The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)

The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8) Page 160

“We need to talk, Sylvain,” said Gamache.

Francoeur backed away, up the steps and onto the altar. “Now’s not the time, Armand. The plane will be arriving any moment.”

“Now is the time.” Gamache kept walking forward, his eyes never straying from Francoeur. In his hand he held a handkerchief.

As his long, steady strides brought him closer to the Superintendent, Gamache opened his fist to reveal a pill bottle.

The Superintendent turned to run but Gamache was faster, and caught him against the choir stall. The monks scattered. Only the Dominican stood his ground. But said and did nothing.

Gamache put his face against Francoeur’s.

“You could’ve killed him,” Gamache snarled. “You almost killed him. How can you do this to one of your own?”

Gamache had Francoeur’s shirt in his fist, yanking it. He felt the man’s warm breath on his face, in short, terrified puffs.

And Gamache knew. Just a little more pressure. Just a few moments more, and this problem would disappear. This man would disappear. One more twist.

And who would blame him?

In that instant, Gamache let go. And stepped back, glaring at the Superintendent. Gamache’s breathing was shallow, rapid. With an effort he brought himself under control.

“You’re fucked, Gamache,” said Francoeur in a hoarse whisper.

“What’s happened?”

Both men turned to see Jean-Guy Beauvoir clutching the back of a pew, staring at them. His face pale and shiny.

“Nothing,” said Gamache, straightening his disheveled jacket. “The boat must be here. We’ll pack up and leave.”

Gamache stepped off the altar and made for the door back to the prior’s office. Then he noticed he was alone. He turned.

Francoeur hadn’t moved. But neither had Beauvoir.

Gamache walked back down the aisle slowly, looking at Beauvoir the whole time.

“Did you hear me, Jean-Guy?” he asked. “We need to get going.”

“Inspector Beauvoir is, I believe, of two minds,” said Francoeur, straightening his clothes.

“You suspended me,” said Beauvoir. “I don’t need rehab. If I go with you, promise you won’t take me.”

“I can’t do that,” said Gamache, holding Jean-Guy’s bloodshot eyes. “You need help.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Francoeur. “There’s nothing wrong with you. What you need is a decent boss who doesn’t treat you like a child. You think you’re in trouble now. Wait ’til he finds out about you and Annie.”

Beauvoir spun around to Francoeur. Then back to Gamache.

“We already know about you and Annie,” said the Chief. His eyes hadn’t left Jean-Guy. “Have for months.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” asked Francoeur. “Are you ashamed? Hoping it’ll be short lived? That your daughter’ll come to her senses? Maybe that’s why he wants to humiliate you, Inspector Beauvoir. Maybe that’s why he’s suspended you and wants to ship you off to rehab. In one coup-de-grâce he’ll end your career, and your relationship. Do you think she’ll want an addict for a husband?”

“We respected your privacy.” Gamache ignored Francoeur and continued to speak only to Beauvoir. “We knew you’d tell us when you were ready. We couldn’t be happier. For both of you.”

“He’s not happy,” said Francoeur. “Look at him. You can see it in his face.”

Gamache took a cautious step forward as though approaching a skittish deer.

“Yes, look at me, Jean-Guy. I knew about you and Annie because of the lilacs. The flowers we picked together and you gave her. Remember?”

His voice was gentle. Kindly.

Gamache offered his right hand to Beauvoir. A helping hand. Jean-Guy saw the slight quiver in the familiar hand.

“Come back with me,” said Gamache.

There was complete silence in the Blessed Chapel.

“He left you to die on the factory floor,” the reasonable voice floated toward them. “He went to help the others, and left you. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t even like you. And he sure doesn’t respect you. If he did he’d never suspend you. He wants to humiliate you. Castrate you. Give him back his weapon, Armand. And his warrant card.”

But Gamache didn’t move. His hand remained outstretched toward Beauvoir. His eyes resting on the young man.

“Chief Superintendent Francoeur read your files. The ones from your therapy,” said Gamache. “That’s how he knows about your relationships. That’s how he knows all about you. Everything you thought was confidential, everything you told the therapist, Francoeur knows. He’s using that to manipulate you.”