A Better Man

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

@CarlTracey: I’ve put up more pictures of Carl’s work for you to see.

@NouveauGalerie: Who’s this? I thought I was communicating with Tracey.

@CarlTracey: Pauline Vachon. Carl’s partner.

@NouveauGalerie: Business or life partner?

@CarlTracey: Does it matter?

@CarlTracey: Hello?

@CarlTracey: Hello?

@CarlTracey: Both.

Gamache sat on the cot across from Homer Godin while Lysette Cloutier stood by the open door to the holding cell.

Homer looked sick. Gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his face blotched. Bright red in places, white, almost green, in others.

“We’ve come to release you,” said Gamache. “If you promise not to do anything to Carl Tracey.”

“Or yourself,” said Cloutier.

Homer continued to stare at his large hands, hanging limp between his knees.

When he finally spoke, his voice was remote. “I can’t promise.”

“Then I can’t release you,” said Gamache. He leaned forward and dropped his voice even further, so that Homer had to also lean forward. Had to make some small effort.

Which he did.

“You can do this,” Armand said softly.

“There’s only one thing I want to do.”

That sat between them. The silence stretching on. Until Homer finally broke it himself, lifting his eyes to Armand’s.

“How’m I gonna go on?”

Armand placed his hand on Homer’s. “You’ll come stay with us. We’ll keep you safe.”

“Really?”

And for a moment, a split second, Armand saw a glimmer amid the gloom. And then it was gone.

“I can’t come to your house.”

“Why not?”

The two men were quiet for a moment before Homer spoke again.

“You’ve been kind. Your wife—” Homer lifted his hand to his own face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“I know. She knows. Are you worried about doing it again?”

Homer shook his head. “No. Never. But if I stay with you, I’ll hurt you in other ways. When I kill Tracey, they’ll blame you.”

“And what’s this?”

Dominica Oddly went to lift the corner of the canvas, but Clara stopped her.

“Something I’m working on.”

“A portrait?”

“Sort of.”

Clara’s uninvited guest raised her brows in a way that would be comical, cartoonish, if it weren’t so terrifying.

Ruth Zardo had somehow managed to convince the art critic for the online journal Odd to come from Brooklyn to Québec. To come into the countryside, to Three Pines. To come into Clara’s home. Where Clara, against every instinct, had invited her into her studio.

Seemed courtesy beat good sense. Almost to death.

“Come,” Dominica Oddly said after an all-too-cursory glance around.

She indicated the shabby sofa against the wall of Clara’s studio. They sat side by side, the young woman turning her lithe body to Clara.

She was dressed in sort of harem pants, with combat boots and a T-shirt that read YES, HE’S A RACIST.

Clara doubted she’d passed thirty. Her hair was in long dreadlocks. Her face was unlined and unblemished. No piercings and, from what Clara could see, no tattoos. She didn’t need those to prove she was cool. She just was. So cool that Clara felt goose bumps rise on her forearms.

To say Dominica Oddly was a rainmaker was to vastly underestimate her power. Clara knew that the woman sitting next to her didn’t just make rain, she made the whole goddamned environment. She could cause the sun to shine on your career. Or a tsunami to sweep your life’s work away.

She had an eye for the avant-garde, an ear for undercurrents, and, perhaps above all else, a savant’s gift for social media.

Oddly had understood early that those platforms were the new “high ground.” The place from which attacks could be launched. Territory could be captured. Where hearts were influenced and opinions made.

Her online journal, Odd, had millions of subscribers while still managing to position itself as underground, even subversive. Dominica Oddly was like some hipster oligarch.

Clara subscribed to Odd, and every morning over coffee she read Dominica’s daily column.

Oddly’s pithy, articulate, often cruel, always elegant prose both amused and appalled Clara, as the critic stripped away the artifice in the art world. Ruthlessly.

All truth with malice in it.

But, despite Clara’s rise, Dominica Oddly had never reviewed her works. As far as Clara knew, Oddly had no idea she existed. She’d never met the woman and certainly had never seen her at one of her shows.

Every artist, every gallery owner, every agent, every collector scanned the horizon for Dominica Oddly.

And here she was. In Clara’s studio. Amid half-finished canvases, empty yogurt containers. A banana peel lay flopped on the arm of the sofa. Clara shoved it off with her elbow, but not fast enough for the keen, and disconcertingly amused, eyes of the critic.

Ruth was right when she’d described this young woman as her white whale. The one she sought. The one she dreamed of landing.

But where Ahab was obsessed with vengeance, Clara was not. There was nothing to avenge. Clara really just wanted Oddly to notice her. To acknowledge her. Okay, and to love and laud her art.

Now that she had the critic’s attention, Clara began to see something else. The size of the creature, and what would happen if it turned on her.

But it was too late. The white whale was in her home. In her studio. On the sofa kneading Leo’s ears.

With her latest show taking so many hits, one from this woman would be enough to sink Clara Morrow.

“Cake?” she asked, and saw Dominica Oddly smile. It was a nice smile. A nice face.

It was the sort of look that happened just before you’re eaten, Clara thought.

“I don’t think you can stop me.”

Annie’s father had no doubt that Vivienne’s father was right. He probably couldn’t stop him.

Homer Godin would leave this jail cell and spend the rest of his life trying to kill the man he could not name.

And, once done, Homer would almost certainly then kill himself.

“Suppose you didn’t.”

“Pardon?”

“Suppose you didn’t kill Tracey,” Gamache repeated. “What would your life look like?”

The question, so simple, seemed to stump Godin. It was like asking him, Suppose you could fly. Suppose you became invisible. Suppose you didn’t kill the man who just murdered your daughter.

He was asking Vivienne’s father to consider the inconceivable.

“Think about it while I do the paperwork.”

Chief Inspector Gamache got up and left, taking Cloutier with him and leaving Godin alone with thoughts that inevitably circled back to his daughter. He saw her face as she fell, backward. Off the bridge. Arms pinwheeling.

And then the splash.

He rammed shut his eyes until all he saw was darkness. Then Vivienne’s face floated up, to hover just below the surface.

Accusing.

“It’s in,” said Isabelle Lacoste, grabbing a chair across from Beauvoir in the incident room.

No need to say what “it” was.

Beauvoir quickly clicked over to his email and opened the document from the coroner, with the attachment.

Both scanned it, then went back to the top and read more closely. Their faces, their expressions, almost exactly the same.

At first triumphant. And then perplexed.

“I do this because I love art. I love the whole world of art. Being around people who are creative and daring.”

As she spoke, Dominica’s face became almost luminous. Her voice, while deep, was also light, bright.

“I search the world for people who have a true muse and not just some insatiable hole in their soul they need to fill with fame and money. And when I find the real thing…”

Her entire face opened, in unguarded delight. An awe rarely seen in the cluttered world of ego and fear and greed that was the international art scene.

“I take aim at the poseurs and try to lift up those who create from their very being.” Dominica’s hand, clenched into a fist, thumped her breastbone and stayed there. “Those who are daring and brave and willing to be vulnerable. Like you.”

“Me?” said Clara.

“Yes, you.” Dominica laughed, and Clara almost tumbled forward into her arms, so magnetic was the woman. And so welcome the words.

“If you feel like that,” said Clara, “why haven’t you reviewed any of my shows?”

“Did you hear what he said? And you’re still going to let him out?” asked Cloutier, following Gamache across the open room to Cameron’s desk.

It didn’t warrant a reply, so Gamache did not offer one.

Agent Cameron saw them coming and rose. “Sir.”

“I’d like to start the paperwork to release Homer Godin.”

“Yessir. I was expecting that, so I’ve filled it in.”

Gamache scanned the page. No charges filed. As far as the law was concerned, Homer Godin was never in a jail cell. It had never happened.

As the officer who’d brought Godin in, Cameron would have to countersign the release.

“Can you redo this, please, but remove your name.”

“But I was the—”

“I know.” Gamache held his eyes. Unwavering. “Just do it.”

Though confused, Cameron sat back down and redid the paperwork while Chief Inspector Gamache tore up the evidence that Agent Cameron had anything to do with releasing a man who’d vowed murder.

He then signed the new form so that his name, and his name alone, would be seen.

“Now,” said Gamache, dropping the pen, “we’ll let Monsieur Godin out in a few minutes. First, tell us what you’ve found out about Tracey’s movements on Saturday.”

“Turned out to be quite easy,” said Cameron. “He was in Sherbrooke at an art-supply shop. Apparently that’s where he gets most of his clay and other things he needs. His bank card shows a purchase there at eleven forty.”

“Roughly the same time as the posts,” said Cloutier.

“What did he buy?”

“A bag of clay, some glazes,” said Cameron.

Gamache nodded. They’d found unopened clay wrapped in plastic and new pots of glaze in Tracey’s studio.

“I’ve also been to the local pharmacist about the abortion drug. She has no account for Vivienne Godin or Carl Tracey and confirms that bottle is black-market.”

“Why would Vivienne need to get it on the black market?” asked Cloutier. “She could get it for free, right?”

“With a prescription, oui,” said Cameron. “If you don’t have one—”

“Or you want to terminate a pregnancy too far along,” said Gamache.

“—then you go on the black market to get the drug.”

“Mail order?” asked Gamache, and said a quiet prayer.

“Many are, but the pharmacist didn’t think so in this case. Buyers are beginning to realize that while pushers might not be the most reliable people, mail order is even worse. I know a few dealers. People we’ve dealt with in the past. Want to come?”

Gamache looked in the direction of the holding cell where Godin waited. The abortion drug could be one of the keys to the case against Tracey. If it turned out he was the one who’d bought it. It could strengthen their argument that he wanted to end the pregnancy, one way or the other.

“Non. There’re other things I need to do. But let me know as soon as you have any information.”

“Oui, patron,” said Cameron, pushing back from his desk.

“Good.” Gamache brought out his iPhone. “Give me your cell number.”

Cameron did.

As Gamache was putting it in, his own phone vibrated with a call.

“Excusez-moi.” He took a few steps away.

“Coroner’s report is in,” said Beauvoir. “They found spores in her hand. An exact match for the ones on the rotten wood.”

Gamache exhaled. They’d just taken a big step closer to making an arrest.

“This proves she was on the bridge,” said Beauvoir. “And she died trying to save herself.”

“Oui. But we still need to place Tracey there. And prove it wasn’t an accident.”

“We’re going over Tracey’s clothes to see if we can find any of the microorganisms. The forensics team found something else, patron. When they moved her car, they found boot prints. They’d been protected from the rain by the car.”

“Are they a match for Tracey’s boots?” asked Gamache.

“They’re looking now.”

“Good, good,” said Gamache, his thoughts moving quickly ahead. Is it enough? Is it enough?

He made up his mind.

“I’m going to hold Godin for another couple of hours until you find out more. By then—”

“We might have enough to nail Tracey. I think it’s time we brought Pauline Vachon in.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ve applied for a warrant to search her place while she’s being questioned,” said Beauvoir. “As soon as it comes through, I’ll have her picked up. Isabelle will interview her at the station. She’d like Cloutier there. Any news from your end?”

“Agent Cameron has a lead on the abortion drug found in Vivienne’s bag. Definitely black-market. I’m hoping we can get proof that Tracey bought it.”

“About that,” said Beauvoir. “We have news on the fetus.”

Gamache listened, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the information. When Beauvoir finished, Gamache simply said, “Merci.”

“What is it, patron?” asked Cloutier, seeing his expression after he’d hung up.

Gamache paused for a moment, staring at the blank wall in front of him. His lips were pressed together in concentration. Then he clicked his device off and slipped it into his pocket.

“Superintendent Lacoste will be by in a few minutes,” he said, striding back to the desk. “We’re bringing in Pauline Vachon.”

“But there’s more I can get from her private Instagram account,” said Cloutier. “I’m sure of it.”

When he turned to her, she was surprised to see that the anxiety that had flitted across his face a few moments ago was gone, replaced by a smile.

“You’ve done a good job. It’s only because of you we’ve found Madame Vachon and the pictures. And the damning messages. Chief Inspector Beauvoir feels we have enough, and I agree with him. Now the job will be to turn her. Pay attention to Superintendent Lacoste. Learn from her. She’ll lead the interrogation. You’ll be there to support.”

It wasn’t lost on either Cloutier or Cameron that he’d said “interrogation.” Not “interview.”

They were almost there. They could see the finish line. It was just a matter now of dashing across it. Without falling.

“And Homer?”

“Let Monsieur Godin know he’ll be released soon. Agent Cameron, I’ll come with you after all. Chief Inspector Beauvoir will meet us there.”

“Oui, patron.”

As they made for the door, Cameron reached behind him, to double-check that he had his gun. He knew he did, but best to be certain. Besides, touching it was a comfort.

But he noticed, as he followed Gamache, that the Chief Inspector was not carrying a weapon.

He wondered if he should say something. Remind him that drug dealers were dangerous. But then he remembered who this man was and what he’d seen. And what he’d done.

Chief Inspector Gamache did not need to be schooled. He was the principal.

Beauvoir stood at his desk in the incident room in Three Pines and checked his belt.

The gun, as always, was there.

He wondered if he’d feel naked going into work every day as a senior executive at the engineering firm in Paris without this accessory.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir quite liked the feel of it. The heft. The ability to just pull back his jacket and expose it. To see people’s eyes widen.

The gun on his belt meant not simply safety but power. Though just lately, something odd had begun to happen.

It had felt heavier. More awkward. Less natural. The gun had begun to feel foreign.

Was this how it had started with Gamache? Surely as a young agent, as an inspector, even, he’d worn a gun? At what stage had he taken it off?

When does a cucumber become a pickle? It was the question Gamache sometimes asked when contemplating human behavior. And now Jean-Guy asked himself that.

When does change occur? Change that is irreversible.

At some point guns had become, for Armand Gamache, a necessary evil. But still, and undoubtedly, evil.

Gamache had knelt beside too many corpses. Had made too many.

Had reached behind him and pulled the weapon from its holster. Had swung it up, steadied his hand. Pointed. And Armand Gamache had fired. Into another human being.

Felt the recoil. Smelled the discharge. Seen the body drop. The person drop.

Someone’s son, daughter, husband, father.

It was a terrible, terrible thing to have to do.

Seeing the bullet strike was almost as bad as feeling it hit, as Jean-Guy knew too well. Being lifted into the air by the impact. The shock. The pain. The terror.

That was almost as bad as seeing colleagues go down. Gunned down.

Seeing Gamache himself hit. Lifted off the ground. And collapse.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir pushed that image, that memory, away. Unable still to really face it. Face the fact he himself had done it once. Had seen Gamache through his sights and fired. Felt the report. Smelled the discharge.

Seen him rise and watched him fall.

It was the worst moment of Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s life. And it had changed his life.

His hand now closed briefly over the holster, but instead of feeling the usual reassurance, he felt a wave of revulsion.

And he knew, in his gut, it was time to leave. He’d done his bit, done his best.

Time to take a job where the only weapon was his mind. Where there were no victims, only clients. And no suspects, only competitors. Where everyone who started the day with a heartbeat ended the day with one.

Or, if not, it wasn’t his doing.

But he wasn’t there yet. Soon. Just this one, last case. Jean-Guy Beauvoir just had to get across the finish line.

Instead of answering Clara’s question, why she’d never reviewed her shows, Dominica Oddly had hauled herself out of the sofa and was wandering around the studio. Nodding as she took in the collection of stuff.

A jumble of old works. Failed and abandoned pieces sat beside finished and lauded portraits. There were stones and twisted tree roots. Feathers and sticks and assorted broken eggs, fallen from nests. It was as though Clara had left the door to her studio wide open and the wilderness had blown in.

Oddly took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The studio smelled of oil paint and turpentine and wet dog. And something else.

Clara had given up trying to look sophisticated and had rolled off the low sofa onto her hands and knees, and now she got to her feet with a grunt.

To Clara’s horror, Oddly had stopped in front of a collection of dusty ceramic pieces. And was taking photographs.

“What do you call these?” she asked.

“Warrior Uteruses.”

Oddly laughed. A deep, rich rumbling sound that filled the space with genuine amusement.

“Perfect. Have you shown them?”

“They’re old. I did them maybe ten years ago,” Clara explained. “Showed them once.”

“And?”

“Not a success.”

Oddly nodded, clearly not surprised. Then she turned back to Clara. “I’ve been to all your shows, you know. Privately.”

She walked over to the small portrait lounging against the wall. The one of Ruth. The old woman glared back at the young woman, her whole being filled with rage and pain, with bitterness and disappointment. Ruth gripped her worn blue shawl at her scrawny throat and looked out at a world that had left her behind.

“I didn’t get it at first,” Dominica admitted, as though talking directly to the old woman. “Didn’t see what others saw. All I saw were portraits done in a predictable, conventional style. Granted, the subjects were interesting, but that struck me as a sort of cheat. A shorthand to cover up for a lack of technique. A lack of depth.”

Dominica Oddly turned away for a moment, to look at Clara, and then returned her gaze to the portrait.

“I had my review all written. Scathing. I especially hated her.”

She lifted her chin toward Ruth. Who clearly hated her right back.

“But something stopped me from publishing it. I decided to reserve judgment. I went to all your other shows and slowly, slowly began to see.”

“See what?”

“That I was wrong. But more than that. I saw why. When I looked at your portraits, I saw the work of a middle-class, middle-aged white woman, living in middle-of-nowhere Canada. Working in a traditional, conventional medium. I was prejudiced. I couldn’t believe that you, Clara Morrow, could come out of nowhere and possibly rock the art establishment. But you have.”

She turned back to Ruth.

“This’s the woman who contacted me about your work, right? Who convinced me to come here, isn’t it? This’s the poet, Ruth Zardo?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, her dreadlocks bouncing on her shoulders.

“Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair?” She muttered the words of Ruth’s most famous poem, then looked at Clara. “You painted her as the Virgin Mary. The mother of God. Forgotten, bitter, filled with despair. Which would have been amazing enough. Without—” She reached up her hand and pointed. At a small white dot in the rheumy eye. “That.”

It was the smallest hint of light. In a soul that had known much too much darkness.

“No fraud could do that. Once I saw that, I revisited all your other paintings and saw what you were really doing. You’re subversive, my friend. A sort of artistic agent provocateur. Appearing to be one thing while actually being something else. Something quite extraordinary. Undermining all conventions. You don’t just paint people, you capture them. Make them give you their emotions. Not just despair and hope but joy. Hatred. Jealousy. Love. Contentment. Rage. How you managed to capture belonging is beyond me, but you did. The Three Graces? I actually wept. I stood in front of it, all alone in the gallery, crying. I still don’t know why it made me cry.” She turned to Clara. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But I think you do.”

Dominica smiled and gave a single grunt of either laughter or recognition.

“I saw your latest exhibition,” said Dominica. “In the cooperative collection of miniatures at the Brooklyn Art Space. Very generous of you, by the way, to agree to show with unknowns.”

Clara closed her eyes briefly. This was it. Finally. She had what she wanted. Needed. Dominica Oddly would tell the art world, all the naysayers and trolls and shits who’d turned on her, that they were wrong. Clara Morrow was a force within the art community.

Clara Morrow would get her revenge.

“Thank you,” she said. “You must know how important this is to me. You’ve seen all the horrible things people have said on social media. My own home gallery is threatening to drop me. People are saying I’m a … what did you just call it…?”

“A poseur. A fraud.”

“Yes. A fake. But a good review from you would change all that. Would stop all the attacks.”

“I’ve seen what they’re writing, yes.”

Then a thought occurred to Clara. Dominica was, for all her confidence, still young. Maybe she’s afraid that if she voices a dissenting opinion, she’ll lose credibility.

“I have no problem telling it like it is,” Oddly said, as though reading her thoughts. “Going against popular opinion. It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

“Then why haven’t you posted? Why wait to defend me? Damage is being done.”

“Because I don’t disagree.”

“Pardon?”

“Your miniatures are appalling, Clara. Trite. Predictable. A blunder.” She turned back to the Warrior Uteruses. “I admire an artist for trying something different,” and then she looked at Clara again. “But your miniatures show not just a shocking lack of technique but an almost insulting lack of depth, of effort. They’re cowardly.”

Clara stood stock-still in her studio.

“I was about to publish the review when Ruth Zardo’s invitation arrived. I decided to wait until I saw you. Until I had a chance to look you in the eye. And thank you personally for your previous work, and tell you how I feel about your latest. I think all those people posting are right. You’re insulting those who once loved your work, who once supported you. You’re insulting the art world. And, worst of all, you’ve squandered, cheapened your talent. Betrayed the gift you were given. And that’s a travesty. No real artist would do that, could do that.”

She brought a piece of paper out of her pocket. “Here.”

As she held it out to Clara, she caught, again, that elusive scent. Below the oils, below the turpentine, the wet dog, the old bananas.

It was lemon. Not the sour smell but the fresh, sweet scent of lemon meringue pie.

Clara reached for the paper, even as she felt the thrashing and heard the crunch of bones.