Ray-Ray fit. He was just that. A ray of bright sunshine in all their lives. The fact the nickname should come from the dark, demented old poet only seemed to add to its perfection.
“What were you talking about?” she demanded. “Something about Katie Evans. The trial’s about to begin, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Gamache, his voice light, friendly. “Jean-Guy was just going over some strategy.”
“Ahhh,” she said. “I thought I heard laughter. And what’s to discuss? You tell the truth, don’t you?”
She cocked her head to one side, and Gamache’s smile froze.
“But you don’t think he should,” she said to Beauvoir. “Now, what is it we’re not supposed to know? Let’s see.” She cast her eyes to the sky, apparently deep in thought. “That you arrested the wrong person? No, that’s probably not it. I wouldn’t put it past you, but I think you got the right person. That you don’t have enough evidence to convict? Am I closer?”
“He said he wasn’t going to lie,” said Jean-Guy.
“And I think that’s a big fat fib, don’t I, Ray-Ray,” she said in a childish voice, leaning toward the infant. “Now, what would make your father advocate lying, and your grandfather actually do it?”
“That’s enough, Ruth,” said Gamache.
She shifted her gaze back to Gamache. Sharpening, honing. Preparing to debone.
“The truth shall set you free, isn’t that right? Or don’t you believe it, Armand? But I think you do.” Her sharp eyes were working to scrape away layers of skin. “Did I get it right? Is it freedom that you fear? Not yours, but the murderer’s? You’d lie to get a conviction?”
“Ruth,” Jean-Guy warned, but he was now on the outside of a world that contained only Armand Gamache and Ruth Zardo.
“I like you more and more,” said Ruth, staring at Gamache. “Yes. This is definitely an improvement over Saint Armand. But you got some dirt on your wings when you fell to earth. Or is that shit?”
She sniffed.
“Ruth,” Beauvoir exclaimed.
“Sorry. Pardon my French,” she said to Ray-Ray before turning back to Gamache. “Sounds like you’re between a rock and a pile of merde.”
“Ruth,” said Jean-Guy. Her name now took on the complexion of an oath. It substituted for all the swear words he wanted to throw at her.
He was no longer really trying to stop her. Yet, always contrary, the old poet stopped. She considered for a moment.
“Maybe that’s the dark thing. The shit show you call a trial.”
“All shall be well,” said Armand, and Ruth smiled.
“At least you’re a good liar. That’ll help.”
Then her head disappeared behind the fence, like Jack stuffed back in the box.
“When we finish this”—Jean-Guy pointed to the swing—“we need to build a higher fence.”
“It’s not the length that matters”—came the voice from the next garden—“it’s the girth.”
Jean-Guy met Armand’s gaze and raised his brows.
Neither man spoke, there was nothing to say. But there was a lot to consider.
Jean-Guy handed Honoré back to his grandfather, in a gesture that was more than a gesture.
When the time came, would he lie? Beauvoir wondered, as he bent once more to the task of making the swing.
Under oath?
If he did, he’d be committing perjury. But if Chief Superintendent Gamache told the truth, their entire investigation would be blown. Putting all sorts of agents and informants in danger and ruining their one great chance of stopping the largest single trafficker in Québec. Of, in effect, crippling the drug trade. Of winning an unwinnable war.
Beauvoir was pretty sure he knew what Gamache would do.
That day, that warm afternoon as they worked together in the sunshine making a swing that would hang from the tree for generations, a swing Honoré would one day place his own children on, Jean-Guy had vowed to be in the courtroom when the question was asked. And answered.
So that everyone could see him declare his allegiance. No matter how Chief Superintendent Gamache chose to answer it. So that Armand Gamache could see. He was not alone.
But instead Jean-Guy Beauvoir found himself leaving. No, not just leaving. He was running away.
The guard stood up and opened the doors.
“We’re waiting for your answer, Chief Superintendent. It’s a simple question. The murder weapon, the bat, was just leaning against the wall. For all to see.”
As the heavy doors closed behind Beauvoir, something slipped out of the courtroom with him. And pursued him down the marble hallway.
The chief’s voice.
Had the bat been there, the Crown had asked, in full view for all to see?
“Oui.”
And there it was.
Chief Superintendent Gamache had perjured himself.