Read Online How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel by Louise Penny - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louise Penny
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bottomless rage.
Here was a man with a gun and nothing more to lose.
If Jean-Guy Beauvoir loathed Gamache, Lacoste wondered how the Chief felt.
She studied him again in the scratched and dented elevator door. He seemed perfectly at ease.
Henri chose, if such a thing is a choice, to hand out another great compliment at that moment. Lacoste brought her hand to her face, in an involuntary survival instinct.
The dog, oblivious to the curdled air, looked around, his tags clinking cheerily together. His huge brown eyes glanced up at the man beside him. Not the one who held his leash. But the other man.
A familiar man.
14 … 15.
The elevator stopped and the door opened, bringing with it oxygen. Isabelle wondered if she’d have to burn her clothes.
Gamache held it open for Lacoste and she left as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of that stink, only part of which could be blamed on Henri. But before Gamache could step out, Henri turned to Beauvoir, and licked his hand.
Beauvoir pulled it back, as though scalded.
The German shepherd followed the Chief from the elevator. And the doors closed behind them. As the three walked toward the glass doors into the homicide division, Lacoste noticed that the hand that held the leash trembled.
It was slight, but it was there.
And Lacoste realized that Gamache had perfect control over Henri, if not Henri’s bowels. He could have held the leash tight, preventing the German shepherd from getting anywhere close to Beauvoir.
But Gamache hadn’t. He’d allowed the lick. Allowed the small kiss.
* * *
The elevator reached the top floor of Sûreté headquarters and the doors clunked open to reveal a couple of men standing in the corridor.
“Holy shit, Beauvoir, what a stink.” One of them scowled.
“It wasn’t me.” Beauvoir could feel Henri’s lick, moist and warm on his hand.
“Right,” said the man, and caught the eye of the other agent.
“Fuck you,” Beauvoir mumbled as he pushed between them and into the office.
* * *
Chief Inspector Gamache looked at his homicide department. Where busy agents would once have sat into the night, the desks were now empty.
He wished the tranquillity was because all the murders had been solved. Or, better yet, there were no more murders. No more pain so great it made a person take a life. Someone else’s, or his own.
Like Constance Ouellet. Like the body below the bridge. Like he’d felt in the elevator just now.
But Armand Gamache was a realist, and knew the long list of homicides would only grow. What had diminished was his capacity to solve them.
* * *
Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn’t get up. Didn’t look up. He ignored Beauvoir and the others as they took seats in his large private office.
Beauvoir was used to that now. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was the most senior cop in Québec and he looked it. Distinguished, with gray hair and a confident bearing, he exuded authority. This was a man not to be trifled with. Chief Superintendent Francoeur associated with the Premier, had meals with the Public Security Minister. He was on a first-name basis with the Cardinal of Québec.
Unlike Gamache, Francoeur gave his agents freedom. He didn’t worry about how they got results. Just get it done, was what he said.
The only real law was Chief Superintendent Francoeur. The only line not to be crossed was drawn around him. His power was absolute and unquestioned.
Working with Gamache was always so complicated. So many gray areas. Always debating what was right, as though that was a difficult question.
Working with Chief Superintendent Francoeur was easy.
Law-abiding citizens were safe, criminals weren’t. Francoeur trusted his people to decide who was who, and to know what to do about it. And when a mistake was made? They looked out for each other. Defended each other. Protected each other.
Unlike Gamache.
Beauvoir rubbed his hand, trying to erase the lick, like a lash. He
Here was a man with a gun and nothing more to lose.
If Jean-Guy Beauvoir loathed Gamache, Lacoste wondered how the Chief felt.
She studied him again in the scratched and dented elevator door. He seemed perfectly at ease.
Henri chose, if such a thing is a choice, to hand out another great compliment at that moment. Lacoste brought her hand to her face, in an involuntary survival instinct.
The dog, oblivious to the curdled air, looked around, his tags clinking cheerily together. His huge brown eyes glanced up at the man beside him. Not the one who held his leash. But the other man.
A familiar man.
14 … 15.
The elevator stopped and the door opened, bringing with it oxygen. Isabelle wondered if she’d have to burn her clothes.
Gamache held it open for Lacoste and she left as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of that stink, only part of which could be blamed on Henri. But before Gamache could step out, Henri turned to Beauvoir, and licked his hand.
Beauvoir pulled it back, as though scalded.
The German shepherd followed the Chief from the elevator. And the doors closed behind them. As the three walked toward the glass doors into the homicide division, Lacoste noticed that the hand that held the leash trembled.
It was slight, but it was there.
And Lacoste realized that Gamache had perfect control over Henri, if not Henri’s bowels. He could have held the leash tight, preventing the German shepherd from getting anywhere close to Beauvoir.
But Gamache hadn’t. He’d allowed the lick. Allowed the small kiss.
* * *
The elevator reached the top floor of Sûreté headquarters and the doors clunked open to reveal a couple of men standing in the corridor.
“Holy shit, Beauvoir, what a stink.” One of them scowled.
“It wasn’t me.” Beauvoir could feel Henri’s lick, moist and warm on his hand.
“Right,” said the man, and caught the eye of the other agent.
“Fuck you,” Beauvoir mumbled as he pushed between them and into the office.
* * *
Chief Inspector Gamache looked at his homicide department. Where busy agents would once have sat into the night, the desks were now empty.
He wished the tranquillity was because all the murders had been solved. Or, better yet, there were no more murders. No more pain so great it made a person take a life. Someone else’s, or his own.
Like Constance Ouellet. Like the body below the bridge. Like he’d felt in the elevator just now.
But Armand Gamache was a realist, and knew the long list of homicides would only grow. What had diminished was his capacity to solve them.
* * *
Chief Superintendent Francoeur didn’t get up. Didn’t look up. He ignored Beauvoir and the others as they took seats in his large private office.
Beauvoir was used to that now. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was the most senior cop in Québec and he looked it. Distinguished, with gray hair and a confident bearing, he exuded authority. This was a man not to be trifled with. Chief Superintendent Francoeur associated with the Premier, had meals with the Public Security Minister. He was on a first-name basis with the Cardinal of Québec.
Unlike Gamache, Francoeur gave his agents freedom. He didn’t worry about how they got results. Just get it done, was what he said.
The only real law was Chief Superintendent Francoeur. The only line not to be crossed was drawn around him. His power was absolute and unquestioned.
Working with Gamache was always so complicated. So many gray areas. Always debating what was right, as though that was a difficult question.
Working with Chief Superintendent Francoeur was easy.
Law-abiding citizens were safe, criminals weren’t. Francoeur trusted his people to decide who was who, and to know what to do about it. And when a mistake was made? They looked out for each other. Defended each other. Protected each other.
Unlike Gamache.
Beauvoir rubbed his hand, trying to erase the lick, like a lash. He
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