“Don’t you ever say that again,” Gamache rasped through a mouth barely open.
“You’re no better than the hacker,” Beauvoir repeated, leaning into his Chief, enunciating each word. Feeling reckless and powerful and invincible. He wanted to hurt. Wanted to push him, push him. Away. Wanted to close his hands tight into cannonballs and pound Gamache’s chest. Hit him. Hurt him. Punish him.
“You’ve gone too far.” Gamache’s voice was low with warning. Beauvoir saw the Chief close his hands tight against the tremor of rage.
“And you haven’t gone far enough. Sir.”
On the screen the Chief Inspector turned quickly but too late. His head snapped back, his arms opened wide, his gun was thrown. His back arched as Gamache was lifted off his feet.
Then he hit the floor. Deeply, gravely wounded.
* * *
Armand Gamache slumped into his chair. His legs weak, his hand trembling.
Beauvoir had left, the slammed door still echoing through the Incident Room.
From Beauvoir’s monitor Gamache could hear the video though he couldn’t see it. He could hear his people calling each other. Hear Lacoste calling for medics. Hear shouts and gunfire.
He didn’t have to see it. He knew. Each and every young agent. Knew when and how they’d died in that raid he’d led.
The Chief Inspector continued to stare ahead. Breathing deeply. Hearing the gunfire behind him. Hearing the cries for help.
Hearing them die.
He’d spent the past six months trying to get beyond this. He knew he had to let them go. And he was trying. And it was happening, slowly. But he hadn’t realized how long it took to bury four healthy young men and women.
Behind him the gunshots and shouts moved in and out. He recognized voices now gone.
He’d come close, so close it shocked him, to striking Jean Guy.
Gamache had been angry before. Had certainly been taunted and tested. By yellow journalists, by suspects, by defense lawyers and even colleagues. But he’d rarely come this close to actually lashing out physically.
He’d pulled himself back. But with an effort so great it left him winded and exhausted. And hurt.
He knew that. Knew the reason suspects and even colleagues, while frustrating and maddening, hadn’t brought him this close to physical violence was because they couldn’t hurt him deeply.
But someone he cared about could. And did.
You’re no better than the hacker.
Was that true?
Of course it wasn’t, thought Gamache, impatiently. That was just Beauvoir lashing out.
But that didn’t make him wrong.
Gamache sighed again, feeling as though he couldn’t quite get enough air.
Perhaps he should tell Beauvoir he was in fact investigating the leak. Should trust him. But it wasn’t an issue of trust. It was one of protection. He wouldn’t expose Beauvoir to this. If he’d ever been tempted, the events of the last quarter hour cured Gamache of that. Beauvoir was too vulnerable, too wounded still. Whoever had leaked the video was both powerful and vindictive. And Beauvoir, in his weakened condition, was no match for that.
No, this was a task for those who were expendable. In their careers and otherwise.
Gamache got up and went to turn the computer off. The video had restarted and before the Chief could turn it off he saw again Jean Guy Beauvoir gunned down. Falling. Hitting the concrete floor.
Until this moment Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t realized that Jean Guy Beauvoir never really got up.
TWENTY-FOUR
Chief Inspector Gamache made himself a pot of coffee and settled in.
It was no use trying to get back to sleep now. He looked at the clock on his desk. Four forty-three. Not all that long until he’d get up anyway. Really.
Placing his mug on a stack of paper he tapped the keyboard. Waited for the information to come up, then tapped some more. He clicked and scrolled. Read. And read some more.
The glasses had proved useful after all. He wondered what he might have done had he had a gun. But that didn’t bear thinking of.
Gamache tapped and read. And read some more.
It had proven easy to get the broad strokes of Chief Justice Thierry Pineault’s life. Canadians enjoyed an open society. Trumpeted it. Reveled in being the very model of transparency, where decisions were made in full view. Where public and powerful figures were accountable and their lives open to examination.
Such was the conceit.
And, like most open societies, few bothered to test the limits, to see where and when open became closed. But there was always a limit. Chief Inspector Gamache had found it a few minutes earlier.
