“Because they can?” asked Lacoste.
“Because everyone else does,” said Gamache, sitting forward. “Corruption and brutality are modeled and expected and rewarded. It becomes normal. And anyone who stands up to it, who tells them it’s wrong, is beaten down. Or worse.” Gamache shook his head. “No, I can’t condemn those young agents for losing their way. It’s a rare person who wouldn’t.”
The Chief looked at her and smiled.
“So you ask why I didn’t rip him apart when I could have? That’s why. And before you mistake it for heroics on my part, it wasn’t. It was selfish. I needed to prove to myself that I hadn’t yet fallen that far. I have to admit, it’s tempting.”
“To join Chief Superintendent Francoeur?” asked Lacoste, amazed at the admission.
“No, to create my own stinking mess in response.”
He stared at her, seeming to weigh his words.
“I know what I’m doing, Isabelle,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”
“I shouldn’t have doubted.”
And Isabelle Lacoste saw how the rot started. How it happened, not overnight, but by degrees. A small doubt broke the skin. Then an infection set in. Questioning. Critical. Cynical. Distrustful.
Lacoste looked at the agent that Gamache had spoken to. He’d put down the phone and was making notes on his computer, trying to do his job. But his colleagues were taunting him, and as Inspector Lacoste watched, the agent stopped typing and turned to them. And smiled. One of them, again.
Inspector Lacoste returned her attention to Chief Inspector Gamache. Never, ever, would she have believed it possible for her to be disloyal to him. But if it could happen to those other agents, who’d been decent once, maybe it could happen to her. Maybe it already had. As more and more of Francoeur’s agents were transferred in, as more and more of them challenged Gamache, believing him to be weak, maybe it was seeping into her too, by association.
Maybe she was beginning to doubt him.
Six months ago she’d never have questioned how the Chief disciplined a subordinate. But now she had. And part of her had wondered if what she’d seen, what they’d all seen, wasn’t weakness after all.
“Whatever happens, Isabelle,” said Gamache, “you must trust yourself. Do you understand?”
He was looking at her with great intensity, as though trying to place those words not simply in her head, but someplace deeper. Some secret, safe place.
She nodded.
He smiled, breaking the tension. “Bon. Is that what you came to say, or is there more?”
It took her a moment to remember and it was only in noticing the Post-it note in her hand that it came back to her.
“A call came in a few minutes ago. I didn’t want to disturb you. I’m not sure if it’s personal or professional.”
He put on his glasses and read the note, then frowned.
“I’m not sure either.” Gamache leaned back in his chair. His jacket opened and Lacoste noticed the Glock in the holster on his belt. She couldn’t quite get used to seeing it there. The Chief loathed guns.
Matthew 10:36.
It was one of the first things she’d been taught when she’d joined the homicide division. She could still see Chief Inspector Gamache, sitting where he was now.
“Matthew 10:36,” he’d said. “And a man’s foes shall be they of his own household. Never forget that, Agent Lacoste.”
She’d assumed he’d meant that in a murder investigation, the family was the place to start. But now she knew it meant much more than that. Chief Inspector Gamache wore a weapon. Inside S?reté headquarters. Inside his own household.
Gamache picked the Post-it note off his desk. “Care for a drive? We can be there for lunch.”
Lacoste was surprised but didn’t need to be asked twice.
“Who’ll be left in charge?” she asked, as she grabbed her coat.
“Who’s in charge now?”
“You, of course, patron.”
“How nice of you to say that, but we both know it isn’t true. I just hope we didn’t leave any matches lying around.”
As the door closed, Gamache heard the agent he’d spoken with say to the others, “It’s about life…”
He was lampooning the Chief, in a high, childish voice. Making him sound idiotic.
The Chief walked down the long corridor to the elevator, and smiled.
In the elevator, they watched the numbers. 15, 14 …
The other person in the elevator got out, leaving them alone.
… 13, 12, 11 …
Lacoste was tempted to ask the one question that must never be overheard.
She looked at the Chief, watching the numbers. Relaxed. But she knew him enough to recognize the new lines, the deeper lines. The darker circles under his eyes.
Yes, she thought, let’s get out of here. Cross the bridge, get off the island. As far from this damned place as we can.
8 … 7 … 6 …
“Sir?”