by Louise Penny
Alas.
NINETEEN
Chief Inspector Gamache drove in to Montréal, and now sat at his computer reading the weekly roundup from Inspector Lacoste, from his homicide agents, from detachments around the province.
It was Saturday morning and he was alone in the office. He responded to emails, wrote notes, and sent off thoughts and suggestions on murder investigations under way. He called a couple of inspectors in remote areas with active cases, to talk about progress.
When all that was done, he looked at the last daily report. It was an executive summary of activities and cases from Chief Superintendent Francoeur’s office. Gamache knew he didn’t have to read it, knew if he opened it he was doing exactly as Sylvain Francoeur wanted. It was sent to Gamache not as information, and certainly not as a courtesy, but as an assault.
Gamache’s finger rested on the open message command.
If he pressed down it would be flagged as opened, by him. At his desk, on his terminal. Using his security codes.
Francoeur would know he’d bested Gamache, again.
Gamache pressed anyway, and the words sprang up on the page.
He read what Francoeur wanted him to see. And he felt exactly what Francoeur wanted him to feel.
Impotent. Angry.
Francoeur had assigned Jean-Guy Beauvoir to another operation, this time a drug raid that could easily have been left to the RCMP and border guards. Gamache stared at the words and took a long, slow, deep breath in. Held it for a moment. Then he released it. Slowly. He forced himself to re-read the report. To take it in, fully.
Then he closed the message and filed it.
He sat at his chair and looked through the glass between his office and the open room beyond. The empty room beyond. With its bedraggled strings of Christmas lights. The half-hearted tree, without gifts. Not even fake ones.
He wanted to swing his chair around, to turn his back on all that and stare at the city he loved. But instead he contemplated what he saw, and what he’d read. And what he felt. Then he made a call, got up, and left.
*
He probably should have driven, but the Chief wanted fresh air. The streets of Montréal were slushy underfoot and bustling with holiday shoppers, bumping each other and wishing each other anything but peace and goodwill.
The Salvation Army was performing carols on one of the corners. As he walked, a boy soprano sang, “Once in Royal David’s City.”
But Chief Inspector Gamache heard none of it.
He wove his way between the shoppers, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Deep in thought. Finally the Chief arrived at an office building, pressed a button and was buzzed in. An elevator took him to the top floor. He walked down the deserted corridor and opened a door into a familiar waiting room.
The sight of it, the scent of it, turned his stomach, and he was slightly surprised by the force of the memories that hit him, and the wave of nausea.
“Chief Inspector.”
“Dr. Fleury.”
The two men shook hands.
“I’m glad you could see me,” said Gamache. “Especially on a Saturday. Merci.”
“I’m not normally in on a weekend. I was just clearing my desk before heading off for holiday.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Chief. “I’m disturbing you.”
Dr. Fleury regarded the man in front of him, and smiled. “I said I’d see you, Armand. You’re not disturbing me at all.”
He ushered the Chief into his office, a comfortable, bright space with large windows, a desk and two chairs facing each other. Fleury indicated one, but he needn’t have. Armand Gamache knew it well. Had spent hours there.
Dr. Fleury was his therapist. Indeed, he was the main therapist for the Sûreté du Québec. His offices, though, weren’t in headquarters. It was decided a neutral place would be better.
Besides, if Dr. Fleury’s practice depended upon Sûreté agents coming for therapy, he’d starve. Sûreté agents were not known for admitting they needed help. And certainly not renowned for asking for it.
But after the raid on the factory, Chief Inspector Gamache had made it a condition of returning to work that all the agents involved, wounded physically or otherwise, needed to get therapy.
Including himself.
“I thought you didn’t trust me,” said Dr. Fleury.
The Chief smiled. “I trust you. It’s others I’m not so sure about. There’ve been leaks about me, my personal life and relationships, but mostly leaks from sessions you had with my team. Information has been used against them, deeply personal information they only admitted to you.”
Gamache’s eyes remained on Dr. Fleury. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his gaze was hard.
“Your office was the only place it could’ve come from,” he continued. “But I never accused you, personally. I hope you know that.”
“I do. But you believed my files had been hacked.”
Gamache nodded.
“Do you still?”
The Chief held the therapist’s eyes. They were almost the same age, with Fleury perhaps a year or two younger. Experienced men. One who’d seen too much, and one who’d heard too much.
“I know you investigated thoroughly,” said the Chief. “And there was no evidence of tampering with your patient files.”
“But do you believe it?”
Gamache smiled. “Or am I paranoid?”
“I hope so,” said Fleury, crossing his legs and placing his open notebook on his knee. “I’m eyeing a cottage in the Laurentians.”
Gamache laughed, but the nausea had settled into his stomach, a sour, stagnant pool. He hesitated.
“Are you still not sure, Armand?”
Gamache could see the concern, almost certainly genuine, in Fleury’s face, and could hear it in his voice.
“Someone else called me paranoid recently,” admitted the Chief.
“Who was that?”
“Thérèse Brunel. Superintendent Brunel.”
“A superior officer?” asked Fleury.
Gamache nodded. “But also a friend, and confidante. She thought I’d gone off the deep end. Seeing conspiracies all over the place. She, ah…” He looked briefly at his hands in his lap, then back up to Dr. Fleury’s face. Gamache smiled a little bashfully. “She refused to help me investigate and took off on holiday to Vancouver.”
“You think her holiday plans had something to do with you?”
“Now you think I’m a narcissist?”
“I can see a new outboard motor in my future,” admitted Fleury. “Continue, Chief Inspector.”
But this time Gamache didn’t smile. Instead he leaned forward.
“There’s something going on. I know it, I just can’t prove it. Yet. There’s corruption inside the Sûreté, but it’s more than that. I think a senior officer is behind it.”
Dr. Fleury was unmoved. Unfazed.
“You keep saying, ‘I think,’” said the therapist. “But are your fears really rational?”
“They’re not fears,” said Gamache.
“But they’re not facts.”
Gamache was silent, clearly trying to choose words that would convince this man.
“Is this about the leaked video again? You know there was an official investigation,” said Dr. Fleury. “You need to accept their findings and let it go.”
“Move on?” Gamache heard the tinge of bitterness, a slight whine, in his voice.
“Things you can’t control, Armand,” the therapist reminded him, patiently.
“It’s not about control, it’s about responsibility. Taking a stand.”
“The white knight? The key is to know if you’re tilting at a legitimate target or a windmill.”
Chief Inspector Gamache glared at Fleury, his eyes hard, then he inhaled sharply as though from a sudden pain. He dropped his head into his hands and covered his face. Massaging his forehead. Feeling the rough scar.
Eventually Gamache raised his head and met patient and kind eyes.
> My God, thought Gamache. He feels sorry for me.
“I’m not making this up,” he insisted. “Something’s going on.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” the Chief admitted, and realized how lame that sounded. “But it goes high up. To the top.”
“Are these the same people who were supposed to have hacked into my files and stolen the notes on your therapy?”
Gamache could hear the slightly patronizing tone.
“Not just mine,” said Gamache. “They stole the files of everyone who was involved in that raid. Who came to you for help. Who told you everything. All their fears, their vulnerabilities. What they want from life. What matters to them. A road map into their heads.”
His voice was getting louder, more intense. His right hand started to tremble and he took hold of it with his left. Gripping it.
“Jean-Guy Beauvoir came to you. He sat right here, and opened up to you. He didn’t want to, but I ordered him to. I forced him to. And now they know everything about him. Know how to get inside his head and under his skin. They turned him against me.”
Gamache’s tone slid from sulky to pleading. Begging this therapist to believe him. Begging just one person to believe him.
“So you still think my records have been hacked?” Fleury’s normally steady voice was incredulous. “If you really believe that, why’re you here now, Armand?”
That stopped the Chief. They held each other’s eyes.
“Because there’s no one else to talk to,” Gamache finally said, his voice almost a whisper. “I can’t talk to my wife, my colleagues. I can’t tell my friends. I don’t want to involve them. I could tell Lacoste. I’ve been tempted. But she has a young family…”
His voice trailed off.
“In the past, when things got bad, who did you speak to?”
“Jean-Guy.” The words were almost inaudible.
“Now you’re alone.”
Gamache nodded. “I don’t mind that. I prefer it.” He was resigned now.
“Armand, you need to believe me when I say that my files haven’t been stolen. They’re secure. No one but me knows what we’ve talked about. You’re safe here. What you’re telling me now will go no further. I promise.”
Fleury continued to regard the man in front of him. Sunken, sad. Trembling. This was what was beneath the façade.
“You need help, Armand.”
“I do need help, but not the sort you think,” said Gamache, rallying.
“There’s no threat,” said Fleury, his voice convincing. “You’ve created it in your mind, to explain things you don’t want to see or admit.”
“My department’s been gutted,” said Gamache, anger once again flaring. “I suppose that’s my imagination. I spent years building it up, taking discarded agents and turning them into the best homicide investigators in the country. And now they’ve left. I suppose I’m imagining that.”
“Maybe you’re the reason they left,” Fleury suggested quietly.
Gamache gaped at him. “That’s what he wants everyone to believe.”
“Who?”
“Syl—” but Gamache stopped himself and stared out the window. Trying to rein himself in.
“Why’re you here, Armand? What do you want?”
“I didn’t come for me.”
Dr. Fleury nodded. “That’s obvious.”
“I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“This isn’t a polite request.”
“That day in the factory—” began Dr. Fleury before Gamache cut him off.
“This has nothing to do with that.”
“Of course it does,” said Dr. Fleury, impatience finally getting the better of him. “You felt you’d lost control, and your agents were killed.”
“I know what happened, I don’t need reminding.”
“What you need to be reminded of,” snapped Fleury, “is that it wasn’t your fault. But you refuse to see that. It’s willful and arrogant and you need to accept what happened. Inspector Beauvoir has his own life.”
“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 expec
t?
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.