Chapter 13
“Delicious,” said Marcus Lauzon. “It’s been a while.”
“No Sunday roast in prison?” asked Evelyn Tardiff.
“Non,” he said and smiled, as though her question had been serious.
“But I didn’t mean that. It’s been a while since I was treated like a human being.
” He carefully folded his linen napkin and placed it beside his clean plate, smoothing it gently.
Then he looked at his host. “I know you have an ulterior motive, and I can guess what it is. Still, I’m grateful. ”
Armand was trying not to leap across the table and strangle the man who’d almost killed his son. A man who was clearly unrepentant. It was a temptation that had been growing since Lauzon had arrived.
He’d wondered if the former Deputy Prime Minister would take this opportunity to apologize, as Jeanne Caron had done.
Part of him hoped he would, and that it would help sever the ties between them. Gamache knew, better than most, that hate bound a person to the one they hated. They were taken prisoner by that loathing, while the one they despised went merrily about their life, often oblivious.
He was tired of being tied to this man. And yet he was so used to it, part of him did not want to be unbound. And a big part of him did not want to be in the position of having to say, I forgive you. And then work toward making that true.
But it seemed, this sunny Sunday afternoon in October, it would not come to that.
Over warm apple crisp, made from fruit picked in the orchard in their back garden, and Coaticook vanilla ice cream, Armand finally asked the question.
The one that had hung over them, creating an almost unbearable tension.
Though Lauzon seemed the least tense and Chief Inspector Tardiff appeared the most.
“You’ve claimed all along not to be the one behind the plot to poison Montréal’s water, despite all the evidence against you—” Lauzon had opened his mouth, but Gamache shut him down with a look. “If not you, then who?”
“I’ve waited a long time for you to ask that question.”
The S?reté officers around the table waited for the answer. Had it been a movie, this would be, Jean-Guy knew, the time when a shot would ring out and Lauzon would slump to the table, face down in his apple crisp.
But nothing happened. Though beside him, Jean-Guy noticed Armand’s hands slip below the table and grip his knees so tightly they would, Jean-Guy knew, leave a mark.
But Chief Inspector Gamache’s face was placid, almost blank.
“I’m tempted to ask you who you think it could be,” Lauzon continued, taunting the man across from him. Teasing him. But Gamache would not rise to it.
Though he did stand up. “Coffee?”
Beauvoir lowered his gaze and fought to suppress a grin at the look of surprise, degenerating into annoyance, on Lauzon’s face.
He thought he was toying with Gamache. Now the Deputy PM looked puzzled, no longer sure what was happening. And who was playing with whom.
When Lauzon didn’t answer, Armand turned to Evelyn. “Café? Or perhaps tea?”
“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 S?reté…” 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 S?reté’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. ”
“That’s true,” said Gamache. “It terrifies me.”
Lauzon seemed surprised by this admission and briefly thrown off balance.
“You were Chief Superintendent of the S?reté for a while. You were even offered the top job at the RCMP but turned it down. I long wondered why, but now I think I have the answer. Power is for the brave. Those who not only want to lead but are not afraid to lead. Who are not afraid of heights.”
Lauzon watched to see how much damage that just did.