A Trick of the Light

Gamache turned his full attention to her. In the background Castonguay raised his voice. Vexed, whining, petulant. But nothing would get Gamache to look away from Myrna now.

“What did Jean Guy tell you?”

Myrna examined Gamache for a moment. “You’re not going to like it.”

“There’s nothing about what happened in that factory I like. But I need to hear it.”

“Yes,” said Myrna, making up her mind. “He feels guilty.”

“About what?” asked Gamache, astonished. This wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

“About not being able to help you. He can’t get beyond seeing you fall, and not being able to help. As you helped him.”

“But that’s ridiculous. He couldn’t.”

“You know that, and I know that. He even knows that. But what we know and what we feel can be two different things.”

Gamache’s heart dropped. Remembering the sallow young man early that morning in the Incident Room, his face made all the paler by the harsh light from the computer screen. Watching that damned video, over and over.

But not the scene of Gamache himself being gunned down. Jean Guy was watching himself being shot. He told Myrna what he’d found the night before.

Myrna exhaled. “I think he’s punishing himself. Like self-mutilation. Taking a knife to himself, only the video is the blade.”

The video, thought Gamache, feeling his fury rise. The goddamned video. It had already done so much damage, and now it was killing a young man he loved.

“I’ve ordered him back to counseling—”

“Ordered?”

“It started as a suggestion,” said the Chief, “but ended up an order.”

“He was resistant?”

“Very.”

“He loves you,” said Myrna. “That’s his road home.”

Gamache looked over at Jean Guy and waved across the crowded room. Once again the Chief saw him fall. And hit the ground.

And Jean Guy, across the living room, smiled and waved back.

He saw Gamache looking down at him, eyes filled with concern.

And then leaving.

*   *   *

“Christ,” said Castonguay in disgust, and gestured to the room in general. “That’s it. The end of the world. The end of civilization.” He slurped his drink toward Brian. “He tattoos ‘Mother’ on bikers and calls himself an artist. Maudit tabernac.”

“Come on,” said Thierry Pineault. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

He took Castonguay by the elbow and tried to lead him to the front door but Castonguay shook him off.

“I haven’t seen a good artist in years. Not her.” He gestured toward Clara, just coming in from the porch. “She’s been circling the drain for years. Stuff’s trite. Sentimental. Portraits.” He almost spat the word.

People were stepping away, leaving Castonguay alone in the void.

“And him,” said Castonguay, choosing his next victim. It was Peter. “His stuff’s OK. Conventional, but I could sell it to Kelley Foods. Bury it in their Guatemalan office. Depends how drunk I can get their buyers. Though fucking Kelley’s won’t allow drinking. Ruins the corporate image. So I guess I won’t be able to sell you after all, Morrow. But neither will he.”

Castonguay fixed a belligerent look on Denis Fortin. “What’s he been promising you? Solo shows? A joint show? Or maybe just a joint? He could be selling lawn furniture, for all he knows about art. Stank at it himself, and now he stinks as a gallery owner. The only thing he’s good at is mind-fucks.”

Gamache caught Beauvoir’s eye, who signaled subtly to Lacoste. The three officers positioned themselves around Castonguay, but let him continue.

François Marois appeared at Gamache’s elbow.

“Stop this,” he whispered.

“He’s done nothing wrong,” said the Chief.

“He’s humiliating himself,” said Marois, looking agitated. “He doesn’t deserve this. He’s sick.”

“Now, you two.” Castonguay swirled and lost his balance, stumbling against the sofa.

“Jeez,” said Ruth, “don’t you just hate a drunk?”

Castonguay righted himself and turned to, and on, Normand and Paulette. “Don’t think we don’t know why you’re here.”

“We came down for Clara’s party,” said Paulette.

“Shhh,” hissed Normand. “Don’t encourage him.” But it was too late. Castonguay had her in his sights.

“But why’d you stay? Not to support Clara,” he sputtered with laughter. “The only thing worse than poets for hating each other is artists.” He turned to Ruth and bowed exaggeratedly. “Madame.”

“Fucking idiot,” said Ruth, then she turned to Gabri. “Can’t say he isn’t right, though.”

“You hate Clara, you hate her art, you hate all artists,” Castonguay closed in on Normand and Paulette. “Probably even hate each other. And yourselves. And you sure hated the dead woman, and with good reason.”

“All right,” said Marois, breaking into the void and approaching Castonguay. “Time to say good night to these nice people and go to bed.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” shouted Castonguay, twisting away from Marois.

Gamache, Beauvoir and Lacoste moved a step closer as everyone else took a step back.

“You’d like that. You’d like me to just go away. But I found her first. She was going to sign with me. And then you stole her.”