Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(52)

And he’d taught her to do the same thing.

Gamache shifted his gaze now, from the dense forest, to Patrick, Matheo, Lea at the front of the room.

And the deep brown, thoughtful eyes came to rest. Not on Patrick Evans but on Matheo Bissonette.

“Where did you go for dinner last night?”

He shrugged, what little energy he had seeping away.

“I think it was a place in Knowlton,” said Matheo. “Le Relais. Right?”

But Patrick didn’t react.

“Were you worried when you didn’t see your wife this morning?” asked Lacoste.

He roused himself. “Not really. I thought she was with her.” He pointed to Lea.

Her.

His words were coming slower, thicker.

“And we thought she was with Patrick,” said Matheo.

“It wasn’t until the police showed up that we realized no one had seen Katie all day,” said Lea.

Lacoste leaned forward, toward Patrick Evans. “Can you think who might have done this to your wife?”

“No.” He looked at her as a child might.

“Can you back off a little?” asked Lea. “Can’t you see he’s in shock?”

She poured him a scotch and he swallowed it in one go.

Lacoste studied Patrick for a moment. There was certainly something wrong with him. He seemed wrapped in cotton batting. Muffled. It could have been shock, compounded by a natural lassitude.

But judging by his pupils, it was more than that.

“What can you tell me about the cobrador?” she asked.

Patrick stared at her. “Conscience. Right?”

He looked at Matheo, but his eyes weren’t focusing and he was beginning to sway.

Beauvoir knelt down and looked in Patrick’s eyes. Patrick stared back, his mouth slightly open. His soft lips glistening with spittle.

“Have you taken something?” Beauvoir asked, speaking directly, slowly, clearly to Patrick, who just continued to stare.

“He did this,” slurred Patrick. “We all know who did this.”

“Who?” asked Beauvoir.

“He means the cobrador, of course,” said Matheo, bending over Patrick. “Right? Who else?”

“Monsieur Evans, look at me,” said Lacoste, speaking loudly, clearly. “Why was your wife in the church?”

“No one goes to church,” he said, his words barely intelligible.

Beauvoir turned to the S?reté agent taking notes. “Get Dr. Harris, the coroner. Quickly.”

As he said it, Patrick slumped sideways, and Beauvoir caught him, cradled him, and lowered him, with Lacoste’s help, off the chair and to the floor.

“What’s he on?” Beauvoir asked, not looking up as he spoke, but quickly checking Patrick’s vitals.

Gamache took off his coat, rolled it, and placed it under Patrick’s head.

“I gave him an Ativan,” said Lea, her eyes wide. “Is he okay?”

“When?” asked Beauvoir.

“Just before you arrived. He was hyperventilating and beginning to panic. I wanted to calm him down.”

“Just one?” asked Beauvoir, looking from the unconscious man to his friends.

“One.” Lea rummaged through the large bag she’d dropped on the floor and found the pill bottle.

“But you also gave him a scotch,” said Lacoste.

“Shit,” said Lea. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I didn’t think.”

When Sharon Harris arrived, she took Beauvoir’s place beside the man.

Everyone backed off while she checked him.

“Who is he?” she asked as she worked.

“Katie Evans’s husband, Patrick,” said Lacoste, and got a swift glance from Dr. Harris. “We think it’s Ativan and scotch.”

The qualifier was not lost on the doctor, or the officers.

“Do you have the bottle?”

Lea handed her the pill bottle. She examined it, opening the top and pouring out a few pills. Replacing them, she handed it back to Lea. Without comment.

“He’s just passed out. Probably not used to tranquilizers. And the scotch didn’t help. We should get him to bed. Monsieur Evans?” Dr. Harris bent down and spoke into his ear. “Patrick. Wake up. We’re going to get you back to your bed.”

She pinched his earlobe and his eyes fluttered open, though they remained unfocused.

“Can we get him to his feet?”

Beauvoir and Matheo hauled him up and supported the man, who looked like a drunk. His head lolling, his eyes blinking. It was clear he was at least trying to come to the surface, though not quite making it.

Dr. Harris led them back out through the crowd in the bistro.

Lea made to follow, but Gamache called her back.

“Is he on something?” he asked, examining her closely.

“No.”

“Now’s the time to tell us.”

“I am telling you. Patrick’s the straightest of all of us. Barely even drinks.” She shook her head. “This’s my fault. It was stupid to give him that Ativan.”

And scotch, thought Gamache, studying the woman. She looked genuinely concerned.

“Everything okay?” asked Olivier, poking his head in and looking worried.

“Oui. Monsieur Evans is overcome,” said Gamache. “He needs to rest.”