How the Light Gets In

Until this child.

“What’re you doing about it?” Francoeur asked.

“Well, we need to respond. Hit one of their bunkers. Since the Rock Machine planted the bomb that killed the kid, we should plan a raid against them.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir lowered his eyes, studying the carpet. Studying his hands.

Not me. Not me. Not again.

“I’m not interested in the details.” Francoeur got up and they all rose. “Just get it done. The sooner the better.”

“Yessir,” said Tessier, and followed him out the door.

Beauvoir watched them go, then exhaled. Safe.

At the elevator the Chief Superintendent handed Tessier a small vial.

“I think our newest recruit is a little anxious, don’t you?” Francoeur pressed the pill bottle into Tessier’s hand. “Put Beauvoir on the raid.”

He got in the elevator.

*   *   *

Beauvoir sat at his desk, staring blankly at the computer screen. Trying to get the meeting out of his mind. Not with Francoeur, but with Gamache. He’d structured his days, done everything he could, to avoid seeing the Chief. And for months it had worked, until tonight. His whole body felt bruised. Except for one small patch, on his hand. Which still felt moist and warm no matter how hard he rubbed it dry.

Beauvoir sensed a presence at his elbow and looked up.

“Good news,” said Inspector Tessier. “You’ve impressed Francoeur. He wants you on the raid.”

Beauvoir’s stomach curdled. He’d already taken two OxyContin, but now the pain returned.

Leaning over the desk, Tessier placed a pill bottle by Beauvoir’s hand.

“We all need a little help every now and then.” Tessier tapped the top of the bottle, his voice light and low. “Take one. It’s nothing. Just a little relaxant. We all take them. You’ll feel better.”

Beauvoir stared at the bottle. A small warning sounded, but it was too deep and too late.

SEVEN

Armand Gamache turned off the lights, then he and Henri walked down the corridor, but instead of pressing the down button, he pressed up. Not to the very top floor, but the one just below it. He looked at his watch. Eight thirty. Perfect.

A minute later he knocked on a door and went in without waiting for a response.

“Bon,” said Superintendent Brunel. “You made it.”

Thérèse Brunel, petite and soignée as always, rose and indicated a chair next to her husband, Jérôme, who was also on his feet. They shook hands and everyone sat.

Thérèse Brunel was beyond the Sûreté retirement age, but no one had the stomach, or other organs, to tell her. She’d come late to the force, been trained by Gamache, then rapidly lapped him, partly through her own hard work and ability, but partly, they all knew, because his career had hit a wall, constructed by Chief Superintendent Francoeur.

They’d been friends since the academy, when she was twice the age of any other recruit and he was her professor.

The roles, the offices, the ranks they now enjoyed should have been reversed. Thérèse Brunel knew that. Jérôme knew that. And Gamache knew that, though he alone didn’t seem to care.

They sat on the formal sofa and chairs, and Henri stretched out between Gamache and Jérôme. The older man dropped an arm, absently stroking the shepherd.

Jérôme, hovering on the far side of seventy, was almost completely round, and had he been slightly smaller, Henri would have been tempted to chase him.

Despite the difference in their ranks, it was clear that Armand Gamache was in charge. This was his meeting, if not his office.

“What’s your news?” he asked Thérèse.

“We’re getting closer, I think, Armand, but there’s a problem.”

“I’ve hit a few walls,” Jérôme explained. “Whoever’s done this is clever. Just when I get up a head of steam, I find I’m actually in a cul-de-sac.”

His voice was querulous, but his manner was jovial. Jérôme had rolled forward, his hands clasped together. His eyes were bright and he was fighting a smile.

He was enjoying himself.

Dr. Brunel was an investigator, but not with the Sûreté du Québec. Now retired, he’d been the head of emergency services for the Hôpital Notre-Dame in Montréal. His training was to quickly assess a medical emergency, triage, diagnose. Then treat.

Retired a few years now, he’d refocused his energy and skills toward solving puzzles, cyphers. Both his wife and Chief Inspector Gamache had consulted him on cases involving codes. But it was more than a retired doctor passing the time. Jérôme Brunel was a man born to solve puzzles. His mind saw and made connections that might take others hours or days, or never, to find.