A Trick of the Light (41 page)

But his mind stopped there. Some things were beyond imagining.

To clear his mind, Gamache went back to the keyboard and renewed the search for information on the accident. But there was none.

The door of the open society had slowly swung shut. And locked.

But in the quiet Incident Room, in the first glow of a new day, Chief Inspector Gamache slipped below the surface of the public face of Québec. The public face of the Chief Justice. Into the place secrets were kept. Or at least, confidences were kept. The private files of public people.

There he found information about Thierry Pineault’s drinking, his at times erratic behavior, his run-ins with other justices. And then a gap. A three-month leave.

And his return.

The private files also showed that systematically, over the past two years, Thierry Pineault had been calling up all his judgments from the bench. And at least one case had been officially reviewed. And reversed.

And there was another case. Not a Supreme Court case, not one he’d attended, at least not as a judge. But one Chief Justice Pineault had gone back to, over and over and over again. The file described an open-and-shut case, of a child killed by a drunk driver.

But there was no more information. The file had been locked away, in an area even Gamache couldn’t get to.

He sat back in his chair and took his glasses off, tapping them rhythmically on his knee.

*   *   *

Agent Isabelle Lacoste wondered if anyone had ever actually died of boredom, or if she would be the first.

She now knew more than she ever wanted to about the art scene in Québec. The artists, the curators, the shows. The critiques. The themes, the theories, the history.

Famous Québec artists like Riopelle and Lemieux and Molinari. And a whole lot she hadn’t heard of and never would again. Artists Lillian Dyson had reviewed into obscurity.

She rubbed her eyes. With each new review she had to remind herself why she was there. Had to remember Lillian Dyson lying on the soft green grass in Peter and Clara’s garden. A woman who would grow no older. A woman who had stopped, there. In the pretty, peaceful garden. Because someone had taken her life.

Though, after reading all these repulsive reviews Lacoste was tempted to take a club to the woman herself. She felt dirty, as though someone had thrown a pile of
merde
all over her.

But someone had killed Lillian Dyson, hideous human being or not, and Lacoste was determined to find out who. The more she read the more she was convinced that someone was hiding here. In the newspaper morgue. In the microfiche. The beginning of this murder was so old it existed only on plastic files seen through a dusty viewer. An outdated technology that recorded a murder. Or at least, the birth of a death. The beginning of an end. An old event still fresh and alive in someone’s mind.

No, not fresh. It was rotten. Old and rotten, the flesh falling off it.

And Agent Lacoste knew if she looked long enough, and hard enough, the murderer would be revealed.

*   *   *

For the next hour, as the sun rose and the people rose, Chief Inspector Gamache worked. When he got tired he took off his reading glasses, wiped his face with his hands, leaned back in the chair and looked at the sheets of paper pinned to the walls of the old railway station.

Sheets of paper with answers to their questions in bold red Magic Marker, like trails of blood, leading to a murderer.

And he looked at the photographs. Two in particular. The one given him by Mr. and Mrs. Dyson, of Lillian alive. Smiling.

And one taken by the crime scene photographer. Of Lillian dead.

He thought of the two Lillians. Alive and dead. But more than that. The happy, sober Lillian. The one Suzanne claimed to know. A far cry from the embittered woman Clara knew.

Did people change?

Chief Inspector Gamache pushed himself away from the computer. The time for gathering was over. Now was the time to put it all together.

*   *   *

Agent Isabel Lacoste stared at the screen. Reading and rereading. There was even a photo accompanying the review. Something, Lacoste had come to appreciate, Lillian Dyson reserved for her most vicious attacks. It showed a very young artist standing with a young Lillian on either side of a painting. The artist was smiling. Beaming. Pointing to the work as though to a trophy fish. As though to something extraordinary.

And Lillian?

Lacoste turned the knob and the image leapt closer.

Lillian was also smiling. Smug. Inviting the reader into the joke.

And the review?

Lacoste read it and felt her skin crawl. As though she was watching a snuff film. Watching someone die. For that’s what the review was meant to do. Kill a career. To kill the artist inside the person.

Agent Isabelle Lacoste hit the key and the printer began to growl, as though it had a foul taste in its mouth, before it spat out the copies.

TWENTY-FIVE

“Jean Guy?” Gamache knocked.

There was no answer.

He waited a moment then turned the handle. It was unlocked and he walked in.

Beauvoir lay in the brass bed, covers around him, sleeping soundly. Even snoring slightly.

Gamache stared down at him, then looked into the open door of the bathroom. Keeping an eye on Beauvoir he walked over, and into the bathroom, quickly scanning the washstand. There, beside the deodorant and toothpaste, was a pill bottle.

Glancing into the mirror and seeing Beauvoir still asleep, the Chief picked it up. There was Beauvoir’s name, and the prescription for fifteen OxyContin.

It called for Beauvoir to take a pill each night, as needed. Gamache opened the bottle and dumped the pills into his palm. There were seven left.

But when was the prescription filled? The Chief replaced the pills, put the cap back on and looked at the bottom of the label. The date was typed in very small numerals. Gamache reached into his pocket for his reading glasses, and putting them on he picked up the pill bottle again.

Beauvoir groaned.

Gamache froze, and stared into the mirror. Very slowly he lowered the bottle, and removed his glasses.

Beauvoir, in the mirror, shifted in bed.

Gamache backed out of the bathroom. One pace, two. Then he stopped at the foot of the bed.

“Jean Guy?”

More moaning, clearer, stronger this time.

A chilly, damp breeze was blowing into Beauvoir’s room, fluttering the white cotton curtains. It had begun to drizzle and the Chief could hear the muffled tap of rain on leaves, and smell the familiar scent of wood fires from the village homes.

He closed the window then turned back to the bed. Beauvoir had burrowed into his pillow.

It was just after seven
A.M.
and Agent Lacoste had called. She was in her car, turning off the autoroute. She’d found something in the archives.

Gamache wanted his Inspector part of the discussion when she arrived.

He himself had returned to the B and B, showered, shaved and changed.

“Jean Guy?” he whispered again, lowering his head so that he was face-to-face with his slightly drooling Inspector.

Beauvoir pried his heavy lids open and looked through slits at Gamache, a goofy smile on Beauvoir’s face. Then his eyes flew open and the smile turned into a gasp as he jerked his head away from the Chief’s.

“Don’t worry,” said Gamache, standing up. “You were a perfect gentleman.”

It took a moment for the bleary Beauvoir to grasp what the Chief meant and then he chuckled.

“Did I at least buy you champagne?” he asked, wiping the crusty sleep from his eyes.

“Well, you made a nice pot of coffee.”

“Last night?” Beauvoir asked, sitting up in bed. “Here?”

“No, at the Incident Room.” Gamache looked at him, searching. “Remember?”

Beauvoir looked blank, then shook his head. “Sorry. I’m still half asleep.”

He rubbed his face, trying to remember.

Gamache dragged a chair up to the side of the bed and sat.

“What time is it?” Beauvoir asked, looking around.

“Just past seven.”

“I’ll get up.” And Jean Guy grabbed at the duvet.

“No. Not yet.” Gamache’s voice was soft, but certain, and Beauvoir’s hand stopped then fell back to the bedding.

“We need to talk about last night,” said the Chief.

Gamache watched Beauvoir, still exhausted. There was a puzzled look on the Inspector’s face.

“Did you mean what you said?” asked Gamache. “Is that how you feel? Because if it is you need to tell me now, in the light of day. We need to talk about it.”

“Do I believe what?”

“What you said last night. That I wanted the video released, that in your opinion I’m as bad as the hacker.”

Beauvoir’s eyes widened. “Did I say that? Last night?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember watching the video, getting upset. But I can’t remember why. Did I really say that?”

“You did.” The Chief peered at Beauvoir. He seemed sincerely shocked.

But was this better? It meant Beauvoir might not believe what he’d said, but it would also mean his Inspector couldn’t remember. Was in a sort of blackout.

Chief Inspector Gamache studied Beauvoir for a moment. Beauvoir, feeling the scrutiny, reddened.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Of course I don’t think that. I can’t believe I said it. I’m sorry.”

And he looked it.

Gamache held up his hand, “I know you are. I’m not here to punish you. I’m here because I think you need help—”

“—I don’t. I’m fine, I really am.”

“You’re not. You’re losing weight, you’re stressed. You’re testy. You let your anger show last night in the interrogation of Madame Coates. Lashing out at the Chief Justice was reckless.”

“He started it.”

“This isn’t a school yard. Suspects push us all the time. We need to stay calm. You let yourself be thrown off balance.”

“Fortunately, you were there to right me,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache regarded him again, not missing the slight acid in the words. “What’s wrong, Jean Guy? You need to tell me.”

“I’m just tired.” He rubbed his face. “But I am getting better. Stronger.”

“You’re not. You were for a while but now you’re getting worse. You need more help. You need to go back to the Sûreté counselors.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“You’ll more than consider it,” said Gamache. “How many OxyContin pills do you take?”

Beauvoir had a protest on his lips, but silenced it.

“What the prescription says.”

“And what’s that?” The Chief’s face was stern, his eyes sharp.

“One pill every night.”

“Do you take more?”

“No.”

The two men stared at each other, Gamache’s deep brown eyes unyielding.

“Do you?” he repeated.

“No,” said Beauvoir, adamant. “Listen, we deal with enough junkies, I don’t want to turn into that.”

“And you think that’s what the junkies wanted?” demanded Gamache. “You think that’s what Suzanne and Brian and Pineault expected to happen? No one starts out with that as the goal.”

“I’m just tired, a little stressed. That’s all. I need the pills to take the edge off the pain, to sleep, but nothing more. I promise.”

“You’ll go back to counseling, and I’ll be monitoring it. Understand?” Gamache got up and carried the chair back to the corner of the room. “If there’s really nothing wrong the counselor will tell me. But if there is, you need more help.”

“Like what?” Beauvoir looked shocked.

“Whatever the counselor and I decide. This isn’t a punishment, Jean Guy.” Gamache’s voice softened. “I still go to counseling myself. And still I have bad days. I know what you’re going through. But no two of us were hurt the same way, and no two of us will get better the same way.”

Gamache regarded Beauvoir for a moment. “I know how horrible this is for you. You’re a private man, a good man. A strong man. Why else would I have chosen you, of the hundreds of agents? You’re my second in command because I trust you. I know how smart and brave you are. And you need to be brave now, Jean Guy. For me, for the department. For yourself. You need to get help to get better. Please.”

Beauvoir closed his eyes. And then he did remember. Last night. Seeing the video over and over, as though for the first time. Seeing himself hit.

And Gamache leaving. Turning his back. Leaving him to die alone.

He opened his eyes and saw the Chief looking at him, with much the same expression as in the factory.

“I’ll do it,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache nodded.
“Bon.”

And he left. As he had that dreadful day. As he always would, Beauvoir knew.

Gamache would always leave him.

Jean Guy Beauvoir reached under his pillow and removing the tiny bottle, he shook a pill into the palm of his hand. By the time he was shaved and dressed and downstairs he was feeling just fine.

*   *   *

“What did you find?” asked Chief Inspector Gamache.

They were having breakfast at the bistro, since they needed to talk and didn’t want to share the B and B dining room, or their information, with the other guests.

The waiter had brought them frothy bowls of
café au lait.

“I found this.” Agent Lacoste placed the photocopies of the article on the wooden table and stared out the window while Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir read.

The drizzle had turned into a Scotch mist and clung to the hills surrounding the village so that Three Pines felt particularly intimate. As though the rest of the world didn’t exist. Only here. Quiet and peaceful.

A log fire crackled in the grate. Just enough to take the chill off.

Agent Lacoste was exhausted. She wished she could take her bowl of
café au lait
and a croissant, and curl up on the large sofa by the fireplace. And read one of the well-worn paperbacks from Myrna’s shop. An old Maigret. Read and nap. Read and nap. In front of the fireplace. While the outside world and worries receded into the mist.

But the worries were in here, she knew. Trapped in the village with them.

Inspector Beauvoir was the first to look up, meeting her eyes.