“He’s being manipulated,” said Gamache.
“By the same senior officer?”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m also a senior officer, with decades of investigative experience. I’m not some delusional nutcase. I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you, and I need to see his files. I need to see what he’s told you.”
“Listen.” Dr. Fleury’s voice was straining, trying to get back to calm, to be reasonable. But he was finding it difficult. “You have to let Jean-Guy live his own life. You can’t protect him. He has his own road and you have yours.”
Gamache shook his head and looked at his hands in his lap. One still, the other still trembling. He raised his eyes to meet Fleury’s.
“That would make sense in normal circumstances, but Jean-Guy isn’t himself. He’s being influenced and manipulated. And he’s addicted again.”
“To his painkillers?”
Gamache nodded. “Superintendent—”
He stopped himself. Across from him Dr. Fleury was leaning forward slightly. This was the closest Gamache had come to naming his so-called adversary.
“The senior officer,” said Gamache. “He’s pushed OxyContin on him. I know it. And Beauvoir’s working with him now. I think he’s trying to shove Jean-Guy over the edge.”
“Why?”
“To get at me.”
Dr. Fleury let the words sit there. To speak for themselves. About this man’s paranoia and arrogance. His delusions.
“I’m worried about you, Armand. You say Inspector Beauvoir is being pushed over the edge, but so are you. And you’re doing it to yourself. If you’re not careful, I’ll have to recommend you go on leave.”
He looked at the gun attached to Gamache’s belt.
“When did you start carrying that?”
“It’s regulation issue.”
“That wasn’t my question. When you first came to me you made it clear how you felt about firearms. You said you never wore one unless you felt you might use it. So why are you wearing it now?”
Gamache’s eyes narrowed and he got up.
“I can see it was a mistake coming here. I wanted to know about Inspector Beauvoir.”
Gamache walked to the door.
“Worry about yourself,” Dr. Fleury called after him. “Not Beauvoir.”
Armand Gamache left the office, strode back down the corridor, and punched the down button. When the elevator arrived he got in. Breathing deeply, he leaned against the back wall and closed his eyes.
Once outside, he felt the bracing air against his cheeks and narrowed his eyes against the bright sunshine.
“Noel, noel,” the small chorus on the corner sang. “Noooo-e-el, nooo-eee-elll.”
The Chief walked back to headquarters, taking his time. His gloved hands held each other behind his back. The sound of Christmas carols in his ears.
And as he walked, he hummed. He’d done what he went there to do.
* * *
At Sûreté headquarters Chief Inspector Gamache pressed the up button, but when the elevator came he didn’t get into it. By the time the elevator door closed, Gamache was in the stairwell. Walking down.
He could have taken the elevator, but he couldn’t risk being seen descending so low.
Beyond the basement, beyond the sub-basement, below the parking garage, into an area of flickering fluorescent lights. Of cinder-block walls and metal doors. And a constant throb from the lights, and the boilers, heaters, air conditioners. The whir of hydraulics.
This was the physical plant. A place of machines and maintenance crews.
And one agent.
All the way in to Montréal, Gamache had thought about his next move. He’d weighed the consequences of visiting Dr. Fleury, and visiting this agent. He’d considered what would happen if he did. What would happen if he didn’t.
What was the best he could expect?
What was the worst?
And, finally, what was the alternative? What choice did he have?
And when he’d answered those questions, and made up his mind, Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t hesitate. At the door, he gave a sharp rap, then opened it.
The young agent, her pale face a soft green from the bank of monitors around her, turned. He could see she was surprised.
No one came here to see her. Which was why Armand Gamache was there.
“I need your help,” he said.
TWENTY
A note on the kitchen table greeted Gamache when he arrived back at Emilie’s home.
Drinks at the bistro. Join us.