Beauvoir nodded and his grip loosened on the wheel. They spent the next few minutes discussing the case and Lacoste’s strengths and weaknesses before lapsing into silence.
As he watched the graceful span of the bridge across the St. Lawrence River approach, Gamache’s mind turned elsewhere. To something he’d been considering for a while now.
“There is something else.”
“Oh?” Beauvoir glanced over to his boss.
Gamache had been planning to speak to Beauvoir about this quietly. Perhaps over dinner that night, or a walk on the mountain. Not when they were hurtling down the autoroute at 120 kilometers an hour.
Still, the opening was there. And Gamache took it.
“We need to talk about how you’re doing. There’s something wrong. You aren’t getting better, are you.”
It was not a question.
“I’m sorry about the coin. It was stupid—”
“I’m not talking about the coin. That was just a mistake. It happens. God knows it’s just possible I’ve made a few in my life.”
He saw Beauvoir smile.
“Then what are you talking about, sir?”
“The painkillers. Why’re you still taking them?”
There was silence in the car as Québec whizzed by their windows.
“How’d you know about that?” asked Beauvoir, finally.
“I suspected. You carry them with you, in your jacket pocket.”
“Did you look?” asked Beauvoir, an edge to his voice.
“No. But I’ve watched you.” As he did now. His second in command had always been so lithe, so energetic. Cocky. He was full of life and full of himself. It could annoy Gamache. But mostly he’d watched Beauvoir’s vitality with pleasure and some amusement, as Jean Guy threw himself headlong into life.
But now the young man seemed drained. Dour. As though every day was an effort. As though he was dragging an anvil behind him.
“I’ll be fine,” said Beauvoir, and heard how empty that sounded. “The doctor and therapists say I’m doing well. Every day I feel better.”
Armand Gamache didn’t want to pursue it. But he had to.
“You’re still in pain from your wounds.”
Again, this wasn’t a question.
“It’ll just take time,” said Beauvoir, glancing over to his Chief. “I really am feeling much better, all the time.”
But he didn’t look it. And Gamache was concerned.
The Chief Inspector was silent. He himself had never been in better shape, or at least, not for many, many years. He was walking more now, and the physiotherapy had brought back his strength and agility. He went to the gym at Sûreté Headquarters three times a week. At first it had been humiliating, as he’d struggled to lift weights about the size of honey-glazed doughnuts, and to stay on the elliptical for more than a few minutes.
But he’d kept at it, and kept at it. And slowly his strength had not just returned, but surpassed where he’d been before the attack.
There were still some residual effects, physically. His right hand trembled when he was tired or overstressed. And his body ached when he first woke up, or got up after sitting for too long. There were a few aches and pains. But not nearly as much as the emotional, which he struggled with every day.
Some days were very good. And some, like this, were not.
He’d suspected Jean Guy was struggling, and he knew recovery was never a straight line. But Beauvoir seemed to be slipping further and further back.
“Is there something I can do?” he asked. “Do you need time off to focus on your health? I know Daniel and Roslyn would love to have you visit them in Paris. Maybe that would help.”
Beauvoir laughed. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Gamache grinned. It would be hard to imagine what could ruin a trip to Paris, but a week in the small flat with his son, daughter-in-law and two young grandchildren sure took a run at it. He and Reine-Marie now rented a flat close-by when they visited.
“Merci, patron. I’d rather hunt cold-blooded killers.”
Gamache laughed. The skyline of Montréal was looming in the foreground now, across the river. And Mont Royal rose in the middle of the city. The huge cross on top of the mountain was invisible now, but every night it sprang to life, lit as a beacon to a population that no longer believed in the church, but believed in family and friends, culture and humanity.
The cross didn’t seem to care. It glowed just as bright.
“The separation from Enid can’t have helped,” said the Chief.
