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But, more than that oddly formal phrase, no one in Beauvoir’s experience had ever strung together three words without saying “fuck,” or “calice,” or “merde.” Including, especially, his father. And his mother, for that matter. And they sure had never mentioned wisdom in his presence.
He stared at this older man, who spoke so softly. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir found himself actually 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. It was kindness.
It had so shocked him that he blushed. And blustered. And practically fell out of the car in his hurry to get away from something he didn’t understand, and that terrified him.
But he’d never forgotten. That moment. When he’d met kindness for the first time. And been shown the path to wisdom in four simple, though not easy, sentences.
Jean-Guy had often wondered exactly what the storied head of homicide had seen in the fucked-up, insecure, neurotic, and egotistical agent. Probably the same thing Gamache saw in his other recruits.
The homicide department was made up of the dregs, the refuse. The lost and the broken. But each had been found by the man sitting across from Beauvoir now.
The night before, over Idola’s crib, he’d begged Armand to let him be part of the team.
That morning, Armand had agreed. And assigned him the duty of securing the outside of the auditorium.
After the briefing and just before they’d opened the doors, the Chief Inspector had taken Lacoste and Beauvoir aside. Gamache had reached behind him and taken his own handgun off his belt, and given it to Jean-Guy.
“You said no—” Beauvoir began.
“I know what I said, but we need at least one officer with a weapon, in case. And it needs to be you, the senior officer outside the building. If there’s trouble—”
“I’ll be there, patron,” said Beauvoir, taking the weapon in its worn holster and attaching it to his belt.
But he hadn’t been.
He’d abandoned his post. Disregarded orders. Left a junior agent in charge outside. Not because some crisis had arisen inside, but because he wanted to see Robinson for himself.
The cheery light from the Christmas trees in the Chief Inspector’s eyes could not hide the outrage there. In fact, they somehow made it worse. Like the angry placards in crayon.
“I’ve never believed in the temporary insanity defense,” said Jean-Guy, finding his voice. “I thought it was bullshit. Now I believe it. It was a moment of insanity.”
“That’s your explanation? Temporary insanity?”
“I don’t know.” Beauvoir dropped his gaze to the table, then he looked back up into those eyes. “I don’t really know why I did it. It was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“I think you do know.” Gamache’s voice was strained, his anger barely contained.
“I don’t. I’ve asked myself over and over. I can’t explain it.”
“Of course you can,” said the Chief. “You’re just too afraid to look that deep.”
Jean-Guy felt a flush as his own anger rushed up his neck to his face, burning his cheeks.
“I need more than ‘I don’t know.’ ” Gamache’s eyes bored into Beauvoir’s. “You abandoned your post. You essentially left the entrance unsupervised. You took a weapon into an incendiary situation, the very thing I’d said must not be done. You endangered lives. Do you realize how close it came to a tragedy? Not the professor or me getting shot, but hundreds of people trampling each other to death? The children—”
Gamache stopped, unable to go on. Overcome with the nightmare vision of what might have been.
The lines down his face became crevices. There was a noise in his throat, as he gagged on his own words, his own rage. It was almost the rattle they’d heard too often, in those about to die. And this felt to Beauvoir like a sort of death. The end of something precious and, as it turned out, fragile.
Trust.
Jean-Guy watched in dismay, knowing if trust had died, he’d murdered it.
Gamache composed himself and finally got the words out. “You made it worse.”
