A Better Man

CHAPTER SEVEN

Awful! Arrogant poseur #MorrowSucks

Overrated. No talent. #MorrowSucks

Just plain shit. #MorrowSucks

Lock him up #GamacheSux

The donkeys noticed first.

They turned in the field and started forward. Toward the fence. One or two were braying.

Carl Tracey came out and stood in the doorway of the barn and watched as three figures, covered in mud, trudged down the drive.

They looked like something out of a horror film. Golems, heading his way.

Tracey reached over and took hold of the pitchfork.

Gamache raised his hand in a fist, to signal them to stop.

Cameron, familiar with the silent combat gesture, did.

Cloutier did not.

“Agent Cloutier.”

When she turned, Gamache nodded forward, and she saw it then.

Framed in the open barn door was a man straight out of some horror film.

He was disheveled. Filthy. With a pitchfork.

Tracey watched them closely. The two men were large. Disheveled. Filthy. The woman was small and filthy.

He tightened his grip on the pitchfork.

“Monsieur Tracey?”

“What do you want?” he shouted. In English.

Gamache lifted his hands, to show they held no weapon, and stepped forward. Cameron instinctively went to join him, to protect his quarterback, but once again Gamache gave him a signal.

To stand down. But remain alert.

The Chief Inspector took a few steps toward Tracey. There were at least fifteen paces to go before they’d be face-to-face, but already he could smell the booze.

“We’re with the Sûreté du Québec—” Gamache began, in English.

“Get off my land.”

“My name is Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. This is Agent Cloutier. And this—”

“I know who that is.” Now that they were closer, Tracey recognized the man who’d threatened him with a beating not long ago. “Get him the fuck off my land.”

He lifted the pitchfork and pointed it toward Cameron. Making a small jabbing movement. It was a futile, almost comic gesture.

But Gamache wasn’t smiling. Instead he put his arms out at his sides and took a few steps closer.

Carl Tracey was in his mid-thirties. Slightly shorter, slightly lighter than Gamache. But where Gamache was solid, this man was not. As he jabbed, he jiggled.

Still, Gamache knew it was never wise to underestimate anyone. Especially someone with a pitchfork.

He stopped.

“We’d like to speak with your wife, please. Vivienne Godin. Is she here?”

“No. I already told the cops that she’s gone away.”

“And you haven’t heard from her? She hasn’t called?”

“No.”

The only one who’d called him was her crazy father. Every hour, on the hour. Even through the night. Threatening him. But he wouldn’t tell them that.

He noticed Cameron had opened his jacket. To reveal a gun on his belt.

Shit.

But the man standing just a few feet away, the guy in charge, displayed no weapon. In fact, he seemed to be trying to lull Tracey into some sort of trance. So deep and calm was his voice.

When Gamache took another step toward him, Tracey also stepped forward and thrust the pitchfork at the cop. “Stop right there.”

The sharp tines stopped within a foot of Gamache’s face. But he didn’t flinch. Instead he looked right past the points. Straight into Tracey’s eyes.

His gaze, Tracey saw with some alarm, wasn’t angry. Wasn’t threatening. Certainly wasn’t frightened. It was thoughtful.

Anger, rage, violence Tracey could handle. But this was just confusing. And off-putting. And a little frightening.

Gamache, a pitchfork away from Tracey, could see the bloodshot eyes. And sense the havoc.

“I’m going to reach into my pocket and bring out my Sûreté ID.” As he spoke, he did just that, watching the man closely. Tracey’s nostrils flared with each breath. Longing to attack. And he probably would have, Gamache knew, if it weren’t for Cameron. And his earlier threat to beat Tracey. This man obviously knew it was not an empty threat.

While Gamache did not have a loaded gun, he did have Cameron. A biological weapon.

Bringing out the card, he offered it to Tracey, who pushed his head forward and read.

“It says here you’re Chief Superintendent.”

“My new card hasn’t arrived.”

“So you were the big boss, but not anymore?”

Tracey was more with-it than Gamache had given him credit for. Replacing the card, Gamache shrugged and smiled.

“I messed up. It happens.”

He looked at Tracey now with a slightly conspiratorial gaze. Wanting Tracey to try to guess what he could possibly have done to warrant such a demotion.

Gamache knew what a man like Tracey would naturally assume.

It would have to be something illegal. Almost certainly brutal. If Tracey thought Cameron was threatening, just wait for it …

So now Tracey was well and truly confused.

Gamache’s manner was courteous, calm. But he intimated he was capable of something else.

“What do you want?” demanded Tracey.

“Do you know what I’d really like?”

“What?”

“Water. And to use your phone.”

“What?”

“Do you mind?” asked Gamache.

It appeared such a reasonable, though random, request that Tracey was struck dumb for a moment.

“There’s a hose over there.” He gestured to the side of the barn. “I’ll bring the phone out. Make your call, then leave.”

“Merci. I’m most grateful.”

Everyone in the farmyard was now staring at Gamache with open astonishment, including the donkeys. But human behavior often astonished them.

“Are you okay, patron?” asked Cameron when Tracey left.

He’d walked over to the Chief and scanned him for blood, concerned he might have hit his head on a rock in one of the many falls as they’d made their way, slipping and sliding, up the hill.

“How would you have had me handle this?” Gamache asked as they walked over to the hose. “Grab the pitchfork and beat him with it?”

Cameron flushed. It was, actually, exactly what he’d expected. And would have done.

Gamache gestured to the others to take the water first.

“You could’ve demanded to see Vivienne,” said Cloutier, reaching for the hose.

“I did ask.”

“Ask, yes, but couldn’t you have pushed harder?”

“To what end? Do you know what he’d have done? Run us off his property, and he’d have had every right. We have no warrant.” Gamache glanced behind him to make sure Tracey wasn’t approaching. Then he lowered his voice.

“We have to assume we’re dealing with a person capable of murdering his pregnant wife. And everything we’ve heard about him confirms he’s abusive. Violent.”

Gamache reached over and patted a donkey, taking in the barnyard as he did. He also assumed Tracey was watching them from the house.

There were a lot of places to bury a body here. Though he doubted that Carl Tracey would be stupid enough to put her on their own property.

But then, people did stupid things. Like kill each other. And Carl Tracey did not strike him as the brightest of people.

Besides, he held out some hope that Vivienne Godin was indeed alive and had fled this terrible place.

“Violence, threats, he understands,” said Gamache quietly, as though speaking to the donkey, who was now nuzzling him. Leaving a slimy trail of drool and grass on his already filthy coat. “The best way to keep Carl Tracey off balance is to be courteous. Didn’t you notice how confused he became?”

“So you want us to be nice to him?” asked Cameron.

“Exactly. We can always ratchet it up later. Steps. Degrees. And always keep something in reserve. And,” said Gamache as he took the hose once Cameron had finished. “We have to keep something else in mind.”

“That he’s a killer,” said Cloutier.

Gamache bent over and drank. He was parched, and as he gulped, it struck him as ironic, and so like nature, to provide Tracey, a rancid man, with such sweet water.

“That he might be innocent,” said Gamache, lowering the hose, washing off his muddy hands, and turning off the tap.

“Of murder, let’s hope,” said Cloutier. “But not of beating his wife. His pregnant wife.”

“True,” said Gamache. “But we’re here to investigate, not convict. Try to keep your emotions in check. A clear head, right, Agent Cloutier?”

“Oui, patron.”

“You want the phone or not,” shouted Tracey, stepping off the porch and holding the handset out. “Make the call and get off my fucking land.”

Gamache clicked it on and heard a dial tone. Finally, a phone that worked. In the background, almost unnoticed by now, was the sound of the Rivière Bella Bella, rushing toward Three Pines.

As Gamache dialed the number from memory, he watched Carl Tracey walk over to the donkeys, who nuzzled him, pushing him playfully. Tracey produced huge carrots and gave one to each.

The phone rang a few times before being answered.

“Oui, allô,” Gamache said, clearly relieved. “Yes, everything’s fine. No cell-phone coverage here, so I’ve had to borrow a phone. How are things with you?… I see.… Yes. Sandbagging. Good idea.… I will.” He looked at Tracey, who’d, at the mention of sandbagging, turned from the donkeys with a look of some alarm.

“But I do need a favor,” said Gamache. “I’m at the farm where Vivienne Godin and her husband live. Carl Tracey refuses to answer questions or let us into the house or barn. I need a search warrant immediately. T-R-A-C-E-Y.… Oui.”

Tracey’s face went slack. As though he’d been sandbagged.

“You can call back at this number,” continued Gamache. “If you don’t get an answer, send patrol cars up. They know the place. In fact, when the search warrant comes through, send them up to help search. But tell them the road is pretty much impassable.… No, everything’s fine. I’ll let you know when we have more news about Madame Godin. Au revoir.”

At Sûreté headquarters, Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up and quickly made out a warrant request, then put in a call to a judge.

“Yes, Your Honor, we need it immediately. Chief Inspector Gamache is on-site and waiting. A woman is missing and perhaps murdered by her husband. I’m sending the request now.”

He hit the send key. “Please let me know.”

Then he hung up and looked out the window.

The rain had begun. It was pissing April showers.