A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  Jean Guy Beauvoir got dressed and quietly left the B and B, disappearing into the night.

  * * *

  Why hadn’t he seen it before?

  Beauvoir leaned closer to the screen, shocked by what he saw. He’d watched the video hundreds of times. Over and over. He’d seen it all, every wretched frame, filmed by the cameras on the headgear.

  Then how could he have missed this?

  He hit replay, and watched again. Then hit replay, and watched again.

  There he was, on the screen. Weapon out, aiming at a gunman. Suddenly he was shoved backward. His legs buckled. As Jean Guy watched, he saw himself fall to his knees. Then pitch forward face first onto the floor. He remembered that.

  He could still see the filthy concrete floor rushing toward him. Still see the dirt, as his face smashed into it.

  And then the pain. Indescribable pain. He’d clutched at his abdomen, but the pain was beyond his reach.

  On the screen he heard a shout, “Jean Guy!” And then Gamache, assault rifle in hand, ran across the open factory floor. Grabbing him by the back of the tactical vest, he’d dragged Beauvoir behind a wall.

  And then the intimate close-up. Of Beauvoir drifting in and out of consciousness. Of Gamache speaking to him, commanding him to stay awake. Bandaging him and holding his hand over the wound, to stanch the blood.

  Of seeing the blood on the Chief’s hand. So much blood on his hands.

  And then Gamache had leaned forward. And done something not meant to be seen by anyone else. He’d kissed Jean Guy on the forehead in a gesture so tender it was as shocking as the gunfire.

  Then he left.

  It wasn’t the kiss that stunned Beauvoir. It was what came after. Why hadn’t he ever seen it before? Of course, he’d seen it, but he’d never really recognized it for what it was.

  Gamache had left him.

  Alone.

  To die.

  He’d abandoned him, to die alone on a filthy factory floor.

  Beauvoir hit replay, replay, replay. And in each, of course, the same thing happened.

  Myrna was wrong. He wasn’t upset because he’d failed to save Gamache. He was angry because Gamache had failed to save him.

  And the bottom dropped out from beneath Jean Guy Beauvoir.

  * * *

  Armand Gamache groaned and looked at the clock.

  Three twelve.

  His bed at the B and B was comfortable, the duvet warm around him as the cool night air drifted through the open window, bringing with it the hooting of an owl in the distance.

  He lay in bed, pretending he was about to fall asleep.

  Three eighteen.

  It was rare now for him to wake in the middle of the night, but it still happened.

  Three twenty-two.

  Three twenty-seven.

  Gamache resigned himself to the situation. Getting up, he threw on some clothes and tiptoed downstairs. Putting on his Barbour coat and a cap he left the B and B. The air was fresh and cool and now even the owl was quiet.

  Nothing stirred. Except a homicide detective.

  Gamache walked slowly, counter-clockwise, around the village green. The homes were still and dark. People asleep inside.

  The three tall pines rustled slightly in the breeze.

  Chief Inspector Gamache walked, his pace measured, his hands clasped behind his back. Clearing his mind. Not thinking about the case, trying, in fact, to not think about anything. Trying to just take in the fresh night air and the peace and quiet.

  A few paces past Peter and Clara’s home he stopped and looked over the bridge, to the Incident Room. A light was on. Not bright. Barely even visible.

  It wasn’t so much light he saw at the window as not dark.

  Lacoste? he wondered. Had she found something and returned? Surely she’d wait until morning.

  He walked across the bridge, toward the old railway station.

  Looking through the window he could see that the light was a glow from one of their terminals. Someone was sitting in the dark in front of a computer.

  He couldn’t quite see who. It looked like a man, but it was too far away and the person was in too much shadow.

  Gamache didn’t have a gun. Never carried one, if he could help it. Instead, he’d automatically taken his reading glasses from the bedside table. He never went anywhere without tucking them into his pocket. In his opinion they were far more help, and more powerful, than any gun. Though he had to admit, they didn’t seem all that helpful right now. He briefly considered going back and rousing Beauvoir, but thought better of it. Whoever this was might be gone by then.

  Chief Inspector Gamache tried the door. It was unlocked.

  Slowly, slowly, he opened it. The door creaked and he held his breath, but the figure in front of the screen didn’t move. He seemed transfixed.

  Finally Gamache had the door open enough to enter. Standing just inside he took everything in. Was the intruder alone, or were there more?

  He scanned the dark corners, but saw no movement.

  The Chief took a few more steps into the Incident Room, preparing to confront the person in front of the screen.

  Then he saw what was on the monitor. Images flickered in the dark. Of Sûreté agents carrying automatic weapons, moving through a factory. As Gamache watched he saw Beauvoir hit. Beauvoir fall. And he saw himself racing across the cavernous room to get to him.

  Whoever was at the screen was watching the pirated video. From the back the Chief could see the intruder had short hair and was slender. That much, and only that, Gamache could see.

  More images flashed on the screen. Gamache saw himself bending over Beauvoir. Bandaging him.

  Gamache could barely watch. And yet whoever was sitting in front of it was mesmerized. Unmoving. Until now. Just as the Gamache on the video left Beauvoir, the intruder’s right hand moved, and the picture skipped.

  Back to the beginning.

  And the raid started all over again.

  Gamache edged closer and as he did his vision and his certainty increased. Until finally, with a sick feeling in his stomach, he knew.

  “Jean Guy?”

  Beauvoir almost fell out of the chair. He grabbed for the mouse, madly trying to click. To pause, to stop, to close the images. But it was too late. Way too late.

  “What’re you doing?” Gamache asked, approaching.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re watching the video,” the Chief said.

  “No.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Gamache strode over to his own desk and turned on the lamp. Jean Guy Beauvoir was sitting at his computer, staring at the Chief, his eyes red and bleary.

  “Why’re you here?” asked Gamache.

  Beauvoir got up. “I just needed to look at it again. Our talk yesterday about the internal investigation brought it all back, and I needed to see.”

  And Beauvoir had the satisfaction of seeing the look of both pain and concern in Gamache’s eyes.

  But Jean Guy Beauvoir now knew it was a fake. An act. This man standing there looking so concerned wasn’t at all. He was pretending. If he cared he’d never have left him. To die. Alone.

  Behind him now the video, unseen by either man, had moved on. Past the place Beauvoir had hit replay. Chief Inspector Gamache, in tactical vest and carrying an assault rifle, was racing up a flight of stairs after a gunman.

  “You need to let it go, Jean Guy,” said the Chief.

  “And forget?” snapped Beauvoir. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’d like me to forget, you’d like us all to forget what happened.”

  “Are you all right?” Gamache approached him but Beauvoir backed away. “What’s the matter?”

  “You don’t even care who released the tape. Maybe you wanted it released. Maybe you wanted everyone to see how heroic you were. But we both know the truth.”

  Behind them on the screen dim figures were struggli
ng, scrambling.

  “You recruited every one of us,” said Beauvoir, his voice rising. “You mentored all of us, and then chose to take us into the factory. We followed you, trusted you, and what happened? They died. And now you can’t even be bothered to find out who released the tape of their deaths.” Beauvoir was shouting now, almost screaming. “You don’t believe it was some dumb-ass kid any more than I do. You’re no better than that hacker. You don’t care about us, about any of us.”

  Gamache stared at him, his jaw clamped so tight Beauvoir could see the muscles bunched and taut. Gamache’s eyes narrowed and his breathing became sharp. On the screen the Chief, his face bloody, dragged the unconscious and cuffed gunman down the stairs and threw him at his feet. Then, weapon in hand, he scanned the room as shots rang out in rapid succession.

  “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.

  Gamache had examined the public records of Chief Justice Pineault’s professional life. His rise as a prosecutor, his term as professor of law at the Université Laval. His ascent to the bench. And then to Chief Justice.

  He was widowed with three children and four grandchildren. Three surviving. One not.

  Gamache knew the story. Superintendent Brunel had told him. How the child had been killed by a drunk driver. Gamache wanted to find out who that driver was, and whether it was, as he suspected, Pineault himself.

  What else could have shattered the man so much he’d hit bottom? Stopped drinking? Turned his life around. Had the dead grandchild given Thierry Pineault a second chance at life?

  That could also explain the strange connection between the Chief Justice and young Brian. Both knew what it felt like to hear the soft thud. The hesitation of the car.

  And to know what it was.

  Gamache sat at his desk and tried to imagine what that would be like. Tried to imagine being behind the wheel of his Volvo, knowing what had just happened. Getting out.

  But his mind stopped there. Some things were beyond imagining.

  To clear his mind, Gamache went back to the keyboard and renewed the search for information on the accident. But there was none.

  The door of the open society had slowly swung shut. And locked.

  But in the quiet Incident Room, in the first glow of a new day, Chief Inspector Gamache slipped below the surface of the public face of Québec. The public face of the Chief Justice. Into the place secrets were kept. Or at least, confidences were kept. The private files of public people.

  There he found information about Thierry Pineault’s drinking, his at times erratic behavior, his run-ins with other justices. And then a gap. A three-month leave.

  And his return.

  The private files also showed that systematically, over the past two years, Thierry Pineault had been calling up all his judgments from the bench. And at least one case had been officially reviewed. And reversed.

  And there was another case. Not a Supreme Court case, not one he’d attended, at least not as a judge. But one Chief Justice Pineault had gone back to, over and over and over again. The file described an open-and-shut case, of a child killed by a drunk driver.

  But there was no more information. The file had been locked away, in an area even Gamache couldn’t get to.

  He sat back in his chair and took his glasses off, tapping them rhythmically on his knee.

  * * *

&n
bsp; Agent Isabelle Lacoste wondered if anyone had ever actually died of boredom, or if she would be the first.

  She now knew more than she ever wanted to about the art scene in Québec. The artists, the curators, the shows. The critiques. The themes, the theories, the history.

  Famous Québec artists like Riopelle and Lemieux and Molinari. And a whole lot she hadn’t heard of and never would again. Artists Lillian Dyson had reviewed into obscurity.

  She rubbed her eyes. With each new review she had to remind herself why she was there. Had to remember Lillian Dyson lying on the soft green grass in Peter and Clara’s garden. A woman who would grow no older. A woman who had stopped, there. In the pretty, peaceful garden. Because someone had taken her life.

  Though, after reading all these repulsive reviews Lacoste was tempted to take a club to the woman herself. She felt dirty, as though someone had thrown a pile of merde all over her.

  But someone had killed Lillian Dyson, hideous human being or not, and Lacoste was determined to find out who. The more she read the more she was convinced that someone was hiding here. In the newspaper morgue. In the microfiche. The beginning of this murder was so old it existed only on plastic files seen through a dusty viewer. An outdated technology that recorded a murder. Or at least, the birth of a death. The beginning of an end. An old event still fresh and alive in someone’s mind.

  No, not fresh. It was rotten. Old and rotten, the flesh falling off it.

  And Agent Lacoste knew if she looked long enough, and hard enough, the murderer would be revealed.

  * * *

  For the next hour, as the sun rose and the people rose, Chief Inspector Gamache worked. When he got tired he took off his reading glasses, wiped his face with his hands, leaned back in the chair and looked at the sheets of paper pinned to the walls of the old railway station.

  Sheets of paper with answers to their questions in bold red Magic Marker, like trails of blood, leading to a murderer.

  And he looked at the photographs. Two in particular. The one given him by Mr. and Mrs. Dyson, of Lillian alive. Smiling.