staring at the Chief, his eyes red and bleary.
“Why’re you here?” asked Gamache.
Beauvoir got up. “I just needed to look at it again. Our talk yesterday about the internal investigation brought it all back, and I needed to see.”
And Beauvoir had the satisfaction of seeing the look of both pain and concern in Gamache’s eyes.
But Jean Guy Beauvoir now knew it was a fake. An act. This man standing there looking so concerned wasn’t at all. He was pretending. If he cared he’d never have left him. To die. Alone.
Behind him now the video, unseen by either man, had moved on. Past the place Beauvoir had hit replay. Chief Inspector Gamache, in tactical vest and carrying an assault rifle, was racing up a flight of stairs after a gunman.
“You need to let it go, Jean Guy,” said the Chief.
“And forget?” snapped Beauvoir. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’d like me to forget, you’d like us all to forget what happened.”
“Are you all right?” Gamache approached him but Beauvoir backed away. “What’s the matter?”
“You don’t even care who released the tape. Maybe you wanted it released. Maybe you wanted everyone to see how heroic you were. But we both know the truth.”
Behind them on the screen dim figures were struggling, scrambling.
“You recruited every one of us,” said Beauvoir, his voice rising. “You mentored all of us, and then chose to take us into the factory. We followed you, trusted you, and what happened? They died. And now you can’t even be bothered to find out who released the tape of their deaths.” Beauvoir was shouting now, almost screaming. “You don’t believe it was some dumb-ass kid any more than I do. You’re no better than that hacker. You don’t care about us, about any of us.”
Gamache stared at him, his jaw clamped so tight Beauvoir could see the muscles bunched and taut. Gamache’s eyes narrowed and his breathing became sharp. On the screen the Chief, his face bloody, dragged the unconscious and cuffed gunman down the stairs and threw him at his feet. Then, weapon in hand, he scanned the room as shots rang out in rapid succession.
“Don’t you ever say that again,” Gamache rasped through a mouth barely open.
“You’re no better than the hacker,” Beauvoir repeated, leaning into his Chief, enunciating each word. Feeling reckless and powerful and invincible. He wanted to hurt. Wanted to push him, push him. Away. Wanted to close his hands tight into cannonballs and pound Gamache’s chest. Hit him. Hurt him. Punish him.
“You’ve gone too far.” Gamache’s voice was low with warning. Beauvoir saw the Chief close his hands tight against the tremor of rage.
“And you haven’t gone far enough. Sir.”
On the screen the Chief Inspector turned quickly but too late. His head snapped back, his arms opened wide, his gun was thrown. His back arched as Gamache was lifted off his feet.
Then he hit the floor. Deeply, gravely wounded.
* * *
Armand Gamache slumped into his chair. His legs weak, his hand trembling.
Beauvoir had left, the slammed door still echoing through the Incident Room.
From Beauvoir’s monitor Gamache could hear the video though he couldn’t see it. He could hear his people calling each other. Hear Lacoste calling for medics. Hear shouts and gunfire.
He didn’t have to see it. He knew. Each and every young agent. Knew when and how they’d died in that raid he’d led.
The Chief Inspector continued to stare ahead. Breathing deeply. Hearing the gunfire behind him. Hearing the cries for help.
Hearing them die.
He’d spent the past six months trying to get beyond this. He knew he had to let them go. And he was trying. And it was happening, slowly. But he hadn’t realized how long it took to bury four healthy young men and women.
Behind him the gunshots and shouts moved in and out. He recognized voices now gone.
He’d come close, so close it shocked him, to striking Jean Guy.
Gamache had been angry before. Had certainly been taunted and tested. By yellow journalists, by suspects, by defense lawyers and even colleagues. But he’d rarely come this close to actually lashing out physically.
He’d pulled himself back. But with an effort so great it left him winded and exhausted. And hurt.
He knew that. Knew the reason suspects and even colleagues, while frustrating and maddening, hadn’t brought him this close to physical violence was because they couldn’t hurt him deeply.
But someone he cared about could. And did.
Was that true?
Of course it wasn’t, thought Gamache, impatiently. That was just Beauvoir lashing out.
