TWENTY-FIVE
Jean-Guy Beauvoir coursed through the corridors of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. Searching.
The monks who ran into him initially paused to greet him with their customary bow. But as he got closer they stepped back. Out of his way.
And were relieved when he passed them by.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stalked the corridors of the monastery. Looking in the vegetable garden. Looking in the animalerie, with the grazing goats and Chantecler chickens.
Looking in the basement. Where Frère Raymond was invisible, but his voice echoed down the long, cool corridors. He was singing a chant. The words were slurred and his voice, while still beautiful, held little of the Divine and more of the brandy and Bénédictine.
Beauvoir raced back up the stone stairs and stood in the Blessed Chapel, breathing heavily. Turning this way and that.
Monks in their long black robes stood away from the dancing light, watching him. But he paid no attention. They weren’t his quarry. He was hunting someone else.
Then he turned and pushed his way through the closed door. The hallway was empty, and the door at the end was closed. And locked.
“Open it,” he demanded.
Frère Luc didn’t dawdle. The massive key was in the lock and turned, the deadbolt thrust back, and the door open within moments. And Beauvoir, robed in black as surely as if he’d been wearing a cassock, was out the door.
Luc closed it quickly. He was tempted to open the slat in the door and look out. To watch what was about to happen. But he didn’t. Frère Luc didn’t want to see, or hear, or know. He went back to his little room and put the big book on his knees, and lost himself in the chants.
Beauvoir saw what he was looking for immediately. Standing by the shore.
Not thinking, not caring, he was miles beyond either, Beauvoir ran with all his might.
Ran as though his life depended on it.
Ran as though lives depended on it.
Straight at the man in the mist.
As he ran he let out a terrible sound from deep in his belly. A sound he’d kept in for months and months. A sound he’d swallowed, and hid and locked away. But now it was out. And propelling him forward.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur turned just moments before Beauvoir crashed into him. He took half a step away, avoiding the brunt of the blow. Both men fell to the rocks, but Francoeur not as heavily as Beauvoir.
He scrambled out from underneath Beauvoir and reached for his gun, just as Beauvoir rolled over and sprang to his feet, also reaching for his weapon.
But it was too late. Francoeur had his gun out, and aimed at Beauvoir’s chest.
“You shithead,” Beauvoir screamed, barely noticing the weapon. “You fucker. I’ll kill you.”
“You just attacked a superior officer,” snapped Francoeur, shaken.
“I attacked an asshole, and I’ll do it again.” Beauvoir was yelling at the top of his lungs, shrieking at the man.
“What the hell is this about?” Francoeur yelled back.
“You know damn well. I found what you had on the laptop. What you were looking at when I came in.”
“Oh, fuck,” said Francoeur, looking at Beauvoir with uncertainty. “Did Gamache see it?”
“What the hell does that matter?” screamed Beauvoir, then he bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He looked up. “I saw it.”
Deep breath in, he begged his body. Deep breath out.
Christ, don’t pass out.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
He felt light-headed.
Oh, dear God, don’t let me pass out now.
Beauvoir released his knees and slowly straightened. He’d never be as tall as the man opposite. The man with the gun pointed at Beauvoir’s chest. But Beauvoir stood as tall as he could. And stared at the creature.
“You leaked the video.”
His voice had changed. It was raspy. Insubstantial. Each word rode out of his mouth on a deep, deep breath, from deep, deep down.
The door to his private place had blown off, and with it came the words.
And the intent.
He would kill Francoeur. Now.
Beauvoir kept his eyes locked on the Superintendent. In the blurry edge of vision he could see the gun. And he knew, when he leapt, Francoeur would get off at least two shots. Before Beauvoir covered the space between them.
And Beauvoir calculated that as long as he wasn’t hit in the head or the heart, he’d make it there. And have just enough life left, enough will, to tackle this man to the ground. Grab a rock. And crush his skull.
He was reminded, for a mad moment, of the story his father had read to him, over and over. About the train.
I think I can. I think I can.
I think I can kill Francoeur before he kills me.
Though Beauvoir knew he’d die too. Just not first. Dear God, not first.
He tensed and leaned forward a fraction, but Francoeur, hyperalert, raised the gun a fraction. And Beauvoir stopped.
He would bide his time. Wait for that split second of distraction on Francoeur’s part.
That’s all I need.
I think I can. I think I can.
“What?” the Superintendent demanded. “You think I leaked the video?”
“Stop the fucking games. You betrayed my friends, your own people. They died.” Beauvoir felt himself slipping into hysteria, nearly sobbing, and hauled himself back. “They died, and you leaked the fucking tape of it happening.”
Beauvoir’s throat was closing in, his voice just a squeal. His breathing came in wheezes as he hauled air through the shrinking passage.
“You turned what happened into a circus, you—you—”
He could go no further. He was overwhelmed by images, of the raid on the factory. Of Gamache leading them. Of the S?reté officers surging in, following their leader. To save the kidnapped officer. To stop the gunmen.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood on the quiet shore, and could hear the explosions of gunfire. Hear the bullets strike the concrete, the floors, the walls. His friends. He could smell the acrid smoke mixed with concrete dust. And he felt his heart pound, with adrenaline. And fear.
But still he’d followed Gamache. Deeper and deeper into the factory. They’d all followed Gamache.
The raid had been captured on the cameras attached to each agent’s headgear. And later, months later, it had been hacked and edited and released onto the Internet.
Beauvoir had become as addicted to that video as he had to painkillers. Two halves of a whole. First the pain, then the killers. Over and over and over. Until it had become his life. Watching his friends die. Over and over. And over.