*
“All those neumes,” Frère Luc slobbered, his voice wet and messy. There was a snuffle, and the abbot imagined the long black sleeve of the robe drawn across the runny nose. “I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was a joke, but the prior said it was his masterpiece. The result of a lifetime studying chants. The voices would be sung in plainchant. Together. The other neumes were for instruments. An organ and violins and flute. He’d been working on it for years, Père Abbé. And you didn’t even know.”
The young voice was accusatory. As though it was the prior who had sinned and the abbot who had failed.
Dom Philippe looked through the grillwork of the confessional, trying to glimpse the other side. To see the young man he’d followed since the seminary. Had watched, from a distance, as he’d grown and matured, and chosen holy orders. As his voice had begun the long drop, from his head to his heart.
But, unknown to the abbot or the prior, that drop had never been completed. The lovely voice had gotten stuck behind a lump in the young man’s throat.
After the success of their first recording, but before the rift, Mathieu and the abbot had met for one of their talks in the garden. And Mathieu had said the time had come. The choir needed the young man. Mathieu wanted to work with him, to help shape the extraordinary voice before some less gifted choirmaster got hold of him.
One of the elderly brothers had just died, and the abbot had agreed, with some reluctance. Frère Luc was still so young, and this was such a remote monastery.
But Mathieu had been convincing.
And now, peering through the grille at Mathieu’s killer, the abbot wondered whether it was the voice Mathieu hoped to influence, or the monk.
Did Mathieu realize that the other brothers might be reluctant to sing such a revolutionary chant? But if he could recruit the young, lonely monk to the abbey, he could get him to do it. And to not only sing the chant, but write the words.
Mathieu was magnetic, and Luc was impressionable. Or so the prior had thought.
“What happened?” the abbot asked.
There was a pause and more ragged inhales.
The abbot didn’t press anymore. He tried to tell himself it was patience that guided him. But he knew it was fear. He didn’t want to hear what came next. His rosary hung from his hands and his lips moved. And he waited.
*
Gamache grabbed at Beauvoir’s hand, trying to loosen the gun. From Jean-Guy’s throat came a wail, a cry of desperation. He fought wildly, flailing and kicking and bucking but finally Gamache twisted Beauvoir’s arm behind his back and the firearm clattered to the floor.
Both men were gasping for breath. Gamache held Jean-Guy’s face against the rough stone wall. Beauvoir bucked and sidled but Gamache held firm.
“Let go,” Beauvoir screamed into the stone. “Those pills are mine. My property.”
The Chief held him there until his twisting and bucking slowed, and stopped. And all that was left was a panting young man. Exhausted.
Gamache took the holster from Beauvoir’s belt then reached into Jean-Guy’s pocket and took his S?reté ID. Then he stooped for the gun and turned Beauvoir around.
The younger man was bleeding from scrapes to the side of his face.
“We’re going to leave here, Jean-Guy. We’re going to get in that boat and when we get to Montréal I’m taking you straight to rehab.”
“Fuck you. I won’t go back there. And you think holding on to those pills will do any good? I can get more, without even leaving headquarters.”
“You won’t be in headquarters. You’re suspended. You don’t think I’m going to let you walk around with pills and a gun? You’ll go on sick leave, and when your doctor says you’re well, we’ll discuss reinstating you.”
“Fuck you,” spat Beauvoir, the drool sticking to his chin.
“If you don’t go willingly I’ll arrest you for assault and have the judge sentence you to rehab. I’ll do it, you know.”
Beauvoir held Gamache’s eyes, and knew he’d do it.
Gamache put Beauvoir’s badge and ID card into his own pocket. Beauvoir’s mouth was open, a thin line of spittle dripped onto his sweater. His eyes were glassy and wide, and he swayed on his feet. “You can’t suspend me.”
Gamache took a deep breath and stepped back. “I know this isn’t you. It’s the goddamned pills. They’re killing you, Jean-Guy. But we’ll get you to treatment and it’ll be all right. Trust me.”
“Like I trusted you in the factory? Like the others trusted you?”
And Beauvoir, even through his haze, could see he’d scored a direct hit. He saw the Chief flinch as the words struck.
And he was glad.
Beauvoir watched as the Chief slowly put Beauvoir’s gun into the holster and attached it to his own belt.
“Who gave you the pills?”
“I told you. I found them in my room, with the note from the doctor.”
“They’re not from the doctor.”
But Beauvoir was right about one thing. He could get more OxyContin anytime he wanted. Québec was swimming in the stuff. The S?reté evidence locker was swimming in it. Some of it even made it to trial.
Gamache stood still.
He knew who’d given Beauvoir the drugs.
*
“Ecce homo,” said the abbot. “Why did Mathieu say that when he was dying?”
“It’s what I said when I hit him.”
“Why?”
There was another pause and another ragged breath. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was.”
“You mean, he was just a man,” suggested the abbot. “He wasn’t the saint you thought he was. He was a world expert on Gregorian chants. A genius even. But he was just a man. You expected him to be more.”
“I loved him. I’d have done anything for him. But he asked me to help him ruin the chants, and I couldn’t do that.”
“You went to the garden knowing you might kill him?” asked the abbot, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You took the iron door knocker with you.”
“I had to stop him. When we met in the garden I tried to reason with him, to get him to change his mind. I tore up the sheet he gave to me. I thought it was the only copy.” The voice stopped. But the breathing continued. Rapid and shallow now. “Frère Mathieu was in a rage. Said he’d kick me out of the choir. Make me sit in the pews.”
The abbot listened to Frère Luc, but he saw Mathieu. Not the loving, kind, godly friend, but the man overcome with rage. Stymied. Denied. The abbot could barely stand up to the force of that personality. He could begin to see how young Frère Luc might break. And lash out.
“All I wanted was to sing the chants. I came here to study with the prior and sing the chants. That’s all. Why wasn’t that enough?”
The voice became a squeak, unintelligible. The abbot tried to make out the words. Frère Luc cried and begged him to understand. And the abbot found that he did.
Mathieu was human, and so was this young man.
And so was he.
Dom Philippe lowered his head to his hands as the young man’s sobs surrounded him.