“I’m sorry,” said the Chief. “I’m disturbing you.”
Dr. Fleury regarded the man in front of him, and smiled. “I said I’d see you, Armand. You’re not disturbing me at all.”
He ushered the Chief into his office, a comfortable, bright space with large windows, a desk and two chairs facing each other. Fleury indicated one, but he needn’t have. Armand Gamache knew it well. Had spent hours there.
Dr. Fleury was his therapist. Indeed, he was the main therapist for the Sûreté du Québec. His offices, though, weren’t in headquarters. It was decided a neutral place would be better.
Besides, if Dr. Fleury’s practice depended upon Sûreté agents coming for therapy, he’d starve. Sûreté agents were not known for admitting they needed help. And certainly not renowned for asking for it.
But after the raid on the factory, Chief Inspector Gamache had made it a condition of returning to work that all the agents involved, wounded physically or otherwise, needed to get therapy.
Including himself.
“I thought you didn’t trust me,” said Dr. Fleury.
The Chief smiled. “I trust you. It’s others I’m not so sure about. There’ve been leaks about me, my personal life and relationships, but mostly leaks from sessions you had with my team. Information has been used against them, deeply personal information they only admitted to you.”
Gamache’s eyes remained on Dr. Fleury. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his gaze was hard.
“Your office was the only place it could’ve come from,” he continued. “But I never accused you, personally. I hope you know that.”
“I do. But you believed my files had been hacked.”
Gamache nodded.
“Do you still?”
The Chief held the therapist’s eyes. They were almost the same age, with Fleury perhaps a year or two younger. Experienced men. One who’d seen too much, and one who’d heard too much.
“I know you investigated thoroughly,” said the Chief. “And there was no evidence of tampering with your patient files.”
“But do you believe it?”
Gamache smiled. “Or am I paranoid?”
“I hope so,” said Fleury, crossing his legs and placing his open notebook on his knee. “I’m eyeing a cottage in the Laurentians.”
Gamache laughed, but the nausea had settled into his stomach, a sour, stagnant pool. He hesitated.
“Are you still not sure, Armand?”
Gamache could see the concern, almost certainly genuine, in Fleury’s face, and could hear it in his voice.
“Someone else called me paranoid recently,” admitted the Chief.
“Who was that?”
“Thérèse Brunel. Superintendent Brunel.”
“A superior officer?” asked Fleury.
Gamache nodded. “But also a friend, and confidante. She thought I’d gone off the deep end. Seeing conspiracies all over the place. She, ah…” He looked briefly at his hands in his lap, then back up to Dr. Fleury’s face. Gamache smiled a little bashfully. “She refused to help me investigate and took off on holiday to Vancouver.”
“You think her holiday plans had something to do with you?”
“Now you think I’m a narcissist?”
“I can see a new outboard motor in my future,” admitted Fleury. “Continue, Chief Inspector.”
But this time Gamache didn’t smile. Instead he leaned forward.
“There’s something going on. I know it, I just can’t prove it. Yet. There’s corruption inside the Sûreté, but it’s more than that. I think a senior officer is behind it.”
Dr. Fleury was unmoved. Unfazed.
“You keep saying, ‘I think,’” said the therapist. “But are your fears really rational?”
“They’re not fears,” said Gamache.
“But they’re not facts.”
Gamache was silent, clearly trying to choose words that would convince this man.
“Is this about the leaked video again? You know there was an official investigation,” said Dr. Fleury. “You need to accept their findings and let it go.”
“Move on?” Gamache heard the tinge of bitterness, a slight whine, in his voice.
“Things you can’t control, Armand,” the therapist reminded him, patiently.
“It’s not about control, it’s about responsibility. Taking a stand.”
“The white knight? The key is to know if you’re tilting at a legitimate target or a windmill.”