How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 19

“And Madame Landers?” Lacoste asked, as she turned the car toward the Chief’s home in Outremont.

Gamache had been wondering about that too.

“I’ll head down later tonight, and tell her in person.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“Merci, Isabelle, but that isn’t necessary. I might stay over at the B and B. Chief Inspector Brault said he’d send over what files he has. I’d like you to download them tomorrow morning. I’ll find out what I can in Three Pines.”

They didn’t stay long at his home, only long enough for the Chief to pack an overnight bag for himself and Henri. Gamache beckoned the large German shepherd into the backseat of the car and Henri, his satellite ears forward, received this command with delight. He leapt in, then, fearing Gamache might change his mind, immediately curled into as tight a ball as he could manage.

You can’t see me. Yoooou can’t seeeee meeee.

But in his excitement, and having eaten too fast, Henri gave himself away in an all-too-familiar fashion.

In the front seat, both the Chief Inspector and Isabelle Lacoste cracked open their windows, preferring the bitter cold outside to what threatened to melt the upholstery inside.

“Does he do that often?” she gasped.

“It’s a sign of affection, I’m told,” said the Chief, not meeting her eyes. “A compliment.” Gamache paused, turning his head to the window. “A great compliment.”

Isabelle Lacoste smiled. She was used to similar “compliments” from her husband and now their young son. She wondered why the Y chromosome was so smelly.

At Sûreté headquarters, Gamache clipped Henri on the leather leash and the three of them entered the building.

“Hold it, please!” Lacoste called as a man got into the elevator at the far end of the corridor. She walked rapidly toward it, Gamache and Henri a pace behind, then she suddenly slowed. And stopped.

The man in the elevator hit a button. And hit it again. And again.

Lacoste stopped a foot from the elevator. Willing the doors to close so they could take the next one.

But Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t hesitate. He and Henri walked past Lacoste and into the elevator, apparently oblivious to the man with his finger pressed hard against the close button. As the doors began to close Gamache put his arm out to stop them and looked at Lacoste.

“Coming?”

Lacoste stepped inside to join Armand Gamache and Henri. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

Gamache acknowledged his former second in command with a small nod.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir did not return the greeting, preferring to stare straight ahead. If Isabelle Lacoste didn’t already believe in things like energy and vibes when she entered the elevator, she would have when she left. Inspector Beauvoir was throbbing, radiating strong emotion.

But what emotion? She stared at the numbers—2 … 3 … 4—and tried to analyze the waves pounding out of Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

Shame? Embarrassment? She knew she’d certainly be feeling both of those if she was him. But she wasn’t. And she suspected what Beauvoir felt and radiated was baser. Coarser. Simpler.

What poured out of him was rage.

6 … 7 …

Lacoste glanced at Beauvoir’s reflection in the pocked and dented door. She’d barely seen him since he’d transferred out of homicide and into Chief Superintendent Francoeur’s department.

Isabelle Lacoste remembered her mentor as lithe, energetic, frenetic at times. Slender to Gamache’s more robust frame. Rational to the Chief’s intuitive. He was action to Gamache’s contemplation.

Beauvoir liked lists. Gamache liked thoughts, ideas.

Beauvoir liked to question, Gamache liked to listen.

And yet there was a bond between the older man and the younger that seemed to reach through time. They held a natural, almost ancient, place in each other’s lives. Made all the more profound when Jean-Guy Beauvoir fell in love with Annie, the Chief’s daughter.

It had surprised Lacoste slightly that Beauvoir would fall for Annie. She wasn’t anything like Beauvoir’s ex-wife, or the parade of gorgeous Québécoise he’d dated. Annie Gamache chose comfort over fashion. She was neither pretty nor ugly. Not slender, but neither was she fat. Annie Gamache would never be the most attractive woman in the room. She never turned heads.

Until she laughed. And spoke.

To Lacoste’s amazement, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had figured out something many men never got. How very beautiful, how very attractive, happiness was.

Annie Gamache was happy, and Beauvoir fell in love with her.