The Beautiful Mystery ciag-8

by Louise Penny

  And maybe the prior also knew. Maybe Frère Raymond, in desperation, had told him. If so, the prior had died before he could tell anyone else. Was that the motive? To shut him up?

  Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

  “You knew the prior had been murdered, didn’t you?”

  Frère Simon nodded.

  “When did you realize?”

  “When I saw his head. And…”

  The monk’s voice petered out. Gamache stayed completely quiet. Waiting.

  “… and then I saw something in the flower bed. Something that shouldn’t be there.”

  Gamache stopped breathing. The two men became a tableau vivant, frozen in time. Gamache waited. And waited. His breathing now was shallow, quiet, not wanting to even disturb the air around them.

  “It wasn’t a stone, you know.”

  “I know,” said the Chief. “What did you do with it?”

  He almost closed his eyes to pray that this monk hadn’t picked it up and thrown it over the wall. To disappear back into the world.

  Frère Simon got up, opened the main door into the abbot’s office, and stepped into the corridor. Gamache followed, presuming the monk was leading him to some hiding place.

  But instead, Frère Simon stopped at the threshold and reached over, then presented Chief Inspector Gamache with the murder weapon. It was the old iron rod, used for hundreds of years to gain admittance to the abbot’s most private rooms.

  And used, yesterday, to crush the skull of the prior of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

  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 Sûreté 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 rele
ased 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.

  But one question remained. Who had leaked that video? Beauvoir knew it was an inside job. And now he had his answer.

  Now, all he wanted was to stay conscious long enough to kill the man in front of him.

  For betraying his own people. Gamache’s agents. Beauvoir’s friends. To lose them was bad enough, but to have the tape of the attack released onto the Internet. For millions and millions worldwide to see. For all of Québec to see.

  And they had.

  Everyone had grabbed their popcorn and watched, over and over, as the Sûreté officers had been gunned down in that factory. They watched as though the deaths were entertainment.

  And the families of the slain had seen it too. It had become an Internet sensation, replacing the box of kittens as the most watched video.

  Beauvoir stared into Francoeur’s eyes. He didn’t need to look at the gun. He knew it was there. And he knew what it would feel like, any moment now, when the first bullet hit.

  He’d felt it before. The thud, the shock, then the searing pain.

  He’d seen so many war movies, so many westerns. He’d seen so many bodies. Real ones. Shot to death. He’d somehow fooled himself into thinking he knew what it would be like. To be shot.

  He’d been wrong.

  It wasn’t just the pain, it was the terror. The blood. The frantic scrambling to get at the burning, but the hurt was too deep.

  That had been less than a year ago. It’d taken him a long time to recover. Longer than the Chief. Gamache had thrown himself headlong into recovery. Into the physiotherapy. Into the weights, the walking, the exercises. The counseling.

  Beauvoir knew that every sight, every scent, every sound that the Chief took in was keener now. It was as though he was living for five. Himself and four young agents.

  It had somehow invigorated the Chief.

  But the attack, the losses, had had the opposite effect on Beauvoir.

  He’d tried. He really had. But the pain seemed too deep. And the agony too great. And the painkillers too effective.

  And then the video had appeared, and the pain sizzled again. Burning even deeper. And more painkillers were needed. And more. And more. To dull the hurt. And the memories.

  Until finally the Chief had intervened. Gamache had saved him that day in the factory. And had saved him again months later, when he’d insisted Beauvoir get help. For the pills and for the images that had wormed into his head. Forcing him to go into intense therapy. Into rehab. Forcing him to stop running and turn. And face what had happened.

  Gamache had also forced a promise from him, to never again watch that video.

  And Beauvoir had kept his promise.

  “They’d give anything to be here now,” Gamache had said one day in the spring, as he and Beauvoir strolled through the park across from the Gamaches’ apartment in Outremont. Beauvoir knew who the Chief meant. He could see Gamache taking everything in, as though to share it with his dead agents. The Chief had stopped then, to admire a massive old lilac bush in full bloom. Then he turned to Beauvoir. “It’s against the law to pick them, you know.”

  “Only if you get caught.”

  Beauvoir moved to the other side of the bush and saw it shaking, as though with laughter, as Gamache tugged the spiky, fragrant flowers off.

  “An interesting take on justice,” called the Chief. “It’s only wrong if you’re caught.”

  “Would you prefer me to arrest you?” Beauvoir yanked some more flowers off.

  He heard the Chief laugh.

  Beauvoir knew the burden the Chief now carried. To live for so many. Gamache had staggered, at first, but had finally grown stronger, under that weight.

  And Beauvoir felt better, every day he was clean. Away from the drugs and away from the hair shirt of images he’d inflicted on himself.

  The Chief had given Madame Gamache his bouquet of stolen lilacs and she’d put them in a white jug and placed them on the table. Then she’d put Beauvoir’s smaller bouquet in water, so they’d stay fresh to take back home after dinner. But of course, they didn’t make it to his own small apartment.

  He’d given them to Annie.

  They’d just started their courtship, and these were the first flowers he’d offered.

  “Stolen,” he admitted as she’d opened the door and he’d held them out to her. “Your father’s influence, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s not the only thing you’ve stolen, monsieur,” she’d said with a laugh, stepping aside to let him in.

  It had taken him a moment to realize what she meant. He watched her place the lilacs in a vase on her kitchen table, and fluff them a bit, trying to arrange them. He’d stayed the night. For the first time. And woke in the morning to the suggestion of lilac, and the realization that he had Annie’s heart in his chest. And she had his. And would keep it safe.

  Beauvoir had kept his promise to Annie’s father, to the Chief. To not watch that video again. Until now. Until he’d found out what Superintendent Francoeur had been doing in the prior’s office. On the laptop.

  Francoeur had brought the video with him. And was watching it.

  Those were the voices Beauvoir had heard. The Chief’s, issuing orders. Commanding. Leading his agents deeper and deeper into that damned factory. After the gunmen.

  Beauvoir had found the file on the laptop.

  As he’d hit play, he’d known what he’d see. And, God help him, he’d wanted to see it again. He’d missed his misery.

  Beauvoir stared at Francoeur in front of him on the misty shore. He’d brought that monstrosity into the monastery. To contaminate the last place in Québec, the last place on earth, that hadn’t seen the images.

  And Beauvoir knew, at that moment, why despite the strangeness of the surroundings, the oddity of the monks, the mind-numbing dullness of the endless chants, he’d felt a kind of creeping calm here.

  Because these men, unique in Québec, didn’t know. Hadn’t seen the video. Didn’t look at him and Gamache as though at men forever wounded, damaged. Instead, the monks looked at them as though they were just men. Like themselves. Going about their jobs.

  But Francoeur had fallen from the skies and brought this blight.

  But it would stop here. Now. This man had done enough damage. To Gamache, to Beauvoir, to the memories of those who died, and their families.

  “You think I leaked that video?” Francoeur repeated.

  “I know you did,” gasped Beauvoir. “Who else had access to the raw tape? Who else could influence that internal investigation? An entire Sûreté department devoted to cyber crime and all they came up with was that some unknown hacker had gotten lucky?”

  “You don’t believe it?” asked Francoeur.

  “Of course I don’t.”

  Beauvoir moved, but stopped when Francoeur jutted his gun forward.

  There’d be a better time, thought Beauvoir. In a moment, or two. When Francoeur was distracted. Just a blink, that’s all it’ll take.

  “Does Gamache believe it?”

  “The hacker theory?” For the first time Beauvoir was thrown off. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you know, you little shit. Tell me. Does Gamache believe it?”

  Beauvoir said nothing, just stared at Francoeur. His mind taken up with only one question.

  Was now the time?

  “Is Gamache investigating the leak?” Francoeur yelled. “Or has he accepted the official report? I need to know.”

  “Why? So you can kill him too?”

  “Kill him?” Francoeur demanded. “Who do you think released that video?”

  “You.”

  “Christ, you really are thick. Why do you think I brought it with me? To enjoy my handiwork? The thing’s repulsive. It makes me sick just thinki
ng about it. Watching it is…”

  Francoeur was trembling now, almost erupting with rage.

  “Of course I don’t believe the findings of that goddamned investigation. It’s ridiculous. Obviously a cover-up. Someone inside the Sûreté leaked the video, not some mythical hacker. One of us. I brought that fucking tape with me because I watch it every chance I get. So I don’t forget. So that I remember why I’m still looking.”

  His voice had changed. The accent grew thicker, the sophistication fell off in hunks to reveal the man who’d grown up a village away from Beauvoir’s own grandparents.

  Francoeur had lowered the muzzle of his gun. Just a fraction.

  Beauvoir saw this. Francoeur was distracted. Now was the time.

  But he hesitated.

  “What’re you looking for?” Beauvoir asked.

  “For evidence.”

  “Don’t give me that crap,” said Beauvoir. “You leaked it and now that you’re caught you’re bullshitting.”

  “Why would I leak it?”

  “Because—”

  “Why?” roared Francoeur, his face red with anger.

  “Because…”

  But Beauvoir didn’t know why. Why would the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté release a tape of his own agents being killed? It didn’t make sense.

  But Beauvoir knew there was a reason. Somewhere.

  “I don’t know,” Beauvoir admitted. “And I don’t have to know why. I just know you did it.”

  “Fucking great detective. You don’t need evidence? Don’t need motive? You just accuse and condemn? Is that what Gamache taught you? I’m not surprised.”

  Francoeur looked at Beauvoir as though at something profoundly, spectacularly stupid.

  “But you’re right about one thing, you damned fool. One of us here leaked that tape.”

  Beauvoir’s eyes widened and his mouth all but fell open.

  “You can’t be serious.” His arms dropped to his sides and all thought of attack vanished in the face of Francoeur’s words. “Are you saying Chief Inspector Gamache leaked the tape?”

  “Who else benefited?”

  “Benefited?” Beauvoir whispered, shock muting his voice. “He almost died in the attacks. Those were his agents. He hired them, mentored them. He’d die—”