Page 54

“What the hell is going on, Armand,” she snapped. “What’re we doing here?”

“Oh, dear lady,” said Lauzon, in a purr that made Beauvoir’s skin crawl and brought a flush of outrage so forceful into Tardiff’s face it looked like she might burst into flames after all. “Surely, as head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté…” He paused and studied the woman sitting beside him. “That is what you are, non? Though, as enjoyable as your company is, I’m not sure why you’re here. Nevertheless, you must recognize what this is. Don Moretti must’ve conducted his fair share, though not, perhaps, in as pleasant an atmosphere. I’m sure your informant within his organization has told you about them. You do have someone close to Joseph Moretti?”

Chief Inspector Tardiff was far too disciplined, too practiced at artifice, to show any reaction. Lauzon’s gaze lingered on her, his nostrils flaring slightly, as though picking up a scent. He turned to Gamache, who was standing beside the dented and gurgling percolator. Coffee vapor rose from it.

“It’s a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting, isn’t it, Armand? You’re offering me redemption. A last chance to save my soul, in exchange for the name of the one you’ve charmingly named the Black Wolf. I suppose you also expect me, as part of my salvation, to apologize for what happened to your son years ago.”

“If you’re not the one behind the plot, as you claim,” Gamache repeated, “then who is?”

Jean-Guy, who had cleared away the dessert plates, could see that while Gamache’s voice was steady, his hands were now gripping the edge of the kitchen island.

“If you knew how power works, Chief Inspector,” said Lauzon, “you would not need to ask.”

“I know how power works, merci.” There was an abruptness in the tone, a rare fraying, Jean-Guy could hear, of that tight control. “And I know what happens to trumped-up little people who abuse what power they have. How the need for more and more hollows them out, eats away at them. Until they appear human but have lost all humanity.”

Beauvoir took a step closer, afraid Armand would lose his grip, in every way. Then Gamache suddenly released the edge of the counter and splayed his hands on top of it.

“There was only one way”—Armand’s voice became calm once again, his bearing composed, though there was the slightest tremor in his right hand—“that you … sir … were going to get that power, and it was not by being elected.”

“That might be true, my friend. I’m not especially liked. I know that. And your description of power is apt. Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow. Or maybe, in your parlance, falls the Black Wolf. Unfortunately for you, it’s not me. You are, Armand, the boy who cried wolf.”

Lauzon was smiling. Quietly mocking Armand with a quote from T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men.” Content to hold the floor, his belly full of roast chicken and gravy, of fine white wine and confidence. Of sweet apples and rich ice cream.

And Beauvoir suddenly saw this for what it was.

It had seemed foolish, bordering on insane, to bring this man into this place. Where Armand and his loved ones lived. Surrounded by their private effects.

But now Jean-Guy noticed that the most personal photos had been put away. Even Reine-Marie and Armand’s favorite books had been switched out for some predictable classics. The music in the background was soft jazz, the modern equivalent of Muzak, which Armand and Reine-Marie never played.

There were children’s toys, but they were not ones Jean-Guy, or his children, or Daniel’s daughters had ever touched.

This was a shell around a hollow world, a life in appearance only. They were in the space between idea and reality. Even Armand’s old cardigan and worn slippers were part of the act. Jean-Guy had never seen them before. They were a costume.

Then there was Armand’s slightly perplexed look, trying to keep up with the conversation, though Jean-Guy, who knew him well, could tell the Chief could hear, if not perfectly, then far better than he made out.

Knowing that, and that all this was staged, choreographed, made Jean-Guy almost giddy with relief.

And Marcus Lauzon was falling for it. Under the impression he was deep into Armand Gamache’s home, his real life. Deep into his broken mind. And so, free to mind-fuck a once formidable foe.

The only thing that worried Jean-Guy, as he followed Armand back to the table carrying the coffee mugs and milk jug and sugar, was the very slight tremble in that right hand. A tell. A sign of fatigue, of stress. Of barely contained rage. A warning that Armand was dangerously close to the edge of the stage.

As he once again took his seat beside the Chief, Beauvoir looked across the table at their other guest. Was the head of the Sûreté’s Organized Crime division in on the ruse, or another target?

When Armand had given that out-of-character speech about “trumped-up little people,” was Jean-Guy mistaken, or had Armand glanced at Chief Inspector Tardiff? Was that message about power, and the abuse of it, also meant for her?

“You’ve missed one important thing,” said Marcus Lauzon.

“I don’t think so.” Armand looked at the table. “We have milk and sugar.” He turned to Jean-Guy. “Have I forgotten something? Biscuits maybe?”

It was on the verge of, but not quite spilling over into, pathetic. Armand would have to be careful not to overdo it.

“I don’t mean the lunch,” snapped Lauzon. “We were talking about power. In accusing me of being monomaniacal in my climb to the top, I think you haven’t taken into account one important thing. What happens at a banquet of the power-hungry?”

“I think you mean ‘power-mad,’” said Beauvoir.

“I say what I mean.” Lauzon lashed out, then turned back to Gamache, who was staring across the table into that smug face. But said nothing.

“No one reaches deputy without wanting to be the actual thing,” Lauzon admitted, when faced with that silence. “To grab it all for themselves. To climb that last rung. Including me. Including you, Armand. No use denying it. You know how power works because you yourself had so much. At least for a while. But you discovered ultimate leadership isn’t for everyone. I seem to remember you’re afraid of heights.”