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

A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #7) Page 72

“Meeting’s started,” whispered Bob.

Gamache turned back and saw Beauvoir trying to catch his eye, waving him to an empty seat beside him. Vacated, presumably, by Jim, who was now sitting across the room with someone else. Perhaps he’d given up on Beauvoir as a hopeless case, thought Gamache, smiling and making his way past others to take the empty seat.

Bob had stuck with him and was now sitting on Gamache’s other side.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Gamache leaned over and whispered to Beauvoir. “Last night you were the art critic for Le Monde and now you’re a drunk.”

“I’m in good company,” said Beauvoir. “I see you’ve made a friend.”

Beauvoir and Bob smiled and nodded to each other across Gamache.

“I need to speak to you, sir,” whispered Beauvoir.

“After the meeting,” said Gamache.

“We have to stay?” asked Jean Guy, crestfallen.

“You don’t have to,” said Gamache. “But I’m going to.”

“I’ll stay,” said Beauvoir.

Chief Inspector Gamache nodded, and handed the beginner’s chip over to Beauvoir, who examined it and raised his brow.

Gamache felt a slight pressure on his right arm and looked over to see Bob squeezing it and smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he whispered. “And you even convinced that young man to stay. And you gave him your chip. That’s the spirit. We’ll get you sober yet.”

“How very kind,” said Gamache.

The president of Alcoholics Anonymous welcomed everyone and asked for a moment of silence, to be followed by the Serenity Prayer.

“God,” they said in unison. “Grant me the serenity—”

“It’s the same prayer,” said Beauvoir under his breath. “The one on the coin.”

“It is,” agreed Gamache.

“What is this? A cult?”

“Praying doesn’t make something a cult,” whispered the Chief.

“Did you get a load of all the smiling and shaking hands? What was that? You can’t tell me these people aren’t into mind-control.”

“Happiness isn’t a cult either,” whispered Gamache, but Beauvoir looked like he didn’t believe it. The Inspector looked around suspiciously.

The room was packed. Filled with men and women of all ages. Some, at the back, shouted out every now and then. Some arguments erupted and were quickly brought under control. The rest smiled as they listened to the president.

They looked, to Beauvoir, demented.

Who could possibly be happy sitting in a disgusting church basement on a Sunday night? Unless they were drunk, stoned, or demented.

“Does he look familiar to you?” Beauvoir indicated the president of AA, one of the few who looked sane.

The Chief had just been wondering the same thing. The man was clean-shaven, handsome. He looked to be in his early sixties. His gray hair was trim, his glasses were both classic and stylish, and he wore a light sweater that looked cashmere.

Casual but expensive.

“A doctor, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.

Gamache considered. Maybe a doctor. More likely a therapist. An addictions counselor who was responsible for this gathering of alcoholics. The Chief wanted to have a word with him when the meeting was over.

The president had just introduced his secretary, who was reading endless announcements, most of which were out-of-date, and trying to find papers she seemed to have lost.

“God,” whispered Beauvoir. “No wonder people drink. This’s about as much fun as drowning.”

“Shhh,” said Bob, and gave Gamache a warning look.

The president introduced the speaker for that evening, mentioning something about “sponsor.” Beside him Beauvoir groaned and looked at his watch. He seemed fidgety.

A young man slouched to the front of the room. His head was shaved and there were tattoos around his skull. One was a hand with the finger up. “Fuck You” was tattooed across his forehead.

His entire face was pierced. Nose, brows, lips, tongue, ears. The Chief didn’t know if it was fashion or self-mutilation.

He glanced at Bob, who was sitting placidly beside him as though his grandfather had just walked to the front of the room.

Absolutely no alarm.

Perhaps, thought Gamache, he had wet-brain. Gone soft in the head by too much drinking and had lost all judgment. All ability to recognize danger. Because if anyone screamed warning, this young man at the front did.

The Chief looked at the president, sitting at the head table, keenly watching the young man. He at least seemed alert. Taking everything in.