There was no mistaking the warning in the Chief’s voice. A warning Beauvoir chose not to hear, or to heed.
“It wasn’t a hacker,” he said. “No one even knows those tapes exist except other Sûreté officers. A hacker didn’t pirate that recording.”
“That’s enough, Jean Guy.” They’d been down this road before. The video of the raid on the factory had been uploaded onto the Internet, where it had gone viral. Millions around the world had watched the edited video.
Seen what had happened.
To them. And to others. Millions had watched as though it was a TV show. Entertainment.
The Sûreté, after months of investigation, had concluded it was a hacker.
“Why didn’t they find the guy?” Beauvoir persisted. “We have an entire department that only investigates cyber crime. And they couldn’t find an asshole who, by their own report, just got lucky?”
“Let it be, Jean Guy,” said Gamache, sternly.
“We have to find the truth, sir,” said Beauvoir, leaning forward.
“We know the truth,” said Gamache. “What we have to do is learn to live with it.”
“You’re not going to look further? You’re just going to accept it?”
“I am. And so are you. Promise me, Jean Guy. This is someone else’s problem. Not ours.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment until Beauvoir gave one curt nod.
“Bon,” said Gamache, emptying his glass and walking with it into the kitchen. “Time to go. We need to be back in Three Pines early.”
Armand Gamache said good night and walked slowly through the night streets. It was chilly and he was glad for his coat. He’d planned to wave down a cab, but found himself walking all the way up Ste-Urbain to avenue Laurier.
And as he walked he thought about AA, and Lillian, and Suzanne. About the Chief Justice. About the artists and dealers, asleep in their beds in Three Pines.
But mostly he thought about the corrosive effect of secrets. Including his own.
He’d lied to Beauvoir. It wasn’t over. And he hadn’t let it go.
* * *
Jean Guy Beauvoir washed the beer glass then headed toward his bedroom.
Keep going, just keep going, he begged himself. Just a few more steps.
But he stopped, of course. As he’d done every night since that video had appeared.
Once on the Net it could never, ever be taken off. It was there forever. Forgotten, perhaps, but still there, waiting to be found again. To surface again.
Like a secret. Never really hidden completely. Never totally forgotten.
And this video was far from forgotten. Not yet.
Beauvoir sat heavily into the chair and brought his computer out of sleep. The link was on his favorites list, but intentionally mislabeled.
His eyes heavy with sleep and his body aching, Jean Guy clicked on it.
And up came the video.
He hit play. Then play again. And again.
Over and over he watched the video. The picture was clear, as were the sounds. The explosions, the shooting, the shouting, “Officer down, officer down.”
And Gamache’s voice, steady, commanding. Issuing clear orders, holding them together, keeping the chaos at bay as the tactical team had pressed deeper and deeper into the factory. Cornering the gunmen. So many more gunmen than they’d expected.
And over and over and over Beauvoir watched himself get shot in the abdomen. And over and over and over he watched something worse. Chief Inspector Gamache. Arms thrown out, back arching. Lifting off, then falling. Hitting the ground. Still.
And then the chaos closing in.
Finally exhausted, he pushed himself away from the screen and got ready for bed. Washing, brushing his teeth. Taking out the prescription medication he popped an OxyContin.
Then he slipped the other small bottle of pills under his pillow. In case he needed it in the night. It was safe there. Out of sight. Like a weapon. A last resort.
A bottle of Percocet.
In case the OxyContin wasn’t enough.
In his bed, in the dark, he waited for the painkiller to kick in. He could feel the day slip away. The worries, the anxieties, the images receded. As he hugged his stuffed lion and drifted toward oblivion one image drifted along with him. Not of himself being shot. Not even of seeing the Chief hit, and fall.
All that had faded, gobbled up by the OxyContin.
But one thought remained. Followed him to the edge.
Restaurant Milos. The phone number, now hidden in the desk drawer. Every week for the past three months he’d called the Restaurant Milos and made a reservation. For two. For Saturday night. The table at the back, by the whitewashed wall.
