He flopped back in the bed and prayed for the sound to stop. Anxiety gripped him and he gasped for breath.

Deep breath in, he begged his body. Deep breath out.

Deep breath—oh, fuck it, he thought. Beauvoir sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side, feeling his bare feet on the cold stone floor.

Everything hurt. The soles of his feet, the top of his head. His chest, his joints. His toenails and his eyebrows. He stared at the wall across from him, his mouth open and slack. Begging for breath.

Finally, with one jagged gasp, his throat opened and air rushed in.

Then the trembling began.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He turned on the light and grabbed the bottle of pills from underneath his pillow, squeezing it tight. After a couple of tries he got it open. He wanted one, but the shaking was so bad two tumbled out. He didn’t care. He tossed them both into his mouth and dry swallowed. Then he gripped the sides of his bed and waited.

His chemo. His medicine. The pills would kill what was killing him. Stop the trembling. Stop the pain so deep inside he couldn’t get at it. Stop the images, the memories.

The fears. That he’d been left alone. And was still alone. Would always be alone.

He lay back in bed and felt the pills begin to work. How could anything this good be bad?

He felt human again. Whole again.

The pain receded, his brain cleared. The hooks and barbs released his flesh, and the void was filled in. As he drifted, Beauvoir could hear familiar voices singing.

The bells had ended and the service had begun. Vigils. The first of the day.

Two clear voices were singing now. A call and response. And Beauvoir was surprised to realize he now recognized it. His grip on the bed loosened as he listened.

Call. Response.

Call. Response.

It was mesmerizing.

Call. Response.

And then all the voices joined in. No more need to call. They’d found each other.

Beauvoir felt a tug deep inside. A pain not wholly numbed.

*   *   *

It was five thirty in the morning. Vigils had ended and Gamache sat in the pew, appreciating the peace of the service. He inhaled the incense. It smelled like a garden, not musky, like in most churches.

The monks had left. All except Frère Sébastien, who joined him in the pew.

“Your colleagues aren’t as religious as you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not religious either,” said the Chief. “I don’t go to church.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“Looking for a murderer, I’m afraid. Not salvation.”

“Still, you seem to find solace.”

Gamache was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “It would be hard not to. Do you like Gregorian chants?”

“Very much. A whole mythology has grown up around them, you know. Probably because we know so little about them. We don’t even know where Gregorian chant came from.”

“Would the name be a clue?”

The Dominican smiled. “You’d think so, but you’d be wrong. Pope Gregory had nothing to do with the chants. Marketing, that’s all. Gregory was a popular pope, so to curry favor some astute priest named the chants after him.”

“Is that how they became so popular?”

“It didn’t hurt. There’s also a theory that if Christ heard any music, or sang any music, it would’ve been plainchant. Now there’s a marketing tool. Endorsed by Jesus. As sung by the Savior.”

Gamache laughed. “It would certainly give them a leg up on the competition.”

“Scientists have even begun studying the chants,” said Frère Sébastien, “trying to explain the popularity of the recording these monks made. People went nuts for it.”

“And have they any explanation?”

“Well, when they hooked up probes to volunteers and played Gregorian chants it was quite startling.”

“How so?”

“It showed that after a while their brain waves changed. They started producing alpha waves. Do you know what those are?”

“They’re the most calm state,” said the Chief. “When people are still alert, but at peace.”

“Exactly. Their blood pressure dropped, their breathing became deeper. And yet, they also became, as you said, more alert. It was as though they became ‘more so,’ you know?”

“Themselves, but their best selves.”

“That’s it. Doesn’t work on everyone, of course. But I think it works on you.”

Gamache considered that and nodded. “It does. Perhaps not as profoundly as the Gilbertines, but I’ve felt it.”