The Beautiful Mystery (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #8)
Page 152“I’m just tired.”
“It’s more than that.” He looked closely at the young man he knew so well. “Are you on something?”
“Are you kidding? I’m clean and sober. How many times do I have to prove it?” snapped Beauvoir.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
They stared at each other. Five hours, thought Gamache. Just five hours. We can make it. He scanned the small room but there was nothing out of place.
“Get dressed, please, and join me in the Blessed Chapel for Lauds.”
“Why?”
Gamache was very still then. “Because I’ve asked you to.”
There was a pause between the two men.
Then Beauvoir relented. “Fine.”
The singing, as always, began from far off. A distant, but perfect, beginning. And then it drew closer. Beauvoir closed his eyes.
Deep breath in, he told himself. Deep breath out.
It felt as though he was breathing in the notes. Taking them to his core. They seemed lighter than round black notes. These neumes had wings. Beauvoir felt light-hearted, and light-headed. Lifted from his stupor. Lifted from the hole he’d rolled into.
As he listened he heard not just the voices, but the breathing of the monks, also in unison. Deep breath in. And then the singing, on the exhale.
Deep breath out.
And then, before he knew it, Lauds was over. And the monks had gone. Everyone had gone.
Beauvoir opened his eyes. The Blessed Chapel was completely silent and he was alone. Except for the Chief.
“We need to talk.” Gamache spoke quietly, not looking at Beauvoir, but staring ahead. “Whatever it is, it will be all right.”
His voice was confident, and kind, and comforting. Beauvoir felt himself drawn to it. And then he felt himself pitching forward. Losing all control. The pew leapt at him, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Then Gamache’s strong hand was on his chest, stopping him. Holding him. He could hear that familiar voice call his name. Not Beauvoir. Not Inspector.
He felt himself slide sideways, limp, and his eyes roll to the back of his head. Just before blacking out he saw prisms of light from above, and felt the Chief’s jacket against his cheek and smelled sandalwood and rosewater.
Beauvoir’s eyes flickered open, the lids heavy. Then they closed.
* * *
Armand Gamache gathered Jean-Guy in his arms and hurried through the Blessed Chapel.
Don’t take this child.
Don’t take this child.
“Stay with me, son,” he whispered over and over until finally they were at the infirmary.
“What’s happened?” Frère Charles demanded as Gamache laid Jean-Guy on the examination table. All sign of the relaxed and jovial monk gone. The doctor had taken over and now his hand swiftly moved over Beauvoir, feeling for a pulse, lifting his lids.
“I think he’s on something, but I don’t know what. He had an addiction to painkillers, but he’s been clean for three months now.”
The doctor did a rapid assessment of his patient, lifting Beauvoir’s lids, taking his pulse. He rolled back Jean-Guy’s sweater, to get at his chest for a better sounding. There Frère Charles paused and looked at the Chief.
“What was the painkiller?” he asked.
“OxyContin,” said Gamache, and saw the concern in Frère Charles’s face. “He was shot. The OxyContin was prescribed for pain.”
“Christ,” whispered the monk under his breath. “But we don’t know for sure it’s OxyContin he’s on now. You say he’s clean. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure he was when we arrived. I know this young man, well. I’d have known if he relapsed.”
“Well it looks like an overdose to me. He’s breathing and his vital signs are strong. Whatever it is, he didn’t take enough to kill him. But it’d help if we had the pills.”
Frère Charles rolled Beauvoir onto his side, in case he vomited, and Gamache searched Jean-Guy’s pockets. They were empty.
“I’ll be back,” said the Chief Inspector, but before heading for the door he lightly touched Beauvoir’s face and felt it chill and damp. Then he turned and left.