“Don’t give me that crap,” said Beauvoir. “You leaked it and now that you’re caught you’re bullshitting.”

“Why would I leak it?”

“Because—”

“Why?” roared Francoeur, his face red with anger.

“Because…”

But Beauvoir didn’t know why. Why would the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté release a tape of his own agents being killed? It didn’t make sense.

But Beauvoir knew there was a reason. Somewhere.

“I don’t know,” Beauvoir admitted. “And I don’t have to know why. I just know you did it.”

“Fucking great detective. You don’t need evidence? Don’t need motive? You just accuse and condemn? Is that what Gamache taught you? I’m not surprised.”

Francoeur looked at Beauvoir as though at something profoundly, spectacularly stupid.

“But you’re right about one thing, you damned fool. One of us here leaked that tape.”

Beauvoir’s eyes widened and his mouth all but fell open.

“You can’t be serious.” His arms dropped to his sides and all thought of attack vanished in the face of Francoeur’s words. “Are you saying Chief Inspector Gamache leaked the tape?”

“Who else benefited?”

“Benefited?” Beauvoir whispered, shock muting his voice. “He almost died in the attacks. Those were his agents. He hired them, mentored them. He’d die—”

“But he didn’t, did he? I saw that tape. I know every frame. I saw the raw tape too. Even more telling.”

“What’re you saying?”

“Is Gamache investigating the leak of the video?” Francoeur demanded.

Beauvoir was silent.

“Is he?” Francoeur didn’t just shout now, he screamed at Beauvoir. “I thought not,” said Francoeur at last, his voice quiet now. “Why would he? He knows who released it. He wants all questions to die away.”

“You’re wrong.” Beauvoir was confused and angry. This man had gotten him twisted around, so that up was down, and down was up, and nothing made sense. Francoeur sounded like his grandfather, but said terrible things.

The Superintendent lowered his gun completely, then looked at it as though wondering how it got into his hand. He replaced it in the leather holster attached to his belt.

“I know you admire him,” he said quietly. “But Armand Gamache isn’t the man you think he is. He made a hatchet job of that rescue. Four Sûreté agents were killed. You yourself almost died. You were left to bleed to death on the floor. The man you so respect and admire led you in there, then left you to die. I see it every time I watch the tape. He even kissed you good-bye. Like Judas.”

Francoeur’s voice was calm, reasonable. Comforting. Familiar.

“He had no choice.” Beauvoir’s voice was hoarse. There was nothing left. No impetus forward.

He wouldn’t attack Francoeur now. Wouldn’t smash a rock into his temple. Beauvoir hadn’t the energy left. All he wanted to do was sag to the ground. To sit on the jagged shore, and let the mist swallow him up.

“We all have a choice,” said Francoeur. “Why release that video? We both know what a mess that raid was. Four young agents died. That can’t be considered a success by any standard—”

“Lives were saved,” said Beauvoir, though he barely had the energy to speak. “Hundreds of thousands of lives. Because of the Chief. The deaths weren’t his fault. He was given the wrong information—”

“He was in charge. It was his responsibility. And after all that mess, who comes out a hero? Because of the tape? It could’ve been edited any way. To show anything. To show the truth. Then why did it make Gamache look so good?”

“That wasn’t his doing.”

“Well, it sure wasn’t mine. I know what really happened. And so do you.” Francoeur’s eyes held Beauvoir’s. “God help me, I was even forced to give the man a medal of bravery, so strong was public sentiment. It makes me sick just thinking about it.”

“He didn’t want it,” said Beauvoir. “He hated that whole thing.”

“Then why did he accept it? We have a choice, Jean-Guy. We really do.”

“He deserved that medal,” said Beauvoir. “He saved more lives than—”

“Than he killed? Yes. Perhaps. But he didn’t save you. He could have, but he ran off. You know it. I know it. He knows it.”