World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 2

“Don’t you ever—” the Chief Inspector began to say.

The softly spoken words cut through the wind and roar of crashing waves and landed in the younger man’s ears as though whispered directly there.

“—talk like that—”

Agent Beauvoir braced for the Chief Inspector to say “—to me, you stupid, arrogant little shit.”

But instead …

“—at the scene of a murder. That isn’t a body, that isn’t a corpse, that isn’t a puzzle. She’s a human being whose life has been taken. Stolen. I will not tolerate that sort of language, that behavior.”

Spray from waves beating against the rocks stung their faces, but while Beauvoir winced, the Chief Inspector never flinched. Never turned away. His deep brown eyes never wavered, never left Beauvoir’s.

With every word the man uttered, the young agent grew more and more perplexed.

More and more afraid.

Screaming, yelling, threatening he understood, even went out of his way to provoke.

But this? It wasn’t just a foreign language, it was alien. As though the man in front of him had appeared from some strange world unknown to Beauvoir. He understood the individual words, but their meaning eluded him.

And then it got worse.

“We have a duty,” the Chief was saying. His voice steady, never rising above normal level, even as the wind whipped around him and lake water coursed down his face. “Sacred or otherwise, to the murdered person and those who love and care for them. Part of that duty is to make sure their humanity is preserved. Do you understand, Agent Beauvoir?”

Don’t say it, don’t say it. Do. Not. Say. It.

“What I understand, sir, is that you’re a laughingstock, a joke, in the Sûreté.”

Stop. Stop. For God’s sake, stop. He’s not the enemy.

And yet it felt like he was. Gamache was threatening, in his soft, even gentle voice, all Jean-Guy’s defenses, fortifications that had taken a lifetime to erect.

“Your department is made up of all the garbage no one else wanted. They’re the only ones who’ll work for you. You don’t even wear a gun. You’re a coward. Everyone knows that.”

Word after word, like a shotgun blast to the chest, he aimed at this senior officer.

It was, of course, suicide. But necessary. A panicked effort to push away what now seemed inevitable. That this man would breach his walls. Would see inside. And so, Beauvoir lashed out. Wildly. Saying the most insulting things any cop could hear. Any human could hear.

He braced for the counterattack. But none came. The older man just stood there, his face gleaming with lake water, his hair, just touched with gray, tousled in the wind.

Around them the other agents, members of Gamache’s team, had stopped to watch. Some must have moved to intervene because the Chief Inspector made a subtle gesture to stop them.

Jean-Guy raised his voice to be heard above the ruckus of the waves and the wind and the water drumming against their clothing, as though nature was trying to drown him out.

“Only a fool would follow you.”

What happened next shocked and terrified the young agent. And changed his life.

Armand Gamache strolled through the early-morning sunshine, past the three soaring pines. Past the bench, where Ruth raised her middle finger in greeting.

He smiled at the elderly woman and continued on, past his grandson, already caked in mud. Past Monsieur Béliveau’s General Store and Sarah’s Boulangerie. Past Olivier’s Bistro.

The door to the bookshop opened, and Armand turned to greet his friend and neighbor Myrna Landers.

“Big day,” Armand said to her as they continued the walk together. “Can we give you a lift?”

“Thanks, but I’ll take my own car. I’m driving Harriet in.”

Myrna studied her companion. His hair, curling slightly around his ears, was almost all gray, though he wasn’t yet sixty. The lines down his face were accentuated in the morning light. Creases and furrows made from worry, and sorrow, and pain. One, a deep scar by his temple, was made from something else entirely.

Not for the first time the retired psychologist wondered who’d decided to name that part of the body the temple. No doubt some man who worshipped information. Thinking that the brain was the temple where knowledge was housed.

But she knew, as did her companion, as did the dogs, and Gracie, trotting beside them, that anything worth knowing was kept in the heart.

Armand turned to her. “How’re you feeling?”

“About today? Nervous for Harriet. She’s almost sick with anxiety. Panic attacks.”

Armand nodded. He was nervous too, though not for Harriet. He told himself it was ridiculous. Nothing bad could happen.

Reine-Marie came out onto their front porch and waved. Breakfast was ready.

As he smiled, Myrna was reminded that the deepest creases down his face were made by laughter.

“Will you join us?” he asked.

“Already had mine, but merci.”

She accompanied him to his front path.

It was promising to be not just warm but hot. Perennials were well along, the lupines and vibrant red poppies and irises were in bloom. Peonies that had survived the winter kill were budding out. The maples and wild cherry trees in the surrounding forest were in bright green leaf.

“Fiona will be there today,” Armand said casually. “I had confirmation last night.”

Myrna’s lips compressed and she took a deep breath. “I see. You asked the families? The survivors?” Though she knew he had.

“Yes. I met with them ten days ago. Walked them through it and left the final decision up to them. It’s been many years since it happened.”

“Yesterday,” said Myrna, and Armand knew she was right.

If it had been Annie, it would still feel like yesterday. Like today. Like this minute.

“I spoke with Nathalie Provost last night,” he said.

She was, Myrna knew, the spokesperson for the victims and families. The public face of a national tragedy.

“They’ve agreed.”

“I’m not sure I would have. Still, you must be pleased.” Myrna’s voice was flat, noncommittal.

Armand hesitated and stared out at the village green. “There’s more.”

Myrna gave a small, unamused laugh. “Of course. There’s always more. Let me guess. He’ll be there too. The brother.”

“We can’t stop him. She wants him there.”

Myrna nodded. They’d known that was a risk. Still, how bad could it be?

Upstairs, Jean-Guy was wondering the same thing as his mind went back to that November day.

News of the discovery of a body in the frigid waters of Lac Plongeon had filtered down to the basement of the remote Sûreté detachment. Agent Beauvoir guessed it was probably the missing woman.

A real case. A real body. And the incompetent, jealous fuck-faces upstairs were keeping him out of it.

Agent Beauvoir sat on the stool, guarding bits and pieces of evidence from petty crimes that would never get to trial. He consoled himself by once again mentally composing his letter of resignation from the Sûreté and in the process telling them what he really thought. Not that he hadn’t already.

That’s what had landed him in the dim basement.

And yet, and yet, despite repeated mental drafts, Agent Jean-Guy Beauvoir hadn’t yet taken that last, irrevocable step.

As for Captain Dagenais, Beauvoir composed, a more stupid, incompetent asshole, dumb-as-fuck commander would be impossible to find—

Steps. Someone was coming down. He was used to the captain’s heavy footfalls, but these were different.

And then the man had appeared.

Chief Inspector Gamache stood in the doorway. Like some apparition. Beauvoir rose from his stool and felt his cheeks begin to color, as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Here was the head of homicide, in the middle of nowhere. In fact, he was in the basement of nowhere.

How could this be?

Of course. The body in the lake. Gamache had come up himself to investigate. No doubt having heard what an incompetent, shit-for-brains, dumb-as-fuck officer was in charge.

The man in the doorway was in his late forties, tall, not heavy but sturdy. His Sûreté-issue coat was open, and Beauvoir saw he was wearing a shirt and tie. A tweed jacket. Gray flannel slacks. No gun.

He looked, Beauvoir thought, more like a college professor than a man who chased killers.

The Chief Inspector cocked his head and smiled. Very slightly.

“Bonjour. My name,” he said, coming forward and holding out his hand, “is Armand Gamache. And you are?”

“Beauvoir. Jean-Guy. Agent.” He had no idea why he’d suddenly started talking backward.

“I’m here to investigate the death of the woman whose body was found by hikers. I presume you know the lake?”

“Moi?” said Beauvoir. Jean-Guy. Agent.

“Answer the man, you cretin,” said Dagenais. Gamache turned and must’ve given the captain a look because he backed up a step and remained quiet, though his expression spoke volumes as he glared at his junior officer.

Don’t embarrass me. Don’t fuck this up.

“Oui. I know it.”

“Bon. If your captain has no objections, perhaps you can drive me there and help with the investigation. It’s good to have a local officer.”

Dagenais’s brows shot up. “Are you sure, sir? We have other—”

“No, this agent will do. Merci.”

Agent Beauvoir smirked at his captain as he followed the Chief Inspector up the stairs, through the small station, and out the door. For Gamache to have chosen him meant only one thing, Beauvoir realized. His brilliance must be known even at headquarters.

At the car, Dagenais took Gamache aside.

The wind was picking up, causing a swishing sound in the thick pine forest. The captain hunched his shoulders as he spoke.

“Be careful of him. He’s trouble. I was just writing an evaluation, recommending he be fired.”

“Why?”

“Insolence. But it’s more than that. He’s angry. Discontented. And that sort of thing spreads.”

Gamache agreed. Infighting among men and women with guns was a disaster, especially if their anger and resentments spilled out onto a defenseless population.

He’d seen it happen. And yes, it often started with a single malcontent.

Gamache had heard rumors of irregularities at this detachment, which was why, when the report of a possible homicide came in, the Chief Inspector chose to investigate it himself.

He glanced at the young cop getting into the driver’s seat. Then at Captain Dagenais.

This Agent Beauvoir had been banished to the basement for a reason. It was where the malcontents were placed. And yet, and yet …

He looked into the car just in time to see Beauvoir give the finger to his fellow officers. Gamache sighed. And yet, and yet …

As they drove toward the scene of crime, the Chief Inspector gave the young agent instructions. What to do. What not to do.

“Do you understand?” he asked when his words were met with silence.

“I do. It’s all pretty obvious.”

Beauvoir waited for the rebuke for this insolence, and when none came, he smiled. He had the measure of this man. While he was certainly senior, there was nothing remarkable about Chief Inspector Gamache. Beauvoir suspected he was in the presence of a product created by the Sûreté PR machine. A solid, dull, trustworthy figure designed to win the confidence of a gullible public. Nothing more.

Beauvoir had heard rumors while in the Academy that this man didn’t even wear a gun. What sort of cop wasn’t armed?

A coward, that’s who. A weak man who depended on others to do the dangerous work.

A few minutes later they turned off the secondary highway onto a rutted and potholed dirt road. A few jarring kilometers down they finally arrived at the lake.

It was, even to Gamache, who had seen a lot of wilderness, a desolate place.

Low clouds clung to the thick forest. There were no homes, no cabins, no lights. No docks or canoes. Few came here, except bears and deer and moose. And murderers.

Agent Beauvoir went to get out of the car, but the Chief Inspector stopped him.

“There’s something you need to know.”

“Yes, I know. Don’t disturb the evidence. Don’t touch the body. You’ve told me all that.”

Pathetic dumbass.

“There are,” said the Chief, unbothered by what he’d just heard, “four statements that lead to wisdom. Do with them as you will.”

Beauvoir sat back in his seat and stared at the Chief Inspector. Do with them as you will? Who talks like that?

But, more than that oddly formal phrase, no one in Beauvoir’s experience had ever strung together more than three words without saying “fuck,” or “tabarnak,” or “merde.” Including, especially, his father. And his mother, for that matter. And they sure had never mentioned sagesse.

Wisdom.

He stared at this older man, not far off his father’s age, but as unlike his father as humanly possible. This man spoke so softly that Jean-Guy Beauvoir found himself leaning forward. Listening.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. I don’t know.” As he listed them, Chief Inspector Gamache raised a finger, until his palm was open. “I need help.”

Beauvoir looked into Gamache’s eyes, and in them he saw something else that was new. That was unexpected.

It took him a moment to place what it was. To find the word to describe the look. And when he had it, the blood drained from Beauvoir’s face, from his extremities. He felt his hands grow cold, and was suddenly light-headed.

What he saw in those eyes was kindness.

It was terrifying.

He practically fell out of the car in his haste to get away from this assault on his defenses. He didn’t understand this man, those words, that look, that threatened his carefully constructed fortress.

Though he wasn’t the only one surprised by the encounter.

Armand Gamache had gone down to the basement because he knew that was where the outliers were kept. He needed a local cop, and who better than one who was either the instigator of the trouble at the detachment, or who was not involved at all? An agent banished to the basement because the others did not trust him.

Once down there, he had not expected to recognize this wretched young agent. He’d never met the man before, Gamache was certain of that. And yet, there was a familiarity. Like unexpectedly running into someone from the distant past.

But Captain Dagenais was almost certainly right. There was a meanness about this Agent Beauvoir. Something lean and feral. Something dangerous.

This young man was trouble and troubled.

And yet, Gamache recognized him. And that had shocked the Chief Inspector.

Later, on the side of the lake, when Agent Beauvoir had let fly that barrage of insults, loudly enough for every other living human and most wildlife to hear, Gamache was forced to rethink.

He must have been wrong. Had made a mistake. It was a trick of the mind. A déjà vu. Without the déjà. Or the vu.

On that rocky shore, the spray hitting his face, Armand Gamache stared at Jean-Guy Beauvoir and was faced with a choice. One that would decide both their fates, their futures. Though at that moment Armand Gamache had no idea just how profoundly.

Should he do what was obvious, sensible, and rational and send this insolent young agent, surely a liability to the Sûreté and a danger to the public, back to the detachment? Where he would soon be fired. And good riddance.

Or.

“You’re incompetent,” Beauvoir was shouting, his voice rising above the crashing waves. “Stupid. And stupid is dangerous. You’ll get them all”—his arm swooped around, his finger pointing toward the men and women on the shore—“killed, if you’re not careful.”

Over Beauvoir’s shoulder Gamache saw Inspector Chernin step toward them, her face filled with fury. But a look from him stopped her. Barely.

His eyes returned to Beauvoir. He’d had enough. He was about to tell this ridiculous agent to go back to the station. Hand in his weapon and badge. He was done.

But instead, Armand Gamache found himself saying, “Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links / Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks.”

His voice was so soft Agent Beauvoir wondered if he’d really heard it, or if it was an illusion. Some trick of the wind and waves.

This was the Chief Inspector’s response to a verbal attack? To being called a coward in front of his own team? Instead of lashing out, the man was quoting some poem? He really was weak, a coward.

And yet, this response was far more terrifying than any insults the Chief might have hurled back.

Agent Beauvoir stood there, at a loss. Lost. Petrified. With force of will, he turned away and faced the lake that had just coughed up a corpse.

“Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh.” The voice, now seeming to come from inside Beauvoir’s head, continued. Unrelenting.

“There is always another story / There is more than meets the eye.”

Chief Inspector Armand Gamache reached for Beauvoir’s sleeve, holding his arm firmly. Not painfully, but as one might hold a drowning man to prevent him from going under.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Things aren’t always as they seem. It’ll be all right, son.”

Then he smiled.

The cold water pelting Jean-Guy’s face tasted inexplicably salty. With those words and that grip on his arm, Beauvoir felt something shift inside him. It was as though in that instant Armand Gamache had not just breached but shattered his defenses. And stood now in the wreckage of Jean-Guy’s young life.

But instead of recoiling, Jean-Guy felt drawn to this man, this stranger. Felt his DNA attach itself to him, like a mariner lashed to the mast in a ferocious storm, to keep from being swept overboard.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir felt totally vulnerable, but he also felt safe for the first time in his life.

Though he also recognized, in that moment, that it came at a price. If the ship should founder, he would go down with it. That was the deal. His life and future were now bound, inexorably, to this man. And probably always had been.

As he looked out across the lake, Jean-Guy Beauvoir sensed something else.

The approach of a ferocious storm.