How the Light Gets In

“You left me to die,” Beauvoir said, gasping for breath. “On the floor. On the fucking dirty floor.”

He was crying now, leaning into Gamache, their bodies pressed together. Beauvoir felt the fabric of Gamache’s jacket against his unshaven face and smelled sandalwood. And a hint of roses.

“I’ve come back for you now, Jean-Guy.” Gamache’s mouth was against Beauvoir’s ear, his words barely audible. “Come with me.”

He felt Beauvoir’s hand shift and the finger on the trigger tighten. But still he didn’t fight back. Didn’t struggle.

Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again.

“I’m sorry,” said Gamache. “I’d give my life to save you.”

Or will it be, as always was, / too late?

“Too late.” Beauvoir’s words were muffled, spoken into Gamache’s shoulder.

“I love you,” Armand whispered.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir leapt back and swung the gun, catching Gamache on the side of the face. He stumbled sideways against a filing cabinet, putting his arm out against the wall to stop himself from falling. Gamache turned to see Beauvoir pointing the Glock at him, his hand wavering madly.

Gamache knew there were agents on the other side of the door who could have come in. Who could have stopped this. Could stop it still. But didn’t.

He straightened and held out his hand, now covered with his own blood.

“I could kill you,” said Beauvoir.

“Oui. And maybe I deserve it.”

“No one would blame me. No one would arrest me.”

And Gamache knew that was true. He’d thought if he was ever gunned down, it wouldn’t be in Sûreté headquarters, or at the hands of Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

“I know,” the Chief said, his voice low and soft. He took a step closer to Beauvoir, who didn’t retreat. “How lonely you must be.”

He held Jean-Guy’s eyes and his heart broke for this boy he’d left behind.

“I could kill you,” Beauvoir repeated, his voice weaker.

“Yes.”

Armand Gamache was face to face with Jean-Guy. The gun almost touching his white shirt, now flecked with blood.

He held out his right hand, a hand that no longer trembled, and he felt the metal.

Gamache closed his hand over Jean-Guy’s hand. It felt cold. Like the gun. The two men stared at each other for a moment, before Jean-Guy released the gun.

“Leave me,” Beauvoir said, all fight and most of the life gone from him.

“Come with me.”

“Go.”

Gamache put the gun back in his holster and walked to the door. There he hesitated.

“I’m sorry.”

Beauvoir stood in the center of his office, too tired to even turn away.

Chief Inspector Gamache left, walking into a cluster of Sûreté agents, some of whom he’d taught at the academy.

Armand Gamache had always held unfashionable beliefs. He believed that light would banish the shadows. That kindness was more powerful than cruelty, and that goodness existed, even in the most desperate places. He believed that evil had its limits. But looking at the young men and women staring at him now, who’d seen something terrible about to happen and had done nothing, Chief Inspector Gamache wondered if he could have been wrong all this time.

Maybe the darkness sometimes won. Maybe evil had no limits.

He walked alone back down the corridor, pressed the down button, and in the privacy of the elevator he covered his face with his hands.

*   *   *

“You sure you don’t need a doctor?”

André Pineault stood at the door to the washroom, arms folded across his broad chest.

“No, I’ll be fine.” Gamache splashed more water on his face, feeling the sting as it hit the wound. Pink liquid swirled around the drain, then disappeared. He lifted his head and saw his reflection, with the jagged cut on his cheekbone, and the bruise just beginning to show.

But it would heal.

“Slipped on the ice, you say?” Monsieur Pineault handed Gamache a clean towel, which the Chief pressed to the side of his face. “I’ve slipped like that. Mostly in bars, after a few drinks. Other guys were slipping too. All over the place. Sometimes we’re arrested for slipping.”

Gamache smiled, then winced. Then smiled again.

“That ice is pretty treacherous,” agreed the Chief.

“Maudit tabarnac, you speak the truth,” said Pineault, leading the way down the hall into the kitchen. “Beer?”

“Non, merci.”