Page 173 of A Better Man

When he opened them, he saw Armand Gamache standing right in front of him. Staring.

Then Gamache’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Wordlessly, because there was nothing to say, Gamache walked him back to his car, pausing for Beauvoir to speak to the agent.

“I’m going to get another officer here. I want one of you to stay in the vehicle and the other to stand outside the bar. Look through the window at Carl Tracey. So that he can see you. Whatever happens, don’t engage him. If he comes to you, don’t react. Only if he physically attacks you.”

“So you want me to just stare at him, patron?”

“Yes. And when he leaves, follow him. Always keeping a distance. But I want him to see you. Understand? If he goes into a shop, stand outside and stare. If he meets someone, stop and—”

“Continue to stare?”

“Oui.”

“Why?”

Beauvoir bristled slightly. Not liking being questioned. But he knew his orders were unconventional in the extreme.

“This’s a man who understand threats and violence. But this?”

“But what is ‘this’?” the young agent persisted.

“A conscience.”

“Huh?”

Chief Inspector Beauvoir recognized the expression on the agent’s face. It was exactly the same look he’d given Gamache. For years. When the Chief Inspector had said, or ordered, something unconventional. Or downright odd.

That blank stare, colored slightly by concern that the senior officer had lost his mind.

Beauvoir now smiled. In the same way Gamache had smiled at him. For years.

While he could have simply left it at that, he wanted the agent to understand. And to never be afraid to question the orders of a superior.

As Gamache had patiently explained things to Beauvoir. For years.

“Your job is to protect the man, but you will also act as a sort of external conscience for a man who obviously doesn’t have one.”

He could see it dawning on her. And she, too, smiled. “Got it. I’ll be the ghost of his dead wife.”

“Oui. That’s a good way of looking at it.”

For a brief moment the agent considered asking if she could take a selfie with Chief Inspector Beauvoir and Chief Inspector Gamache.

But wisely decided against it.

As they walked to their cars, Armand Gamache placed a hand on Jean-Guy’s back.

“Well done.”

“It was close,” said Jean-Guy, leaning toward him and lowering his voice. “You have no idea how much I wanted to—”

“I know.”

Jean-Guy grunted. “Yes. You do.” He looked behind him. “It won’t change anything. This…” He waved toward the agent now standing outside the bar. Staring. “… won’t make him confess. Not to murder.”

“No. But it might make that young agent realize there’re other weapons at our disposal besides our guns.”

Gamache tapped his temple.