Glass Houses

CHAPTER 21

Chief Superintendent Gamache had been on the witness stand all day in what had become, almost literally, a grilling.

In the stifling July heat of the Palais de Justice courtroom, it would be superhuman not to perspire. Gamache was sweating freely and willing himself not to take out his handkerchief and wipe his face. He knew the gesture could make him look nervous. He also knew they were coming to a pivotal point in the testimony.

He couldn’t risk anything that suggested weakness or vulnerability.

But eventually, when the sweat trickled into his eyes, he had no choice. It was either wipe it away or appear to be crying.

He could hear a small fan humming close by, but it was under Judge Corriveau’s desk and pointing uniquely at her. She needed it more than he did. Unless she was naked under her judicial robes, she’d be withering in the heat.

Still, the sound of the fan was a tease, the promise of a breeze just beyond his reach.

A single fly droned around, sluggish in the heavy air.

Spectators were fanning themselves with whatever sheets of paper they could find or borrow. Though they were longing for an ice cold beer in some air-conditioned brasserie, they refused to leave. They were stuck in place by the testimony, and the perspiration on their legs.

Even the jaded reporters listened, alert, sweat dripping onto their tablets as they took notes.

The minutes ticked by, the temperature rose, the fly sputtered along, and still the examination continued.

The guards had been given permission to sit down by the doors, and the jury had been given permission to remove any outer layers of clothes, and get down to just enough clothing to maintain modesty.

The defense attorneys sat motionless in their long black robes.

The Crown Prosecutor, Barry Zalmanowitz, had removed his jacket from beneath his own robes, though Gamache realized it would still be like a sauna under there.

His own jacket and tie remained in place.

It appeared a sort of game, a test, between the Chief Superintendent and the Chief Prosecutor. Who would wither first. The spectators and the jury watched with fascination as these two men melted, but refused to give in to the climate both had helped create.

But it was much more than a game.

Gamache wiped his eyes and brow and took a sip of the ice water, now tepid, that had been offered to him by Judge Corriveau earlier in the afternoon.

And still the examination continued.

Facing him, swaying slightly on his feet, the Crown Prosecutor swatted the fly away and gathered himself.

“The murder weapon was the bat, is that correct?”

“Oui.”

“This?” The Crown picked up a bat from the evidence table and took it to Gamache, who studied it for a moment.

“Oui.”

“I submit this into evidence,” said Zalmanowitz, showing it first to the judge then the defense attorneys before returning it to the evidence table.

In the gallery behind the Crown Prosecutor, Jean-Guy Beauvoir tensed. Never completely relaxed, he now sat stock-still, alert. Listening and glistening in the courtroom.

“It was found in the root cellar, leaning against the wall, not far from the body?” asked the Crown.

“It was.”

“Sort of casual, don’t you think?”

Beauvoir wondered if everyone could hear his breathing. It sounded, in his own ears, like bellows. Rapid, raspy. Unintentionally fanning the embers of his panic.

But the bellows breathing was almost drowned out by the beating of his heart. Pounding in his chest. In his ears.

They were closing in on the moment he’d dreaded. Glancing around, he thought, not for the first time, how strange it was that the most awful events could appear completely normal. To everyone else.

This was an instant that could change everything. Could change the course of events and the lives of everyone in the courtroom, and beyond.

Some for better. Some far worse.

And they had no idea.

Deep breath in, he commanded himself. Deep breath out.

He now regretted not learning meditation, but he had heard that a mantra was helpful. Something to repeat over and over. To lull.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, he repeated to himself. It did not help.

He was beginning to feel light-headed.

“The killer made no effort to hide the murder weapon?” asked the Crown.

“Apparently not.”

“So it was just sitting there, for all to see?”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir rose to his feet. Feeling sick to his stomach, as though he was about to throw up. He grasped the wooden railing to steady himself.

Annoyed huffs and glances were shot his way as he moved quickly out of the row, stepping on toes as he went.

“Pardon. Pardon. Désolé,” he whispered, leaving winces and grunts in his wake.

Once in the aisle, he headed to the large double doors of the courtroom. They were closed and seemed to recede into the distance, even as he moved toward them.

“Chief Superintendent, I asked you a question.”

Behind Beauvoir there was silence.

He wanted to stop. To turn around. To stand there in full view, in the middle of the aisle. In the middle of the cauldron that was the courtroom. So that the Chief Superintendent, so that Armand Gamache, could see him. And know he was not alone. Know he was supported.

Whatever he chose to do. However he chose to answer.

They all knew this question would be asked. None of the other members of the inner core at the Sûreté had dared ask what Chief Superintendent Gamache intended to do when it was.

They preferred not to know and Chief Superintendent Gamache had preferred not to tell them. And certainly not to consult any of them. So that, when the inevitable investigation was held, this decision could be proven to be his, and his alone.

But Jean-Guy had asked.

It was a sunny summer afternoon just before the trial began, and the two men were working in the back garden of the Gamaches’ home in Three Pines.

The roses were in full bloom and their scent hung in the air, as did a hint of lavender, though Jean-Guy could not have named it. But it smelled nice. Familiar without being cloying. It conjured lazy days when he was very young. Weeks spent at his grandparents’ home in the country. Away from bickering parents and bullying brothers and moody sisters, and teachers and tests and homework.

If safety had a smell, this would be it.

Jean-Guy was kneeling on the grass, trying to twist a thick rope through a hole in a piece of wood. He and his father-in-law were making a swing, to be hung from the branch of the oak tree at the far end of the garden.

Honoré was with them, beside his father on the grass. Every now and then, his grandfather would pick him up and bob him slightly, up and down, whispering to him.

“Really,” said Jean-Guy, “don’t feel you need to help.”

“I am helping,” said Armand. “Aren’t I?” he asked Honoré, who really didn’t care.

Gamache strolled around, whispering to his grandson.

“What’re you saying?” asked Jean-Guy. “Dear God, tell me it’s not Ruth’s poetry.”

“Non. A. A. Milne.”

“Winnie the Pooh?”

Reine-Marie, grand-maman, read Honoré to sleep with the stories of Christopher Robin, and Pooh, and Piglet, and the Hundred Acre Wood.

“Sort of. It’s a poem by A. A. Milne,” said Armand. He turned once again to the infant in his arms and whispered, “When We Were Very Young.”

Jean-Guy paused in his task of cramming the large rope through the too-small hole on one side of the seat, and watched.

“What’re you going to say on the witness stand?”

“About?”

“You know what about.”

The lavender had made him ask. Excessive calm. Contentment. It had made him either brave or foolhardy.

Beauvoir stood up, wiped his sleeve across his forehead and picked up his lemonade from the table. When Gamache didn’t answer, Beauvoir shot a quick glance back toward the house. His wife, Annie, and her mother, Reine-Marie, were sitting on the back porch with their own lemonades, talking.

Even though he knew they couldn’t hear them, he lowered his voice.

“The root cellar. The bat. What we discovered.”

Armand thought for a moment, then handed Honoré back to his father.

“I’ll tell them the truth,” he said.

“But you can’t. That’ll blow the whole thing. Not just the chance of a conviction in the murder of Katie Evans, but the entire operation of the past eight months. We’ve put everything into it. Everything.”

He saw Annie glance his way and realized he’d raised his voice slightly.

Modulating it again, he rasped, “If you tell the truth, they’ll know we know, and it’ll be over. We’re so close. It all hinges on that. All our work will be for nothing, if you tell the truth.”

Jean-Guy knew he didn’t have to tell Gamache that. He was the architect of the plan, after all.

Beauvoir felt Honoré’s tiny hand grasp his T-shirt, and make a fist. And he smelled the baby powder. And felt the soft, soft skin of his son. It was even more intoxicating than lavender.

And Jean-Guy knew why Armand had handed the child back to his father. So that the infant, his grandson, wouldn’t be tainted by the lie he’d just been forced to tell.

“It’ll be all right, Jean-Guy,” said Armand, holding his son-in-law’s gaze before his eyes shifted and softened, as they rested on Honoré. He leaned toward the child. “It isn’t really / Anywhere! / It’s somewhere else / Instead! Isn’t that right?”

“And now it is now,” came a voice over the garden fence just ahead of the head. Gray and lined, though the eyes were bright. “And the dark thing is here.”

“You’re not kidding,” said Beauvoir, then said to Honoré, “It’s a Heffalump.”

The two men and a baby looked at the old poet.

“More like Eeyore, don’t you think?” said Gamache. “With just a hint of Pooh.”

“Depending on how you spell it,” said Jean-Guy, and saw Ruth’s mouth twitch slightly into a smile.

She’d heard them talking, that much was clear. And now she stared, like some old witch in the Hundred Acre Wood who gathered secrets like honeypots.

Their apparent amusement was for Honoré’s sake. The truth was, this was the worst possible turn of events. Ruth was one of the few people who might put it all together. Who might be able to work out what they’d discovered in the church basement. It was, after all, something she’d said in that first interview after the murder that had started them down this path.

Fortunately, even if she guessed, she couldn’t possibly know why it was vital that it be kept a secret.

She looked from one to the other, then her eyes too came to rest on the child she called Ré-Ré. Ray-Ray.

To Jean-Guy’s apparent annoyance, but actual relief, the nickname was beginning to stick, and most people in Three Pines now called him Ray-Ray. Honoré being a bit formal. A bit much for a child.

Ray-Ray fit. He was just that. A ray of bright sunshine in all their lives. The fact the nickname should come from the dark, demented old poet only seemed to add to its perfection.

“What were you talking about?” she demanded. “Something about Katie Evans. The trial’s about to begin, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Gamache, his voice light, friendly. “Jean-Guy was just going over some strategy.”

“Ahhh,” she said. “I thought I heard laughter. And what’s to discuss? You tell the truth, don’t you?”

She cocked her head to one side, and Gamache’s smile froze.

“But you don’t think he should,” she said to Beauvoir. “Now, what is it we’re not supposed to know? Let’s see.” She cast her eyes to the sky, apparently deep in thought. “That you arrested the wrong person? No, that’s probably not it. I wouldn’t put it past you, but I think you got the right person. That you don’t have enough evidence to convict? Am I closer?”

“He said he wasn’t going to lie,” said Jean-Guy.

“And I think that’s a big fat fib, don’t I, Ray-Ray,” she said in a childish voice, leaning toward the infant. “Now, what would make your father advocate lying, and your grandfather actually do it?”

“That’s enough, Ruth,” said Gamache.

She shifted her gaze back to Gamache. Sharpening, honing. Preparing to debone.

“The truth shall set you free, isn’t that right? Or don’t you believe it, Armand? But I think you do.” Her sharp eyes were working to scrape away layers of skin. “Did I get it right? Is it freedom that you fear? Not yours, but the murderer’s? You’d lie to get a conviction?”

“Ruth,” Jean-Guy warned, but he was now on the outside of a world that contained only Armand Gamache and Ruth Zardo.

“I like you more and more,” said Ruth, staring at Gamache. “Yes. This is definitely an improvement over Saint Armand. But you got some dirt on your wings when you fell to earth. Or is that shit?”

She sniffed.

“Ruth,” Beauvoir exclaimed.

“Sorry. Pardon my French,” she said to Ray-Ray before turning back to Gamache. “Sounds like you’re between a rock and a pile of merde.”

“Ruth,” said Jean-Guy. Her name now took on the complexion of an oath. It substituted for all the swear words he wanted to throw at her.

He was no longer really trying to stop her. Yet, always contrary, the old poet stopped. She considered for a moment.

“Maybe that’s the dark thing. The shit show you call a trial.”

“All shall be well,” said Armand, and Ruth smiled.

“At least you’re a good liar. That’ll help.”

Then her head disappeared behind the fence, like Jack stuffed back in the box.

“When we finish this”—Jean-Guy pointed to the swing—“we need to build a higher fence.”

“It’s not the length that matters”—came the voice from the next garden—“it’s the girth.”

Jean-Guy met Armand’s gaze and raised his brows.

Neither man spoke, there was nothing to say. But there was a lot to consider.

Jean-Guy handed Honoré back to his grandfather, in a gesture that was more than a gesture.

When the time came, would he lie? Beauvoir wondered, as he bent once more to the task of making the swing.

Under oath?

If he did, he’d be committing perjury. But if Chief Superintendent Gamache told the truth, their entire investigation would be blown. Putting all sorts of agents and informants in danger and ruining their one great chance of stopping the largest single trafficker in Québec. Of, in effect, crippling the drug trade. Of winning an unwinnable war.

Beauvoir was pretty sure he knew what Gamache would do.

That day, that warm afternoon as they worked together in the sunshine making a swing that would hang from the tree for generations, a swing Honoré would one day place his own children on, Jean-Guy had vowed to be in the courtroom when the question was asked. And answered.

So that everyone could see him declare his allegiance. No matter how Chief Superintendent Gamache chose to answer it. So that Armand Gamache could see. He was not alone.

But instead Jean-Guy Beauvoir found himself leaving. No, not just leaving. He was running away.

The guard stood up and opened the doors.

“We’re waiting for your answer, Chief Superintendent. It’s a simple question. The murder weapon, the bat, was just leaning against the wall. For all to see.”

As the heavy doors closed behind Beauvoir, something slipped out of the courtroom with him. And pursued him down the marble hallway.

The chief’s voice.

Had the bat been there, the Crown had asked, in full view for all to see?

“Oui.”

And there it was.

Chief Superintendent Gamache had perjured himself.

Until it happened, Jean-Guy hadn’t really believed the chief would do it. Lie under oath. Commit professional suicide. And worse, betray all his convictions. For a conviction.

But then, Beauvoir would never have believed he’d leave the chief and commit this act of personal treason.

Jean-Guy leaned against the wall, feeling the cool marble against his flushed face. He closed his eyes and gathered himself.

He wanted to go back in. But it was too late.

Jean-Guy took a deep breath, straightened up, and walked swiftly down the corridor, through the heavy air, batting away at the fly that had followed him.

He looked behind him, instinctively. In case something, or someone, was following. Dogging his steps. But there was no one there. The corridors were oddly empty. Not a soul in sight. All the courts were in session.

Making his way out the front door of the Palais de Justice, Beauvoir stood on the sweeping steps in the glaring sunshine and wiped his face, resting it, burying it for a moment, in the handkerchief.

Then he gave a quick scrub and, raising his head, he took a deep breath.

He felt a tickling on his arm and slapped at it, watching as the fly fell to the ground, its wings like delicate panes of stained glass in the sun. With just a bit of dirt sticking to them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He’d acted instinctively, and now something was done that could never be undone.

But there was something he could do, now that he was out here, and Gamache was in there. And that was to make sure the lie was worth it. That it achieved what they all hoped.

The Sûreté, under Chief Superintendent Gamache, would hit hard and fast and decisively. The target would never see the blow coming, shrouded as it was in lies and apparent incompetence. And all tied to a macabre murder in a tiny border village.

And a root cellar with a secret.

But as he headed along the cobbled streets of Old Montréal toward Sûreté headquarters, Jean-Guy couldn’t shake the thought that they’d risked everything on this one maneuver. This coup de grâce. That might not work.

There was no fallback plan. No alternate route. No plan B.

Not for Gamache. Not for Beauvoir. Not for any of them.

Chief Superintendent Gamache had just set their ship aflame. There was no going back now.