A Better Man

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

While they waited for the two Sûreté agents to arrive, Lacoste went back over the forensic evidence. Beauvoir read the reports on Vivienne’s finances.

And Gamache went for a walk. To think.

He strolled once around the village green. His hands clasped behind his back, he watched Henri and Gracie playing in the mud.

Reine-Marie might not thank him for this, he thought.

“Come along,” he called to them, and together they walked up the road out of town. Stopping on the crest of the hill, he turned to admire the view, which stretched past Québec and well into the Green Mountains of Vermont.

The snow was heading off somewhere else but had left a centimeter behind. It was, he knew, almost certainly the last snowfall. The end of a season. And the beginning of another.

He brushed off the bench that he and Reine-Marie had placed there for all to rest on.

As he did, familiar words were uncovered, etched deep into the wood.

Surprised by Joy

And below that:

A Brave Man in a Brave Country

Marilynne Robinson’s words always made him think of his father and mother.

“I’ll pray that you grow up a brave man in a brave country,” he whispered. “I will pray you find a way to be useful.”

Would their prayers for him have been answered?

But mostly he thought of his grandchildren. Florence, Zora, Honoré.

And soon, a new granddaughter.

He closed his eyes. Briefly. And tried not to think that the country they’ll grow up in won’t be his own.

Then, opening his eyes, he looked at the white world and thought of the white whale. That devoured reason.

All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it.

That was where the quote ended, for him. He didn’t know the rest. But in the small hours, in front of the fireplace, while Reine-Marie and Homer slept, while Henri snored at his feet and Gracie ran free in her dreams, he’d looked up that quote and read the rest.

All that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil …

It was difficult, in this peaceful place, looking out over the quiet little village just waking up, to imagine the torment that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain.

But it existed. He met it every day. The subtle demons of life and thought.

That turned something horrific into something acceptable. That turned a crime into a punishment. That somehow made it okay to push a young, pregnant woman off a bridge to her death.

That twisted reality, until malice and truth were intertwined and indistinguishable.

Had the demons caught up with Lysette Cloutier, in love with Homer? Had they caught up with Cameron? With Pauline Vachon? Carl Tracey?

He was honest enough to recognize that it wasn’t just murderers who harbored those demons. Cops did, too. He did, too.

His prejudices. And preconceptions. His blinders. And blunders. And outright mistakes.

He heard a car approach. Then slow down. And stop. He heard Henri’s and Gracie’s collars clink as they raised their heads and looked.

The car idled by the side of the road.

Then silence.

Gamache did not look behind him but continued to stare off into the distance, into the wilderness.

He felt the presence first, then saw it out of the corner of his eye.

“Clare, Clare, do not despair.” Gamache spoke the words slowly, deliberately, sending them out over the peaceful village below. “Between the bridge and the water, I was there.”

Then he turned and faced the person standing beside the bench.

“And so were you.”

Clara stared at the closed door to her studio. Then went in.

Turning on the lights, she stood directly in front of her easel. Arms at her sides. Shoulders back. Almost at attention. A coward caught. Called out. And facing what was coming.

She lifted her chin in defiance and stared at her works. Daring them to do their worst.

And they did.

As she watched with growing dismay, the tiny paintings shifted before her eyes and went from something brilliant to something less than brilliant. And another shift.

My God, Clara thought. They were right.

The critics.

The gallery owners.

Dominica Oddly.

The assholes on social media. So filled with bile they were easily dismissed. One described her as a painter whose art began with an f. That juvenile comment got hundreds of retweets. Someone else said she was an artist who painted only in brown.

And she saw now that it was true.

The miniatures were shit.

It wasn’t that she’d tried to be bold and failed, it was that she hadn’t tried. Exactly as Oddly had said. She’d whipped them off without thought. Without feeling. Without caring. Fooling herself into believing that because it was a new medium, new territory for her, it was a brave experiment.

It was not.

She had betrayed the gift. Cheapened it.

Sitting down on the stool, she felt the lump forming in her throat.

When she was able to move, she took the miniatures off the easel, got out a hammer. And went to work.

Then she placed a clean canvas in front of her. And stared at it. White. White. It grew larger and larger. Huge. It was taunting her, daring her to approach.

“You’d better sit down,” said Gamache.

And Bob Cameron did.

He felt the holster on his belt push into him. As though reminding him it was there.

There’d been something in Chief Inspector Beauvoir’s tone when he’d called and invited him to the Gamache home. Not the incident room, as he’d expected. And it was put in the form of an invitation. As though he weren’t an agent to be ordered but a civilian to be invited.

He’d suspected then, but now, looking at Chief Inspector Gamache, Cameron knew. That they knew.

“Does your wife know?” Gamache asked.

“Non. How did you…?”

“The phone number. Your personal cell phone. Not your home number, not your work number. But you have another cell phone. When I looked up your file this morning, to call you, there it was. It’s a single number off the one Vivienne was calling over and over on the day she died. She was calling you. You must’ve known we’d find out.”

“Why would you? You were so focused on Carl Tracey, I thought you wouldn’t get there.”

What Cameron said was true. With, Gamache recognized, a touch of malice.

“Yes,” said Gamache. “That was a mistake. Being corrected now.” He put out his hand. “Your weapon, please.”

“You know I didn’t kill Vivienne, don’t you?”

“I know you lied. I know you were her lover. I know you were on that bridge.”

“But not that night.”

Still, Gamache’s gloved hand was held out. Steady. It would not move until Cameron’s weapon was placed in it.

“Are you afraid I’ll use it, patron?” asked Cameron.

“Give it to me,” said Gamache.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Give it to me.”

And finally Cameron reached behind him and brought out the gun. And placed it in the Chief Inspector’s hand.

“Merci.” Gamache put it in his coat pocket. “Before we get to how it ended, tell me how it began.”

Superintendent Lacoste pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.

They’d moved from the living room into the kitchen, where Homer, still in his bedroom, couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Sit down, please.”

Agent Cloutier raised her brows but did as she was told.

Her mentor stared at her for what seemed an eternity. Chief Inspector Beauvoir was also there. Looking at her. His face stern. His eyes watchful.

She knew that look.

It was the one he gave suspects. She didn’t have to wait long to have it confirmed.

“As you know, Agent Cloutier, when we investigate a murder, we look for motive. You have a motive.”

“Pardon?”

“Homer Godin.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do. You understand too well. I can see it in your eyes.”

Agent Cloutier was silent.

“Tell me about your relationship with Homer Godin,” said Lacoste.

“There is no—”

“Enough. It’s time for the truth. You clearly care for him. His wife’s been gone for five years now. He’s free. You’re free. Have you told him how you feel? Or is something, or someone, stopping you?”

But still Cloutier remained mute. Partly out of fear of saying too much. But also, now, she found herself incapable of describing feelings that had run so deep, for so long. That had been the undercurrent of her life, for so long. And with each passing day, week, year, getting stronger.

She could feel herself growing fonder and fonder of her best friend’s husband. Even while Kathy was alive. And yes, part of it was the tenderness Homer showed his infant daughter. His patience. His gentleness with her, so in contrast to Kathy’s abruptness. Her efficient care. Her rules and rigid structure for the day.

Kathy couldn’t help it. It was who she was. And Homer was who he was. And Lysette was who she was.

She never acted on her feelings, but she did visit when she could. To see Kathy. To see her goddaughter. To see him.

And then, after Kathy died, that heady mixture of guilt and excitement. Of hope and longing.

Allowing herself to imagine what life might be like. If—

And then, that first time she’d caught him looking at her with tenderness. That first small smile.

“What happened, Lysette?” Lacoste asked.

Even though she knew it was a trap, Lysette was too tired to avoid it. And she realized she wanted to talk. About Homer. About Vivienne. About what happened.

“You know how it started,” said Cameron.

“And you know you need to tell me yourself,” said Gamache.

Cameron, more used to action than talk, put up his hands in an instinctive defensive maneuver, then lowered them. He searched his vocabulary for unaccustomed words. Some way to describe feelings. Overwhelming. Unexpected. Unwanted.

From the moment she’d opened the door and he’d looked into Vivienne’s eyes, he’d been branded. The emotions painful and permanent.

Gamache looked into that broken face and felt his pain. It was, Gamache knew, a hurt that went far back. Deep into Bob Cameron’s earliest memories.

Here was a man born into chaos. Into abuse. Forged by it. Molded and shaped, literally, by it.

Some with similar upbringings grew up to be abusive themselves.

But some found the space between the bridge and the water.

Gamache had seen this man play football. Had seen his almost maniacal need to protect his quarterback. Even taking penalty after penalty to hold off those who’d hurt his teammate.

It had cost him his job.

But Bob Cameron couldn’t help it, Gamache suspected. It was ingrained, as surely as those scars and smashed bones.

The need to protect. First his mother and siblings. Then his teammates.

And now he was a Sûreté officer. Protecting the population.

And Vivienne Godin?

“How did it start?” Gamache asked again.

“The moment she opened the door that first time,” said Cameron. “She was polite. Dignified, even. She thanked me for coming but asked me not to arrest her husband. That it would only make things worse.”

He paused, to remember. It seemed so long ago. And he was getting confused now, with images of his sister’s face. His mother’s. His own, in the mirror. Damage that could never, ever be repaired.

Gamache waited, giving the man the space he needed.

“She smiled then. And her lip split open, where he’d hit her.” Cameron raised his finger to his own lip and touched it. “It bled. It caused her pain, but she still smiled. At me. I knew then.”

“What did you know?”

“That I loved her.”

“But you didn’t know her.”

“I knew enough.”

Gamache paused. And believed him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing, not then. I gave her my card and asked her to call.”

“Did she?”

“Not me. But she did call 911 again. I went out, and again she refused to let me into the house. I could see him. I could smell the booze. But there was nothing I could do. I asked her to meet me that night, after he went to bed. At the bridge.”

“You knew it?”

“From hunting. Yes. It was close to her home and private.”

Gamache said nothing. They were almost there. Almost.

“It was summer. Dark. Hot. She was there when I arrived.”

“You had sex?”

“We made love.”

But that wasn’t the end. Not yet. Not even close.

“You confronted Tracey outside the bar in town,” said Gamache. “More than once.”

“Yes.” Cameron was defiant, still far from willing to admit it was wrong.

“You told him to stop hurting his wife.”

“Yes.”

“It didn’t work, of course. As she predicted, it only made it worse,” said Gamache.

“Yes.”

“When did your affair start?”

“Last July.”

“How often did you meet?”

“Every Saturday night. At midnight. By then Tracey was drunk and passed out.”

“And your wife? Didn’t she suspect?”

“I always took the Saturday-night shift at work. No one else wanted it. It was quiet, so I could get away.”

“Last Saturday night?”

“No, no, you don’t understand. I broke it off. In the fall.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to lose my family. My job.” He paused. “Have I lost them?”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?”

“I knew you suspected—”

“You knew because I came right out and asked, and you denied it.”

“Because I knew how it would look. And I knew I hadn’t killed her. Vivienne was gone. Carl Tracey killed her. Admitting the affair would just muddy things. Hurt the investigation.”

“You mean hurt you.”

“No.”

“She was calling you.” Gamache pushed. “You’d given her your private cell-phone number. You told her only to call in an emergency. And she hadn’t called. Hadn’t needed to, until that night. She told her husband she was going to meet her lover—”

“Not me.”

“The father of her child—”

“Not me.”

Hearing the anger in Cameron’s voice, Henri got to his feet and turned to face him. A low, low growl in his chest. Little Gracie stood beside him, all eyes. Barely larger than Cameron’s boot, she tried to stare down the man who loomed over them.

“Stop lying.” Gamache dropped his hand to Henri’s head. To reassure him. “It was your number she was trying to call. The affair wasn’t over, was it?”

“It was.”

“She wanted to meet you earlier. That’s why she called.” Something about that statement gave Gamache a moment’s pause. But he had to press on. “She didn’t get through to you, because she’d written your number down wrong. One digit was off. So she showed up at the prearranged time. Midnight. And there you were. For the regular assignation.”

“No.”

“Expecting sex. Instead she told you she was pregnant and the child was yours. She might even have believed it. She told you she was leaving her husband, for you. She had her duffel bag over her shoulder. All packed. Had been for months, waiting for the right time. And this was it.”

“No.” Cameron shot to his feet.

Gamache could see the veins throbbing on Cameron’s forehead as the big man tried to control his anger.

“It was over. I wasn’t there.”

Gamache also got up. And got right into Cameron’s space. Into his face. “What did she do? Threaten to go to your wife? Your work? And when she refused to just go away, you pushed her.”

“No.”

“You pushed a pregnant woman to her death.”

“No, never!”

Cameron heaved off and gave Gamache a mighty shove. Propelling him backward.

Henri barked and crouched, prepared to lunge.

“Henri, stay!” Gamache commanded as he regained his balance.

And Henri did. As did Gracie. Just. It clearly went against their every instinct.

Because he was prepared for it, had intentionally provoked it, Gamache had staggered but managed to keep to his feet, despite the force of the blow.

Which was far more than a young woman taken by surprise could possibly have done.

“Vivienne happened,” said Lysette Cloutier.

Lacoste recognized the look in Cloutier’s eyes. It was the expression of someone who’d made up her mind to walk off a cliff. And was just about to do it.

Still, Isabelle coaxed her forward. “Go on.”

“Homer and I hadn’t been intimate yet, but it was close. We finally admitted our feelings. I wonder if you know what that’s like? To be in love with someone for years, maybe decades, and then, in your forties, to have those feelings returned. It felt like a miracle. It was a miracle. But Homer said he owed it to Vivienne to tell her, before we took it further.”

Lysette lowered her head and narrowed her eyes. Then she raised her head. High. And looked directly at Superintendent Lacoste.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“What happened?” Lacoste asked.

She noticed that Beauvoir had turned back to his laptop and was reading something. A message. But she kept her focus on the middle-aged accountant–cum–homicide agent. Cum suspect. In front of her.

“Vivienne told him to break it off.”

And there it was.

“Why?”

“Why did she do anything?” Long trapped deep inside, Cloutier’s demons finally split the sinews and came tumbling out. “Because she was weak and afraid and needy and manipulative.”

“What was she afraid of?”

“Of not being the center of Homer’s life. She’d managed to come between Homer and Kathy, and now she came between us. I should’ve seen it coming, but I thought it was specific to her mother. A teenage thing. She was all grown up now. Married. It never occurred to me she’d tell him it was her or me.”

“Is that what she said?”

“Yes.”

“And what did Homer do?”

“You know what he did. He broke it off.”

“He chose his grown married daughter over a woman he loved?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Obviously he didn’t love me enough. Didn’t love me as much.”

“As much as Vivienne?”

“As much as I loved him.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. He just said we couldn’t see each other anymore.”

“And you accepted that?”

“What could I do?”

Lacoste looked at her. They both knew what she could’ve done. Might’ve done.

“How long ago was that?”

“Almost a year ago. We haven’t seen each other since then. Until he emailed and told me Vivienne was missing.”

“Where were you on Saturday?”

“It was my day off. I was at home doing laundry. Chores.”

“Alone?”

Lysette nodded. Always alone.

“Did you go down to see Vivienne? To confront her?”

“Of course not. It was over and done with almost a year ago. Why would I do it now? What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying things grow. Fester. Time doesn’t always heal. Sometimes it makes things worse. Is that what happened to you, Lysette?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you think about it, about him, every day?”

“No.”

“Did you think about what might’ve been, if Vivienne hadn’t done that? How your life would be so different?”

“No.”

“Did you arrange to meet her? Offer her something she wanted?”

“No.”

“Money, maybe?”

“No.”

“Did she suggest the bridge?”

“No.”

“Did you push her off?”

“No!”

“Did you want her dead?”

Pause.

“Yes.”