The Cruelest Month

‘I don’t want you involved.’



‘Well, fuck you.’



Jean Guy Beauvoir had never spoken to the chief like that and they were both stunned by the words and the force behind them.



Beauvoir pulled the car to the side of the road. ‘How dare you. I’m so tired of this, of being treated like a child. I know you outrank me. I know you’re older and wiser. There, happy? But it’s time you let me stand next to you. Stop shoving me behind you. Stop it.’



He whacked his palms on the steering wheel with such force he almost broke it, and could feel the bruising at the bone. To his horror tears sprang to his eyes. It’s the palms, only the palms, he told himself.



But the cage deep down was empty. He hadn’t buried it well enough or deep enough. His love for Gamache tore through him and threatened to rip him apart.



‘Get out,’ Gamache said. Beauvoir fumbled with the seatbelt release then finally managed to tumble onto the dirt road. It was deserted. The rain had stopped and the sun was struggling out, much as Beauvoir had.



Gamache was standing solid beside him.



‘Fuck you,’ Beauvoir screamed with all his might. All he wanted to do was howl. To ball up his fists and hit something or someone and howl. Instead he sobbed. And flailed around, blind to the world. He didn’t know how long it took, but eventually his senses came back. First he saw some light, then heard some birds, then smelled the forest after the rain. Slowly he came to himself, as though coming into the world again. And standing there was Gamache. He hadn’t left. Hadn’t tried to contain him, stop him. Soothe him. He’d just let Beauvoir howl and sob and lash out.



‘I just want…’ Beauvoir’s voice trailed off.



‘What do you want?’ Gamache asked quietly. The sun was behind him and all Beauvoir could see was his outline.



‘I want you to trust me.’



‘I think there’s more.’



Beauvoir was wrung out, weak and exhausted. The two men stared at each other. The sun caught the drops of water clinging to the branches of the trees and they shone.



Gamache very slowly walked to Beauvoir and put out his hand. Jean Guy stared at it, large and powerful. And as though watching someone else he saw his own hand rise up and softly land. His hand was slender, almost delicate inside the chief’s.



‘From the moment I saw you angry and bitter, assigned to that evidence room at the Trois-Rivières detachment, I knew,’ said Gamache. ‘Why do you think I took you on when no one else wanted you? Why do you think I made you my second in command? Yes, you’re a gifted investigator. You have a knack for finding murderers. But there was more. We have a connection, you and I. A connection I feel with all members of the team but you most strongly. You’re my successor, Jean Guy. The next in line. I love you like a son. And I need you.’



Beauvoir’s nose and eyes burned and a sob escaped, rushing to join the others already caught in the wind as though the emotion was as natural as the trees.



The two men embraced and Beauvoir whispered into Gamache’s ear, ‘I love you too.’



Then they parted. Without embarrassment. They were father and son. And all Beauvoir’s envy of Daniel had departed, been let go.



‘You need to tell me everything.’



Gamache still hesitated.



‘Ignorance won’t protect me.’



Then Armand Gamache told him everything. Told him about Arnot, told him about Francoeur, told him about Nichol. Beauvoir listened, stunned.



THIRTY-SIX



Odile Montmagny was busy with a customer wondering about the difference between firm and soft tofu. While she tended to business Gamache and Beauvoir wandered around the shop, looking at the rows of organic food and bins of teas and herbs. At the back of the shop, they found Sandon’s furniture. Gamache had a love of antiques, especially Quebec pine. Modern design often left him baffled. But looking at Gilles’s tables and chairs and stools, his bowls and walking sticks, Gamache had the feeling he was looking at a remarkable fusion of old and new. The wood seemed destined to form these shapes, as though it had grown for hundreds of years in the forests of Quebec, waiting to be found by this man and put to this use. And yet the designs were anything but traditional. They were modern and bold.



‘Want one?’ Odile asked. Gamache could smell the sour wine, imperfectly masked under a breath mint. It was a repulsive combination and it was all he could do not to lean away.



‘I’d love one, but perhaps not today,’ he said. ‘We have a few more questions, I’m afraid.’



‘No problem. We’re quiet today. Quiet most days.’