TWENTY-EIGHT
Gamache and Beauvoir waited until they were back in the prior’s office to talk. Superintendent Francoeur had corralled the newcomer right after dinner and the two had stayed in the dining hall.
Everyone else had left as soon as they politely could.
“Jeez,” said Beauvoir. “The Inquisition. I didn’t expect that.”
“No one does,” said Gamache. “There hasn’t been an Inquisition in hundreds of years. I wonder why he’s here?”
Beauvoir crossed his arms and leaned against the door while Gamache sat behind the desk. Only then did he notice the other chair was broken, and leaning, crooked, in a corner.
Gamache said nothing, but looked at Beauvoir and raised a brow.
“A slight disagreement.”
“With the chair?”
“With the Superintendent. No one was hurt,” he hurriedly added on seeing the Chief’s face. But the assurance didn’t seem to work. Gamache continued to look upset.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. He said some stupid things and I disagreed.”
“I told you not to engage him, not to argue. It’s what he does, he gets into people’s heads—”
“And what was I supposed to do? Just nod and bow and take his shit? You might, but I won’t.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment.
“Sorry,” said Beauvoir, and stood up straight. He wiped his tired face with his hands then looked at Gamache.
The Chief was no longer looking angry. Now he looked concerned.
“Has something happened? What did the Superintendent say?”
“Oh, just the usual crap. That you don’t know what you’re doing and I’m exactly like you.”
“And that made you angry?”
“To be compared to you? Who wouldn’t be?” Beauvoir laughed, but he could see the Chief wasn’t amused. He continued to examine Beauvoir.
“Are you all right?”
“God, why do you always ask that, as soon as I get angry, or upset? You think I’m that fragile?”
“Are you all right?” Gamache repeated. And waited.
“Oh, fuck,” said Beauvoir and leaned heavily against the wall. “I’m just tired, and this place is getting to me. And now this new monk, this Dominican. I feel like I’ve landed on another planet. They’re speaking the same language as me, but I keep thinking they’re saying more than I understand, you know?”
“I do.” Gamache kept his gaze on Beauvoir, then looked away. Deciding to let it drop for the moment. But something had clearly crawled inside the younger man’s skin. And Gamache could guess what. Or who.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur had many skills, Gamache knew. It was a terrible mistake to underestimate him. And in all the years they’d worked together, Gamache knew that Francoeur’s greatest gift was bringing out the worst in people.
However well hidden that demon, Francoeur would find it. And Francoeur would free it. And feed it. Until it consumed its host, and became the man.
Gamache had seen decent young S?reté officers turned into cynical, vicious, strutting thugs. Young men and women with little conscience and big guns. And a superior who modeled and rewarded their behavior.
Once again Gamache looked at Beauvoir, leaning exhausted against the wall. Somehow Francoeur had gotten into Jean-Guy. He’d found the entrance, found the wound, and was roaming around inside him. Looking to do even more damage.
And Gamache had allowed it.
He felt himself almost quaking with rage. In a flash it had claimed his core, and raced to his extremities, so that his hands closed into white-knuckled fists.
Rage was transforming him, and Gamache fought to regain control. To grip his humanity and haul himself back.
Francoeur wouldn’t get this young man, Gamache vowed. It stops here.
He got up, excused himself and left the room.
*
Beauvoir waited for a few minutes, thinking the Chief must have just gone down the hall to the washrooms. But when he didn’t return Beauvoir got up and went into the hallway, looking this way and that.
The halls were dim, the light low. He checked the washrooms. No Gamache. He knocked on the Chief’s cell and when there was no answer poked his head in. No Gamache.
Beauvoir was at a loss. Now what?
He could text Annie.
Taking out his BlackBerry he checked. There was a message from her. She was having dinner with friends and would email him when she got home.
It was short and cheerful.
Too short, thought Beauvoir. Too cheerful? Was there, perhaps, just a hint of abruptness about the message? A dismissiveness. Not caring that he was still working well into the night? That he couldn’t just drop everything and go for drinks and dinner with friends.
He stood in the murky hallway and imagined Annie at that terrasse she liked on Laurier. Young professionals, drinking micro-brewery ales. Annie laughing. Having a good time. Without him.
*
“Would you like to see what’s behind that?”
The voice, more than the question, made Francoeur jerk in a small spasm of surprise. The Superintendent had been looking at the plaque to Saint Gilbert when Gamache walked quietly across the Blessed Chapel.
Without waiting for a reply, Gamache reached over and depressed the two wolves. The door swung open to reveal the hidden Chapter House.
“I think we should go in, don’t you?” Gamache placed a large, firm hand on Francoeur’s shoulder and propelled him into the room. It wasn’t a shove, exactly. A witness would never testify that there was any assault. But both men knew it was neither Francoeur’s idea to enter the room, nor his own steam.
Gamache closed the door then turned to face his superior.
“What did you say to Inspector Beauvoir?”
“Let me out of here, Armand.”
Gamache considered him for a moment. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Of course not.” But Francoeur looked a little frightened.
“Would you like to leave?” Gamache’s voice was friendly but his eyes were cold and hard. And his stance, in front of the door, unyielding.
Francoeur was silent for a moment, assessing the situation.
“Why don’t you ask your Inspector what happened?”
“Stop the schoolyard games, Sylvain. You came here with an agenda. I thought it was to screw with me, but it wasn’t, was it? You knew I wouldn’t care. So you took off after Inspector Beauvoir. He’s still recovering from his wounds—”