A Better Man

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gamache handed the phone back to Tracey, with a smile. “Merci. Most helpful.”

“What the fuck was that?”

“You heard, Mr. Tracey. In a few minutes, that phone will ring again. It’ll be about a warrant to search your property. Best to answer it. Let’s go into your house, and while we wait for the call confirming the search warrant, you can answer some questions.”

Tracey’s face hardened. He looked like an obstinate child.

“Or not,” said Gamache pleasantly. “But we’re cold and wet and would appreciate your cooperation.”

He could almost hear Cameron and Cloutier gagging at his courteous tone.

Tracey, it seemed, had gotten the point. He gestured for them to follow.

The mud had hardened onto their coats and pant legs and boots. They looked and felt like Québec’s version of the Terra-Cotta Warriors. The Sûreté officers took off their coats and boots, leaving them on the porch. But they couldn’t very well remove their wet and filthy slacks.

Tracey had no such hesitation about trailing muck through his house and had kept his rubber boots on.

It was hot in the home, almost stifling. An elderly mutt lay by the woodstove in the kitchen.

“Beer walk soon,” said Tracey, gesturing toward the dog.

Gamache knew what that meant, though the others did not. He looked past the gray muzzle into the tired old eyes and thought of the walk into the woods, with the rifle.

And wondered if the same fate had befallen the dog’s mistress.

Dishes, pots, and pans were piled into and out of the sink. The place stank of grease and rotting food. Booze and old dog and cigarettes. The smell was almost overpowering.

Gamache took a deep breath through his nose. Wondering if, in the sweltering heat, he could pick up another scent.

Something familiar. Something unmistakable. Something far worse.

But he could not. It was, perhaps, masked by the other rotting odors. But he doubted it. There was really no masking that one putrid stench.

The three Sûreté officers had joined Tracey at the Formica kitchen table. Tracey lit a cigarette while Cloutier and Cameron waited for Gamache to do something.

But he was doing something. Armand Gamache was listening.

For a sound, however remote, telling him that there was someone else in the home. A tapping. A muffled call.

Anything.

But there was only silence.

Finally he said, “Monsieur Tracey, you say your wife isn’t here. Do you know where she is?”

Cloutier had brought out her iPhone and was recording everything.

“I already told you cops. All I know is when I woke up yesterday morning, she was gone. No note, no nothin’.”

“Any ideas?”

Tracey laughed. “She could be anywhere. On a bender. Shacked up with some guy. I’ll tell you, when she comes back—”

He remembered, too late, who he was talking to.

“Yes?” said Gamache. “Go on.”

“Nothin’.”

Armand Gamache had looked across lots of tables, at lots of murderers. He didn’t kid himself that he had, even after all these years, some sort of special talent. To spot a killer.

He didn’t really know if he was looking at one now. But he found himself increasingly repulsed by Carl Tracey.

“We understand from Vivienne’s father that she’s pregnant.”

“Yeah. Who knows who knocked her up? Doubt it’s mine. And if she thinks I’m going to raise the bastard, she has another thing coming.”

“And what would she have coming?” asked Gamache.

Tracey smirked. “How would you feel if your wife screwed another man and got pregnant?”

Gamache raised his chin and stared at Tracey.

And Carl Tracey stared back across the table into those calm, focused eyes and knew that while that shot had missed, this Sûreté officer was human. And therefore vulnerable. And he’d find that chink eventually.

“Aren’t you worried at all about her?” asked Agent Cloutier.

Tracey took his eyes from Gamache and shifted to the woman cop. “Why should I be? Look, like I said, she’s probably just taken off, and when that guy gets tired of her, she’ll come back. I don’t even know why it’s any of your business.”

Just then the phone rang.

“You might as well answer it,” said Tracey. “It’s for you.”

Gamache clicked it on, but before he could say anything, he was met with a torrent of abuse. Culminating in the man shouting, “Where’s my daughter? If you don’t tell me, I’m coming down, and I’m going to beat it out of you. You understand?”

Everyone in the room heard the voice, and Gamache could see Tracey looking triumphant.

See what I have to put up with? his expression said.

“Monsieur Godin?” Gamache began.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Gamache, I’m with the Sûreté—”

“Oh, God, has something happened? Have you found her? Oh, God—”

“Non, monsieur. We have no news of your daughter. I’m here with Lysette Cloutier. She’s a friend of yours, I understand. Agent Cloutier asked us to investigate.”

There was heavy breathing on the other end as Godin composed himself.

“We’re interviewing Monsieur Tracey right now.”

“Monsieur Tracey? Monsieur? The man’s a monster and you call him ‘monsieur’? He might’ve … he could’ve … Do you know she’s pregnant?”

“Yes. Please, calm yourself. We’re doing all we can. I promise you, we’ll find her.”

“You will. Alive?”

It was said so pathetically. Not just a word but a world. Alive. Alive. And all that meant. For him. For her. For the child. A life spread out before them. With birthdays and holidays. Celebrations.

Alive.

“We’ll find her,” Gamache repeated, and wondered if Monsieur Godin noticed he hadn’t said “alive.” “Do you have someone with you?”

“Non, non. Vivienne’s my only child. My wife died a few years ago. I was expecting her here, you know. She was going to leave him. I’d begged her for years to leave that son of a bitch.”

There was a pause. Gamache heard heavy breathing, almost sobs, before Monsieur Godin was able to speak again.

“What has he done with her? Ask him. He knows. Make him tell you. If you don’t, I will.”

“Stay at home, Monsieur Godin. In case she calls.”

Even as he said it, Gamache recognized it as cheap, potentially cruel manipulation. But he had to keep Godin away from Tracey. And there was still a chance his daughter was alive and would call her father.

“I’ll be in touch with you when we’re finished here. D’accord?”

There was a deep, deep breath on the other end of the line. And finally, “D’accord.”

“Can I speak to him?” whispered Cloutier, her hand out for the phone. “Homer, it’s Lysette.… Oui. Oui.… I promise.… Oui.”

She’d dropped her eyes to the table and was listening intently. Homer Godin’s voice was now quieter, so the others couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“Chief Inspector Gamache will call you as soon as possible,” said Cloutier once Vivienne’s father had stopped talking. “Oui. I promise.”

Her voice, gentle, calming, seemed to be having an effect. After saying goodbye, she placed the phone on the table.

“The man’s a shithead,” said Tracey, speaking to the phone as though it were his father-in-law. “You heard him threaten me. He’s the dangerous one.”

“Enough,” said Cameron, hitting the table with such force that the ceramic roosters took flight and spilled salt and pepper over the table.

“Agent Cameron,” said Gamache sharply.

“Sorry,” he muttered, bringing himself under control.

Gamache shifted his attention back to where it belonged. “How long have you and Madame Godin been together?”

“I dunno. Four, five years.”

“How did you meet?”

“It was in a bar. Where did you think? Church? The gym? Look, I have things to do around the farm. Those animals need to be fed, and this one needs to be taken into the woods.”

He gestured toward the old dog, who looked up and gave a single, tired flop of his tail.

“Like you took Vivienne?” asked Cloutier.

“What? Kill her?” He made a dismissive noise. “Why would I? Believe me, she’s alive.”

Try as he might, Gamache couldn’t get Monsieur Godin’s voice out of his head. The deep breaths, the attempt to control the terror that seeped out anyway. The desperation of a father.

How would he feel if …

“You said she had lovers.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral. “Can you give us names?”

“Of course not. She didn’t exactly list them.”

“And women friends?” Gamache asked.

“Women? No. Why would she?”

It was as Cameron had said. Tracey had isolated his wife here, and since there was no one to contradict him, he was free to say anything he wanted about her.

“We’re going to need the make, model, and license-plate number of her car,” said Cameron.

Tracey gave them the information.

“Where were you on Saturday?” Gamache asked.

“I was here, working on my pots. Where else?”

“Anybody see you?”

“Vivienne did. You can ask her when she gets back.”

“Anyone besides your wife.”

“No. Who’d come here?”

Who indeed? thought Gamache.

“So you never left the property on Saturday?”

“No. Wait a minute, I did go into town to buy supplies. Needed to get them before the road turned shitty. Can’t drive on it now.” He eyed them closely. “But that’s probably not news to you.”

“And yet,” said Cloutier, “you say your wife managed to drive out later in the day.”

There was silence, and they could see Tracey’s brain skidding in the muck.

“She could, but you couldn’t?” Cloutier pressed.

“She left at night, when the roads had frozen again.”

He’d hit on an explanation bordering on reasonable. After Tracey had given them the names of the stores he’d visited, Gamache asked, “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Saturday night, like I said. We’d been drinking. Vivienne got pissed and started yelling abuse. Told me the kid wasn’t mine. I went into my studio to do some work and get away from her. When I got up next morning, she was gone.”

The phone rang.

“You take it,” said Tracey.

Gamache picked it up and listened. “Bon. Merci.” He hung up. “We have the warrant.”