It wasn’t the kiss that stunned Beauvoir. It was what came after. Why hadn’t he ever seen it before? Of course, he’d seen it, but he’d never really recognized it for what it was.
Gamache had left him.
Alone.
To die.
He’d abandoned him, to die alone on a filthy factory floor.
Beauvoir hit replay, replay, replay. And in each, of course, the same thing happened.
Myrna was wrong. He wasn’t upset because he’d failed to save Gamache. He was angry because Gamache had failed to save him.
And the bottom dropped out from beneath Jean Guy Beauvoir.
*
Armand Gamache groaned and looked at the clock.
Three twelve.
His bed at the B and B was comfortable, the duvet warm around him as the cool night air drifted through the open window, bringing with it the hooting of an owl in the distance.
He lay in bed, pretending he was about to fall asleep.
Three eighteen.
It was rare now for him to wake in the middle of the night, but it still happened.
Three twenty-two.
Three twenty-seven.
Gamache resigned himself to the situation. Getting up, he threw on some clothes and tiptoed downstairs. Putting on his Barbour coat and a cap he left the B and B. The air was fresh and cool and now even the owl was quiet.
Nothing stirred. Except a homicide detective.
Gamache walked slowly, counter-clockwise, around the village green. The homes were still and dark. People asleep inside.
The three tall pines rustled slightly in the breeze.
Chief Inspector Gamache walked, his pace measured, his hands clasped behind his back. Clearing his mind. Not thinking about the case, trying, in fact, to not think about anything. Trying to just take in the fresh night air and the peace and quiet.
A few paces past Peter and Clara’s home he stopped and looked over the bridge, to the Incident Room. A light was on. Not bright. Barely even visible.
It wasn’t so much light he saw at the window as not dark.
Lacoste? he wondered. Had she found something and returned? Surely she’d wait until morning.
He walked across the bridge, toward the old railway station.
Looking through the window he could see that the light was a glow from one of their terminals. Someone was sitting in the dark in front of a computer.
He couldn’t quite see who. It looked like a man, but it was too far away and the person was in too much shadow.
Gamache didn’t have a gun. Never carried one, if he could help it. Instead, he’d automatically taken his reading glasses from the bedside table. He never went anywhere without tucking them into his pocket. In his opinion they were far more help, and more powerful, than any gun. Though he had to admit, they didn’t seem all that helpful right now. He briefly considered going back and rousing Beauvoir, but thought better of it. Whoever this was might be gone by then.
Chief Inspector Gamache tried the door. It was unlocked.
Slowly, slowly, he opened it. The door creaked and he held his breath, but the figure in front of the screen didn’t move. He seemed transfixed.
Finally Gamache had the door open enough to enter. Standing just inside he took everything in. Was the intruder alone, or were there more?
He scanned the dark corners, but saw no movement.
The Chief took a few more steps into the Incident Room, preparing to confront the person in front of the screen.
Then he saw what was on the monitor. Images flickered in the dark. Of S?reté agents carrying automatic weapons, moving through a factory. As Gamache watched he saw Beauvoir hit. Beauvoir fall. And he saw himself racing across the cavernous room to get to him.
Whoever was at the screen was watching the pirated video. From the back the Chief could see the intruder had short hair and was slender. That much, and only that, Gamache could see.
More images flashed on the screen. Gamache saw himself bending over Beauvoir. Bandaging him.
Gamache could barely watch. And yet whoever was sitting in front of it was mesmerized. Unmoving. Until now. Just as the Gamache on the video left Beauvoir, the intruder’s right hand moved, and the picture skipped.
Back to the beginning.
And the raid started all over again.
Gamache edged closer and as he did his vision and his certainty increased. Until finally, with a sick feeling in his stomach, he knew.
“Jean Guy?”
Beauvoir almost fell out of the chair. He grabbed for the mouse, madly trying to click. To pause, to stop, to close the images. But it was too late. Way too late.
“What’re you doing?” Gamache asked, approaching.
“Nothing.”
“You’re watching the video,” the Chief said.
“No.”
“Of course you are.”
Gamache strode over to his own desk and turned on the lamp. Jean Guy Beauvoir was sitting at his computer, staring at the Chief, his eyes red and bleary.
“Why’re you here?” asked Gamache.
Beauvoir got up. “I just needed to look at it again. Our talk yesterday about the internal investigation brought it all back, and I needed to see.”
And Beauvoir had the satisfaction of seeing the look of both pain and concern in Gamache’s eyes.
But Jean Guy Beauvoir now knew it was a fake. An act. This man standing there looking so concerned wasn’t at all. He was pretending. If he cared he’d never have left him. To die. Alone.
Behind him now the video, unseen by either man, had moved on. Past the place Beauvoir had hit replay. Chief Inspector Gamache, in tactical vest and carrying an assault rifle, was racing up a flight of stairs after a gunman.
“You need to let it go, Jean Guy,” said the Chief.
“And forget?” snapped Beauvoir. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’d like me to forget, you’d like us all to forget what happened.”
“Are you all right?” Gamache approached him but Beauvoir backed away. “What’s the matter?”
“You don’t even care who released the tape. Maybe you wanted it released. Maybe you wanted everyone to see how heroic you were. But we both know the truth.”