said Gamache, anger once again flaring. “I suppose that’s my imagination. I spent years building it up, taking discarded agents and turning them into the best homicide investigators in the country. And now they’ve left. I suppose I’m imagining that.”
“Maybe you’re the reason they left,” Fleury suggested quietly.
Gamache gaped at him. “That’s what he wants everyone to believe.”
“Who?”
“Syl—” but Gamache stopped himself and stared out the window. Trying to rein himself in.
“Why’re you here, Armand? What do you want?”
“I didn’t come for me.”
Dr. Fleury nodded. “That’s obvious.”
“I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“This isn’t a polite request.”
“That day in the factory—” began Dr. Fleury before Gamache cut him off.
“This has nothing to do with that.”
“Of course it does,” said Dr. Fleury, impatience finally getting the better of him. “You felt you’d lost control, and your agents were killed.”
“I know what happened, I don’t need reminding.”
“What you need to be reminded of,” snapped Fleury, “is that it wasn’t your fault. But you refuse to see that. It’s willful and arrogant and you need to accept what happened. Inspector Beauvoir has his own life.”
“He’s being manipulated,” said Gamache.
“By the same senior officer?”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m also a senior officer, with decades of investigative experience. I’m not some delusional nutcase. I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you, and I need to see his files. I need to see what he’s told you.”
“Listen.” Dr. Fleury’s voice was straining, trying to get back to calm, to be reasonable. But he was finding it difficult. “You have to let Jean-Guy live his own life. You can’t protect him. He has his own road and you have yours.”
Gamache shook his head and looked at his hands in his lap. One still, the other still trembling. He raised his eyes to meet Fleury’s.
“That would make sense in normal circumstances, but Jean-Guy isn’t himself. He’s being influenced and manipulated. And he’s addicted again.”
“To his painkillers?”
Gamache nodded. “Superintendent—”