The last words barely made it from Beauvoir’s mouth. His throat had constricted and they just scraped by. Beauvoir stood up, his thin body shaking.
“I tried…” Gamache began.
“You left me. You left me to die in that factory.”
Gamache opened his mouth to speak. But what could he say? That he’d saved Beauvoir? Dragged him to safety. Staunched his wound. Called for help.
That it wasn’t his fault?
As long as Armand Gamache lived he’d see not Jean-Guy’s wound, but his face. The terror in those eyes. So afraid of dying. So suddenly. So unexpectedly. Pleading with Gamache to at least not let him die alone. Begging him to stay.
He’d clung to Gamache’s hands, and to this day Gamache could feel them, sticky and warm. Jean-Guy had said nothing, but his eyes had shrieked.
Armand had kissed Jean-Guy on the forehead, and smoothed his bedraggled hair. And whispered in his ear. And left. To help the others. He was their leader. Had led them into what proved to be an ambush. He couldn’t stay behind with one fallen agent, no matter how beloved.
He’d been shot down himself. Almost died. Had looked up to see Isabelle Lacoste. She’d held his eyes, and his hand, and heard him whisper. Reine-Marie.
She hadn’t left him. He’d known the unspeakable comfort of not being alone in the final moments. And he’d known then the unspeakable loneliness Beauvoir must have felt.
Armand Gamache knew he’d changed. A different man was lifted from the concrete floor than had hit it. But he also knew that Jean-Guy Beauvoir had never really gotten up. He was tethered to that bloody factory floor, by pain and painkillers, by addiction and cruelty and the bondage of despair.
Gamache looked into those eyes again.
They were empty now. Even the anger seemed just an exercise, an echo. Not really felt anymore. Twilight eyes.
“Come with me now,” said Gamache. “Let me get you help. It’s not too late. Please.”
“Annie kicked me out because you told her to.”
“You know her, Jean-Guy. Better than I ever will or could. You know she can’t be made to do anything. It almost killed her, but what she did was an act of love. She sent you away because she wanted you to get help for your addiction.”
“They’re painkillers,” Beauvoir snapped. This too was an old argument. A grim dance between the men. “Prescription.”
“And these?” Gamache leaned forward and took the anti-anxiety pills from Beauvoir’s desk.
“They’re mine.” Beauvoir slapped the bottle out of Gamache’s hand and the pills fell to the desk, scattering. “You’ve taken everything from me and left me with these.” In one fluid gesture, Jean-Guy picked up the pill bottle and threw it at the Chief. “That’s it. All I have left. And now you want to take them too.”
Beauvoir was emaciated, trembling. But he faced the larger man.
“Did you know the other agents used to call me your bitch, because I scurried around after you?”
“They never called you that. You had their complete respect.”
“Had. Had. But not anymore?” Beauvoir demanded. “I was your bitch. I kissed your ass and your ring. I was a laughingstock. And after the raid, you told everyone I was a coward—”
“Never!”
“—told them I was broken. Was useless—”
“Never!”
“Sent me to a shrink, then to rehab, like I was some fucking weakling. You humiliated me.”
As he spoke, he shoved Gamache back. With each statement he pushed. Then pushed again. Until the Chief Inspector’s back hit the thin wall of Beauvoir’s office.
And when there was nowhere else to go, not forward, not back, Jean-Guy Beauvoir reached under the Chief’s jacket and took his gun.
And the Chief Inspector, though he could have stopped him, did nothing.
“You left me to die, then made me a joke.”
Gamache felt the muzzle of the Glock in his abdomen and took a sharp breath as it pressed deeper.
“I suspended you.” His voice was strangled. “I ordered you back to rehab, to help you.”
“Annie left me,” said Beauvoir, his eyes watering now.
“She loves you, but couldn’t live with an addict. You’re an addict, Jean-Guy.”
As the Chief spoke, Jean-Guy leaned in further, shoving the gun deeper into Gamache’s abdomen, so that he could barely breathe. But still he didn’t fight back.
“She loves you,” he repeated, his voice a rasp. “You have to get help.”
