Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(101)

Twenty to six.

Then he looked at the closed door. He had to speak to Gamache, before whatever was going to happen that night happened. There could be nothing left unsaid between them.

*

Armand Gamache loosened his tie and he pulled his damp shirt out of his slacks. Going over to his desk, his hand went to the drawer where he kept his clean shirts.

But then he hesitated and, instead, he dug into his pocket, and bringing out a key, he unlocked the top drawer. Sliding it open, he saw the notebook and napkin.

It had been a while, months in fact, since he’d looked at either.

Many lifetimes ago, many lives ago, he’d written those words on the crumpled napkin.

How many had died since then, because of them? Because of him? He hadn’t turned a blind eye to the drugs and violence. He’d seen perfectly clearly what was happening. Had asked for reports every day. Had counted the cost of lives ruined, lives lost. Because of what he’d let happen.

And still, he hadn’t acted.

But tonight he would.

Setting the napkin aside, Armand opened the notebook and forced himself to read what he’d written, what he’d begun, that cold November evening with Henri and Gracie curled by the fire, and Reine-Marie beside him on the sofa.

When he’d looked into that fire and considered doing the inconceivable.

He wondered if the Spanish conquistador Cortés had done the same thing, on the long journey to the New World. When had the thought first come to him? Had he considered the consequences, when he considered those fateful orders? Burn the ships. Did he know what slaughter lay ahead, for his soldiers and sailors and for the Aztecs, whose entire civilization was about to be wiped out?

And Gamache wondered if, when the conquerors’ feet hit the sand, and smoke filled the air, some other creature had come on shore with them.

Had the conquistadors noticed a dark figure following them? A terrible witness to the terrible deeds.

But, of course, the deeds would not be considered terrible for hundreds of years. Cortés was a hero, to everyone but the Aztecs.

In his quiet moments, later in life, as his own death approached, did Cortés wonder what he’d done? Did doubt creep into the room? Was an ageless cobrador standing at the foot of the bed?

And Churchill? Did doubt tickle him awake, the night Coventry was bombed? Or the night the great city of Dresden was firebombed, in retaliation for something that was not their fault?

Gamache picked up a pen and, turning to a blank page, he started to write.

He wrote about the huge shipment of drugs he’d let through the border the night before. When he could have stopped it.

He wrote about the lives that would be lost, because of that decision. His Coventry. His Dresden.

He wrote about Monsieur Zalmanowitz, and his career in tatters. He wrote about Judge Corriveau and the censure she would suffer, for letting them go instead of having them detained. As the law said she should have.

He wrote about the men, and women, and children who’d suffered as he’d ordered that only the minimum be done to arrest criminals. To focus their resources on the main target, but to also give the impression of complete and utter incompetence.

Armand Gamache wrote it all down. Sparing nothing. And when he’d finished with what had already happened, he went on. To what was about to happen. That night.

And when he stopped, Gamache laid down his pen, and closed the notebook. And placed the napkin carefully on top of it.

Then he went into his bathroom and had a shower, washing away the dirt and grime, the water salty to the taste. From the sweat. And something else rolling down his face.

*

“Patron?”

Beauvoir looked into the Chief Superintendent’s office. It was empty. But he heard the shower.

Jean-Guy stood there, unsure what to do. Go in. Go away?

He didn’t want to see his boss, his father-in-law, coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Or worse.

But neither could he leave without saying what needed to be said.

So he stepped into the room and closed the door and was about to take a seat when he saw the notebook out on the desk.

Curious, Jean-Guy approached. The shower was still on and, emboldened, Beauvoir opened the notebook and started reading. When the shower turned off, he quickly closed the book, replaced the napkin, and sat in the chair across from the desk.

The chief came out dressed in clean clothes and rubbing his head with a towel.

He stopped instantly upon seeing Beauvoir, who’d jumped out of his seat.

“Jean-Guy.”

“Patron.” He stood rigid, slender shoulders squared. “I’m sorry I left the courtroom today.” His voice was formal as though making a report, or reciting rehearsed lines. “It was unforgivable.”

And then the formality broke down and his shoulders loosened. “I don’t even know why I did it. We’ve been through worse. But I just…”

Armand stood there, listening. Not jumping in to finish the sentence. Neither rebuking, nor saying it was all right.

He gave Jean-Guy the space he needed, to say what he needed. In his own words and time.

“I got scared.”

There it was. A grown man, a senior officer in the S?reté du Québec. Admitting he was afraid. And that, Gamache knew, took courage.

“Of what?” he asked.

“I was afraid I’d scream, ‘Don’t do it.’ Up until then, I knew we could go back. A line had been stretched, but hadn’t yet been crossed. You outright lying in court, perjuring yourself, was something that could never be undone. I knew there was really no choice, but I couldn’t watch.”