And Armand Gamache believed him. This sticky, disheveled little man would save his life, if he could.
“Merci,” said Gamache, and meant it.
Behind him a gavel hit wood with several sharp raps. Gamache turned and saw a distinguished older man sitting at the front of the room at a long table, an older woman beside him.
“Meeting’s started,” whispered Bob.
Gamache turned back and saw Beauvoir trying to catch his eye, waving him to an empty seat beside him. Vacated, presumably, by Jim, who was now sitting across the room with someone else. Perhaps he’d given up on Beauvoir as a hopeless case, thought Gamache, smiling and making his way past others to take the empty seat.
Bob had stuck with him and was now sitting on Gamache’s other side.
“How the mighty have fallen,” Gamache leaned over and whispered to Beauvoir. “Last night you were the art critic for Le Monde and now you’re a drunk.”
“I’m in good company,” said Beauvoir. “I see you’ve made a friend.”
Beauvoir and Bob smiled and nodded to each other across Gamache.
“I need to speak to you, sir,” whispered Beauvoir.
“After the meeting,” said Gamache.
“We have to stay?” asked Jean Guy, crestfallen.
“You don’t have to,” said Gamache. “But I’m going to.”
“I’ll stay,” said Beauvoir.
Chief Inspector Gamache nodded, and handed the beginner’s chip over to Beauvoir, who examined it and raised his brow.
Gamache felt a slight pressure on his right arm and looked over to see Bob squeezing it and smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he whispered. “And you even convinced that young man to stay. And you gave him your chip. That’s the spirit. We’ll get you sober yet.”
“How very kind,” said Gamache.
The president of Alcoholics Anonymous welcomed everyone and asked for a moment of silence, to be followed by the Serenity Prayer.
“God,” they said in unison. “Grant me the serenity—”
“It’s the same prayer,” said Beauvoir under his breath. “The one on the coin.”
“It is,” agreed Gamache.
“What is this? A cult?”
“Praying doesn’t make something a cult,” whispered the Chief.
“Did you get a load of all the smiling and shaking hands? What was that? You can’t tell me these people aren’t into mind-control.”
“Happiness isn’t a cult either,” whispered Gamache, but Beauvoir looked like he didn’t believe it. The Inspector looked around suspiciously.
The room was packed. Filled with men and women of all ages. Some, at the back, shouted out every now and then. Some arguments erupted and were quickly brought under control. The rest smiled as they listened to the president.
They looked, to Beauvoir, demented.
Who could possibly be happy sitting in a disgusting church basement on a Sunday night? Unless they were drunk, stoned, or demented.
“Does he look familiar to you?” Beauvoir indicated the president of AA, one of the few who looked sane.
The Chief had just been wondering the same thing. The man was clean-shaven, handsome. He looked to be in his early sixties. His gray hair was trim, his glasses were both classic and stylish, and he wore a light sweater that looked cashmere.
Casual but expensive.
“A doctor, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.
Gamache considered. Maybe a doctor. More likely a therapist. An addictions counselor who was responsible for this gathering of alcoholics. The Chief wanted to have a word with him when the meeting was over.
The president had just introduced his secretary, who was reading endless announcements, most of which were out-of-date, and trying to find papers she seemed to have lost.
“God,” whispered Beauvoir. “No wonder people drink. This’s about as much fun as drowning.”
“Shhh,” said Bob, and gave Gamache a warning look.
The president introduced the speaker for that evening, mentioning something about “sponsor.” Beside him Beauvoir groaned and looked at his watch. He seemed fidgety.
A young man slouched to the front of the room. His head was shaved and there were tattoos around his skull. One was a hand with the finger up. “Fuck You” was tattooed across his forehead.
His entire face was pierced. Nose, brows, lips, tongue, ears. The Chief didn’t know if it was fashion or self-mutilation.
He glanced at Bob, who was sitting placidly beside him as though his grandfather had just walked to the front of the room.
Absolutely no alarm.
Perhaps, thought Gamache, he had wet-brain. Gone soft in the head by too much drinking and had lost all judgment. All ability to recognize danger. Because if anyone screamed warning, this young man at the front did.
The Chief looked at the president, sitting at the head table, keenly watching the young man. He at least seemed alert. Taking everything in.
And he would, thought Gamache, if he was sponsoring this boy who looked capable of doing anything.
“My name’s Brian and I’m an alcoholic and addict.”
“Hi, Brian,” they all said. Except Gamache and Beauvoir.
Brian spoke for thirty minutes. He told them about growing up in Griffintown, below the tracks in Montréal. Born to a crack-addicted mother and a meth-addicted grandmother. No father. The gang became his father, his brothers, his teachers.
His talk was littered with swear words.
He told them about robbing pharmacies, about robbing homes, about even breaking into his own home one night. And robbing it.
The room erupted into laughter. Indeed, people laughed all the way through. When Brian told them about being in the psych ward and having his doctor ask how much he drank, and he told him a beer a day, the place went hysterical with laughter.
Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged looks. Even the president was amused.
Brian had been given shock treatment, had slept on park benches, had woken up one day and found himself in Denver. He still couldn’t explain that one.
More hilarity.
Brian had run a child down with a stolen car.
And fled the scene.
Brian had been fourteen. The child had died. As did the laughter.
“And even then I didn’t stop drinking and using,” admitted Brian. “It was the kid’s fault. The mother’s fault. But it wasn’t my fault.”
There was silence in the room.
“But finally there weren’t enough fucking drugs in the world to make me forget what I’d done,” he said.
There was complete silence now.
Brian looked at the president, who held the young man’s stare, then nodded slightly.
“Do you know what finally brought me to my knees?” Brian asked the gathering.
No one answered.
“I wish I could say it was guilt, or a conscience, but it wasn’t. It was loneliness.”
Beside Gamache, Bob nodded. People in front nodded, slowly. As though bowing their heads under a great weight. And lifting them again.
“I was so fucking lonely. All of my life.”
He lowered his head, showing a huge black swastika tattooed there.
Then he lifted it again and looked at all of them. Looked straight at Gamache, before his gaze moved on.
They were sad eyes. But there was something else there. A gleam. Of madness? Gamache wondered.
“But no more,” said Brian. “All my life I looked for a family. Who’d have thought it’d be you fuckers?”
The place burst into uproarious laughter. With the exception of Gamache and Beauvoir. Then Brian stopped laughing, and he looked out at the crowd.
“This is where I belong.” He spoke quietly. “In a shit-hole church basement. With you.”
He bowed slightly, awkwardly, and for a moment he looked like the boy he really was, or could have been. Young, barely twenty. Shy, handsome. Even with the scarring of tattoos and piercing and l
oneliness.
There was applause. Finally the president stood and picked up a coin from his desk. Holding it up, he spoke.
“This is a beginner’s chip. It has a camel on one side because if a camel can go twenty-four hours without a drink, so can you. We can show you how to stop drinking, one day at a time. Are there any newcomers here who’d like to take one?”
He held it up, as though it was a host, a magic wafer.
And he looked directly at Armand Gamache.
In that instant Gamache knew exactly who the man running the meeting was, and why he looked so familiar. This man wasn’t a therapist or a doctor. He was Chief Justice Thierry Pineault, of the Québec Supreme Court.
And Mr. Justice Pineault had obviously recognized him.
Eventually Mr. Justice Pineault put the coin down and the meeting was over.
“Would you like to go for coffee?” Bob asked. “A few of us go to Tim Hortons after the meeting. You’re welcome to join us.”
“I might see you there,” said Gamache. “Thank you. I just need to speak with him.” Gamache indicated the president and they shook hands good-bye.
The president looked up from his papers as they arrived at the long desk.
“Armand.” He stood and met Gamache’s eyes. “Welcome.”
“Merci, Monsieur le Justice.”
The Chief Justice smiled and leaned forward. “This is anonymous, Armand. You might have heard.”
“Including you? But you run the meeting for the alcoholics. They must know who you are.”
Now Mr. Justice Pineault laughed and came around from behind the desk. “My name is Thierry, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Gamache raised his brow. “I thought—”
“That I was in charge? The sober guy leading the drunks?”
“Well, the one responsible for the meeting,” said Gamache.
“We’re all responsible,” said Thierry.
The Chief Inspector glanced over to a man arguing with his chair.
“To varying degrees,” admitted Thierry. “We take turns running the meetings. A few people here know what I do for a living, but most know me as plain old Thierry P.”
But Gamache knew the jurist and knew there was nothing “plain old” about him.
Thierry turned his attention to Beauvoir. “I’ve seen you in the courthouse too.”
“Jean Guy Beauvoir,” said Beauvoir. “I’m an inspector in homicide.”
“Of course. I should have recognized you sooner. I just didn’t expect to see you here. But then, obviously you didn’t expect to see me either. What brings you here?”
He looked from Beauvoir to Gamache.
“A case,” said Gamache. “Can we speak in private?”
“Absolutely. Come with me.”
Thierry led them through a rear door then down a series of corridors, each dingier than the last. Finally they found themselves in a back stairwell. Mr. Chief Justice Pineault indicated a step as though inviting them into an opera stall, then he took one himself.
“Here?” asked Beauvoir.
“It’s about as private as this place gets I’m afraid. Now, what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the murder of a woman in a village in the Eastern Townships,” said Gamache, sitting on the filthy step beside the Chief Justice. “A place called Three Pines.”
“I know it,” said Thierry. “Wonderful bistro and bookstore.”
“That’s right.” Gamache was a little taken aback. “How do you know Three Pines?”
“We have a country place close by. In Knowlton.”
“Well, the woman who was killed lived in Montréal but was visiting the village. We found this near her body,” Gamache handed Thierry the beginner’s chip, “and this was in her apartment, along with a number of pamphlets.” He gave Thierry the meeting list. “This meeting was circled.”
“Who was she?” asked Thierry, looking at the meeting list and coin.
“Lillian Dyson.”
Thierry looked up, into Gamache’s deep brown eyes. “Are you serious?”
“You knew her.”
Thierry P. nodded. “I wondered why she wasn’t here tonight. She normally is.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Oh, I’d have to think. A few months anyway. Not more than a year.” Thierry trained sharp eyes on Gamache. “She was murdered, I take it.”
Gamache nodded. “Her neck was broken.”
“Not a fall? An accident?”
“Definitely not,” said Gamache. He could see that “plain old” Thierry P. had disappeared and the man sitting beside him on the dirty steps was the Chief Justice of Québec.
“Any suspects?”
“About two hundred. There was a party to celebrate an art show.”
Thierry nodded. “You know, of course, that Lillian was an artist.”
“I do. How do you know?”
Gamache found himself on guard. This man, while being the Chief Justice, also knew both the victim and the tiny village where she died.
“She talked about it.”
“But I thought this was anonymous,” said Beauvoir.
Thierry smiled. “Well, some people have bigger mouths than others. Lillian and her sponsor are both artists. I’d hear them talking over coffee. After a while you get to know each other personally. Not just in shares.”
“Shares?” Beauvoir asked. “Share of what?”
“Sorry. That’s AA speak. A share is what you heard from Brian tonight. It’s a speech, but we don’t like to call it that. Makes it sound too much like a performance. So we call it sharing.”
Chief Justice Pineault’s clever eyes picked up Beauvoir’s expression. “You find that funny?”
“No sir,” said Beauvoir quickly. But they all knew it was a lie. He found it both funny and pathetic.
“I did too,” Thierry admitted. “Before I joined AA. Thought words like ‘sharing’ were laughable. A crutch for stupid people. But I was wrong. It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. In our AA shares we need to be completely and brutally honest. It’s very painful. Like what Brian did tonight.”
“Why do it if it’s so painful?” asked Beauvoir.
“Because it’s also freeing. No one can hurt us, if we’re willing to admit our flaws, our secrets. Very powerful.”
“You tell people your secrets?” asked Gamache.
Thierry nodded. “Not everyone. We don’t take an ad out in the Gazette. But we tell people in AA.”
“And that gets you sober?” asked Beauvoir.
“It helps.”
“But some stuff’s pretty bad,” said Beauvoir. “The Brian fellow killed a kid. We could arrest him.”
“You could, but he’s already been arrested. Turned himself in actually. Served five years. Came out about three years ago. He’s faced his demons. Doesn’t mean they don’t pop up again.” Thierry Pineault turned to the Chief Inspector. “As you know.” Gamache held his eyes and said nothing. “But they have far less power, if they’re in the light. That’s what this is about, Inspector. Bringing all the terrible stuff up from where it’s hiding.”
“Just because you can see it,” Beauvoir persisted, “doesn’t make it go away.”
“True, but until you see it you haven’t a hope.”
“Had Lillian shared recently?” Gamache asked.
“Never, as far as I know.”
“So no one knew her secrets?” asked the Chief.
“Only her sponsor.”
“Like you and Brian?” asked Gamache, and Thierry nodded.
“We choose one person in AA, and that person becomes a sort of mentor, a guide. We call it a sponsor. I have one, and Lillian has one. We all have one.”
“And you tell that sponsor everything?” Gamache asked.
“Everything.”
“Who was Lillian’s sponsor?”
“A woman named Suzanne.”
The two investigators waited for more. Like a last name
. But Thierry simply looked at them, waiting for the next question.
“I wonder if you can be more specific?” asked Gamache. “Suzanne in Montréal isn’t very helpful.”
Thierry smiled. “I suppose not. I can’t tell you her last name, but I can do better. I’ll introduce you to her.”
“Parfait,” said Gamache, getting up. He tried not to notice that his slacks clung slightly to the stair as he rose.
“But we need to hurry,” said Thierry, walking ahead, his strides long and rapid, almost breaking into a jog. “She might’ve left by now.”
The men walked quickly back through the corridors. Then they broke into the large room where the meeting was held. But it was empty. Not just of people, but of chairs and tables and books and coffee. Everything was gone.
“Damn,” said Thierry. “We’ve missed her.”
A man was putting mugs away in a cupboard and Thierry spoke with him then returned. “He says Suzanne’s at Tim Hortons.”
“Would you mind?” Gamache indicated the door and Thierry again took the lead, walking with them over to the coffee shop. As they waited for a break in traffic to dart across rue Sherbrooke Gamache asked, “What did you think of Lillian?”
Thierry turned to examine Gamache. It was a look Gamache knew from seeing him on the bench. Judging others. And he was a good judge.
Then Thierry turned back to watch the traffic, but as he did so he spoke.
“She was very enthusiastic, always happy to help. She often volunteered to make coffee or set up the chairs and tables. It’s a big job getting a meeting ready, then cleaning up after. Not everyone wants to help, but Lillian always did.”
The three men, seeing the hole between cars at the same time, ran across the four-lane street together, making it safely to the other side.
Thierry paused, turning to look at Gamache.
“It’s so sad, you know. She was getting her life back together. Everyone liked her. I liked her.”
“This woman?” asked Beauvoir, taking the photo from his pocket, his amazement obvious. “Lillian Dyson?”
Thierry looked at it and nodded. “That’s Lillian. Tragic.”
A Trick of the Light cig-7 Page 19
