Frère Bernard frowned as he thought. “Must be difficult for them to work together. Do they have to often?”
“Not often.”
He’d go no further. He certainly wouldn’t tell this monk about the last time Gamache and Francoeur had been thrown together on a case. The raid on the factory. Almost a year ago now. And the disastrous results.
He saw again the Chief gripping the sides of his desk and leaning toward Francoeur in a manner so threatening the Chief Superintendent had paled and stepped back. Beauvoir could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Gamache yell. But he’d yelled that day. Right into Francoeur’s face.
The ferocity of it had frightened even Beauvoir.
And the Chief Superintendent had shouted back.
Gamache had prevailed. But only by stepping back. By apologizing. By begging Francoeur to see reason. Gamache had begged. That was the price he’d paid, to get Francoeur to act.
Beauvoir had never seen the Chief beg before. But he’d done it that day.
Gamache and Francoeur had barely spoken since. Perhaps a word at the state funeral for the officers killed in that raid on the factory, though Beauvoir doubted it. And maybe something at the ceremony, when Francoeur had pinned a medal of bravery on Gamache’s chest. Against Gamache’s wishes.
But Francoeur had insisted. Knowing that to the rest of the world it would appear he was rewarding the Chief Inspector. But the two men, privately, knew the truth.
Beauvoir had been in the audience for that ceremony. Had seen his Chief’s face when the medal had been placed on his chest. It might as well have pierced his heart.
It was the right deed. For the wrong reason.
Beauvoir knew his Chief deserved that medal, but Francoeur had done it to humiliate. Publicly rewarding Gamache for an action that had left so many Sûreté agents dead and wounded. Francoeur had given it to him not as recognition for all the lives Gamache had saved that terrible day, but as an accusation. A permanent reminder. Of all the young lives lost.
Beauvoir could have killed Francoeur at that moment.
Again he felt a clawing in the pit of his stomach. Something was trying to rip its way out. He wanted desperately to change the subject. To wipe away the memories. Of the ceremony, but mostly of that horrific day. In the factory.
When one of the lives lost had almost been his own.
When one of the lives lost had almost been the Chief’s.
Beauvoir thought about the tiny pills the size of wild blueberries. The ones still hidden in his apartment. And the burst they brought. Not of musky flavor, but of blessed oblivion.
Numbing what hid in Beauvoir’s secret room.
He hadn’t had an OxyContin or a Percocet in months, not since the Chief had confronted him. Taken the pills away. Gotten him help.
He might make a good Gilbertine after all. Like them, he lived in fear. Not of what would come at him from the outside, but what was patiently lying in wait inside his own walls.
“Are you all right?”
Beauvoir followed the soft voice back. Like candies along a path. Leading him out of the forest.
“Can I help?”
Frère Bernard had put out his rough hand and was touching Beauvoir’s arm.
“No, I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.”
The monk continued to examine his companion. Far from convinced he was hearing the truth.
Beauvoir scrambled around in his memory, picking up bits and pieces, desperate to find something useful. The case. The case. The prior. The murder. The scene. The garden.
The garden.
“We were talking about the abbot’s garden,” said Beauvoir. His voice was gruff, not inviting any more confidences. He’d already gone too far.
“Were we?” asked Frère Bernard.
“You said everyone knows about it. But you haven’t actually been in the garden yourself.”
“That’s right.”
“Who had?”
“Anyone Dom Philippe invited.”
Beauvoir realized he wasn’t listening as closely as he should. He was still distracted by his memories, and the feelings they awakened.
Had there been resentment in Frère Bernard’s voice just now?
Beauvoir didn’t think so, but with his attention frayed he couldn’t be sure. And again he cursed Francoeur. For being where he wasn’t wanted. In the monastery. And in Beauvoir’s head. Rattling around in there. Poking awake things better left sleeping.
He remembered what one of his counselors had advised when he felt anxious.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
