“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. You can tell me.”
“I don’t know,” snapped Beauvoir. “But it’s better than sitting on my ass or on my knees praying to some cloud in the sky. At least I’m doing something useful.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?” the monk asked, his voice quiet.
Beauvoir, taken aback, nodded.
“I haven’t,” said Frère Antoine.
“Have you ever saved anyone?” Beauvoir asked.
Now Frère Antoine looked surprised. After a moment’s silence he shook his head.
“I have,” said Beauvoir, getting to his feet. “You just keep singing, mon frère. Keep praying. Keep kneeling. And let others stand up and do the saving.”
Beauvoir left and was halfway back to the prior’s office before he heard Frère Antoine’s voice.
“There is one person I’ve saved.”
Beauvoir stopped and turned around. The monk was standing in the dim corridor outside his cell.
“Myself.”
Jean-Guy snorted, shook his head and turned his back on Frère Antoine.
He hadn’t believed a word of it. Certainly hadn’t believed the monk when he talked about his love of the monastery. It was impossible to love the pile of stones and the old bones that rattled around inside it. Hiding from the world. Hiding from their reason.
It was impossible to love singing the deathly dull music, or a God who required it of them. And he wasn’t at all sure he believed Frère Antoine when the monk said he’d never killed.
Once inside the prior’s office, Jean-Guy Beauvoir leaned against the wall, then bent over, placing his hands on his knees. He took a deep breath in. A deep breath out.
*
Chief Inspector Gamache returned to the prior’s office carrying a new chair.
“Salut,” he said to Beauvoir, then placed the broken chair in the corridor, hoping a carpenter monk might find it and fix it. Gamache had things of his own to fix.
He indicated the chair, and Beauvoir sat.
“What did Superintendent Francoeur say to you?”
Beauvoir looked at him, astonished.
“I told you. Just shit about how incompetent you are. Like I don’t already know.”
But his attempt at levity sat on the desk between them. Gamache didn’t crack a smile. Didn’t take his eyes off his second in command.
“There was more, though,” the Chief said, after considering Beauvoir for a few quiet moments. “Francoeur said more. Or insinuated. You need to trust me, Jean-Guy.”
“There was nothing more.”
Beauvoir was looking tired, drawn, and Gamache knew he needed to send Beauvoir back to Montréal. He’d find some pretext. Jean-Guy could take back the murder weapon and the vellum they found on the body. Now that copies had been made the original could go to the lab.
Yes, there were plenty of good reasons to send Jean-Guy back to Montréal. Including the real one.
“I think when people care about each other they want to protect them,” said Gamache, choosing his words carefully. “But sometimes, like blocking a goalie in hockey or soccer, instead of protecting them you’re just making it harder for them to see what’s coming. Harm is done. By mistake.”
Gamache leaned a fraction further forward, and Beauvoir leaned away, just a fraction.
“I know you’re trying to protect me, Jean-Guy. And I appreciate it. But you have to tell me the truth.”
“And you, sir? Are you telling me the truth?”
“About what?”
“About the leaked video of the raid. About how it got out. The official report was a cover-up. That video was leaked internally. But you seem to believe the official report. A hacker, my ass.”
“Is that it? Did Superintendent Francoeur say something about the video to you?”
“No, it’s my own question.”
“And I’ve answered it before.” He looked closely at Beauvoir. “Where did this suddenly come from? What do you want me to say?”
“That you don’t believe the report. That you’re privately investigating. That you’ll find out who did it. They were our people. Your people. You can’t just leave it like this.”
His voice was spiraling out of control.
Beauvoir was right, of course. The video had been leaked internally. Gamache had known that from the moment it had happened. But he’d chosen to, officially anyway, accept the finding of the internal investigation. That some kid, some hacker, had just gotten lucky and found the video of the raid in the S?reté files.
It was a ludicrous report. But Gamache had told his people, including Beauvoir, to accept it. To let it go. To move on.
And as far as he knew, they all had. Except Beauvoir.
And now Gamache wondered if he should tell him that for the past eight months he and a few other senior officers, with the help of some outsiders, were secretly, carefully, quietly investigating.
Some malady is coming upon us.
But in the case of the S?reté du Québec, it had already arrived. Had been there for years, rotting away, from the inside. And from the top down.
Sylvain Francoeur had been sent to the monastery to gather information. Not about the murder of the prior, but to find out how much Gamache might know. Or suspect.
And Francoeur had tried to get at it through Beauvoir. Pushing and prodding and trying to thrust him over the edge.
Once again Gamache felt that lick of rage.
He wished he could tell Beauvoir everything, but he was deeply glad he hadn’t. Francoeur would leave Jean-Guy alone now. Satisfied that while Gamache might still be up to something, Beauvoir wasn’t. Francoeur would be satisfied that he’d gotten all he could from Beauvoir.
Yes, Francoeur had been sent with an agenda, and Gamache had finally figured out what it was. But Gamache had a question of his own. Who had sent the Chief Superintendent?
Who was the top boss’s boss?
“Well?” Beauvoir demanded.
“We’ve been through this before, Jean-Guy,” said Gamache. “But I’m happy to talk about it again, if it’ll help.”
He looked directly at Beauvoir over his half-moon reading glasses.
It was a gaze Jean-Guy had seen often. In trappers’ cabins. In shitty little motel rooms. In restaurants and bistros. Burger and poutine in front of them. And notebooks open.
Talking about a case. Dissecting the suspects, the evidence. Tossing around ideas, thoughts, wild guesses.
For more than ten years Beauvoir had looked into those eyes, over those glasses. And while he hadn’t always agreed with the Chief, he’d always respected him. Loved him even. In the way only one brother-in-arms could love another.
Armand Gamache was his Chief. His boss. His leader. His mentor. And more.
One day, God willing, Gamache would hold his grandchildren in that gaze. Jean-Guy’s children. Annie’s children.
Beauvoir could see the pain in those familiar eyes. And he couldn’t believe he’d put it there.
“Forget I said anything,” Beauvoir said. “It was a stupid question. It doesn’t matter who leaked the video. Does it?”