A Trick of the Light (18 page)

Did her killer lose it? But, if he was going to break her neck with his bare hands he wouldn’t be holding a coin. Besides, the same thing held true for the killer. If he dropped it, why didn’t they find it? How did it get buried?

The Chief Inspector stood quietly in the warm, sunny garden and imagined a murder. Someone sneaking up behind Lillian Dyson in the dark. Grabbing her around the neck, and twisting. Quickly. Before she could call out, cry out. Struggle.

But she would have done something. She’d have flailed her arms out, even for a moment.

And he saw clearly that he’d made a mistake.

Walking back to the flower bed he called Beauvoir and Lacoste, who quickly joined him.

From his pocket he again brought out the one dollar coin. Then he tossed it into the air and watched as it fell to the freshly turned soil, sat briefly on top of a chunk of dirt, then slipped off to be buried by earth that crumbled in after it.

“My God, it did bury itself,” said Lacoste. “Is that what happened?”

“I think so,” said the Chief, watching as Lacoste picked the coin back up and handed it to him. “When I first tried it I was kneeling down, close to the dirt. But if it fell during the murder it would have dropped from a standing position. Higher up. With greater force. I think when the murderer grasped her neck her arms shot out, almost a spasm, and the coin was flung away from her body. It would have hit with enough impact to dislodge the loose earth.”

“That’s how it got buried and how we missed it,” said Agent Lacoste.

“Oui,”
said Gamache, turning to leave. “And it means that Lillian Dyson had to have been holding it. Now, why would she be standing in this garden holding an AA beginner’s chip?”

But Beauvoir suspected the Chief was also thinking something else. That Beauvoir had fucked up. He should have seen the coin and not have it found by four crazy women worshiping a stick. That wasn’t going to sound good in court, for any of them.

*   *   *

The women had left, the Sûreté officers had left. Everyone had left and now Peter and Clara were finally alone.

Peter took Clara in his arms and hugging her tight he whispered, “I’ve been waiting all day to do this. I heard about the reviews. They’re fantastic. Congratulations.”

“They are good, aren’t they,” said Clara. “Yipppeee. Can you believe it?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Peter, breaking from the embrace and striding across the kitchen. “I had no doubt.”

“Oh, come on,” laughed Clara, “you don’t even like my work.”

“I do.”

“And what do you like about them?” she teased.

“Well, they’re pretty. And you covered up most of the numbers with the paint.” He’d been poking in the fridge and now he turned around, a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“My father gave this to me on my twenty-first birthday. He told me to open it when I’d had a huge personal success. To toast myself.” He unwrapped the foil around the cork. “I put it in the fridge yesterday before we left, so we could toast you.”

“No wait, Peter,” said Clara. “We should save that.”

“What? For my own solo show? We both know that won’t happen.”

“But it will. If it happened for me, it—”

“—can happen for anyone?”

“You know what I mean. I really think we should wait—”

The cork popped.

“Too late,” said Peter with a huge smile. “We had a call while you were out.”

He carefully poured their glasses.

“From who?”

“André Castonguay.” He handed her a glass. Time enough later to tell her about all the other calls.

“Really? What did he want?”

“Wanted to talk to you. To us. To both of us.
Santé.
”

He tipped his glass and clinked hers. “And congratulations.”

“Thank you. Do you want to meet with him?”

Clara’s glass hung in the air, not quite touching her lips. Her nose felt the giddy popping of the champagne bubbles. Finally released. Like her, they’d waited years and years, decades, for this moment.

“Only if you do,” said Peter.

“Can we wait? Let all of this settle down a bit?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

But she could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“If you feel strongly, Peter, we can meet with him. Why don’t we? I mean, he’s right here now. Might as well.”

“No, no, that’s OK.” He smiled at her. “If he’s serious he’ll wait. Honestly, Clara, this is your time to shine. And neither Lillian’s death nor André Castonguay can take that away.”

More bubbles popped, and Clara wondered if they were popping on their own or had been pricked by tiny, almost invisible needles like the one Peter had just used. Reminding her, even as they toasted her success, of the death. The murder, in their own garden.

She tipped the glass up and felt the wine on her lips. But over the flute she was staring at Peter, who suddenly looked less substantial. A little hollow. A little like a bubble himself. Floating away.

I was much too far out all my life,
she thought as she drank.
And not waving, but drowning.

What were the lines just before that? Clara slowly lowered her glass to the counter. Peter had taken a long sip of the champagne. More of a swig, really. A deep, masculine, almost aggressive gulp.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning.

Those were the lines, thought Clara, as she stared at Peter.

The champagne on her lips was sour, the wine turned years before. But Peter, who’d taken a huge gulp, was smiling.

As though nothing was wrong.

When had he died? Clara wondered. And why hadn’t she noticed?

*   *   *

“No, I understand,” said Inspector Beauvoir.

Chief Inspector Gamache looked across at Beauvoir in the driver’s seat. Eyes staring ahead at the traffic as they approached the Champlain Bridge into Montréal. Beauvoir’s face was placid, relaxed. Noncommittal.

But his grip was tight on the wheel.

“If Agent Lacoste is going to be promoted to inspector I want to see how she’ll handle the added responsibility,” said Gamache. “So I gave the dossier to her.”

He knew he didn’t have to explain his decisions. But he chose to. These weren’t children he was working with, but thoughtful, intelligent adults. If he didn’t want them to behave like children he’d better not treat them like that. He wanted independent thinkers. And he got them. Men and women who’d earned the right to know why a decision was taken.

“This is about giving Agent Lacoste more authority, that’s all. It’s still your investigation. She understands that, and I need you to understand that as well, so there’s no confusion.”

“Got it,” said Beauvoir. “I just wish you’d mentioned it to me beforehand.”

“You’re right, I should have. I’m sorry. In fact, I’ve been thinking it makes sense for you to supervise Agent Lacoste. Act as a mentor. If she’s going to be promoted to inspector and become your second in command you’ll have to train her.”

Beauvoir nodded and his grip loosened on the wheel. They spent the next few minutes discussing the case and Lacoste’s strengths and weaknesses before lapsing into silence.

As he watched the graceful span of the bridge across the St. Lawrence River approach, Gamache’s mind turned elsewhere. To something he’d been considering for a while now.

“There is something else.”

“Oh?” Beauvoir glanced over to his boss.

Gamache had been planning to speak to Beauvoir about this quietly. Perhaps over dinner that night, or a walk on the mountain. Not when they were hurtling down the autoroute at 120 kilometers an hour.

Still, the opening was there. And Gamache took it.

“We need to talk about how you’re doing. There’s something wrong. You aren’t getting better, are you.”

It was not a question.

“I’m sorry about the coin. It was stupid—”

“I’m not talking about the coin. That was just a mistake. It happens. God knows it’s just possible I’ve made a few in my life.”

He saw Beauvoir smile.

“Then what are you talking about, sir?”

“The painkillers. Why’re you still taking them?”

There was silence in the car as Québec whizzed by their windows.

“How’d you know about that?” asked Beauvoir, finally.

“I suspected. You carry them with you, in your jacket pocket.”

“Did you look?” asked Beauvoir, an edge to his voice.

“No. But I’ve watched you.” As he did now. His second in command had always been so lithe, so energetic. Cocky. He was full of life and full of himself. It could annoy Gamache. But mostly he’d watched Beauvoir’s vitality with pleasure and some amusement, as Jean Guy threw himself headlong into life.

But now the young man seemed drained. Dour. As though every day was an effort. As though he was dragging an anvil behind him.

“I’ll be fine,” said Beauvoir, and heard how empty that sounded. “The doctor and therapists say I’m doing well. Every day I feel better.”

Armand Gamache didn’t want to pursue it. But he had to.

“You’re still in pain from your wounds.”

Again, this wasn’t a question.

“It’ll just take time,” said Beauvoir, glancing over to his Chief. “I really am feeling much better, all the time.”

But he didn’t look it. And Gamache was concerned.

The Chief Inspector was silent. He himself had never been in better shape, or at least, not for many, many years. He was walking more now, and the physiotherapy had brought back his strength and agility. He went to the gym at Sûreté Headquarters three times a week. At first it had been humiliating, as he’d struggled to lift weights about the size of honey-glazed doughnuts, and to stay on the elliptical for more than a few minutes.

But he’d kept at it, and kept at it. And slowly his strength had not just returned, but surpassed where he’d been before the attack.

There were still some residual effects, physically. His right hand trembled when he was tired or overstressed. And his body ached when he first woke up, or got up after sitting for too long. There were a few aches and pains. But not nearly as much as the emotional, which he struggled with every day.

Some days were very good. And some, like this, were not.

He’d suspected Jean Guy was struggling, and he knew recovery was never a straight line. But Beauvoir seemed to be slipping further and further back.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked. “Do you need time off to focus on your health? I know Daniel and Roslyn would love to have you visit them in Paris. Maybe that would help.”

Beauvoir laughed. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Gamache grinned. It would be hard to imagine what could ruin a trip to Paris, but a week in the small flat with his son, daughter-in-law and two young grandchildren sure took a run at it. He and Reine-Marie now rented a flat close-by when they visited.

“
Merci, patron.
I’d rather hunt cold-blooded killers.”

Gamache laughed. The skyline of Montréal was looming in the foreground now, across the river. And Mont Royal rose in the middle of the city. The huge cross on top of the mountain was invisible now, but every night it sprang to life, lit as a beacon to a population that no longer believed in the church, but believed in family and friends, culture and humanity.

The cross didn’t seem to care. It glowed just as bright.

“The separation from Enid can’t have helped,” said the Chief.

“Actually it did,” said Beauvoir, slowing for the traffic on the bridge. Beside him Gamache was gazing at the skyline. As he always did. But now the Chief turned to look at him.

“How’d it help?”

“It’s a relief. I feel free. I’m sorry it hurt Enid, but it’s one of the best things to come out of what happened.”

“How so?”

“I feel like I was given another chance. So many died, but when I didn’t I took a look at my life and realized how unhappy I was. And it wasn’t going to get better. It wasn’t Enid’s fault, but we were never really well suited. But I was afraid to change, to admit I made a mistake. Afraid to hurt her. But I just couldn’t take it anymore. Surviving the raid gave me the courage to do what I should have done years ago.”

“The courage to change.”

“Pardon?”

“It was one of the lines from that prayer on the coin,” said Gamache.

“Yeah, I guess so. Whatever it was, I could just see my life stretching ahead getting worse and worse. Don’t get me wrong, Enid’s wonderful—”

“We’ve always liked her. A lot.”

“And she likes you, as you know. But she’s not the one for me.”

“Do you know who is?”

“No.”

Beauvoir glanced at the Chief. Gamache was now looking out the windshield, his face thoughtful, then he turned to Beauvoir.

“You will,” said the Chief.

Beauvoir nodded, deep in thought. Then he finally spoke.

“What would you have done, sir? If you’d been married to someone else when you met Madame Gamache?”

Gamache looked at Beauvoir, his eyes keen. “I thought you said you hadn’t met the one for you.”

Beauvoir hesitated. He’d given the Chief the opening, and Gamache had taken it. And now looked at him. Waiting for an answer. And Beauvoir almost told him. Almost told the Chief everything. Longed to open his heart and expose it to this man. As he’d told Armand Gamache about everything else in his life. About his unhappiness with Enid. They’d talked about that, about his own family, about what he wanted, and what he didn’t want.

Jean Guy Beauvoir trusted Gamache with his life.

He opened his mouth, the words hovering there, just at the opening. As though a stone had rolled back and these miraculous words were about to emerge. Into the daylight.

I love your daughter. I love Annie.

Beside him Chief Inspector Gamache waited, as though he had all the time in the world. As though nothing could be more important than Beauvoir’s personal life.

The city, with its invisible cross, got bigger and bigger. And then they were over the bridge.

“I haven’t met anyone,” said Beauvoir. “But I want to be ready. I can’t be married. It wouldn’t have been fair to Enid.”