They looked at Armand, who raised his hands. “I wish I could tell you.”
What he was beginning to think was that this crime didn’t have such a tight circle. The cobrador and Katie Evans. It was possible there was a third person, who had manipulated both of them.
And was now manipulating the investigators.
Which meant that there was someone in the village who might look it, but who was in fact not quite human.
CHAPTER 27
The gavel came down with such force that several spectators leapt in their seats.
A few had been dozing, overcome with lethargy induced by the extreme heat.
Most, though, had fought off the urge to nap, wanting to hear what the Chief Superintendent would say next.
And what the Chief Crown would do next.
To the spectators it looked like a battle of wits. Thrust. Parry. Riposte. Lunge.
But to Judge Corriveau, who was closer and could see what others could not, it had stopped being a battle and had become a relay. One man handing off to the other.
Taking turns carrying the burden.
They didn’t like each other, she knew. That much had been obvious from the start. And it wasn’t pretense, it was genuine. So whatever was happening, it superseded enmity.
It might even, she now knew, supersede this entire trial.
She’d had enough.
“Court is adjourned for the day,” she proclaimed. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning at eight.” There was grumbling among the spectators at the early hour. “Before the day heats up.”
That seemed to make sense and as she rose, and they rose, there were nods of grudging agreement.
“Gentlemen,” she said to Gamache and Zalmanowitz. “I’d like to see you in my chambers.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” both men said, bowing slightly as she exited.
“Oh, Christ,” said Zalmanowitz, as he finally sat and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked up and saw Gamache standing there, waiting. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”
“This might be a good thing,” said Gamache.
“Right.” The Chief Crown shoved his papers into his briefcase. “A few years in prison will be just the break I need. I’d thought maybe a retirement community in Arizona, but this way I’ll also get retrained. I wonder if they offer language courses in the penitentiary. I’ve always wanted to learn Italian.” He glanced up at Gamache. “Do you find it at all ironic that we’ll end up in jail because of Gandhi?”
Chief Superintendent Gamache smiled. But it was thin and strained.
“You did nothing wrong,” he said. “I’m the one who perjured himself.”
“And I let you. I knew the truth and didn’t call you on the lie. Which makes me equally guilty. We both know that. And I’m afraid she knows it too. Maybe not the specifics, but she smells something.”
Zalmanowitz shoved some more papers into his briefcase, then, looking up, he saw Gamache staring toward the now empty courtroom.
Though there was one man standing there.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir raised his hand in a tentative wave to Gamache.
He’d rushed over to the Palais de Justice with the news from Toussaint. But now that he was there, he was unsure how to proceed.
Between the two men was a void where once there had been lifetimes of trust, intimacy, friendship.
All dissolved into empty space because of a single act. A simple act. Beauvoir had left the courtroom. Unable to witness, unable to watch, as Armand Gamache betrayed everything he’d believed in.
Gamache had walked right into it. And Beauvoir had run away.
“And there he was,” mumbled Zalmanowitz. “Gone.”
Gamache turned to him, angry. “Jean-Guy Beauvoir has stood beside me through things you can’t even imagine.”
“But not today.”
It was cruel, Zalmanowitz knew. To twist the knife. But it was also true. This wasn’t the day, and now wasn’t the time, to hide from unpleasant facts. Besides, he was hot and tired and about to be dragged over the coals.
Barry Zalmanowitz was not in the best of moods.
“Gentlemen.” The court clerk stood at the now open door. “Judge Corriveau will see you.”
The Chief Crown sighed, picked up his bulging briefcase, and with one more wipe of his face, he shoved the sodden tissue in his pocket and walked toward the door. A guilty man about to be condemned.
But Chief Superintendent Gamache didn’t move. Caught, it seemed, between Beauvoir and Judge Corriveau’s summons.
Gamache hesitated, then turned to the clerk.
“I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“Now, monsieur,” he insisted.
“In a moment,” Gamache repeated. “S’il vous pla?t.”
He turned his back to the door and approached Beauvoir.
Behind him, Barry Zalmanowitz stopped. And waited. Trying to ignore the look of increasing annoyance on the face of the court clerk.
Oh, what the hell, he thought, putting down his briefcase. How much worse can it possibly get?
Charged with contempt of court, on top of everything else. It might add another couple of months to the sentence. A chance to learn the past participles of Italian.
Parlato, he mumbled, as he watched Gamache approach Beauvoir. Amato.
Yes, thought Zalmanowitz. I have a lot to learn.
“Patron,” said Beauvoir. Brusque. Matter-of-fact. Any other agent reporting to his superior.
Nothing unusual, Beauvoir repeated to himself. Nothing unusual has happened. Nothing has changed.
“Jean-Guy,” said Gamache.
Armand saw the face, so familiar, but he also saw the wall Jean-Guy had raised. Not stone. Not wood. But sleek sheet metal. Without purchase. Without a rivet or a crack. Unscalable.
It was a device Beauvoir didn’t use often anymore. In fact, it had been years since Gamache had experienced it.
And he knew enough not to try to breach the barrier. It was unassailable. But it was also not a protection. It was, he knew, a prison. And trapped inside those walls a fine man hid. Not from Gamache, but from himself.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had locked the enemy inside with him.
“I met just now with Superintendent Toussaint,” said Beauvoir. “That’s why I left.”
Gamache held his eyes. But said nothing.
“It’s as we thought,” Beauvoir continued, stammering a little under the steady gaze, before collecting himself. When he continued, his voice was businesslike. “The shipment of fentanyl has crossed the border.”
“Where we expected?”
“Exactly there,” said Beauvoir. “Our informants watched it.”
“And the DEA?”
“Know nothing about it. We’ve lost track of it now. As per your instructions.”
Jean-Guy had no idea why he’d said that last bit, except an infantile desire to cause pain. To drill home what this man had done, which was so much worse, surely, than anything he himself had done.
Beauvoir had thought he was beyond the childish lashing out, but apparently not. It was back, and rested, and more powerful than ever. He braced for the counterattack, hoping for some brutal response. That would justify his own attack.
He waited for the clever, cleaver word.
But there was silence.