He wrote about Monsieur Zalmanowitz, and his career in tatters. He wrote about Judge Corriveau and the censure she would suffer, for letting them go instead of having them detained. As the law said she should have.
He wrote about the men, and women, and children who’d suffered as he’d ordered that only the minimum be done to arrest criminals. To focus their resources on the main target, but to also give the impression of complete and utter incompetence.
Armand Gamache wrote it all down. Sparing nothing. And when he’d finished with what had already happened, he went on. To what was about to happen. That night.
And when he stopped, Gamache laid down his pen, and closed the notebook. And placed the napkin carefully on top of it.
Then he went into his bathroom and had a shower, washing away the dirt and grime, the water salty to the taste. From the sweat. And something else rolling down his face.
*
“Patron?”
Beauvoir looked into the Chief Superintendent’s office. It was empty. But he heard the shower.
Jean-Guy stood there, unsure what to do. Go in. Go away?
He didn’t want to see his boss, his father-in-law, coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Or worse.
But neither could he leave without saying what needed to be said.
So he stepped into the room and closed the door and was about to take a seat when he saw the notebook out on the desk.
Curious, Jean-Guy approached. The shower was still on and, emboldened, Beauvoir opened the notebook and started reading. When the shower turned off, he quickly closed the book, replaced the napkin, and sat in the chair across from the desk.
The chief came out dressed in clean clothes and rubbing his head with a towel.
He stopped instantly upon seeing Beauvoir, who’d jumped out of his seat.
“Jean-Guy.”
“Patron.” He stood rigid, slender shoulders squared. “I’m sorry I left the courtroom today.” His voice was formal as though making a report, or reciting rehearsed lines. “It was unforgivable.”
And then the formality broke down and his shoulders loosened. “I don’t even know why I did it. We’ve been through worse. But I just…”
Armand stood there, listening. Not jumping in to finish the sentence. Neither rebuking, nor saying it was all right.
He gave Jean-Guy the space he needed, to say what he needed. In his own words and time.
“I got scared.”
There it was. A grown man, a senior officer in the S?reté du Québec. Admitting he was afraid. And that, Gamache knew, took courage.
“Of what?” he asked.
“I was afraid I’d scream, ‘Don’t do it.’ Up until then, I knew we could go back. A line had been stretched, but hadn’t yet been crossed. You outright lying in court, perjuring yourself, was something that could never be undone. I knew there was really no choice, but I couldn’t watch.”
Gamache nodded, taking it in before he spoke. “I think there’s more to it.”
“Maybe,” admitted Beauvoir, intensely uncomfortable under the gaze.
“I think you lost some respect for me today. I don’t think you believed I would actually do it. Lie under oath, under any circumstances. It breaks every law that you and I believe in. It makes me a hypocrite.”
Was that it? Beauvoir asked himself. Did that explain it? Because the truth was, he couldn’t really explain it to himself. Even saying he couldn’t watch Gamache destroy his career didn’t justify his leaving. The Chief Superintendent had never put career first.
So what was it?
And he knew, at that moment, that Gamache was right. He’d left because he couldn’t watch this fall from grace. This sullying of someone who’d always been a mentor, an example. Who’d stood by his principles, stood by the law when most others were bending it to their own benefit.
But today, Gamache had done the same thing. And not just bent it, but broke it.
He never really believed this man, of all people, would lie under oath. In a courtroom. For any reason. When it came down to it, Jean-Guy had seriously thought another solution would be found. The Mounties would miraculously appear and all would be well.
But instead, in that hellhole of a courtroom, Armand Gamache had perjured himself.
Gamache watched Jean-Guy, and knew he’d hit the target. He hadn’t wanted to, had hoped he was wrong. But he could see now that there was another victim, another body in the ruins.
The respect Jean-Guy had for him. Not the worst of the corpses, for sure, but there was no denying the pain it had caused. In Jean-Guy’s eyes, he was now corrupt. No different from so many other senior S?reté officers who’d sworn to uphold the law, but had broken it instead.
The fact the others had done it to amass fortunes, and Gamache had done it to bring the drug trade to its knees, did not really matter. The fact was, he’d proven himself no different from them.
Corruption starts small, often justifiable. A white lie. A minor law violated for the greater good. And then the corruption, like a virus, spreads.
“I hate to break it to you, Jean-Guy, but I crossed that line the first time I ordered that we step back and not make an arrest. I am being paid to uphold the law. It was an oath I’d taken, a duty entrusted to me. But I chose not to. Today, in court, I simply made my transgressions provable.”
“Does Judge Corriveau know? Is that why she called you into her chambers?”
“She suspects. She asked if the real murderer is still out there.”
“And what did you say?”
“I assured her that the defendant was the real murderer, but I’m not sure she believed it. She’s taking the night to think and will decide what to do about Monsieur Zalmanowitz and me in the morning.”
“But she let you go,” said Beauvoir, seeing what really mattered.
His brows drew together as he considered what the chief had said. He felt a heaviness in his chest. But then something occurred to him.
“If you crossed that line when you issued the orders, then I crossed it with you when I followed them.”
Gamache knew that was true, of course, but had chosen not to say anything. This night would be long enough, hard enough, without that weighing on Jean-Guy.
But the younger man had arrived there on his own. And now Gamache saw something unexpected. Far from adding to Beauvoir’s burden, he seemed lighter.
“I’m equally to blame,” Jean-Guy said, his face opening, the distress vanishing.
And Armand realized that the problem wasn’t so much that he’d fallen from grace in Beauvoir’s eyes, but that a chasm had opened up between them. But now they were at least in it together. The outhouse. The two-holer.
“We’re both in big shit.” Jean-Guy felt almost giddy with relief.
“Up to here.” Gamache lifted his hand over his head and returned to the bathroom to brush his hair, then came back, doing up his tie. “Everything’s ready?”
“Oui. Isabelle hasn’t called yet, but we need to be leaving now. The rest of the team’s getting their equipment together. I have your vest.”
“Merci.” Gamache went to his desk and, unlocking another drawer, he brought out his holster and gun and attached it to his belt before putting on his suit jacket. Rumpled, but dry at least.
The assault van would go down separately, and when it was dark the agents would get into position.