Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged looks. Even the president was amused.
Brian had been given shock treatment, had slept on park benches, had woken up one day and found himself in Denver. He still couldn’t explain that one.
More hilarity.
Brian had run a child down with a stolen car.
And fled the scene.
Brian had been fourteen. The child had died. As did the laughter.
“And even then I didn’t stop drinking and using,” admitted Brian. “It was the kid’s fault. The mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault.”
There was silence in the room.
“But finally there weren’t enough fucking drugs in the world to make me forget what I’d done,” he said.
There was complete silence now.
Brian looked at the president, who held the young man’s stare, then nodded slightly.
“Do you know what finally brought me to my knees?” Brian asked the gathering.
No one answered.
“I wish I could say it was guilt, or a conscience, but it wasn’t. It was loneliness.”
Beside Gamache, Bob nodded. People in front nodded, slowly. As though bowing their heads under a great weight. And lifting them again.
“I was so fucking lonely. All of my life.”
He lowered his head, showing a huge black swastika tattooed there.
Then he lifted it again and looked at all of them. Looked straight at Gamache, before his gaze moved on.
They were sad eyes. But there was something else there. A gleam. Of madness? Gamache wondered.
“But no more,” said Brian. “All my life I looked for a family. Who’d have thought it’d be you fuckers?”
The place burst into uproarious laughter. With the exception of Gamache and Beauvoir. Then Brian stopped laughing, and he looked out at the crowd.
“This is where I belong.” He spoke quietly. “In a shit-hole church basement. With you.”
He bowed slightly, awkwardly, and for a moment he looked like the boy he really was, or could have been. Young, barely twenty. Shy, handsome. Even with the scarring of tattoos and piercing and loneliness.
There was applause. Finally the president stood and picked up a coin from his desk. Holding it up, he spoke.
“This is a beginner’s chip. It has a camel on one side because if a camel can go twenty-four hours without a drink, so can you. We can show you how to stop drinking, one day at a time. Are there any newcomers here who’d like to take one?”
He held it up, as though it was a host, a magic wafer.
And he looked directly at Armand Gamache.
In that instant Gamache knew exactly who the man running the meeting was, and why he looked so familiar. This man wasn’t a therapist or a doctor. He was Chief Justice Thierry Pineault, of the Québec Supreme Court.
And Mr. Justice Pineault had obviously recognized him.
Eventually Mr. Justice Pineault put the coin down and the meeting was over.
“Would you like to go for coffee?” Bob asked. “A few of us go to Tim Hortons after the meeting. You’re welcome to join us.”
“I might see you there,” said Gamache. “Thank you. I just need to speak with him.” Gamache indicated the president and they shook hands good-bye.
The president looked up from his papers as they arrived at the long desk.
“Armand.” He stood and met Gamache’s eyes. “Welcome.”
“Merci, Monsieur le Justice.”
The Chief Justice smiled and leaned forward. “This is anonymous, Armand. You might have heard.”
“Including you? But you run the meeting for the alcoholics. They must know who you are.”
Now Mr. Justice Pineault laughed and came around from behind the desk. “My name is Thierry, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Gamache raised his brow. “I thought—”
“That I was in charge? The sober guy leading the drunks?”
“Well, the one responsible for the meeting,” said Gamache.
“We’re all responsible,” said Thierry.
The Chief Inspector glanced over to a man arguing with his chair.
“To varying degrees,” admitted Thierry. “We take turns running the meetings. A few people here know what I do for a living, but most know me as plain old Thierry P.”
But Gamache knew the jurist and knew there was nothing “plain old” about him.
Thierry turned his attention to Beauvoir. “I’ve seen you in the courthouse too.”
“Jean Guy Beauvoir,” said Beauvoir. “I’m an inspector in homicide.”
“Of course. I should have recognized you sooner. I just didn’t expect to see you here. But then, obviously you didn’t expect to see me either. What brings you here?”
He looked from Beauvoir to Gamache.
“A case,” said Gamache. “Can we speak in private?”
“Absolutely. Come with me.”
Thierry led them through a rear door then down a series of corridors, each dingier than the last. Finally they found themselves in a back stairwell. Mr. Chief Justice Pineault indicated a step as though inviting them into an opera stall, then he took one himself.
“Here?” asked Beauvoir.
“It’s about as private as this place gets I’m afraid. Now, what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the murder of a woman in a village in the Eastern Townships,” said Gamache, sitting on the filthy step beside the Chief Justice. “A place called Three Pines.”
“I know it,” said Thierry. “Wonderful bistro and bookstore.”
“That’s right.” Gamache was a little taken aback. “How do you know Three Pines?”
“We have a country place close by. In Knowlton.”