A Better Man

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The water cascaded over Armand’s body as he showered. Over his head, over his upturned face. He opened his mouth and shut his eyes. And felt his body finally getting warm.

But then, unbidden, a sudden panic took him.

He was back in the water. Submerged. But this time Jean-Guy wasn’t there. No one was there, to reach down and save him.

His eyes flew open, and he dropped his head, away from the water. Reaching out, he leaned against the wet tiles of the shower.

As he breathed, he knew his momentary terror was just a tiny part of what Vivienne must have gone through.

The horror of those final moments. Breaking through the railing. Hanging in midair. Nothing between the bridge and the water to stop her fall.

And then she fell.

Hitting the freezing-cold water. The breath knocked out of her. The shock. The bitter Bella Bella closing over her. And then she breached. Breaking the surface. Mouth open, fighting for air.

The struggle to keep head, mouth, nose above the water. To take a breath. Turning, tumbling, thrashing in the current. Hitting rocks and branches.

The terror. The tumult. The desperate struggle. Growing less and less desperate as the cold and the battering began to win.

And finally the knowing.

Both hands on the tiles, his head hanging down, warm water hitting his back, Armand gasped for breath. And watched the water swirl around the drain.

Annie’s pregnant. Annie’s pregnant, he repeated, following the words to the surface. And trying not to allow the rest of that thought to seep in. But still, it was there.

And so was Vivienne.

He opened his eyes and finished his shower.

Then went downstairs, to face Vivienne’s father.

Homer and Jean-Guy were in the kitchen, in front of the woodstove, wrapped in Hudson’s Bay blankets. Mugs of strong tea in their hands.

Armand kissed Reine-Marie, softly, on her bruised cheek. “You okay?” he whispered.

The bruise wasn’t as bad as he feared, more a glancing blow. But a blow nonetheless.

“I am.”

Armand looked at her, closely, to make sure she was telling the truth. Then he turned his attention to the others.

Jean-Guy had stopped trembling.

Homer had not.

As soon as they’d returned to the house, they’d called the Sûreté divers and a Scene of Crime squad from homicide. But with the state of emergency across the province, they were told it could take some hours. Not before morning, for sure.

After letting Isabelle Lacoste and Agent Cloutier know what had happened and asking them to come down, they’d split up.

Jean-Guy had grabbed a shower first, while Armand helped Homer to strip off his wet clothing and get into his own shower. He stayed with the man, who’d sunk into silence, until the shower was over and Homer was in warm, dry clothes.

Armand stayed with him in the kitchen until Jean-Guy returned.

While he knew it wasn’t Homer’s fault, and it would almost certainly never happen again, he was damned if he’d leave Reine-Marie alone with Homer. Mad with grief, Vivienne’s father was capable of almost anything.

Certainly, Armand knew, capable of murder. Though that was aimed at only one person.

After his own shower, Armand returned to the kitchen and caught Jean-Guy’s eye. Both men turned to Reine-Marie.

“What?” she asked.

“Jean-Guy has something that might make you feel better,” said Armand quietly.

“Can you come with me?” Jean-Guy stood up.

After a brief, baffled, glance at Armand, Reine-Marie followed her son-in-law out of the kitchen.

Fred had put his large head on Homer’s slippered feet, and Henri did the same with Armand. Little Gracie was curled up on a blanket close to the fire.

The only sound was the slight rattle of the old windows as the night tried to get in. Not, perhaps, realizing it was already dark in there.

A few minutes later, Reine-Marie and Jean-Guy returned.

She was flushed, and her eyes were moist. And when she met Armand’s, his, too, began to burn. She brought her hands to her mouth, and he embraced her.

“I just spoke to Annie. A baby,” she whispered, words meant only for Armand.

Homer did not need to know that they were living his dream, while he lived their nightmare.

Excusing himself now, Armand went into his study and, picking up his phone, tapped in a familiar number.

“I’m sorry,” he heard the polite young receptionist say, “but Chief Superintendent Toussaint can’t take your call right now.”

“Tell her it’s Armand Gamache.”

There was a pause. “She knows.”

Now it was his turn to pause. “Merci.”

Then he called the senior RCMP commissioner who’d been in the meeting the day before.

“Armand, what is it?” He sounded weary.

“I wanted an update on the flooding.”

“Did you call Toussaint?”

“I tried.”

Again there was a pause. Gamache could feel the embarrassment down the line.

“It’s a hectic time,” the officer said.

“Oui. Can you tell me what’s happening?”

“The dynamiting on the St. Lawrence worked, but it looks like a temporary reprieve. The thaw’s moving north.”

“The dams?”

“Holding. Barely. The pressure’s building. And they still can’t decide whether or not to open the floodgates.”

“Go on.” Gamache, who knew the man well, could hear the hesitation.

“I’ve consulted with the armed forces engineer and Hydro-Québec. We’re not waiting for approval. Hydro’s going to open the gates.”

Gamache took a deep breath. “You know that what you’re doing could be considered insubordination.”

“You think? Well, you’re the expert, I guess,” the Mountie said with a laugh. He sounded drained. “Once the floodgates are open, we’ll pull the machinery from all but the most vulnerable dams and move it south. The corps of engineers will then begin digging trenches along rivers that’re threatening communities. More insubordination. I don’t think they’re going to let us play together anymore, Armand. You’re a bad influence.”

Gamache gave a small sound of amusement. It was all he could muster.

“Armand?”

“Oui?”

“Be careful of Toussaint.”

“She’s doing well,” Gamache said. “These are difficult decisions. She’ll grow into the job.”

“But what job? She has political aspirations.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Except she’s using her position in the Sûreté not as a responsibility but as a tool, a springboard. Surely that was obvious in the meeting. She needs to distance herself from you. Distinguish herself from you.”

“Your point being?”

“With this flood, with our decision to follow your suggestion and not waiting for her approval, she’ll be gunning for you.”

“Not literally, I hope.”

But there was silence down the line. Both remembering when that was exactly what senior officers had done to each other, literally. In the time “before.”

“Non. But she’s no friend of yours. You have the support and loyalty of the rank and file, Armand. She doesn’t.”

“Give her time.”

“Have you been following the social-media posts? About you?”

“A bit.”

“Where do you think some of that information’s coming from?”

“Are you kidding?” said Gamache. “You think Madeleine Toussaint is leaking it?”

There was silence.

“You’re wrong,” said Gamache.

“How can you be loyal to her, Armand, when it’s so clearly not mutual?”

“Does it have to be mutual? She’s a decent person, who stepped up. She’s earned my loyalty. And she’ll grow into a great leader. I know that. Otherwise I’d never have suggested her for Chief Superintendent.”

“There was no one left,” said the Mountie, his exasperation growing. “Everyone else was either wounded or tainted by your actions. Even if you hadn’t recommended her, Toussaint was the only one standing. Look”—there was a heaved sigh down the line—“I hope I’m wrong. Just be careful. You’ve gotta know, once she gets wind of what we’re doing, she’ll blame you, even if we’re successful.”

“God willing we are. That’s all that matters.”

“Inshallah.”

“B’ezrat HaShem,” said Gamache. “We’ll worry about the rest later. Good luck. Let me know.”

“I will, my friend. Anything I can do?”

Armand looked toward the kitchen. “Do you have any divers you can spare?”

“Huh?”

As the RCMP divers reached the body, Beauvoir heard a sharp intake of breath and prepared to grab hold of Vivienne’s father, if necessary.

But it wasn’t.

Homer Godin stood on the shore. Face rigid. Body at attention.

Only when the team turned Vivienne over did he move. But not forward, as they expected and were prepared for.

Vivienne’s father sank, slowly, slowly to his knees. Then slowly, slowly he folded over. His head in the muck. His hands clutching the ground. The big man curled himself around his heart.

As Vivienne Godin approached the shore, her father lifted his head, sensing more than seeing her close by. Then he raised his body. Sitting back on his heels. And, with the help of Gamache and Beauvoir, he struggled to his feet.

They kept their hands under Homer’s arms. Supporting him. Holding him upright.

Homer was swaying, openmouthed. Eyes glazed. As Vivienne was lifted onto a stretcher.

Dr. Harris bent over the body. Glancing at Gamache and Beauvoir, she shook her head. Confirming what was painfully obvious.

“I need to see her,” said her father.

Dr. Harris whispered to Gamache. “It isn’t good. She’s been in the water at least two days.”

“We need an identification,” said Beauvoir.

Lysette Cloutier, who’d just arrived, said, “I’ll do it.”

“Me,” said Vivienne’s father. “Me.”

“I’ll take you over,” said Armand quietly. “But you must promise not to touch her. If we’re going to get enough evidence to convict, no one but the investigators must touch Vivienne. Do you understand?”

Homer’s heavy head bobbed up and down.

“Are you ready?” Armand asked.

He nodded again.

They escorted Vivienne’s father to Vivienne’s body.

He stared down at her. With the eyes of a man who’d reached the end of a long tunnel and realized there was no light there.

He gave one curt nod. And mouthed, “That’s Vivienne.” Then, with more effort, he said it out loud. “That’s Vivienne.”

He brought his hand up to his face, covering his mouth, in a grotesque imitation of Reine-Marie’s joy just hours earlier.

Gamache looked down at the body.

Her blue eyes were open, not in fear but in that surprise they often saw in those suddenly, prematurely meeting Death. He wondered if Death had been just as surprised.

Gamache swiftly, expertly took in the condition of her body before meeting Beauvoir’s eyes. And nodding.

“Come away.” He spoke softly to Homer. “We’ll let the officers do their job.”

“No,” said Homer. “I need to stay. With her. Until … Please. I won’t make trouble. I promise.”

He motioned toward a tree stump, and Gamache nodded. “Of course.” Then turned to Cloutier. “Stay with him, please.”

Gamache noticed then a uniformed agent walking down the path toward them.

“What’re you doing here?” Gamache asked. “You’re supposed to be guarding Carl Tracey.”

“I was relieved.”

“By whom?”

“Agent Cameron.”

“He’s there with Tracey? Alone?”

“Well, there’re others. The owners of the bistro—”

“Come with me.”

Through the windows of the bistro, Gamache could see Bob Cameron. He was standing within feet of Carl Tracey, who was crammed into a corner. His chair overturned at his feet.

Cameron held something in his right hand. Something black.

His gun?

No, Gamache took in quickly as he made for the door. Not a gun. Too big. It was a fireplace poker. As lethal as a gun, if swung at a person’s head.

And it looked, by his stance, that that was exactly what Cameron was preparing to do.

Tracey was raising his arms to protect himself.

Gamache opened the bistro door with a bang, and Cameron turned around.

“He’s going to kill me,” shouted Tracey. “Stop him.”

“Shut up, you stupid shit.”

“Cameron,” snapped Gamache. “Step away. Now.”

After a slight pause, Cameron threw the poker onto the floor in disgust. And stepped back.

“I wasn’t going to hit him,” he said. “I just wanted to scare him.”

“Get over there,” said Gamache, pointing to the far corner.

The former left tackle jerked toward Tracey, who squeezed tighter into the corner. Then Cameron marched away, shoving a table as he passed Gamache.

“What’s happening?” asked Gabri, coming cautiously out of the swinging door between the bistro and the kitchen, followed by Olivier, who was holding up a frying pan.

“Nothing,” said Cameron.

“Nothing?” demanded Tracey. “He was going to hit me with that.” He pointed to the poker.

“Did you see anything?” Gamache asked Gabri and Olivier.

Both men shook their heads.

“He told us to go into the kitchen and stay there,” said Olivier.

“He’d picked up the poker,” said Gabri. “We didn’t need to be told twice. I tried to call you, but of course your phone didn’t work.”

He held up the receiver, still clutched in his hand.

Gamache turned to the agent who’d accompanied him and gestured toward Tracey. “Watch him.”

Then he led Cameron farther away from the others.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded.

“What’re you saying?” demanded Tracey. “I have a right to know. He was going to kill me.”

“Be quiet, please,” said Gamache, and while his tone was polite, anyone who saw the man would not be fooled by the courtesy.

Even as he turned back to Cameron, Gamache admitted that what Tracey said might very well be true. It certainly looked like that.

But how things looked and how they really were, were often two very different things in a murder investigation.

He waited for an answer.

“I wanted to get a confession out of him,” said Cameron. “I wanted to scare him, not beat him. I had my phone on, recording. I can show you.”

“You recorded yourself threatening a suspect with a fireplace poker?” asked Gamache, incredulous. “You know that any confession you might’ve gotten would’ve been inadmissible, and the whole case thrown out.”

“I would’ve erased the beginning,” said Cameron.

Now Gamache stared, clearly dumbfounded. “You say that as though you expect me to go along with you. I warned you about this just hours ago, and now you do exactly the same thing?”

“Not the same. You warned me about hitting a suspect. I never laid a hand on him.”

“Threatening a beating is still brutality,” said Gamache. “If you were under my command, Agent Cameron, I’d relieve you of duty right now.”

“I’m happy to leave.” He took a step away.

“You’ll leave when I tell you to. What’re you even doing here? This isn’t your assignment.”

“You think my responsibility stops at the end of my shift? Does yours?”

“Don’t question me, young man. This isn’t about me, it’s about your behavior—”

“Yeah, well, you’re quite a role model. Sir.” Cameron glared. “I’ve been following the Twitter feed about you. Have you?”

“I asked you a question. What’re you doing here?”

“How can you lead, sir, if you don’t have the support of the population? Wasn’t that the whole point of your lecture to me? Trust? Looks like you’ve lost it. Have you lost it?”

And the inflection made it clear that Cameron was talking about more than trust.

“Answer my question now, Agent Cameron, or I’ll charge you with interfering in a murder investigation.”

Gamache knew exactly what Cameron was doing. He was trying to throw him off balance. Put him on the defensive. Get control of the narrative and take focus away from the real question.

Why was Agent Cameron there? Why was he threatening Tracey for a confession?

This spoke of more than a cop going off the rails. Emotionally het up about the horrific crime. It spoke, and smelled, of personal involvement.

“Tell me,” said Gamache. “You know I’ll find out.”

And Cameron could see that was true. Here was a man determined to, trained to, born to find things out.

Chief Inspector Gamache, sharp intent in his eyes, did not seem like the slightly pathetic, definitely incompetent, occasionally dangerous man described in the tweets.

“I came because I care about Vivienne,” said Cameron.

And there it was. Confirmation of something that had become obvious to Gamache.

But Bob Cameron didn’t just care, he cared so deeply he no longer had control of his actions. Or judgment.

“I see.” Gamache paused. Studying the man. “Were you having an affair?”

“No.”

“The truth.”

“No. I wanted to help her. I asked her to call me, to have a coffee together. To just talk. But she never did.”

“Did you go to the house?”

Cameron lowered his head, no longer looking Gamache in the eye. “A few times. When I knew he wasn’t there. When he was in the bar or in jail to sober up.”

“You detained the husband, then went up and propositioned the wife?”

Cameron’s face flushed, the scars turning white against the red. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I think it was,” said Gamache. “And you just don’t want to admit it. She wasn’t interested, but you continued to harass her.”

“I wasn’t harassing her. She was afraid.” Cameron shot a filthy look at the man across the bistro. “She wanted to leave him, I could tell. I was just trying to help her break away.”

He lifted his head and met Gamache’s eyes. “I love my wife. I have two children. But there was something about Vivienne. Something…” He stopped and thought. “Not innocent. Not even fragile. She seemed strong, but confused. Beaten down. I just wanted to help her.”

Gamache looked at Cameron’s face. Disfigured. And knew how deep the blows went. How deep the disfigurement went. And knew how much this man, while a boy, would have wanted someone to help him.

Motivations were rarely straightforward, as he knew all too well. And Gamache wondered how confused Cameron was, between helping Vivienne and helping himself.

Gamache considered the man, then nodded. “Stay where you are,” he said, and walked across the bistro.

He had a duty to perform. No matter how ludicrous it seemed.

“Monsieur Tracey,” said Gamache, squaring himself in front of the man.

“What?”

“I’m sorry to have to inform you—”

“So she is dead,” said Tracey.

“Yes. I’m afraid so. Her body was found in the river, just outside the village. She was thrown off that bridge.”

“Thrown? You make it sound like it was done on purpose.”

“We think it was.”

“Prove it.”

“Pardon?”

“How do you know she was thrown? I think she jumped. Killed herself.” His voice changed. “She was very depressed, you know. It sometimes happens to pregnant women. Hormones. She talked about killing herself for weeks. I did my best. Tried to comfort her. Begged her to get help.” Tracey’s voice had become wheedling. Rehearsing lines for a judge. “But she wouldn’t. She was drinking too much. Then she just disappeared. I was distraught.”

A long, long silence greeted that. While Tracey smiled, the others in the bistro stared.

Gamache tilted his head slightly. Then he nodded. Slightly.

Tracey, with the instincts of a rodent, stopped smiling. Had he had hackles, they would have gone up. And for good reason.

He’d goaded the wrong person.

“Your wife was pregnant,” said Gamache. His voice quiet. Unnaturally calm. “The night she disappeared, she told you the child wasn’t yours. You have a history of drunk and disorderly. Police have been called to your place more than once for domestic violence. Judges are smart. Juries are smart. What do you think they’ll make of that?”

“I’ll tell you what they’d make of it.” His voice rose. “That I’m a shit husband, but not a killer. She was drunk and knocked up, and she left me. Try to prove otherwise.”

“And you never asked who the father was?” demanded Gamache.

“I didn’t care.”

“You cared. You cared about how it looked to others. You cared about being made a fool of. We found blood in your living room and in her car. What did you do to her?”

Tracey was silent.

“What did you do, Carl?”

The others in the room stayed absolutely still. Frozen.

“I have a right to know who my wife was screwing, okay. I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do. Anything any normal guy wouldn’t do.”

He looked around but met only disgust.

“So what did you do? Come on, Carl. Tell me.”

“I gave her what for.”

“You beat her.”

“My drunk and knocked-up wife? She was leaving me to go to the father. What did she think was going to happen? It was her fault.”

But something, besides the grotesque description, struck Gamache.

“Her father or ‘the’ father?” he asked. “What did she say? Who was she going to?”

“The father. Her father. What difference does it make? I took a bottle and went to my studio. Passed out. When I woke up next morning, she was gone. But she was alive when I left her.”

Tracey’s gaze shifted to something over Gamache’s shoulder. Gamache turned.

Homer Godin was standing at the door.

Staring.

“I’m sorry, patron,” said Agent Cloutier, coming through behind Godin. She was out of breath from running. “I was watching the coroner, and when I turned around, he was gone.”

“Don’t let him close to me,” said Tracey, backing away. “He’s crazy.”

“Homer.” Gamache held his hands out in front of him, as though approaching a wounded wild animal. Or an explosive.

It wasn’t that Gamache was afraid of him. Or afraid if Godin burst forward, they wouldn’t be able to stop him before he killed Tracey. They could and would. But …

But would that really matter? Maybe, if I step aside … If I was a little slow to react …

Gamache knew then what he was really afraid of. Himself.

How would I feel…?

With effort, he shoved those thoughts away. To be replaced by a certainty.

They might stop him now, but they couldn’t keep Homer Godin from Carl Tracey forever.

“You have your car here?” he asked Cameron while not taking his eyes off Godin, who wouldn’t take his eyes off Tracey.

“Oui.”

“Good. I’m placing him under arrest. I want you to take him in.”

“Yessir,” said Cameron with enthusiasm, and turned toward Tracey, who backed up further.

“Non,” said Chief Inspector Gamache. “Not him. Him.”

Even Tracey turned to Gamache with surprise.

The Chief Inspector was pointing at Homer.

“You mean Carl Tracey, sir,” said Cameron.

“No. I mean him.” He took a step closer to Vivienne’s father and said, “Homer Godin, I’m placing you under arrest.”

Godin’s eyes remained on Tracey, then slowly refocused on Gamache.

“What did you say?”

“I’m arresting you.”

“What for?” asked Agent Cloutier, going to stand beside Homer.

“For assault.”

“I haven’t done it yet. Give me a moment.” Godin’s voice was flat, his cold stare returning to Tracey. “And you can make it murder.”

“I mean the assault on Madame Gamache. You punched her in the face.”

“I did?”

“He what?” said Gabri.

“Take him in,” said Gamache. Then, in front of everyone, Gamache did something he’d never done before. He apologized, even as he made the arrest. “Désolé.”

“I hit your wife?” asked Homer, more stunned by that than the arrest. “Is she all right?”

“She will be.”

“Oh, God,” sighed Homer. “What’s happening?”

They walked out of the bistro. Homer Godin in custody. And Carl Tracey a free man.