“I think we should go in, don’t you?” Gamache placed a large, firm hand on Francoeur’s shoulder and propelled him into the room. It wasn’t a shove, exactly. A witness would never testify that there was any assault. But both men knew it was neither Francoeur’s idea to enter the room, nor his own steam.

Gamache closed the door then turned to face his superior.

“What did you say to Inspector Beauvoir?”

“Let me out of here, Armand.”

Gamache considered him for a moment. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Of course not.” But Francoeur looked a little frightened.

“Would you like to leave?” Gamache’s voice was friendly but his eyes were cold and hard. And his stance, in front of the door, unyielding.

Francoeur was silent for a moment, assessing the situation.

“Why don’t you ask your Inspector what happened?”

“Stop the schoolyard games, Sylvain. You came here with an agenda. I thought it was to screw with me, but it wasn’t, was it? You knew I wouldn’t care. So you took off after Inspector Beauvoir. He’s still recovering from his wounds—”

Francoeur made a gruff, dismissive noise.

“You don’t believe that?” asked Gamache.

“Everyone else recovered. You recovered, for God’s sake. You treat him like a child.”

“I won’t discuss the Inspector’s health with you. He’s still recovering, but he’s not as vulnerable as you think. You’ve always underestimated people, Sylvain. That’s your great weakness. You think others are weaker than they are. And that you’re more powerful than you actually are.”

“Which is it, Armand? Is Beauvoir still wounded? Or is he stronger than I think? You might’ve fooled your people, mesmerized them with your bullshit, but not me.”

“No,” said Gamache. “We know each other too well.”

Francoeur had begun to roam the room, pacing it. But Gamache stayed put, in front of the door. His eyes never leaving the Chief Superintendent.

“What did you say to Inspector Beauvoir?” Gamache repeated.

“I told him what I told you. That you’re incompetent and he deserves better.”

Gamache studied the prowling man. Then shook his head.

“It’s more than that. Tell me.”

Francoeur stopped and turned to face Gamache.

“My God, Beauvoir’s said something to you, hasn’t he?” Francoeur got within inches of the Chief, staring point-blank into his eyes. Neither man blinking. “If he’s not recovered from his wounds, they’re wounds you made. If he’s weak, it’s a weakness you created. If he’s insecure it’s because he knows he’s not safe with you. And now you blame me?”

Francoeur laughed. The peppermint breath hot and moist on Gamache’s face.

And again Gamache could feel his rage, so tightly contained, spill out. He fought with all his might to control it, knowing the enemy wasn’t this leering, lying, vicious man. It was himself. And the rage that threatened to consume him.

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir is not to be harmed.” Each word was said slowly. Clearly. Precisely. And in a voice few had heard from the Chief Inspector. A voice that made his superior step back. That sizzled the smile right off the handsome face.

“It’s too late, Armand,” said Francoeur. “The harm’s already done. And you’re the one who did it. Not me.”

*   *   *

“Inspector?”

Frère Antoine had been reading in his cell when he heard the footfall outside his door. He looked into the corridor and noticed the Sûreté officer standing there, looking confused.

“You look lost. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Beauvoir, wishing people would stop asking him that.

Once again the two men stared at each other. The same man, in so many ways. The same age, height, build. The same neighborhood growing up.

But one had entered the Church and never left. The other had left the Church and never returned. Now they looked at each other across the dim corridor of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

Beauvoir approached the monk. “That fellow who just arrived. The Dominican. What’s the story there?”

Frère Antoine’s eyes darted up and down the hallway. Then he stepped into his cell and Beauvoir followed.

It was exactly the same as the cell Beauvoir had been assigned, with a few personal tweaks. A sweatshirt and pants lay in a bundle in the corner. Books were stacked beside the bed. A biography of Maurice Richard. A hockey playbook, written by a former coach of the Montréal Canadiens. Beauvoir had those books too. Hockey had replaced religion for most Québécois.