A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #7)

A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #7) Page 124

Annie and David are having difficulties. But too late.

Beauvoir walked back into the bedroom and sat on the side of the bed, staring into space. Then he slid his hand beneath the pillow and taking the top off the bottle he shook out a pill. It sat in the palm of his hand. Staring at it, slightly bleary, he closed his fist over it. Then he swiftly opened his hand and tossed the pill into his mouth, then chased it down with a gulp of water from the glass on the nightstand. Beauvoir waited. For the now familiar sensation. Slowly he began to feel the ache subside. But another, deeper hurt remained.

Jean Guy Beauvoir got dressed and quietly left the B and B, disappearing into the night.

*   *   *

Why hadn’t he seen it before?

Beauvoir leaned closer to the screen, shocked by what he saw. He’d watched the video hundreds of times. Over and over. He’d seen it all, every wretched frame, filmed by the cameras on the headgear.

Then how could he have missed this?

He hit replay, and watched again. Then hit replay, and watched again.

There he was, on the screen. Weapon out, aiming at a gunman. Suddenly he was shoved backward. His legs buckled. As Jean Guy watched, he saw himself fall to his knees. Then pitch forward face first onto the floor. He remembered that.

He could still see the filthy concrete floor rushing toward him. Still see the dirt, as his face smashed into it.

And then the pain. Indescribable pain. He’d clutched at his abdomen, but the pain was beyond his reach.

On the screen he heard a shout, “Jean Guy!” And then Gamache, assault rifle in hand, ran across the open factory floor. Grabbing him by the back of the tactical vest, he’d dragged Beauvoir behind a wall.

And then the intimate close-up. Of Beauvoir drifting in and out of consciousness. Of Gamache speaking to him, commanding him to stay awake. Bandaging him and holding his hand over the wound, to stanch the blood.

Of seeing the blood on the Chief’s hand. So much blood on his hands.

And then Gamache had leaned forward. And done something not meant to be seen by anyone else. He’d kissed Jean Guy on the forehead in a gesture so tender it was as shocking as the gunfire.

Then he left.

It wasn’t the kiss that stunned Beauvoir. It was what came after. Why hadn’t he ever seen it before? Of course, he’d seen it, but he’d never really recognized it for what it was.

Gamache had left him.

Alone.

To die.

He’d abandoned him, to die alone on a filthy factory floor.

Beauvoir hit replay, replay, replay. And in each, of course, the same thing happened.

Myrna was wrong. He wasn’t upset because he’d failed to save Gamache. He was angry because Gamache had failed to save him.

And the bottom dropped out from beneath Jean Guy Beauvoir.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache groaned and looked at the clock.

Three twelve.

His bed at the B and B was comfortable, the duvet warm around him as the cool night air drifted through the open window, bringing with it the hooting of an owl in the distance.

He lay in bed, pretending he was about to fall asleep.

Three eighteen.

It was rare now for him to wake in the middle of the night, but it still happened.

Three twenty-two.

Three twenty-seven.

Gamache resigned himself to the situation. Getting up, he threw on some clothes and tiptoed downstairs. Putting on his Barbour coat and a cap he left the B and B. The air was fresh and cool and now even the owl was quiet.

Nothing stirred. Except a homicide detective.

Gamache walked slowly, counter-clockwise, around the village green. The homes were still and dark. People asleep inside.

The three tall pines rustled slightly in the breeze.

Chief Inspector Gamache walked, his pace measured, his hands clasped behind his back. Clearing his mind. Not thinking about the case, trying, in fact, to not think about anything. Trying to just take in the fresh night air and the peace and quiet.

A few paces past Peter and Clara’s home he stopped and looked over the bridge, to the Incident Room. A light was on. Not bright. Barely even visible.

It wasn’t so much light he saw at the window as not dark.

Lacoste? he wondered. Had she found something and returned? Surely she’d wait until morning.

He walked across the bridge, toward the old railway station.

Looking through the window he could see that the light was a glow from one of their terminals. Someone was sitting in the dark in front of a computer.

He couldn’t quite see who. It looked like a man, but it was too far away and the person was in too much shadow.