* * *
“He’s still suffering, you know,” said Myrna.
“Peter?” asked Gamache, then he followed her look. She was no longer watching the three people on the verandah. Her gaze was closer to home. She was staring at Jean Guy Beauvoir, who was standing with Ruth and Suzanne.
Ruth seemed to have quite lost her heart to the odd former drunk, who apparently had endless recipes for distilling furniture.
“I know,” said Gamache, quietly. “I spoke with Jean Guy about it this morning.”
“And what did he say?”
“That he was fine, getting better. But of course, he isn’t.”
Myrna was quiet for a moment. “No. He isn’t. Did he tell you why he’s suffering?”
Gamache studied her for a moment. “I asked, but he didn’t say. I presumed it was the combination of his wounds and losing so many colleagues.”
“It is, but I think it’s more specific than that. In fact, I know it is. He told me.”
Gamache turned his full attention to her. In the background Castonguay raised his voice. Vexed, whining, petulant. But nothing would get Gamache to look away from Myrna now.
“What did Jean Guy tell you?”
Myrna examined Gamache for a moment. “You’re not going to like it.”
“There’s nothing about what happened in that factory I like. But I need to hear it.”
“Yes,” said Myrna, making up her mind. “He feels guilty.”
“About what?” asked Gamache, astonished. This wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
“About not being able to help you. He can’t get beyond seeing you fall, and not being able to help. As you helped him.”
“But that’s ridiculous. He couldn’t.”
“You know that, and I know that. He even knows that. But what we know and what we feel can be two different things.”
Gamache’s heart dropped. Remembering the sallow young man early that morning in the Incident Room, his face made all the paler by the harsh light from the computer screen. Watching that damned video, over and over.
But not the scene of Gamache himself being gunned down. Jean Guy was watching himself being shot. He told Myrna what he’d found the night before.
Myrna exhaled. “I think he’s punishing himself. Like self-mutilation. Taking a knife to himself, only the video is the blade.”
The video, thought Gamache, feeling his fury rise. The goddamned video. It had already done so much damage, and now it was killing a young man he loved.
“I’ve ordered him back to counseling—”
“Ordered?”
“It started as a suggestion,” said the Chief, “but ended up an order.”
“He was resistant?”
“Very.”
“He loves you,” said Myrna. “That’s his road home.”
Gamache looked over at Jean Guy and waved across the crowded room. Once again the Chief saw him fall. And hit the ground.
And Jean Guy, across the living room, smiled and waved back.
He saw Gamache looking down at him, eyes filled with concern.
And then leaving.
* * *
“Christ,” said Castonguay in disgust, and gestured to the room in general. “That’s it. The end of the world. The end of civilization.” He slurped his drink toward Brian. “He tattoos ‘Mother’ on bikers and calls himself an artist.
“Come on,” said Thierry Pineault. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
He took Castonguay by the elbow and tried to lead him to the front door but Castonguay shook him off.
“I haven’t seen a good artist in years. Not her.” He gestured toward Clara, just coming in from the porch. “She’s been circling the drain for years. Stuff’s trite. Sentimental. Portraits.” He almost spat the word.
People were stepping away, leaving Castonguay alone in the void.
“And him,” said Castonguay, choosing his next victim. It was Peter. “His stuff’s OK. Conventional, but I could sell it to Kelley Foods. Bury it in their Guatemalan office. Depends how drunk I can get their buyers. Though fucking Kelley’s won’t allow drinking. Ruins the corporate image. So I guess I won’t be able to sell you after all, Morrow. But neither will he.”
