“I’m his sponsee. He’s my sponsor.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Gamache.
“Brian’s my sponsor. He’s eight years sober, I’m only two.”
Gamache looked from the elegant Thierry Pineault, in gray flannels and light cashmere sweater, to the skinhead.
“I know what you’re thinking, Chief Inspector, and you’re right. Brian is pretty tolerant of me. He gets a lot of grief from his friends when he’s seen with me in public. My suits and ties and all. Very embarrassing,” Thierry smiled.
“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking,” said Gamache. “But close enough.”
“You didn’t really think I sponsored him, did you?”
“Well I certainly didn’t think it was the other way around,” said Gamache. “Isn’t there—”
“Anyone else?” asked Thierry P. “Lots of others, but I have my reasons for choosing Brian. I’m very grateful he agreed to sponsor me. He saved my life.”
“In that case, I’m grateful to him as well,” said Gamache. “My apologies.”
“Is that an amend, Chief Inspector?” Thierry asked with a grin.
“It is.”
“Then I accept.”
They continued their walk. It was worse than Gamache had feared. He’d wondered who the Chief Justice’s sponsor might be. Someone in AA, obviously. Another alcoholic, with great influence over a greatly influential man. But it never occurred to Gamache that Thierry Pineault would choose a Nazi skinhead as a sponsor.
He must have been drunk.
“I realize I’m over-stepping my bounds—”
“Then don’t do it, Chief Inspector.”
“—but this is no ordinary situation. You’re an important man.”
“And Brian isn’t?”
“Of course he is. But he’s also a convicted felon. A young man with a record of drug abuse and alcoholism, who killed a little girl while driving drunk.”
“What do you know of that case?”
“I know he admits it. I heard his share. And I know he went to prison for it.”
They walked in silence around the village green, the rain from the day before rose in a mist as the morning warmed up. It was early yet. Few had risen. Just the mist, and the two men, walking around and around the tall pine trees. And Ruth and Brian on the bench.
“The little girl he killed was my granddaughter.”
Gamache stopped.
“Your granddaughter?”
Thierry stopped too and nodded. “Aimee. She was four years old. She’d be twelve now. If it hadn’t happened. Brian went to prison for five years. The day he got out he came over to our house. And apologized. We didn’t accept, of course. Told him to go away. But he kept coming back. Mowing my daughter’s lawn, washing their car. I’m afraid a lot of the chores had sort of fallen by the wayside. I was drinking heavily and wasn’t much help. But then Brian started doing all those things. Once a week he showed up and did chores, for her and for us. He never spoke. Just did them and left.”
Thierry began walking again, and Gamache caught up with him.
“One day, after about a year, he started talking to me about his drinking. About why he drank and how he felt. It was exactly how I felt. I didn’t admit it of course. Didn’t want to admit I had anything in common with this horrible creature. But Brian knew. Then one day he told me we were going for a drive. And he took me to my first AA meeting.”
They were back at the bench.
“He saved my life. I’d gladly trade that life for Aimee. I know Brian would too. When I was a few months sober he came to me again and asked my forgiveness.”
Thierry stopped on the road.
“And I gave it.”
* * *
“Clara, no. Please.”
Peter stood in their bedroom, wearing just his pajama bottoms.
Clara looked at him. There wasn’t a single spot on that beautiful body she hadn’t touched. Stroked. Loved.
And didn’t, she knew, love still. His body wasn’t the issue. His mind wasn’t the issue. It was his heart.
“You have to go,” she said.
“But why? I’m doing my best, I really am.”
