And wait.
He considered replacing the notebook and napkin in the drawer, and locking it. But realized it didn’t matter. And if something happened, and it all went south, the notebook would help investigators understand. If not agree.
The two men walked down the long corridor to the elevators. The gun felt uncomfortable, foreign, on the Chief Superintendent’s hip. He hated firearms. Their only purpose was to kill people. And he’d seen enough death to last many lifetimes.
“I should’ve stayed with you in the courtroom,” said Jean-Guy, as he punched the down button. Then he turned to Gamache. “Are we okay?”
“We were never not okay, Jean-Guy.” The elevator came and they got in. Just the two of them. “Did I ever tell you about my first tactical assault?”
“I don’t think so. You haven’t written a poem about it, have you?”
“An epic verse,” said Gamache, clearing his throat. Then he smiled. “Non. This is more prosaic. I was an agent, but not exactly a rookie. I’d been in the S?reté for a couple of years. We were going after a street gang. Heavily armed. A full assault on their bunker.”
As he spoke, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at the floor numbers above the elevator door.
“I passed out.”
“Pardon?”
“As soon as the first shots were fired. Woke up with a medic slapping me.”
“Pardon?” Beauvoir repeated, turning to Gamache, who continued to stare at the numbers.
“I blamed it on heat stroke. The heavy equipment, the waiting, the sun beating down. But it wasn’t that. It was terror. I was so scared, I fainted.” He paused. “Though passed out sounds a little better.”
Now he turned to look at Jean-Guy, who was staring at him, incredulous.
“Only Reine-Marie knows that story. Knows the truth.”
Jean-Guy continued to stare, openmouthed.
“That episode forced me to take a hard look at myself,” said Gamache. “At whether I was really cut out for this, or if my fears would always get the better of me, and endanger those around me. But I loved the work and believed in it. And I realized I couldn’t be afraid and do what needed to be done. And so I worked on the fear.”
“Is it gone?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
Jean-Guy did.
It never went away completely. Not even for the Chief Superintendent.
As the elevator descended to the lowest level, Beauvoir remembered the predictions in the notebook, and the napkin laid so carefully on top of it.
The name of the restaurant was printed in cheerful red letters across the top.
Sans Souci. Without a care.
And below that, in black ink, Burn our ships.
He followed Gamache out of the elevator.
It wasn’t really, he knew, about less fear. It was about more courage.
CHAPTER 30
The bistro in Three Pines felt cool and calm to Isabelle Lacoste, compared to the throbbing heat of the terrasse, where patrons relaxed and sipped lemonade and beer.
She took off her sunglasses and waited for her eyes to adjust. She preferred to be inside, for any number of reasons.
“I’d love a good stiff drink,” Isabelle called to Olivier as she made her way across the bistro toward the long wooden bar. “A gin and tonic, I think. Oh, make that a double. I’m off duty.”
“Long day?” Olivier asked, as he poured Tanqueray over the ice cubes.
Isabelle reached the bar and nodded as she opened one of the candy jars and took out a licorice pipe. She bit off the red candied embers first, as her kids had taught her to do, and as Monsieur Gamache had taught them.
“How’s the trial going?” he asked.
Lacoste tipped her hand back and forth. Comme ci, comme ?a.
Olivier shook his head as he cut the lemon, the fresh scent momentarily hanging in the air.
“So sad,” he said, pointing the paring knife toward St. Thomas’s chapel. “But at least there’s finally justice for Katie.”
Isabelle turned and looked through the bistro window, past the patrons on the frying pan patio, sipping their cold drinks. Past the children playing on the vivid village green, running in and out and around the three huge pine trees, as though the trees themselves were companions. Past the fieldstone and brick and clapboard cottages with their perennial beds of china blue delphiniums and old garden roses and mallow and lavender. Gardens planted by great-grandparents and tended with care.
Isabelle Lacoste’s eyes traveled over the old village and came to rest on the little white clapboard church on the hill. The scene of the murder of Katie Evans, and so much else.
All of which would come to a head that night.
Justice, she thought. A few months ago she knew exactly what that meant. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Who’re they?” she asked Olivier.
Two men were sitting quietly in front of the empty hearth, enjoying a meal. Anton was speaking with them, perhaps describing the food he’d made.
They looked over at her and she smiled, and raised her glass to Anton, who waved back.
“Don’t know,” said Olivier. “Just passing through, I think. Not staying at the B&B. You know Gabri. One set of guests is more than enough.”
“So there is someone at the B&B?” she asked, smelling the refreshing tonic water, and gin, and lemon.
“Oui. Lea and Matheo are down.”
“Really? Did they say why?” She tried to sound casual, not letting Olivier see her whirring mind.
“I didn’t ask, but it’s probably something to do with the trial. We’re reading the reports. Seems they’re giving Armand a hard time. Lea and Matheo might want to have words with him. They seem pretty tense.”
Yes, thought Lacoste. That was one explanation.
Around her there was the hum of conversation. Many patrons were now finding the terrasse too hot and were retreating into the cool interior. They chatted, but there was little outright laughter. The trial, so far away, was felt very keenly in the village. Some of the villagers would be called as witnesses. Thankfully the investigators had headed off the Crown’s desire to call Ruth Zardo to the stand.
Lacoste’s own testimony was scheduled for the next day, though she knew it would never come to that. Not after the night to come.
Chief Inspector Lacoste hadn’t been in court that day and so hadn’t heard Gamache’s testimony. But she’d certainly heard reports. From colleagues, and on the news.
She’d heard about the increasing acrimony between the Chief Crown and the Chief Superintendent. To the point where they’d both been hauled into the judge’s chambers.
What had happened there? What had Gamache said?
Had he told Judge Corriveau what had really happened that November night, when he’d returned to the basement of St. Thomas’s?
Had he told the judge the secret they’d been so desperate to conceal, to the point of Gamache perjuring himself?
It had started as an offhand remark by a crazy old poet and had developed, over drinks in Myrna’s loft, into a suspicion. Which grew into an action.