Isabelle Lacoste admired that in him. In fact, she admired many things about her mentor, but what she most admired were his passion for the job and his unquestioned loyalty to Chief Inspector Gamache.
Until a few months ago. Though, if she was being honest, fissures had begun to appear before that.
Now she shifted her glance to Gamache’s reflection. He seemed relaxed, holding Henri’s leash loosely in his hands. She noticed the scar at his graying temple.
Nothing had been the same since the day that had happened. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But it had taken Lacoste a while to realize just how much everything had changed.
She was standing in the ruins now, amid the rubble, and most of it had fallen from Beauvoir. His clean-shaven face was sallow, haggard. He looked much older than his thirty-eight years. Not simply tired, or even exhausted, but hollowed out. And into that hole he’d placed, for safekeeping, the last thing he possessed. His rage.
9 … 10 …
The faint hope she’d held, that the Chief and Inspector Beauvoir were just pretending to this rift, vanished. There was no harbor. No hope. No doubt.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir despised Armand Gamache.
This wasn’t an act.
Isabelle Lacoste wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t been in the elevator with them. Two armed men. And one with the advantage, if it could be called that, of near bottomless rage.
Here was a man with a gun and nothing more to lose.
If Jean-Guy Beauvoir loathed Gamache, Lacoste wondered how the Chief felt.
She studied him again in the scratched and dented elevator door. He seemed perfectly at ease.
Henri chose, if such a thing is a choice, to hand out another great compliment at that moment. Lacoste brought her hand to her face, in an involuntary survival instinct.
The dog, oblivious to the curdled air, looked around, his tags clinking cheerily together. His huge brown eyes glanced up at the man beside him. Not the one who held his leash. But the other man.
A familiar man.
14 … 15.
The elevator stopped and the door opened, bringing with it oxygen. Isabelle wondered if she’d have to burn her clothes.
Gamache held it open for Lacoste and she left as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of that stink, only part of which could be blamed on Henri. But before Gamache could step out, Henri turned to Beauvoir, and licked his hand.
Beauvoir pulled it back, as though scalded.
The German shepherd followed the Chief from the elevator. And the doors closed behind them. As the three walked toward the glass doors into the homicide division, Lacoste noticed that the hand that held the leash trembled.
It was slight, but it was there.
And Lacoste realized that Gamache had perfect control over Henri, if not Henri’s bowels. He could have held the leash tight, preventing the German shepherd from getting anywhere close to Beauvoir.
But Gamache hadn’t. He’d allowed the lick. Allowed the small kiss.
* * *
The elevator reached the top floor of Sûreté headquarters and the doors clunked open to reveal a couple of men standing in the corridor.
“Holy shit, Beauvoir, what a stink.” One of them scowled.
“It wasn’t me.” Beauvoir could feel Henri’s lick, moist and warm on his hand.
“Right,” said the man, and caught the eye of the other agent.
“Fuck you,” Beauvoir mumbled as he pushed between them and into the office.
* * *
Chief Inspector Gamache looked at his homicide department. Where busy agents would once have sat into the night, the desks were now empty.
He wished the tranquillity was because all the murders had been solved. Or, better yet, there were no more murders. No more pain so great it made a person take a life. Someone else’s, or his own.
Like Constance Ouellet. Like the body below the bridge. Like he’d felt in the elevator just now.
But Armand Gamache was a realist, and knew the long list of homicides would only grow. What had diminished was his capacity to solve them.
* * *
Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn’t get up. Didn’t look up. He ignored Beauvoir and the others as they took seats in his large private office.
Beauvoir was used to that now. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was the most senior cop in Québec and he looked it. Distinguished, with gray hair and a confident bearing, he exuded authority. This was a man not to be trifled with. Chief Superintendent Francoeur associated with the Premier, had meals with the Public Security Minister. He was on a first-name basis with the Cardinal of Québec.
