THIRTY-ONE
The technician handed Gamache the report and the tuque. “Done.”
“Anything?”
“Well, there were three significant contacts on that hat. Besides your own DNA, of course.” He looked at Gamache with disapproval, having contaminated the evidence.
“Who’re the others?”
“Well, let me just say that more than three people have handled it. I found traces of DNA from a bunch of people and at least one animal. Probably incidental contact years ago. They picked it up, might’ve even worn it, but not for long. It belonged to someone else.”
“Who?”
“I’m getting to that.”
The technician gave Gamache an annoyed look. The Chief held out his hand, inviting the man to get on with it.
“Well, as I said, there were three significant contacts. Now, one’s an outlier, but the other two are related.”
The outlier, Gamache suspected, was Myrna, who’d held the hat, and even tried to put it on her head.
“One of the matches came from the victim.”
“Constance Ouellet,” said Gamache. This was no surprise, but best to have it confirmed. “And the other?”
“Well, that’s where it gets interesting, and difficult.”
“You said they were related,” said Gamache, hoping to head off any long, and no doubt fascinating, lecture.
“And they are, but the other DNA is old.”
“How old?”
“Decades, I’d say. It’s difficult to get an accurate reading, but they’re definitely related. Siblings, maybe.”
Gamache stared at the angels. “Siblings? But could it be parent and child?”
The technician thought and nodded. “Possible.”
“Mother and daughter,” said Gamache, almost to himself. So they were right. The MA stood for Ma. Marie-Harriette had knitted six hats. One for each of her daughters and herself.
“No,” said the technician. “Not mother and daughter. Father and daughter. The old DNA is almost certainly male.”
“Pardon?”
“I can’t be one hundred percent sure, of course,” said the technician. “It’s there in the report. The DNA was from hair. I’d say that hat belonged to a man, years ago.”
*
Gamache returned to his office.
The department was deserted. Even Lacoste had gone. He’d called her from his parked car outside the rectory and asked her to find André Pineault. Now, more than ever, Gamache wanted to speak with the man who’d known Marie-Harriette. But, more than that, Pineault had known Isidore and the girls.
Father and daughter, the technician had said.
Gamache could see Isidore with his arms out, blessing his children. The look of surrender on his face. Was it possible he wasn’t blessing them, but asking for forgiveness?
Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again.
Is that why none had married? Is that why none had returned, except to make sure he was really dead?
Is that why Virginie had killed herself?
Is that why they hated their mother? Not for what she’d done, but what she’d failed to do? And was it possible that the state, so arrogant and high-handed, had in fact saved the girls by taking them from that grim farmhouse?
Gamache remembered the joy on Constance’s face as her father laced up her skates. Gamache had taken it at face value, but now he wondered. He’d investigated enough cases of child abuse to know the child, when put in a room with both parents, would almost always embrace the abuser.
A child’s effort to curry favor. Was that what was on little Constance’s face? Not real joy, but the one plastered there by desperation and practice?
He looked down at the hat. The key to their home. It was best not to leap to a conclusion that might be far from the truth, Gamache cautioned himself, even as he wondered if that was the secret Constance had locked away. The one she was finally willing to drag into the light.
But that didn’t explain her murder. Or perhaps it did. Had he failed to see the significance of something, or make a vital connection?
More and more he felt it was essential to speak with their uncle.
Lacoste had emailed to say she’d found him, she thought. Might not be the correct Pineault, it was a common name, but his age checked out and he’d moved into the small apartment fourteen years ago. So the timing fit with Isidore’s death and the sale of the farm. She’d asked if the Chief wanted her to interview Pineault, but Gamache had told her to go home herself now. Get some rest. He’d do it, on his way back to Three Pines.
On his desk he found the dossier Lacoste had left, including an address for Monsieur Pineault in east-end Montréal.
Gamache slowly swung his chair around until his back was to the dark and empty office, and looked out the window. The sun was setting. He looked at his watch. 4:17. The time the sun should be going down. Still, it always seemed too soon.
He rocked himself gently in the chair, staring out at Montréal. Such a chaotic city. Always was. But a vibrant city too. Alive and messy.
It gave him pleasure to look at Montréal.
He was contemplating doing something that might prove monumentally foolish. It was certainly not rational, but then this thought hadn’t come from his brain.
The Chief Inspector gathered his papers and left, without a backward glance. He didn’t bother locking his office door, didn’t even bother closing it. No need. He doubted he’d be back.
In the elevator he pressed up, not down. Once there, he exited and walked decisively down the corridor. Unlike the homicide department, this one wasn’t empty. And as he walked by, agents looked up from their desks. A few reached for their phones.
But the Chief paid no attention. He walked straight toward his goal. Once there, he didn’t knock, but opened the door then closed it firmly behind him.
“Jean-Guy.”
Beauvoir looked up from the desk and Gamache felt his heart constrict. Jean-Guy was going down. Setting.
“Come with me,” Gamache said. He’d expected his voice to be normal, and was surprised to hear just a whisper, the words barely audible.
“Get out.” Beauvoir’s voice, too, was low. He turned his back on the Chief.
“Come with me,” Gamache repeated. “Please, Jean-Guy. It’s not too late.”
“What for? So you can fuck with me some more?” Beauvoir turned to glare at Gamache. “To humiliate me even more? Well, fuck you.”
“They stole the therapist’s records,” said Gamache, approaching the younger man, who looked so much older. “They know how to get into our heads. Yours, mine. Lacoste’s. Everyone’s.”
“They? Who’re ‘they’? Wait, don’t tell me. ‘They’ aren’t ‘you.’ That’s all that matters, isn’t it? The great Armand Gamache is blameless. It’s ‘their’ fault. It always is. Well, take your fucking perfect life, your perfect record and get the fuck out. I’m just a piece of shit to you, something stuck to your shoe. Not good enough for your department, not good enough for your daughter. Not good enough to save.”
The last words barely made it from Beauvoir’s mouth. His throat had constricted and they just scraped by. Beauvoir stood up, his thin body shaking.
“I tried…” Gamache began.
“You left me. You left me to die in that factory.”
Gamache opened his mouth to speak. But what could he say? That he’d saved Beauvoir? Dragged him to safety. Staunched his wound. Called for help.
That it wasn’t his fault?
As long as Armand Gamache lived he’d see not Jean-Guy’s wound, but his face. The terror in those eyes. So afraid of dying. So suddenly. So unexpectedly. Pleading with Gamache to at least not let him die alone. Begging him to stay.
He’d clung to Gamache’s hands, and to this day Gamache could feel them, sticky and warm. Jean-Guy had said nothing, but his eyes had shrieked.
Armand had kissed Jean-Guy on the forehead, and smoothed his bedraggled hair. And whispered in his ear. And left. To help the others. He was their leader. Had led them into what proved to be an ambush. He couldn’t stay behind with one fallen agent, no matter how beloved.
He’d been shot down himself. Almost died. Had looked up to see Isabelle Lacoste. She’d held his eyes, and his hand, and heard him whisper. Reine-Marie.
She hadn’t left him. He’d known the unspeakable comfort of not being alone in the final moments. And he’d known then the unspeakable loneliness Beauvoir must have felt.
Armand Gamache knew he’d changed. A different man was lifted from the concrete floor than had hit it. But he also knew that Jean-Guy Beauvoir had never really gotten up. He was tethered to that bloody factory floor, by pain and painkillers, by addiction and cruelty and the bondage of despair.
Gamache looked into those eyes again.
They were empty now. Even the anger seemed just an exercise, an echo. Not really felt anymore. Twilight eyes.
“Come with me now,” said Gamache. “Let me get you help. It’s not too late. Please.”
“Annie kicked me out because you told her to.”
“You know her, Jean-Guy. Better than I ever will or could. You know she can’t be made to do anything. It almost killed her, but what she did was an act of love. She sent you away because she wanted you to get help for your addiction.”
“They’re painkillers,” Beauvoir snapped. This too was an old argument. A grim dance between the men. “Prescription.”
“And these?” Gamache leaned forward and took the anti-anxiety pills from Beauvoir’s desk.
“They’re mine.” Beauvoir slapped the bottle out of Gamache’s hand and the pills fell to the desk, scattering. “You’ve taken everything from me and left me with these.” In one fluid gesture, Jean-Guy picked up the pill bottle and threw it at the Chief. “That’s it. All I have left. And now you want to take them too.”
Beauvoir was emaciated, trembling. But he faced the larger man.
“Did you know the other agents used to call me your bitch, because I scurried around after you?”
“They never called you that. You had their complete respect.”
“Had. Had. But not anymore?” Beauvoir demanded. “I was your bitch. I kissed your ass and your ring. I was a laughingstock. And after the raid, you told everyone I was a coward—”
“Never!”
“—told them I was broken. Was useless—”
“Never!”
“Sent me to a shrink, then to rehab, like I was some fucking weakling. You humiliated me.”