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“Wait a minute,” said Tracey. “A little respect, please. This’s Chief Inspector Beauvoir. The guy who arrested me. Come to apologize?”

That brought more laughter.

Beauvoir did not react. Did not speak. Did not move.

Tracey lifted his beer. “Come on in. Jean-Guy, isn’t it? Now that it’s over, we can be friends. No hard feelings. Beer?”

He held the drink out toward Beauvoir, who could smell the musky, familiar aroma.

Gamache had stopped at the door. Through the dirt-smeared window, he was just able to make out the occupants of the bar.

Every cell in his body was straining forward. Demanding that he go in. To rescue Jean-Guy, from himself.

He was pretty sure, judging by the look on Beauvoir’s face, that the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec was about to beat the crap out of Carl Tracey.

Maybe worse. Maybe he wouldn’t stop at the crap.

But still, Gamache stopped himself. And he wondered why.

Then the thought appeared. Was it possible he wanted Beauvoir to do it?

Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood ten paces from Carl Tracey.

He stared but didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t react at all.

Even when Tracey stepped toward him, goaded on by his drinking buddies, Jean-Guy’s face remained completely impassive. A mask.

Gamache’s expression changed. He was still watchful, vigilant. Prepared. His hand on the door. But now there was a very small smile. Of surprise and recognition.

Still, he remained prepared to act.

Watching Tracey laughing, Beauvoir felt himself almost overcome with rage.

But still he stood. Still.

“Come on,” Tracey shouted, holding his beer by the neck and swaying slightly. “You’re not joining in the celebrations.”

But the men behind Tracey were growing uneasy in the face of this relentlessly still man at the door.

A couple continued to shout encouragement, but their voices were thinning. Their enthusiasm waning.

Carl Tracey was right up against Beauvoir now. But Beauvoir didn’t react.

“Why’re you here?” shouted Tracey. “I’m going to file a complaint. This’s harassment.”

Beauvoir’s silence. His blank stare. Were driving Carl Tracey mad. And his friends away.

Gamache’s smile had disappeared, and he prepared to enter the bar. Enough was enough.

Tracey staggered back.

His drinking buddies moved away and watched as he tripped and fell to the floor. Spilling his beer.

As silently as he’d entered, Chief Inspector Beauvoir left. Leaving behind four drunks staring down at the man wallowing on the floor. Tracey’s eyes lifted, and for a split second Beauvoir thought he saw sadness there. Sorrow.

And then Carl Tracey threw up.

Once outside, Jean-Guy closed his eyes and, turning his face to the sky, took a long, long breath of the fresh, pine-scented air.