The Beautiful Mystery

Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood on the quiet shore, and could hear the explosions of gunfire. Hear the bullets strike the concrete, the floors, the walls. His friends. He could smell the acrid smoke mixed with concrete dust. And he felt his heart pound, with adrenaline. And fear.

But still he’d followed Gamache. Deeper and deeper into the factory. They’d all followed Gamache.

The raid had been captured on the cameras attached to each agent’s headgear. And later, months later, it had been hacked and edited and released onto the Internet.

Beauvoir had become as addicted to that video as he had to painkillers. Two halves of a whole. First the pain, then the killers. Over and over and over. Until it had become his life. Watching his friends die. Over and over. And over.

But one question remained. Who had leaked that video? Beauvoir knew it was an inside job. And now he had his answer.

Now, all he wanted was to stay conscious long enough to kill the man in front of him.

For betraying his own people. Gamache’s agents. Beauvoir’s friends. To lose them was bad enough, but to have the tape of the attack released onto the Internet. For millions and millions worldwide to see. For all of Québec to see.

And they had.

Everyone had grabbed their popcorn and watched, over and over, as the Sûreté officers had been gunned down in that factory. They watched as though the deaths were entertainment.

And the families of the slain had seen it too. It had become an Internet sensation, replacing the box of kittens as the most watched video.

Beauvoir stared into Francoeur’s eyes. He didn’t need to look at the gun. He knew it was there. And he knew what it would feel like, any moment now, when the first bullet hit.

He’d felt it before. The thud, the shock, then the searing pain.

He’d seen so many war movies, so many westerns. He’d seen so many bodies. Real ones. Shot to death. He’d somehow fooled himself into thinking he knew what it would be like. To be shot.

He’d been wrong.

It wasn’t just the pain, it was the terror. The blood. The frantic scrambling to get at the burning, but the hurt was too deep.

That had been less than a year ago. It’d taken him a long time to recover. Longer than the Chief. Gamache had thrown himself headlong into recovery. Into the physiotherapy. Into the weights, the walking, the exercises. The counseling.

Beauvoir knew that every sight, every scent, every sound that the Chief took in was keener now. It was as though he was living for five. Himself and four young agents.

It had somehow invigorated the Chief.

But the attack, the losses, had had the opposite effect on Beauvoir.

He’d tried. He really had. But the pain seemed too deep. And the agony too great. And the painkillers too effective.

And then the video had appeared, and the pain sizzled again. Burning even deeper. And more painkillers were needed. And more. And more. To dull the hurt. And the memories.

Until finally the Chief had intervened. Gamache had saved him that day in the factory. And had saved him again months later, when he’d insisted Beauvoir get help. For the pills and for the images that had wormed into his head. Forcing him to go into intense therapy. Into rehab. Forcing him to stop running and turn. And face what had happened.

Gamache had also forced a promise from him, to never again watch that video.

And Beauvoir had kept his promise.

“They’d give anything to be here now,” Gamache had said one day in the spring, as he and Beauvoir strolled through the park across from the Gamaches’ apartment in Outremont. Beauvoir knew who the Chief meant. He could see Gamache taking everything in, as though to share it with his dead agents. The Chief had stopped then, to admire a massive old lilac bush in full bloom. Then he turned to Beauvoir. “It’s against the law to pick them, you know.”

“Only if you get caught.”

Beauvoir moved to the other side of the bush and saw it shaking, as though with laughter, as Gamache tugged the spiky, fragrant flowers off.

“An interesting take on justice,” called the Chief. “It’s only wrong if you’re caught.”

“Would you prefer me to arrest you?” Beauvoir yanked some more flowers off.

He heard the Chief laugh.

Beauvoir knew the burden the Chief now carried. To live for so many. Gamache had staggered, at first, but had finally grown stronger, under that weight.

And Beauvoir felt better, every day he was clean. Away from the drugs and away from the hair shirt of images he’d inflicted on himself.

The Chief had given Madame Gamache his bouquet of stolen lilacs and she’d put them in a white jug and placed them on the table. Then she’d put Beauvoir’s smaller bouquet in water, so they’d stay fresh to take back home after dinner. But of course, they didn’t make it to his own small apartment.