World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 8

Chief Inspector Gamache slapped the photograph onto the desk. His hand hit with such force the sound reverberated beyond the four walls and out into the bullpen at the Sûreté detachment.

“Captain?” One of the agents peered into the office.

Linda Chernin used her boot to slam the door shut. The agents working in the outer room could still see through the window into the station commander’s office, but they couldn’t hear. Unless voices were raised, and it seemed likely they would be.

Captain Dagenais looked down at the screen grab, his face growing pale.

“Give me your gun.” Gamache held out his hand. “You’re under arrest.”

Dagenais looked up into the Chief Inspector’s eyes. Then he looked behind Gamache to the two officers standing on either side and slightly behind him.

Gamache’s second-in-command, a woman, had her hand on her gun, though it was still in its holster at her hip. The other, that fucker Beauvoir, also had his jacket open, ready if need be.

And he could see by the look on Beauvoir’s face that he hoped need would be.

Dagenais’s mind worked fast. He looked through the window at his agents, now all on their feet. Staring in. Alert. Ready. He’d long regretted that window and the lack of privacy. Now it just might save his ass.

Dagenais did a quick calculation. Six of them. Heavily armed. Seven if he counted himself. Three of Gamache’s people, including the unarmed Chief Inspector.

“On what charge?”

“Give me your weapon,” demanded Gamache.

Dagenais hesitated, then pulled it out of its holster. Chernin moved, but Gamache signaled her to stand fast.

Gamache hadn’t told Beauvoir what this was about. He’d been silent on the drive over to the station, though he had exchanged a few words with Chernin. Orders.

Now Beauvoir saw why they were so silent. So strained.

The picture on the captain’s desk showed the station commander clearly naked. Clearly nearing the climax of a sexual act. An act performed in that dim, filthy root cellar. Performed on …

Jean-Guy felt like retching.

How could anyone…?

His eyes traveled from the photograph to Dagenais’s gun. Still in Dagenais’s hand. Not actually pointed at Gamache, but close.

Beauvoir could feel his own, cold to the touch, under his hand but still in its holster.

Why wouldn’t Gamache let them draw them out? Because, Beauvoir suddenly realized, Gamache didn’t know the captain like he did. The man was a tyrant, running the isolated detachment as though it were his own personal army. He commanded, demanded, absolute loyalty. Which Beauvoir refused to give.

Which was why he’d been isolated in the basement, as though he were the contagion. Not because he was a rotten Sûreté officer, but because he was a good one.

Though he didn’t turn to look, Jean-Guy could feel the presence of the other agents in the outer room. Waiting for a signal from Dagenais.

Beauvoir knew their loyalties. Gamache did not.

This was not, Agent Beauvoir knew, going to end well.

“Put it down,” Gamache demanded, and Dagenais slowly placed the Glock on the desk.

Gamache picked it up, but instead of holding it on the captain, or even putting it in his own belt, he took out the magazine and replaced the gun on the desk.

“There’s another one,” said Beauvoir. “In the right-hand drawer.”

Dagenais shot him a look of such loathing, had it been a gun Beauvoir would’ve been dead.

“Stand up, step away from the desk,” said Gamache.

When Dagenais did, the Chief Inspector opened the drawer, not even locked, and found it. A Sig Sauer. Illegal, thanks to Nathalie Provost and the others. This one no doubt confiscated in a drug bust.

Once again, Gamache removed the bullets and replaced the gun.

“Hands where I can see them.” Gamache walked up to Dagenais, and for a moment both Chernin and Beauvoir thought the Chief Inspector was about to beat the crap out of him. Neither would have raised a hand to stop it.

Instead, Gamache patted him down, though the act of touching the man clearly disgusted him. Then he stepped back.

“Alexandre Dagenais, you’re under arrest for sexual assaults on at least one minor. For—”

“You might want to look behind you, Monsieur Gamache.” Dagenais’s voice was filled with amusement.

Beauvoir’s heart sank. He knew what he’d see. Still, he’d dared hope …

He turned. Chernin turned. But Gamache did not. He continued to stare at Dagenais. Slowly, the smile was wiped off the captain’s face.

“You’re under arrest,” Gamache repeated and brought out his handcuffs. “Turn around.”

When Dagenais did not, Gamache grabbed him and in one practiced move spun him around, shoving his face into the wall and yanking Dagenais’s hands behind him. As he did, Gamache snarled something into his ear.

Once Dagenais was cuffed, Gamache pushed him back into the chair. Only then, after running his steady hand through his disheveled hair, did Chief Inspector Gamache turn and look through the large window into the outer office.

He saw exactly what he expected to see. Six Sûreté agents with guns drawn. In the attack posture.

“What the fuck?” whispered Chernin.

She turned her gun on Beauvoir, expecting, since he was also a member of this detachment, to see his weapon aimed at her. And Agent Beauvoir understood then why he hadn’t been warned about any of this. Gamache did not know whose side he was on.

He did have his gun out, but it was pointed at the window and his colleagues. His now former colleagues. His loyalties, perhaps at terrible cost to himself, were clear and declared.

Beauvoir, trying not to tremble, darted his eyes to the Chief.

What do we do? What do we do???

He expected to see him now armed with Dagenais’s Glock, pointing it at the agents in the outer office. But he was not.

The Chief Inspector was standing still and just staring.

We’re fucked, thought Beauvoir. We’re dead. The man’s paralyzed. Oh shit, oh shit, oh—

Gamache stepped forward. Far from being paralyzed, his mind was working quickly. Assessing, looking at options.

Coming to a conclusion.

“Do not lower your weapons, no matter what happens,” he said quietly to Chernin and Beauvoir, so Dagenais didn’t hear.

“Patron?” she said, not taking her eyes off the agents in the outer office.

“Trust me.”

“Oui.” She adjusted her stance, bracing for what seemed inevitable, at least to her, if not to the Chief.

Gamache turned to Agent Beauvoir and smiled. “Your first day on the job, and this happens.”

For a moment Beauvoir was confused. He’d been working as a Sûreté officer in this detachment for months. But then he understood.

This detachment was not the Sûreté. His time with the Sûreté had started the moment he followed Chief Inspector Gamache out of the basement.

That was the start, and this was the finish. All in one day. Young Jean-Guy Beauvoir had little doubt what was about to happen.

“If there was ever a time to follow orders, this is it, Agent Beauvoir. Do you understand?”

Beauvoir nodded.

“Do you understand?” Gamache repeated, his voice firm, the authority complete.

“Yessir.”

“Good.” Again dropping his voice, he whispered to both, “Do not fire, no matter what happens, unless they shoot first. And then, give ’em everything you’ve got.”

“And you?” Beauvoir asked.

“I think by then you’ll be on your own. With my profound apologies. However…” Gamache looked behind him. “… there is something that might help.”

He walked over to Dagenais and cuffed him to his chair. Then he wheeled the captain in front of Chernin and Beauvoir. In the direct line of fire.

“Oh, fuck,” muttered Dagenais.

“That’s better.” Gamache smiled, though his eyes held no amusement.

“Wait.” For the first time, there was desperation in Dagenais’s voice. “I know who killed Clotilde. Let me go and I’ll tell you, then I’ll disappear. Everyone wins. Everyone lives.”

Do it, thought Beauvoir. He could, at last, see some daylight between himself and catastrophe.

“I know who killed Clotilde,” said Gamache, staring at Dagenais.

“You think it was me? If it was, I’d have made sure she was never found.”

“You went to the house after she disappeared,” said Gamache. “That’s why you didn’t send anyone to look after the children. You needed time alone, to do what you had to do. You threatened them, if they told. And you gave the kids a huge new television. Textbook abuser. Threaten, then reward. They claimed no one visited, but that was clearly a lie. Someone did. There were no fingerprints on her keyboard, files were destroyed, and though the kids said the TV was old, we found the packaging in the backyard. It arrived after Clotilde disappeared.”

Beauvoir kept his eyes forward, trained on the agents. He knew Gamache had just lied. Yes, they’d found the packaging, but there was nothing on it to show when it had been delivered.

“You erased what you could of the hard drive, though not”—Gamache looked at the photo of the naked man—“quite well enough. And you found her record book. Did you destroy it?”

He stared at Dagenais, considering.

“No. You were selective in the videos you erased. Or copied? That’s what you did, didn’t you? You copied those incriminating videos Clotilde had made and kept her written records to blackmail the others.”

“You’re guessing.”

“True,” admitted Gamache. “But we’ll find the evidence.”

“You’d have to leave to do that, and there’s no way you’re getting out of here.”

“We’ll see,” said Gamache.

He stepped away from Dagenais, nodded to Inspector Chernin, then said quietly to Beauvoir, “You’re doing well.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir felt himself steady. He nodded to the Chief, then watched in amazement. Surely he wasn’t …

But Gamache did.

He opened the door and stepped out. With a clatter, Dagenais’s agents turned to him. Weapons pointed. Poised to fire.

While his face was composed, Gamache’s heart pounded. This was, his desperate mind had told him, the only hope they had. But still, but still …

He opened his arms wide to show that he wasn’t concealing anything.

The next few seconds were the most dangerous. All it would take was for one agent to panic. Then there would be a bloodbath. And it wouldn’t be just him lying dead in a pool of blood, but Chernin and Beauvoir and Dagenais and at least some of these agents.

And those two hikers, waiting in an interview room, would have to be killed. These agents couldn’t just let that man and woman go. Not after this slaughter.

They’d chosen a bad day for a stroll in an ancient forest.

The seconds ticked by. Five. Six. The agents were jumpy, staring back at him and glancing at each other. Unsure what to do.

Eight.

Of all the things they’d expected, this was not one.

Ten seconds passed before Gamache spoke. “Surrender your weapons. Put your Sûreté ID on your desks. It’s over.”

He spoke with authority. His voice deep and quiet and calm. As though he actually expected them to do it.

“Fuck you,” shouted the most senior agent. He stepped closer to Gamache, raising his weapon.

Oh, Reine-Marie, I’m so sorry …

Beauvoir heard Chernin inhale and saw her tense. Preparing …

Oh God, oh God, oh God, Jean-Guy prayed.

Gamache didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away from the gun practically touching his forehead. He’d expected to be dead already, so any hesitation on the part of his killers was a bonus.

“Let Dagenais go,” the agent shouted, his face so close Gamache felt a spray of spittle.

“And then what?” Gamache asked, as though they were having a reasonable conversation, a civilized disagreement. “You let us go? We all just walk away and pretend this didn’t happen?”

He had to lower the temperature. To do that, he had to sound like what he was not. Perfectly calm.

Half the agents in the room were prepared to shoot. Even, he thought, wanting to. Perhaps needing to. And he suddenly understood why.

Alexandre Dagenais was not the only one from this detachment who’d visited the Arsenault home.

This was a problem. A further complication.

Gamache’s mind raced. How to get out of this?

While it was true that three of the armed agents looked prepared to kill fellow Sûreté officers, the other three seemed less committed. More afraid.

Clearly this was not what they’d signed up for. Brutalizing the population. Stealing drugs and arms. Okay. Especially since it was sanctioned, rewarded, even organized by the leadership.

But this? Murdering not just other agents, but one of the most senior officers in the Sûreté? That was something different.

Still, Gamache knew he could not appeal to them. They were cowards and would always bend to whoever had the upper hand. And it was not him.

“Alexandre Dagenais is under arrest.” Gamache raised his voice for all to hear. “We will not give him up. But I will give you a choice. If you put down your weapons and surrender your Sûreté ID, I will let you leave.” He counted to five in his mind, letting that sink in. “Or you can shoot. And you know what will happen then. You’ll kill me, but Inspector Chernin and Agent Beauvoir will return fire and kill you. In the exchange, Dagenais will also die. Some of you will too. Or at least be badly wounded. Any of you who survive will be hunted down by the rest of my department. In fact, by every Sûreté officer in the province. Every police officer in the country. And when you’re found…”

He could see his words were having some effect. Partly what he was saying, but also how he was saying it. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. Almost mesmerizing.

“Put down your weapons.”

There seemed a hesitation. A moment when it looked like that might happen.

But the senior agent, clearly the most desperate, knew he had to do something to regain control. He grabbed Gamache, hauling the Chief Inspector in front of him and locking his arm around his throat. His gun to Gamache’s temple.

“Drop your fucking weapons,” he shouted at Chernin and Beauvoir. “Or he dies.”

The arm tightened, cutting off his air supply, leaving Gamache gasping for breath. He didn’t buck or fight. He stared at Chernin. At Beauvoir. Willing them to stay the course.

Would they follow orders not to shoot unless the others shot first? Not to surrender.

A moment passed. Two.

Chernin did not move. Did not react. Her weapon remained trained on the cop holding Gamache. Poised to fire. And while Beauvoir’s eyes had grown so wide it seemed his eyeballs must fall out, he also remained perfectly still. His gun raised. Aimed. But not fired. Yet.

The seconds ticked by.

The buzz in Gamache’s ears had built to a roar. He knew it was just a matter of time, perhaps moments, before he blacked out. Suffocated. He could feel the tip of the gun pressed hard against his temple and wondered what would come first. The bullet or the strangling.

His legs were growing weak. But still he didn’t struggle, though every instinct was kicking in. He knew if he grabbed at the arm around his throat, the gun would probably go off. Triggering the one thing he was desperate to avoid. More killing.

He could feel his legs going out from under him, and his vision blurring as his brain began to shut down.

He heard from far, far away a shout: “Do it!”

Do what, Gamache wondered. Shoot. Or …

“Lower your weapons,” shouted Dagenais. “He’s right. No one wins if you start shooting.”

The senior agent still hesitated. Clearly, while Dagenais’s man, he also had his own agenda. And that was to survive. And not be arrested.

Finally, he loosened his grip. Not to save Dagenais, but to save himself.

Gamache fell to his knees, gasping. His hand to his throat. His vision swam and he slumped against a desk. He heard voices but could no longer make out the words. Then hands grabbed him and dragged him to his feet.

“You all right?” Chernin asked, staring into his eyes.

“Their weapons,” he croaked. “Get their weapons.”

“We have them.”

“More. There’ll be more. On them or in their desks.”

“We have them all,” said Agent Beauvoir.

Gamache fell back against the desk. He’d clearly blacked out for a minute or so, while Chernin and Beauvoir had taken control. Propping himself up, he saw Beauvoir practically festooned with firearms.

“Well done,” rasped Gamache.

“Merci,” said Jean-Guy Beauvoir. “Patron.”