A Trick of the Light

“But you must, Armand. I give it to you, and you can give it to someone else one day. Someone who needs it. Please.”

Bob closed Gamache’s fingers over the coin. Before Gamache could say anything else, Bob broke away and turned back to the long table.

“You’ll also need this.” He held up a thick blue book.

“I already have one.” Gamache opened his satchel and showed him the book in there.

Bob raised his brow. “You can use one of these, I think.” He gave Gamache a pamphlet called Living in Denial.

Gamache brought out the meeting list he found in Lillian’s home and got the look from his new friend he’d so quickly come to expect. Amusement.

“Still claim not to be an alcoholic? Not many sober people carry around the AA book, a beginner’s chip and a meeting list.” Bob examined the meeting list. “I see you’ve marked a bunch of meetings. Including some women’s meetings. Honestly, Armand.”

“This doesn’t belong to me.”

“I see. Does it belong to a friend?” Bob asked with infinite patience.

Gamache almost smiled. “Not really. The young woman who introduced us said that men should stick with men. What did she mean?”

“Clearly, you need to be told.” Bob waved the meeting list in front of Gamache. “This isn’t a pick-up joint. Some guys hit on women. Some women want to find a boyfriend. Think that’ll save ’em. It won’t. In fact, just the opposite. Getting sober’s hard enough without that distraction. So men speak mostly to men. Women to women. That way we can concentrate on what’s important.”

Bob fixed Gamache with a hard stare. A penetrating look. “We’re friendly, Armand, but we’re serious. Our lives are at stake. Your life is at stake. Alcohol’ll kill us, if we let it. But I have to tell you, if an old drunk like me can get sober, so can you. If you’d like help, that’s what I’m here for.”

And Armand Gamache believed him. This sticky, disheveled little man would save his life, if he could.

“Merci,” said Gamache, and meant it.

Behind him a gavel hit wood with several sharp raps. Gamache turned and saw a distinguished older man sitting at the front of the room at a long table, an older woman beside him.

“Meeting’s started,” whispered Bob.

Gamache turned back and saw Beauvoir trying to catch his eye, waving him to an empty seat beside him. Vacated, presumably, by Jim, who was now sitting across the room with someone else. Perhaps he’d given up on Beauvoir as a hopeless case, thought Gamache, smiling and making his way past others to take the empty seat.

Bob had stuck with him and was now sitting on Gamache’s other side.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Gamache leaned over and whispered to Beauvoir. “Last night you were the art critic for Le Monde and now you’re a drunk.”

“I’m in good company,” said Beauvoir. “I see you’ve made a friend.”

Beauvoir and Bob smiled and nodded to each other across Gamache.

“I need to speak to you, sir,” whispered Beauvoir.

“After the meeting,” said Gamache.

“We have to stay?” asked Jean Guy, crestfallen.

“You don’t have to,” said Gamache. “But I’m going to.”

“I’ll stay,” said Beauvoir.

Chief Inspector Gamache nodded, and handed the beginner’s chip over to Beauvoir, who examined it and raised his brow.

Gamache felt a slight pressure on his right arm and looked over to see Bob squeezing it and smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he whispered. “And you even convinced that young man to stay. And you gave him your chip. That’s the spirit. We’ll get you sober yet.”

“How very kind,” said Gamache.

The president of Alcoholics Anonymous welcomed everyone and asked for a moment of silence, to be followed by the Serenity Prayer.

“God,” they said in unison. “Grant me the serenity—”

“It’s the same prayer,” said Beauvoir under his breath. “The one on the coin.”

“It is,” agreed Gamache.

“What is this? A cult?”

“Praying doesn’t make something a cult,” whispered the Chief.

“Did you get a load of all the smiling and shaking hands? What was that? You can’t tell me these people aren’t into mind-control.”

“Happiness isn’t a cult either,” whispered Gamache, but Beauvoir looked like he didn’t believe it. The Inspector looked around suspiciously.

The room was packed. Filled with men and women of all ages. Some, at the back, shouted out every now and then. Some arguments erupted and were quickly brought under control. The rest smiled as they listened to the president.

They looked, to Beauvoir, demented.

Who could possibly be happy sitting in a disgusting church basement on a Sunday night? Unless they were drunk, stoned, or demented.

“Does he look familiar to you?” Beauvoir indicated the president of AA, one of the few who looked sane.

The Chief had just been wondering the same thing. The man was clean-shaven, handsome. He looked to be in his early sixties. His gray hair was trim, his glasses were both classic and stylish, and he wore a light sweater that looked cashmere.

Casual but expensive.

“A doctor, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.