How the Light Gets In

Lacoste felt her bile rise.

The madness of crowds. Madness had invaded their department. And every day Chief Inspector Gamache reined it in and took control. But even that was slipping. How much longer could he hold out before losing his grip completely?

Inspector Lacoste had many fears, most to do with her young son and daughter. Of something happening to them. She knew those fears were for the most part irrational.

But the fear of what would happen if the Chief Inspector lost control was not irrational.

She caught the eye of one of the older agents as he slumped in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. Apparently bored. Inspector Lacoste gave him a censorious look. He lowered his eyes and turned red.

Ashamed of himself. As well he should be.

As she glared, he sat upright and uncrossed his arms.

She nodded. A victory, though small and doubtless temporary. But even those, these days, counted.

Inspector Lacoste turned back to Gamache. His large hands were folded neatly on the table. Resting on the weekly report. A pen, unused, lay beside it. His right hand trembled slightly, and she hoped no one else noticed.

He was clean-shaven and looked every inch what he was. A man on the far side of fifty. Not necessarily handsome, but distinguished. More like a professor than a cop. More like an explorer than a hunter. He smelled of sandalwood with a hint of rose and wore a jacket and tie in to work every day.

His dark hair was graying and groomed and curled a little at the temples and around his ears. His face was lined, from age and care and laughter. Though those lines weren’t getting much of a workout lately. And there was, and always would be, that scar at his left temple. A reminder of events neither of them could ever forget.

His six-foot frame was large, substantial. Not exactly muscular, but neither was he fat. He was solid.

Solid, thought Lacoste. Like the mainland. Like a headland, facing a vast ocean. Was the now relentless buffeting beginning to wear deeper lines and crevices? Were cracks beginning to show?

At this moment Chief Inspector Gamache showed no sign of erosion. He stared at the offending agent, and even Lacoste couldn’t help feeling just a little sympathy. This new agent had mistaken the mainland for a sandbar. And now, too late, realized what he’d come up against.

She could see the insolence turn to disquiet, then to alarm. He turned to his friends for support, but like a pack of hyenas, they backed off. Almost anxious to see him torn apart.

Until this moment, Lacoste hadn’t realized how willing the pack was to turn on their own. Or, at least, to refuse to help.

She glanced at Gamache, at his steady eyes not leaving the squirming agent, and she knew that was what the Chief was doing. Testing them. Testing their loyalty. He’d cut one from the pack and waited to see if any would come to the rescue.

But they did not.

Isabelle Lacoste relaxed a little. Chief Inspector Gamache was still in control.

Gamache continued to stare at the agent. Now the others fidgeted. One even got up with a sullen “I’ve got work to do.”

“Sit down,” said the Chief, not looking at him. And he dropped like a rock.

Gamache waited. And waited.

“Désolé, patron,” said the agent at last. “I haven’t interviewed that suspect yet.”

The words slid down the table. A rotten admission. They’d all heard this agent lie about the interview, and now they waited to see what the Chief Inspector would do. How he’d maul this man.

“We’ll talk about this after the meeting,” said Gamache.

“Yessir.”

The reaction around the table was immediate.

Sly smiles. After a display of strength on the Chief’s part, they now sensed weakness. Had he ripped the agent to shreds they’d have respected him. Feared him. But now they only smelled blood.

And Isabelle Lacoste thought, God help me, even I wish the Chief had humiliated, disgraced this agent. Nailed him to the wall, as a warning to anyone else who’d cross Chief Inspector Gamache.

This far and no farther.

But Isabelle Lacoste had been in the Sûreté long enough to know how much easier it was to shoot than to talk. How much easier it was to shout than to be reasonable. How much easier it was to humiliate and demean and misuse authority than to be dignified and courteous, even to those who were themselves none of those things.

How much more courage it took to be kind than to be cruel.

But times had changed. The Sûreté had changed. It was now a culture that rewarded cruelty. That promoted it.

Chief Inspector Gamache knew that. And yet he’d just exposed his neck. Was it on purpose? Lacoste wondered. Or was he really so weakened?