The Chief held the therapist’s eyes. They were almost the same age, with Fleury perhaps a year or two younger. Experienced men. One who’d seen too much, and one who’d heard too much.
“I know you investigated thoroughly,” said the Chief. “And there was no evidence of tampering with your patient files.”
“But do you believe it?”
Gamache smiled. “Or am I paranoid?”
“I hope so,” said Fleury, crossing his legs and placing his open notebook on his knee. “I’m eyeing a cottage in the Laurentians.”
Gamache laughed, but the nausea had settled into his stomach, a sour, stagnant pool. He hesitated.
“Are you still not sure, Armand?”
Gamache could see the concern, almost certainly genuine, in Fleury’s face, and could hear it in his voice.
“Someone else called me paranoid recently,” admitted the Chief.
“Who was that?”
“Thérèse Brunel. Superintendent Brunel.”
“A superior officer?” asked Fleury.
Gamache nodded. “But also a friend, and confidante. She thought I’d gone off the deep end. Seeing conspiracies all over the place. She, ah…” He looked briefly at his hands in his lap, then back up to Dr. Fleury’s face. Gamache smiled a little bashfully. “She refused to help me investigate and took off on holiday to Vancouver.”
“You think her holiday plans had something to do with you?”
“Now you think I’m a narcissist?”
“I can see a new outboard motor in my future,” admitted Fleury. “Continue, Chief Inspector.”
But this time Gamache didn’t smile. Instead he leaned forward.
“There’s something going on. I know it, I just can’t prove it. Yet. There’s corruption inside the S?reté, but it’s more than that. I think a senior officer is behind it.”
Dr. Fleury was unmoved. Unfazed.
“You keep saying, ‘I think,’” said the therapist. “But are your fears really rational?”
“They’re not fears,” said Gamache.
“But they’re not facts.”
Gamache was silent, clearly trying to choose words that would convince this man.
“Is this about the leaked video again? You know there was an official investigation,” said Dr. Fleury. “You need to accept their findings and let it go.”
“Move on?” Gamache heard the tinge of bitterness, a slight whine, in his voice.
“Things you can’t control, Armand,” the therapist reminded him, patiently.
“It’s not about control, it’s about responsibility. Taking a stand.”
“The white knight? The key is to know if you’re tilting at a legitimate target or a windmill.”
Chief Inspector Gamache glared at Fleury, his eyes hard, then he inhaled sharply as though from a sudden pain. He dropped his head into his hands and covered his face. Massaging his forehead. Feeling the rough scar.
Eventually Gamache raised his head and met patient and kind eyes.
My God, thought Gamache. He feels sorry for me.
“I’m not making this up,” he insisted. “Something’s going on.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” the Chief admitted, and realized how lame that sounded. “But it goes high up. To the top.”
“Are these the same people who were supposed to have hacked into my files and stolen the notes on your therapy?”
Gamache could hear the slightly patronizing tone.
“Not just mine,” said Gamache. “They stole the files of everyone who was involved in that raid. Who came to you for help. Who told you everything. All their fears, their vulnerabilities. What they want from life. What matters to them. A road map into their heads.”
His voice was getting louder, more intense. His right hand started to tremble and he took hold of it with his left. Gripping it.
“Jean-Guy Beauvoir came to you. He sat right here, and opened up to you. He didn’t want to, but I ordered him to. I forced him to. And now they know everything about him. Know how to get inside his head and under his skin. They turned him against me.”
Gamache’s tone slid from sulky to pleading. Begging this therapist to believe him. Begging just one person to believe him.
“So you still think my records have been hacked?” Fleury’s normally steady voice was incredulous. “If you really believe that, why’re you here now, Armand?”
That stopped the Chief. They held each other’s eyes.
“Because there’s no one else to talk to,” Gamache finally said, his voice almost a whisper. “I can’t talk to my wife, my colleagues. I can’t tell my friends. I don’t want to involve them. I could tell Lacoste. I’ve been tempted. But she has a young family…”
His voice trailed off.
“In the past, when things got bad, who did you speak to?”
“Jean-Guy.” The words were almost inaudible.
“Now you’re alone.”
Gamache nodded. “I don’t mind that. I prefer it.” He was resigned now.
“Armand, you need to believe me when I say that my files haven’t been stolen. They’re secure. No one but me knows what we’ve talked about. You’re safe here. What you’re telling me now will go no further. I promise.”
Fleury continued to regard the man in front of him. Sunken, sad. Trembling. This was what was beneath the fa?ade.
“You need help, Armand.”
“I do need help, but not the sort you think,” said Gamache, rallying.
“There’s no threat,” said Fleury, his voice convincing. “You’ve created it in your mind, to explain things you don’t want to see or admit.”
“My department’s been gutted,” said Gamache, anger once again flaring. “I suppose that’s my imagination. I spent years building it up, taking discarded agents and turning them into the best homicide investigators in the country. And now they’ve left. I suppose I’m imagining that.”
“Maybe you’re the reason they left,” Fleury suggested quietly.
Gamache gaped at him. “That’s what he wants everyone to believe.”
“Who?”
“Syl—” but Gamache stopped himself and stared out the window. Trying to rein himself in.
“Why’re you here, Armand? What do you want?”
“I didn’t come for me.”
Dr. Fleury nodded. “That’s obvious.”
“I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you.”