How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (22 page)

“He’s being manipulated,” said Gamache.

“By the same senior officer?”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m also a senior officer, with decades of investigative experience. I’m not some delusional nutcase. I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you, and I need to see his files. I need to see what he’s told you.”

“Listen.” Dr. Fleury’s voice was straining, trying to get back to calm, to be reasonable. But he was finding it difficult. “You have to let Jean-Guy live his own life. You can’t protect him. He has his own road and you have yours.”

Gamache shook his head and looked at his hands in his lap. One still, the other still trembling. He raised his eyes to meet Fleury’s.

“That would make sense in normal circumstances, but Jean-Guy isn’t himself. He’s being influenced and manipulated. And he’s addicted again.”

“To his painkillers?”

Gamache nodded. “Superintendent—”

He stopped himself. Across from him Dr. Fleury was leaning forward slightly. This was the closest Gamache had come to naming his so-called adversary.

“The senior officer,” said Gamache. “He’s pushed OxyContin on him. I know it. And Beauvoir’s working with him now. I think he’s trying to shove Jean-Guy over the edge.”

“Why?”

“To get at me.”

Dr. Fleury let the words sit there. To speak for themselves. About this man’s paranoia and arrogance. His delusions.

“I’m worried about you, Armand. You say Inspector Beauvoir is being pushed over the edge, but so are you. And you’re doing it to yourself. If you’re not careful, I’ll have to recommend you go on leave.”

He looked at the gun attached to Gamache’s belt.

“When did you start carrying that?”

“It’s regulation issue.”

“That wasn’t my question. When you first came to me you made it clear how you felt about firearms. You said you never wore one unless you felt you might use it. So why are you wearing it now?”

Gamache’s eyes narrowed and he got up.

“I can see it was a mistake coming here. I wanted to know about Inspector Beauvoir.”

Gamache walked to the door.

“Worry about yourself,” Dr. Fleury called after him. “Not Beauvoir.”

Armand Gamache left the office, strode back down the corridor, and punched the down button. When the elevator arrived he got in. Breathing deeply, he leaned against the back wall and closed his eyes.

Once outside, he felt the bracing air against his cheeks and narrowed his eyes against the bright sunshine.

“Noel, noel,” the small chorus on the corner sang. “Noooo-e-el, nooo-eee-elll.”

The Chief walked back to headquarters, taking his time. His gloved hands held each other behind his back. The sound of Christmas carols in his ears.

And as he walked, he hummed. He’d done what he went there to do.

*   *   *

At Sûreté headquarters Chief Inspector Gamache pressed the up button, but when the elevator came he didn’t get into it. By the time the elevator door closed, Gamache was in the stairwell. Walking down.

He could have taken the elevator, but he couldn’t risk being seen descending so low.

Beyond the basement, beyond the sub-basement, below the parking garage, into an area of flickering fluorescent lights. Of cinder-block walls and metal doors. And a constant throb from the lights, and the boilers, heaters, air conditioners. The whir of hydraulics.

This was the physical plant. A place of machines and maintenance crews.

And one agent.

All the way in to Montréal, Gamache had thought about his next move. He’d weighed the consequences of visiting Dr. Fleury, and visiting this agent. He’d considered what would happen if he did. What would happen if he didn’t.

What was the best he could expect?

What was the worst?

And, finally, what was the alternative? What choice did he have?

And when he’d answered those questions, and made up his mind, Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t hesitate. At the door, he gave a sharp rap, then opened it.

The young agent, her pale face a soft green from the bank of monitors around her, turned. He could see she was surprised.

No one came here to see her. Which was why Armand Gamache was there.

“I need your help,” he said.

TWENTY

A note on the kitchen table greeted Gamache when he arrived back at Emilie’s home.

Drinks at the bistro. Join us.

Even Henri was gone. Saturday night. Date night.

Gamache showered, changed into corduroys and a turtleneck, then walked over to join them. Thérèse stood as he entered and waved him over.

She was sitting with Jérôme, Myrna, Clara, and Gabri. Henri had been dozing by the fire, but sat up, tail wagging. Olivier brought over a licorice pipe.

“If any man looked like he could use a good pipe,” said Olivier.

“Merci, patron.”
Gamache dropped onto the sofa with a groan and raised the candy to his companions.
“À votre santé.”

“You look like you had a long day,” said Clara.

“A good day, I think,” said the Chief. Then he turned to Jérôme. “You too?”

Dr. Brunel nodded. “It’s restful here.”

But he didn’t look very rested.

“Scotch?” Olivier offered, but Gamache shook his head, not really sure what he felt like. Then he noticed a boy and girl with bowls of hot chocolate.

“I’d love one of those,
patron,
” said the Chief, and Olivier smiled and left.

“What news from the city?” Myrna asked. “Any progress on Constance’s murder?”

“Some,” said Gamache. “I have to say that in most investigations progress isn’t exactly linear.”

“True,” said Superintendent Brunel. And she told some humorous stories about art thefts and forgeries and confused identities, while Gamache sat back, half listening. Grateful that the Superintendent had leapt in, deflecting the conversation. So he needn’t admit that he’d spent most of the day on something else.

His hot chocolate arrived and he raised it to his lips, and noticed that Myrna was watching him. Not examining, but simply looking at him, with interest.

She took a handful of mixed nuts.

“Ah, here’s Gilles,” said Clara, getting up and waving a large, red-bearded man over. He was in his late forties and dressed casually. “I’ve invited him and Odile for dinner,” she said to the Chief Inspector. “You’re coming too.”

“Merci,”
he said, shoving himself off the sofa to greet the newcomer.

“Been a while,” said Gilles, shaking Gamache’s hand, then taking a seat. “I was sorry to hear about the Quint.”

Gamache noticed that it wasn’t even necessary to say Ouellet Quints. The five girls had lost their privacy, their parents, and their names. They were just the Quints.

“We’re trying to keep that quiet for now,” said the Chief.

“Well, Odile’s writing a poem about them,” Gilles confided. “She’s hoping to get it into the
Hog Breeder’s Gazette.
”

“I think that’ll be all right,” said Gamache, and wondered if that was further up the food chain from her previous publishers. Her anthology, he knew, had been published, almost without edits, by the Root Vegetable Board of Québec.

“She’s calling it ‘Five Peas in a Gilded Pod,’” said Gilles.

Gamache was grateful Ruth wasn’t there. “She knows her market. Where is Odile, by the way?”

“At the shop. She’ll try to make it later.”

Gilles made exquisite furniture from fallen trees and Odile sold it from the front of their shop. And wrote poetry that, Gamache had to admit, was barely fit for human consumption, despite the opinion of the Root Vegetable Board.

“Now”—Gilles whacked a huge hand onto Gamache’s knee—“I hear you want me to install a satellite dish? You know they don’t work here, right?”

The Chief stared at him, then over at the Brunels, who were also slightly perplexed.

“You asked me to get in touch with the guy who puts up satellite dishes in the area,” said Clara. “That’s Gilles.”

“Since when?” asked Gamache.

“Since the recession,” said the large, burly man. “The market for handmade furniture tanked, but the market for five hundred television channels has skyrocketed. So I make extra bucks putting up the dishes. It helps that I have a head for heights.”

“To put it mildly,” said Gamache. He turned to Thérèse and Jérôme. “He used to be a lumberjack.”

“Long time ago,” said Gilles, looking into his drink.

“I have to put the casserole in the oven.” Clara rose to her feet.

Gamache got up and they all followed.

“Maybe we can continue this discussion over at Clara’s,” said the Chief, and Gilles rocked himself out of the sofa. “Where it’s a little more private.”

“So,” said Gilles as they walked the short distance to Clara’s home, their feet crunching on the snow. “Where’s your little buddy?”

A few kids were skating on the frozen pond. Gabri scooped up some snow, made it into a ball and tossed it for Henri, who sailed over the snow bank after it.

“Gilligan?” asked Gamache, keeping his voice light. In the darkness he heard Gilles guffaw.

“That’s right, Skipper,” said Gilles.

“He’s on another assignment.”

“So he finally made it off the island,” said Gilles, and Gamache could hear the smile in his deep voice. But the words came as a bit of a shock.

Had he inadvertently made the famed homicide department of the Sûreté an island? Far from saving the careers of promising agents, had he in fact imprisoned them, kept them from the mainland of their peers?

The kids on the pond saw Gabri’s snowball and stopped to make some of their own, throwing them at Gabri, who ducked but too late. Snowballs rained down on all of them and Henri was almost hysterical with excitement.

“You gol’darned kids,” said Gabri. “Dagnabbit.” He shook his fist at them in such a parody of anger that the kids almost peed themselves with laughter.

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir couldn’t be bothered to shower. He wanted one, but it was just too much effort. As was laundry. He knew he reeked, but he didn’t care.

He’d come in to the office but had done no work. He only wanted to get away from his dreary little apartment. From the piles of dirty clothing, from the rotting food in the fridge, from the unmade bed and food-encrusted dishes.

And from the memory of the home he’d had. And lost.

No, not lost. It had been taken from him. Stolen from him. By Gamache. The one man he’d trusted had taken everything from him. Everyone from him.

Beauvoir got to his feet and walked stiffly to the elevator, then to his car.

His body ached and he was alternately famished and nauseous. But he couldn’t be bothered to pick up anything from the cafeteria or any of the fast food joints he passed on his way.

He pulled into a parking spot, turned the car off, and stared.

Now he was hungry. Starving. And he stank. The whole car reeked. He could feel his clammy undershirt sticking to him. Molding itself there, like a second skin.

He sat in the cold, dark car and stared at the one lit window. Hoping for a glimpse of Annie. Even just a shadow.

Was a time he could conjure up her scent. A lemon grove on a warm summer day. Fresh and citrony. But now all he smelt was his own fear.

*   *   *

Annie Gamache sat in the dark, staring out the window. She knew this was unhealthy. It wasn’t something she’d ever admit to her friends. They’d be appalled and look at her as though she was pathetic. And she probably was.

She’d kicked Jean-Guy out of their home when he refused to go back to rehab. They’d fought and fought, until there was nothing left to say. And then they fought some more. Jean-Guy insisted there was nothing wrong. That her father had made up the whole drug thing, as payback for him joining Superintendent Francoeur.

Finally, he’d left. But he hadn’t actually gone. He was still inside her, and she couldn’t get him out. And so she sat in her car and stared at the dark window of his tiny apartment. Hoping to see a light.

If she closed her eyes she could feel his arms around her, smell his scent. When she’d kicked him out she’d bought a bottle of his cologne and put a dab on the pillow next to hers.

She closed her eyes and felt him inside her skin. Where he was vibrant and smart and irreverent and loving. She saw his smile, heard his laugh. Felt his hands. Felt his body.

Now he was gone. But he hadn’t left. And she sometimes wondered if that was him, beating on her heart. And she wondered what would happen if he stopped.

Every night she came here. Parked. And stared at the window. Hoping to see some sign of life.

*   *   *

“It’s hardly the first time you’ve had a ball in the face,” said Ruth to Gabri. “Stop complaining.”

Ruth was in Clara’s living room when they arrived. Not really waiting for them. In fact, she’d looked pissed off when everyone came in.

“I was hoping for a quiet night,” she muttered, swirling the ice cubes around in her glass so forcefully they created a Scotch vortex. Gamache wondered if one day the old poet would be sucked right into it. Then he realized she already had.

Henri ran to Rosa, who was seated on the footstool beside Ruth. Gamache grabbed his collar as he took off, but needn’t have worried. Rosa hissed at the shepherd then turned away. If she could have raised one of her feathers to him, she would have.

“I didn’t think ducks hissed,” said Myrna.

“Are we sure it’s a duck?” Gabri whispered.

Thérèse and Jérôme wandered over, fascinated.

“Is that Ruth Zardo?” Jérôme asked.

“What’s left of her,” said Gabri. “She lost her mind years ago, and never did have a heart. Her bile ducts are keeping her alive. That,” said Gabri, pointing, “is Rosa.”

“I can see why Henri’s lost his heart,” said Thérèse, looking at the smitten shepherd. “Who doesn’t like a good duck?”

Silence met that remark by the elegant older woman. She smiled and raised her brow just a little, and Clara started to laugh.

The casserole was in the oven and they could smell the rosemary chicken. People poured their own drinks and broke into groups.

Thérèse, Jérôme and Gamache took Gilles aside.