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.
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
“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
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.
“Well done,” he said, tapping the article with his fingers. “Must have taken all night.”
“Just about,” she admitted.
They looked over to the Chief, who seemed to be taking an unusually long time to read what was a short, sharp review.
Finally he lowered the page and took off his reading glasses just as the waiter arrived with their food. Toast and home-made
He poured the brown sugar and cream on top then picked up the photocopy again.
Lacoste, seeing this, also laid her knife and fork down. “Is that it, do you think, Chief? Why Lillian Dyson was murdered?”
