The younger man was bleeding from scrapes to the side of his face.

“We’re going to leave here, Jean-Guy. We’re going to get in that boat and when we get to Montréal I’m taking you straight to rehab.”

“Fuck you. I won’t go back there. And you think holding on to those pills will do any good? I can get more, without even leaving headquarters.”

“You won’t be in headquarters. You’re suspended. You don’t think I’m going to let you walk around with pills and a gun? You’ll go on sick leave, and when your doctor says you’re well, we’ll discuss reinstating you.”

“Fuck you,” spat Beauvoir, the drool sticking to his chin.

“If you don’t go willingly I’ll arrest you for assault and have the judge sentence you to rehab. I’ll do it, you know.”

Beauvoir held Gamache’s eyes, and knew he’d do it.

Gamache put Beauvoir’s badge and ID card into his own pocket. Beauvoir’s mouth was open, a thin line of spittle dripped onto his sweater. His eyes were glassy and wide, and he swayed on his feet. “You can’t suspend me.”

Gamache took a deep breath and stepped back. “I know this isn’t you. It’s the goddamned pills. They’re killing you, Jean-Guy. But we’ll get you to treatment and it’ll be all right. Trust me.”

“Like I trusted you in the factory? Like the others trusted you?”

And Beauvoir, even through his haze, could see he’d scored a direct hit. He saw the Chief flinch as the words struck.

And he was glad.

Beauvoir watched as the Chief slowly put Beauvoir’s gun into the holster and attached it to his own belt.

“Who gave you the pills?”

“I told you. I found them in my room, with the note from the doctor.”

“They’re not from the doctor.”

But Beauvoir was right about one thing. He could get more OxyContin anytime he wanted. Québec was swimming in the stuff. The Sûreté evidence locker was swimming in it. Some of it even made it to trial.

Gamache stood still.

He knew who’d given Beauvoir the drugs.

*   *   *

“Ecce homo,” said the abbot. “Why did Mathieu say that when he was dying?”

“It’s what I said when I hit him.”

“Why?”

There was another pause and another ragged breath. “He wasn’t the man I thought he was.”

“You mean, he was just a man,” suggested the abbot. “He wasn’t the saint you thought he was. He was a world expert on Gregorian chants. A genius even. But he was just a man. You expected him to be more.”

“I loved him. I’d have done anything for him. But he asked me to help him ruin the chants, and I couldn’t do that.”

“You went to the garden knowing you might kill him?” asked the abbot, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You took the iron door knocker with you.”

“I had to stop him. When we met in the garden I tried to reason with him, to get him to change his mind. I tore up the sheet he gave to me. I thought it was the only copy.” The voice stopped. But the breathing continued. Rapid and shallow now. “Frère Mathieu was in a rage. Said he’d kick me out of the choir. Make me sit in the pews.”

The abbot listened to Frère Luc, but he saw Mathieu. Not the loving, kind, godly friend, but the man overcome with rage. Stymied. Denied. The abbot could barely stand up to the force of that personality. He could begin to see how young Frère Luc might break. And lash out.

“All I wanted was to sing the chants. I came here to study with the prior and sing the chants. That’s all. Why wasn’t that enough?”

The voice became a squeak, unintelligible. The abbot tried to make out the words. Frère Luc cried and begged him to understand. And the abbot found that he did.

Mathieu was human, and so was this young man.

And so was he.

Dom Philippe lowered his head to his hands as the young man’s sobs surrounded him.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache left Beauvoir in the prior’s office and headed for the Blessed Chapel. With each step he felt his rage growing.

The drugs would kill Jean-Guy. A long, slow slide to the grave. Gamache knew that. The man who did this knew it. And had done it anyway.

The Chief Inspector yanked open the door to the Blessed Chapel so forcefully it banged against the wall behind it. He saw the monks turn at the sound.

He saw Sylvain Francoeur turn. And Gamache, as he approached with steely, steady calm, saw the smile fade from Francoeur’s handsome face.