Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen

Detective Garmash stood on Sherbrooke Avenue in downtown Montreal, staring at the tall red brick church across the road.It was built less like bricks and more like huge rectangular oxblood stones.He drove past it hundreds of times without ever looking at it seriously. But now he's watching it carefully. It's dark, ugly, and boring.It is not crying for help, not even whispering.It cries out, repentance and atonement, crime and punishment. It looks like a prison for sinners, into which no one can enter with brisk step and light heart. But it sparked another memory.The bright church is not on fire, but it is shining.And the street where he is standing now is like a river, and the people on it are like reeds.

This is the church on Lillian Dyson's easel.It's not finished, but it's already a work of genius.If there were any doubts at the beginning, then after seeing the real thing, he dispelled all doubts.She portrays a building, a scene that would give most people a sense of foreboding, as something alive and alive, which is extremely attractive. As Garmash watched, the traffic turned into a river, and the people who entered the church turned into reeds and drifted into the church. So is he. "Hey, welcome to the party." Inspector Gamache had hardly entered the church when he was surrounded by greetings of all kinds.People on both sides held out their hands and smiled.He tried not to think they were laughing wildly, but one or two of them undoubtedly were.

"Hey, welcome to the party," a young woman said, ushering him in the door and down the steps into a dimly lit basement.It was filthy, a musty smell, mixed with old cigarettes, bad coffee and spoiled milk, and sour sweat. The ceiling was low, and everything seemed to be covered with a gray film.Most people are also gray. "Thank you," he said, shaking the hand that the young woman offered. "Is this your first time here?" she asked, sizing him up carefully. "Yes. I don't know if I'm in the right place." "That's how I felt at first. Take it easy, I'll introduce you to someone. Bob!" she yelled.

An older man walks up, with a ragged beard and mismatched clothes.He was stirring a cup of coffee with his fingers. "I leave you to him," said the young woman. "Men should be with men." The inspector didn't know what was going to happen to him next. "Hey, I'm Bob." "Armand." They shook hands.Bob's hands are sticky, and Bob looks sticky too. "So, you're new?" Bob asked. Garmash leaned down and asked in a low voice, "Is this Alcoholics Anonymous?" Bob laughed, the smell of coffee and tobacco in his breath.Garmash straightened up.

"Of course. You've come to the right place." "I'm not actually an alcoholic." Bob looked at him, seeming amused, "Of course you don't. Why don't you have some coffee and we can talk. The party starts in a few minutes." Bob poured Garmache half a cup of coffee. "What if—" Bob said. "what?" "Having delirium tremens," Bob said, taking a cautious look at Garmash, noticing the slight tremor in his coffee hand, "I've had it, it's not fun. When did you last have a drink? " "I had a glass of beer this afternoon."

"Just one cup?" "I'm not an alcoholic." Bob smiled again, showing the few yellow and black teeth left in his mouth. "That means you were awake for a few hours. Well done." Garmash found he was very pleased with himself, glad he hadn't had that glass of wine with dinner. "Hey, Jim," Bob called to a man with gray hair and blue eyes across the room, "here's a new guy." Garmash looked in that direction, and Jim was speaking eagerly to a young man who seemed to be resistant. It's Beauvoir. Inspector Gamache smiled, meeting Beauvoir's gaze.Beauvoir stood up, but Jim sat him down again.

"Come with me," said Bob, leading Garmache to a long table covered with books and pamphlets and coins.Gamache picked up one. "Beginner's chip," said the inspector, examining it carefully. It was exactly the same as the one found in Clara's garden. "I remember you saying you didn't drink too much." "Yes," said Garmash. "Then you're right." Bob laughed. "Do a lot of people have this thing?" Garmash asked. "certainly." Bob took out a shiny coin from his pocket, looked down at it, and his face softened, "I got this one at the first party, and it's always with me. It's like a medal, Armand."

Bob reached out, put the coin in Garmash's hand, and took the other's hand to help him hold it in his palm. "No, sir," objected Garmache, "I really can't." "But you must take it, Armand. I gave it to you, and one day you can give it to others, to those who need it. Take it." Bob closed Garmash's hand and let him hold the coin.Before Garmash could say anything, Bob left suddenly and returned to the long table. "You still need this." He picked up a thick blue book. "I already have one." Garmash opened the bag, allowing him to see the books inside.

Bob raised his eyebrows, "Then you can still get a copy of this." He handed Garmash a pamphlet, "Living with Denial." Garmash took out the party schedule he found at Lillian's house, and his new friend showed the look he had expected.Bob thought Garmash was funny. "And say you don't drink too much? It's rare for a non-drinking person to carry an AA booklet, a beginner's chip, and a party list." Bob looked at the party list carefully, "I noticed that you marked some parties , including some ladies' parties. Tell the truth, Armand."

"This is not mine." "I see. Is this from a friend?" Bob asked with infinite patience. Garmash almost laughed. "Not really. The young woman who introduced us just now said men should stay with men. What did she mean?" "Obviously, someone should tell you." Bob waved the party slip in front of Garmash. "This is not a party to make friends. Some men like to pick up women, and some women want to catch boyfriends, thinking it will save They. No. Quite the opposite, actually. Even without these distractions, quitting alcohol is already hard. So men are mostly with men and women are with women. That way we can focus on the things that matter most."

Bob stared at Garmache with penetrating eyes, "We're friendly, Armand, but we're serious. Our lives are at stake. Your life is at stake. Alcohol can kill us if We allow it. But let me tell you, if an old alcoholic like me can stop drinking, so can you. If you need help, I'm here to help you." Gamache believed him.This slimy, disheveled little man would save his life, if he wanted to. "Thank you," said Garmash sincerely. Behind him, there was the sound of a mallet sharply striking wood.Garmash turned and saw a dignified-looking elder sitting at a long table at the front of the room, with an old woman sitting beside him. "The party is on," Bob whispered. Gamache turned around and saw Beauvoir trying to catch his eye, waving to him for an empty seat beside him.It was probably left by Jim, who was sitting with someone else on the other side of the room.Maybe, Gamache thought, he had given up on Beauvoir, thinking the man was hopeless.Garmash jumped over the others and made his way to the empty seat. Bob followed Garmache and sat on the other side of him. "How did the big man fall?" Garmache leaned over and whispered to Beauvoir, "Last night you were the art critic of Le Monde, and now you are a drunkard?" "I have company," said Beauvoir. "I see you have made a friend." Across Garmache, Beauvoir and Bob smiled at each other and nodded. "I have to tell you something," Beauvoir whispered. "After the party," said Garmash. "Are we still here?" Beauvoir asked, a little dejected. "You don't have to," replied Garmache, "but I will stay till the end." "Then I'm here too," said Beauvoir. Gamache nodded and handed Beauvoir the beginner wafer.Beauvoir looked at it, frowning. Garmash felt a light touch on his right arm. He turned his head and saw Bob staring at him with a smile. "Glad you stayed," whispered Bob, "you even convinced this young man to stay too and gave him your wafer. That's the spirit we need. We'll help you stop drinking of." "Thank you very much," said Gamash. The president of Alcoholics Anonymous thanked everyone and asked everyone to be quiet and pray for peace together. "God," they said in unison, "give me peace of mind—" "It's the same prayer," whispered Beauvoir, "on the coin." "That's right," Garmash agreed. "What is this? A cult organization?" "Praying doesn't make something a cult," the Inspector whispered. "Did you go through that many smiles and handshakes just now? What was that? You can't say these people aren't mind controlled?" "Happiness doesn't have to be cult," Garmash whispered.But Beauvoir didn't seem convinced, looking around suspiciously. The room was packed, men and women of all ages.Some sat in the back, yelling loudly from time to time, and arguing broke out now and then, but it was quickly contained.The rest of the people smiled and listened to the chairman's speech. In Beauvoir's view, these people were insane. Who can be happy sitting in a disgusting church basement on a Sunday night?Unless he's drunk, or insane. "Does that person look familiar to you?" Beauvoir pointed to the president of AA, who was one of the few people who seemed sane. The inspector is also considering the same question.The president looked neat and unrestrained.Appearing to be in her early 60s, her gray hair is well-trimmed and her glasses are both classic and stylish.Wearing a thin sweater that looks like cashmere. Casual but expensive. "Should be a doctor. What do you think?" Beauvoir asked. Gamache thought.Maybe a doctor, more like a psychiatrist, an addiction counselor who runs such alcoholic parties.The inspector wanted to speak to him after the party. The president had just introduced his secretary, and she was reading the endless statement, most of it outdated, looking for what she seemed to have lost. "My God," Beauvoir murmured softly, "no wonder people drink. It's like being drowned." "Shhh—" Bob made a sound of restraint, and gave Garmash a warning look. The chairman introduced the speakers that night and mentioned the word "leader".Beside Gamache, Beauvoir groaned in pain, fidgeting and looking at his watch from time to time. A young man walked to the front of the room with his head bowed.He has a shaved head and a tattoo of a hand with a middle finger on his scalp."Fuck You" tattooed on his forehead. His entire face was pierced.Nose, eyebrows, lips, tongue, ears.The detective didn't know if it was a fad or self-harm. He glanced at Bob.Bob sat beside him as poised as if his grandfather had just stepped onto the stage. There is no panic. Perhaps, Garmash thought, he had cerebral edema.Because of drinking too much, the brain has become soft, and I have lost all judgment and the ability to recognize danger.Because if anyone needs to be on guard, it's this young man up front. The inspector looked at the president, who sat at the head table, watching the young man eagerly.He at least looked sober and unhurried. "My name is Brian, and I'm an alcoholic and an addict." "Hey, Brian," yelled everyone except Gamache and Beauvoir. Brian talked for half an hour.He told everyone he grew up in Gryffindor with a cocaine-smoking mother, meth-smoking grandmother and no father.The punks became his father, his brothers, his teachers. From time to time, some profanity appeared in his speech. He said he had robbed drugstores, robbed homes, and even broke into his own home one night. The room was filled with laughter.In fact, the laughter hasn't stopped since he started speaking.The laughter turned hysterical when Brian said he had been in a mental institution and the doctor asked him how much he drank, and he replied one beer a day. Gamache and Beauvoir looked at each other, and even the president couldn't help laughing. Brian had gone through shock therapy, slept on a park bench, woke up one day in Denver.To this day, there are some things that he has not figured out. The room burst into laughter. Brian once ran over a kid in a stolen car. Then fled the scene. Brian was 14 at the time.The child died.Still laughing. "Even then I didn't stop drinking and doing drugs," Bryan admitted. "It was the kid's fault, it was his mother's fault, but it wasn't my fault." The room fell silent. "But finally there wasn't enough drugs in the world to make me forget what I'd done," he said. The room was completely silent. Brian looked at the president, and the elder nodded slightly to meet the young man's gaze. "You guys know what finally brought me to my knees?" Brian asked everyone. No one answered. "I wish I could say it's guilt, or conscience. But no, it's loneliness." Beside Garmash, Bob nodded.The people in the front row also nodded slowly, as if pressed by a huge weight, and then lifted up again. "I've been so fucking lonely all my life." He lowered his head, revealing a huge black swastika tattoo in front of everyone. He raised his head again and looked at everyone.He looked straight at Garmash first, and then moved on to others. They were sad eyes, but there was something else in them.Is it madness?thought Gamash. "But I can't anymore," Brian said. "I've been looking for a home my whole life. Who would've thought I'd find jerks?" The room burst into loud laughter again, only Garmache and Beauvoir were not laughing.Brian paused, looking at the crowd. "This is where I belong," he said quietly. "A dirty church basement, with you." He bowed slightly, awkwardly.At that moment, he looked like he should be at that age.Young, not yet 20, shy, handsome, even with tattooed scars, piercings and loneliness. People applaud enthusiastically.Finally, the chairman stood up, picked up a coin on the table, and held it up. "It's a beginner's wafer. On one side is a camel, because a camel can go 24 hours without a sip of water. You can too. We'll show you how to stop drinking and make a little progress every day. Any newcomers here want Take one?" He held it up as if it were a sacrificial cake, a wafer. His eyes fell directly on Armand Garmache. At that moment, Garmash finally recognized who the host of the party was and why he looked so familiar.He is not a counselor or a doctor, he is Thierry Pinault, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Quebec. Judge Pinault had apparently recognized Garmash, too. Finally, Judge Pinault finally dropped the coin and the party was over. "Would you like some coffee?" Bob asked. "A few of us are going to Tim Holden. If you'd like to come, you're welcome." "I'll probably go," said Garmache, "thank you. I have to go and have a word with him." Garmache pointed to the president.So the two shook hands and said goodbye. Beauvoir and Garmache came to the long table when the president raised his head from a pile of papers. "Armand," he stood up and looked at Garmache, "welcome." "Thank you, Mr. Judge." The Chief Judge smiled and leaned forward. "People here are anonymous, Armand. You may have heard of it." "Including you? But you run the meeting. Surely they know who you are?" Judge Pinault smiled and came out from behind the desk. "My name is Thierry, and I'm an alcoholic." Gamash raised his eyebrows, "I thought—" "I'm in charge here? A non-alcoholic leading a bunch of drunks?" "Well, the leader of the party," said Gamash. "We are all responsible," Thierry replied. The inspector glanced at a man next to him who was struggling with his chair. "Various degrees," admitted Thierry. "We take turns hosting parties. A few people here know what I do for a living, but most people just know me as mediocre old fellow Thierry P." But Garmash knew the judge, knew he was not some "mean old guy". Thierry turned his attention to Beauvoir. "I saw you in court too." "Jean Guy Beauvoir," Beauvoir introduced himself, "I am a police officer of the Criminal Investigation Unit." "That's right. I should have recognized you, but I didn't expect to see you here. But then again, apparently you didn't expect to see me either. What brought you here? " He looked from Beauvoir and back to Gamache. "A case," said Garmache, "shall we discuss it in private?" "Of course, come with me." Thierry led them through the back door, down several corridors, each darker than the last, and finally came to a stairwell.Judge Thierry pointed to a step, as if inviting them to take a seat in the front row of the theater's nave, and then sat himself down on a step. "Right here?" Beauvoir asked. "I guess this is a private place. So, what's the matter?" "We're investigating a murder in a village in Eastern Township," Garmash said, sitting on the dirt steps beside the judge, "called Sansong Township." "I know this place," said Thierry. "There are good pubs and bookstores." "That's right." Garmash was surprised, "How do you know Sansong Town?" "We have a country place near Three Pines, in Knowlton." "Oh. The murdered woman lived in Montreal and was in the village briefly. We found this near her body," Garmache handed Thierry the beginner's chip. "This was found at her residence." , and some brochures." He handed Thierry the party list again, "This party has been circled." "Who is she?" Thierry asked, looking at party slips and coins. "Lillian Dyson." Thierry raised his head and stared into Garmache's dark brown eyes, "Is she the one you're talking about?" "You know her." Thierry nodded. "I was just wondering why she didn't come tonight. She usually comes." "How long have you known her?" "Oh, I'll have to think about that. It's been a few months, anyway, but not more than a year." Thierry looked straight at Garmache with a piercing gaze. "She was murdered, I know." Gamash nodded, "Her neck was broken." "It wasn't a fall? Was it an accident?" "Absolutely not," said Gamash.He discovered that "mediocre old fellow" Thierry had disappeared, and that the man who now sat next to him on the grimy steps had become the presiding judge of Quebec. "Are there any suspects?" "About 200. There was a party celebrating the exhibition." Thierry nodded, "Of course, you know Lillian is a painter." "I know. How do you know?" Garmash found himself suddenly wary.Although the man in front of him was the chief judge, he also knew the victim and the small village where she was killed. "She talked about it." "But don't everyone here appear anonymous?" Beauvoir asked. Thierry smiled, "Well, some people have longer mouths than others. Lillian and her leader are both painters, and I heard them talking over coffee. After a while everyone was talking to each other. Learn more than just what you share." "Share?" asked Beauvoir. "Share what?" "Sorry, that's the AA way of saying it. Sharing is what you guys heard Brian say tonight, it's a speech, but we don't like to say that. It sounds more like a performance, so we call it sharing." Chief Judge Pinault's sharp eyes caught Beauvoir's expression, "You think it's funny?" "No, monsieur," said Beauvoir at once.But they all knew it was a lie.He felt both ridiculous and pathetic. "I used to think like you," admits Thierry. "Before I joined the AA, I thought words like 'sharing' were ridiculous. A fool's crutch. But I was wrong. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. One of the things. In our AA sharing, we need total honesty, which can be brutal at times. It hurts, like Bryan tonight." "Why do you do this when it's so painful?" Beauvoir asked. "Because it's also liberating. Nobody can hurt us if we're willing to admit our flaws, our secrets. It works." "You tell everyone your secret?" asked Garmache. Thierry nodded. "Not to everyone. We won't make an announcement in the papers, but we will tell the AA people." "That will help you quit drinking?" Beauvoir asked. "helpful." "But some stuff is pretty bad," Beauvoir said. "That guy named Brian killed a kid. We can arrest him for that." "You can, but he's been arrested, turned himself in, spent five years in jail, and was released three years ago. He's faced his inner demons, but that doesn't mean they won't resurface ’” Thierry Pinault turned to the inspector, “You know that.” Gamache looked him in the eye and said nothing. "But if they're in the light, they're a lot less powerful. Officer, that's what we're doing here, to dig those ugly things out of their hiding places." "Just because you can see it," Beauvoir insisted, "doesn't mean you can get rid of it." "Yes. But there's no hope until you see it." "Has Lillian shared lately?" Garmash asked. "Never, as far as I know." "So no one knows her secret?" asked the Inspector. "Only her leader." "Like you and Brian?" Garmash asked.Thierry nodded. "We choose someone within AA, and that person acts as a kind of mentor or guide. We call it a leader. I have it, Lillian has it, we all have it." "You tell the leader everything?" asked Gamash. "Everything." "Who is Lillian's leader?" "A woman named Susan." Both officers were waiting for him to say something, such as the person's last name; but Thierry looked at them, waiting for the next question. "I wonder if you could be more specific?" Garmash asked. "Susan in Montreal is not very helpful to us." Thierry smiled. "Probably. I don't know her last name, but I can do more. I can introduce you to her." "Great," said Garmash, standing up.He tried not to notice, but when he got up, his trousers were lightly stuck to the steps. “But we need to hurry,” Thierry said, leading the way in a stride that almost turned into a trot. “She might be gone by now.” A group of three hurried back through the corridor.When they broke into the big room where they had just met, it was already empty.Not only was there no one there, but tables, chairs, books and coffee were gone, everything was gone. "Too bad," said Thierry, "I can't find her." A man was putting the glass back in the cupboard, and Thierry spoke to him a few words, bringing back the message, "He said Susan was in Tim Hortons." "Can you?" Garmache gestured to the door, and Thierry led the way again, and walked with them to the cafe.As they waited for the traffic lights to cross Sherbrooke Street, Garmash asked, "What do you think of Lillian?" Thierry looked back at Gamache.This look, Garmash understood, was the look of a judge, judging others.He is a good judge. Thierry turned to look at the traffic and spoke. “She was warm and always helpful, often volunteering to make coffee or move tables and chairs. The party preparation was tedious and there was cleaning up afterward. Not everyone was willing to help, but Lillian was always.” The three of them spotted the gap between traffic at the same time, ran across the four-lane street together, and reached the opposite side of the road safely. Thierry paused and turned to look at Gamache. "It's really sad, you know. Her life is getting back on track. Everyone loves her, including me." "This woman?" Beauvoir asked, taking the photo from his pocket, the surprise evident on his face, "Lillian Dyson?" Thierry looked at it and nodded, "It's Lillian. What a tragedy." "You say everyone likes her?" Beauvoir continued. "Yes." Thierry replied, "What's the matter?" "Oh," said Gammash, "your description doesn't agree with what the others have said." "Really? What do people say about her?" "Say she is cruel, likes to manipulate people, and even abuses." Thierry didn't speak anymore, he turned around and walked into a dark alley.On the block next door, they saw the familiar Tim Hortons sign. "Here she is," said Thierry, and the three entered the café. "Susan." He beckoned. A woman with short black hair looked up.She must be in her sixties, Gamash thought.She wears a lot of gaudy jewelry, a tight bodice, a thin shawl, and a skirt that's only about three inches long, too short for her bucket figure.There were six other women of various ages also sitting at the table. "Thierry!" Susan jumped up and put her arms around Thierry as if she had never seen him before.Her bright and curious eyes looked at Garmache and Beauvoir, "Fresh blood?" Beauvoir was annoyed.He didn't like this frivolous and gaudy woman, she was too ostentatious.Now she seemed to think he was one of them. "I saw you at the party tonight. It's okay, honey." Seeing Beauvoir's expression, she laughed. "You don't have to like us. You just have to stop drinking." "I don't drink too much." Even to himself, the words sounded like a dead bug or something nasty, and he couldn't wait to spit them out.But she is not angry. But Gamache was a little annoyed. He gave Beauvoir a warning look and held out his hand to Susan. "My name is Armand Garmache." "His father?" Susan pointed to Beauvoir. Gamash laughed, "Fortunately, no. We're not here to be about AA." His brooding demeanor seemed to affect her, and Susan's smile faded, but her eyes were still sharp. Wary, Beauvoir realized.The look he'd seen at first as an idiot was actually far from what he'd imagined.This woman actually pays attention.Behind her big laugh and bright eyes, the brain is at work, hard at work. "What's that for?" she asked. "Can we talk in private?" Thierry left them and walked to the other side of the café to join Bob, Jim and four other men. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" Susan asked.They sat down at a table near the bathroom, where it was much quieter. "No, thank you," said Garmash. "Bob was kind enough to pour me a glass just now, though it was only half full." Susan laughed.To Beauvoir, she seemed particularly fond of laughing.He wondered if that was hiding something.In his experience, no one is so easily provoked. "Delirium tremens?" she asked, and Garmache nodded.She looked lovingly at Bob over there. "He's the Salvation Army, you know. He goes to parties seven times a week. He thinks everyone he meets is drinking." "There are worse hypotheses." "What can I do for you?" "I'm from the Quebec Police," said Garmache, "Criminal Investigations." "You are Inspector Gamache?" she asked. "yes." "Is there anything I can do to help?" Beauvoir was pleased to see her less excited and more cautious. "It's about Lillian Dyson." Susan's eyes widened, and she asked in a low voice, "Lillian?" Gamash nodded, "She was killed last night." "Oh my God." She put her hand over her mouth. "Is it a robbery? Someone broke into her apartment?" "No, it's not like an accident, it was at a party. Her body was found in the garden with a broken neck." Susan took a deep breath and closed her eyes, "Sorry, I was so shocked. We were on the phone yesterday." "What was the talk?" "Oh, just a casual chat. She calls me every few days, nothing important." "Did she mention anything about the party?" "No, she didn't mention it." "You must know her well, though," said Gamache. "Yes." Susan cast her eyes out of the window, watching the men and women passing by, "Have you ever had a mentor, Inspector?" "I did, and still do." "Then, you will understand how close that relationship is." She glanced at Beauvoir, her eyes softened, and she smiled slightly. "I understand," said the Inspector. "I saw you were married." Susan looked at her bare ring finger. "Exactly," said Garmash.He looked at her thoughtfully. "Imagine the combination and deepening of these two relationships. There is no relationship in the world like that between the leader and the led." Both men stared at her. "How?" asked Garmache at last. "It's not sexual, but it's intimate; it's not friendship, but it's trusting. I ask nothing of the people I lead. Nothing but honesty. The only thing I expect from them is abstinence from alcohol. I'm not their husband or wife, or their best friend or their boss. They don't have to promise me anything. I'm just guiding them, and listening." "So what do you get out of it?" Beauvoir asked. "My own sobriety. One alcoholic helping another. We can fuck with a lot of people, Detective, and often do. But we never each other. We know each other. We're crazy, you know. said Susan with a smile. This is not news to Beauvoir. "Was Lillian crazy when you first met her?" Garmash asked. "Oh yes. That's just because she has a distorted view of the world. She makes so many bad decisions that she doesn't know how to make the right ones." "I know that it is because of this relationship that Lillian has told you her secret," said the inspector. "yes." "Then what are her secrets?" "I have no idea." Garmash stared at the fire hydrant, "I don't know, ma'am? Still don't want to say?"