perfect control over Henri, if not Henri’s bowels. He could have held the leash tight, preventing the German shepherd from getting anywhere close to Beauvoir.
But Gamache hadn’t. He’d allowed the lick. Allowed the small kiss.
* * *
The elevator reached the top floor of Sûreté headquarters and the doors clunked open to reveal a couple of men standing in the corridor.
“Holy shit, Beauvoir, what a stink.” One of them scowled.
“It wasn’t me.” Beauvoir could feel Henri’s lick, moist and warm on his hand.
“Right,” said the man, and caught the eye of the other agent.
“Fuck you,” Beauvoir mumbled as he pushed between them and into the office.
* * *
Chief Inspector Gamache looked at his homicide department. Where busy agents would once have sat into the night, the desks were now empty.
He wished the tranquillity was because all the murders had been solved. Or, better yet, there were no more murders. No more pain so great it made a person take a life. Someone else’s, or his own.
Like Constance Ouellet. Like the body below the bridge. Like he’d felt in the elevator just now.
But Armand Gamache was a realist, and knew the long list of homicides would only grow. What had diminished was his capacity to solve them.
* * *
Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn’t get up. Didn’t look up. He ignored Beauvoir and the others as they took seats in his large private office.
Beauvoir was used to that now. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was the most senior cop in Québec and he looked it. Distinguished, with gray hair and a confident bearing, he exuded authority. This was a man not to be trifled with. Chief Superintendent Francoeur associated with the Premier, had meals with the Public Security Minister. He was on a first-name basis with the Cardinal of Québec.
Unlike Gamache, Francoeur gave his agents freedom. He didn’t worry about how they got results. Just get it done, was what he said.
The only real law was Chief Superintendent Francoeur. The only line not to be crossed was drawn around him. His power was absolute and unquestioned.
Working with Gamache was always so complicated. So many gray areas. Always debating what was right, as though that was a difficult question.
Working with Chief Superintendent Francoeur was easy.
Law-abiding citizens were safe, criminals weren’t. Francoeur trusted his people to decide who was who, and to know what to do about it. And when a mistake was made? They looked out for each other. Defended each other. Protected each other.
Unlike Gamache.
Beauvoir rubbed his hand, trying to erase the lick, like a lash. He thought about the things he should have said, could have said, to his former Chief. But hadn’t.
* * *
“Just drop your things and head home,” said Gamache at the door to his office.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive down with you?” asked Lacoste.
“I’m sure. As I said, I’ll probably stay over. Thank you, Isabelle.”
As he looked at her now he saw, as he almost always did, a brief image. Of Lacoste bending over him. Calling to him. And he felt again her hands gripping either side of his head as he lay sprawled on the concrete floor.
There’d been a crushing weight on his chest and a rush in his head. And two words that needed to be said. Only two, as he stared at Lacoste, desperate for her to understand him.
Reine-Marie.
That was all there was left to say.
At first, when he’d recovered and remembered Isabelle’s face so close to his, he’d been embarrassed by his vulnerability.
His job was to lead them, to protect them. And he’d failed. Instead, she’d saved him.
But now when he looked at her, and that brief image exploded between them, he realized they were fused together forever by that moment. And he felt only great affection for her. And gratitude. For staying with him and hearing those barely whispered words. She was the vessel into which he’d poured his last thoughts.
Reine-Marie.
Armand Gamache would always remember the enormous relief when he’d realized she’d understood. And he could go.
But, of course, he hadn’t gone. In large part thanks to Isabelle Lacoste, he’d survived. But so many of his agents hadn’t, that day.
Including Jean-Guy Beauvoir. The swaggering, annoying smartass had gone into that factory, and something else had come out.
“Go home, Isabelle,” said Gamache.
* * *
The Superintendent continued to read the document in front of him, slowly turning a page.
Beauvoir recognized the report on the raid he’d been on a few days earlier.
“I see here,” Francoeur said slowly in his deep, calm voice, “that not