A Better Man

CHAPTER FORTY

“Tell him I’m following Homer,” Gamache shouted after Cloutier, as she ran to warn Beauvoir.

Then he turned back to the prints.

One set arriving.

One set returning.

Gamache followed the boot prints into the forest.

After a few steps, he paused and looked around. He knew then where Homer was heading.

No longer needing to follow the prints, Gamache moved through the woods as fast as he could, weaving between trees. Brittle branches scraped his coat, his hands, his face.

Once he had to stop as the mist grew thick and he lost his bearings. But he reoriented himself and pressed on.

It took ten minutes of slipping and slogging through mud and ankle-deep slush before he broke through to what was little more than an overgrown path.

He could hear labored breathing ahead of him, but it wasn’t until he turned the corner that he saw.

Homer. On the bridge. The mist rising from the Bella Bella almost enveloping him.

But he wasn’t alone.

Carl Tracey’s body was slung over his shoulder.

“Homer!”

Godin turned.

“Here,” shouted Cameron from the back of the house. “In the studio.”

Beauvoir hurried back there, expecting to find Tracey, either cowering behind his pots or dead. Instead he found Cameron standing by the back door.

“Godin must’ve gotten in this way,” said Cameron.

“No sign of Tracey?” said Beauvoir, pushing past Cameron. “Jesus, there’re footprints coming and going.”

“There’s blood on the floor,” said Lacoste, pointing to the stains. “Not a lot. Someone’s hurt, but doesn’t look like a fatal stabbing. There’d be lots more blood.”

“And a body,” said Beauvoir.

He stepped outside and saw what Gamache had seen. Not just two sets of prints, but one was deeper than the other.

“Homer must’ve taken Tracey with him.”

“And the Chief’s following them,” said Lacoste, pointing to another set of prints.

“Oh, God,” said Cloutier, and when they turned to her, she said, “He shouted something I didn’t hear. I should’ve stopped and asked, but I just kept running.”

Lacoste turned to Beauvoir. “He thinks we’re right behind him. He thinks he’ll get backup.”

Cameron started past Beauvoir to follow the prints, and the man, into the forest, but Beauvoir stopped him.

“Wait.”

Every fiber in his body wanted to run into the woods. He could feel the others straining to do the same thing.

But he remembered the Chief’s advice.

Think. Take a breath. Take a moment. Just a moment. To think.

So now, almost vibrating with the need to act, Jean-Guy Beauvoir thought.

“Godin’s taking Tracey to the bridge.” Turning to Lacoste, he said, “Take the car. You two go with her.” He pointed to Cameron and Cloutier.

“You?” she asked.

But Jean-Guy Beauvoir was already doing exactly what he always did. He was following Armand Gamache.

By the time Lacoste reached the car, Jean-Guy Beauvoir and the other two agents were well into the forest. Racing through the mist and trees.

“Drop him, Homer.”

Godin, twenty paces ahead, was heaving for breath.

“Put him down.” As he spoke, Gamache approached, reaching into his pocket as he walked toward the bridge. Not for the gun still resting there but for his phone. As Homer watched, Gamache stopped, pressed a button, and placed the phone on the ground, propped against a rock.

There was no reception there, he knew. It couldn’t send, but it could record.

Homer, with Tracey unconscious and slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, said nothing. Did nothing. Except stare at Gamache and gasp for breath.

Gamache approached, slowly. His hands out in front of him. He couldn’t see the knife. It was possible Homer had already used it. And dropped it.

Was Carl Tracey dead?

But Gamache, who’d seen many, many bodies, didn’t think so. There was still a pink hue to Tracey’s hands as they hung limp. And there was no trail of blood, no sopping stain on Homer’s coat, as there would be if he’d stabbed Tracey to death.

Homer backed up a step. Two. Toward the gap in the railing, mended only with yellow police tape.

And Armand knew what he planned to do. What he’d planned all along.

He would follow his daughter into the water. And take Tracey with him. Only parting ways in the afterlife. As Tracey went to hell, and Homer went…?

“Fred,” said Armand.

For a moment Homer looked confused. Then spoke. “Keep him. He’s yours.”

“No, I mean, why didn’t Vivienne take Fred with her when she left?”

He glanced behind him. Nothing.

He’d expected Beauvoir and Lacoste to be there by now.

He was running out of time, and Homer was running out of bridge. Gamache’s only hope was to distract him long enough.

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Gamache as he stepped onto the bridge. “She wouldn’t leave without her dog. I don’t understand. Do you?”

Tracey made a sound, and Homer tightened his grip on him.

If Gamache had hoped to engage Homer, break his focus, he’d failed.

Homer looked blank. But not confused. He was certain about the only thing that mattered now.

Gamache tried again. Anything to stop Homer’s slow progress toward the edge.

“There’s something else bothering me,” he said. “Tracey was at the art-supply shop Saturday morning. Why didn’t Vivienne go to you then? Why didn’t she leave earlier?”

Again, nothing. Just the vacant stare.

Tracey moved now, groggy, and again Homer tightened his grip.

Stay still, Gamache begged the rousing man. Don’t move.

“You took twenty thousand dollars out of the bank. To give to Vivienne?”

“Yes.”

Simple question. Simple answer. But at least an answer. It gave Gamache information, but, equally important, it created a tiny crack in Homer’s focus. And, maybe, time for Jean-Guy and Isabelle and the others to arrive. If he could just engage Homer.

Though Armand was far from sure that it would matter.

Homer took another step backward.

“She asked for the money?” he said.

“Yes.”

“To raise it, you had to take a mortgage out against your home.”

Homer gave one curt nod.

Gamache took another step. Farther onto the bridge.

“Did you ask Lysette Cloutier about that? About how to do it? Did she know about the money?”

“I don’t know, I might have. It doesn’t matter.”

Homer still looked dazed, but now something else had crept into his eyes. It wasn’t quite fear, but he was wary.

Now, what, thought Gamache, could a man willing to kill himself be wary of? Something to do with Cloutier?

“What is it, Homer? What do you want to tell me? What do you need to tell me?”

“I loved Vivienne.”

“I know you did.”

“I have to do this. It’s my fault. I have to make it right.”

“It’s not your fault, and this won’t make anything right, Homer. You must know that. Following one terrible act with another doesn’t balance the books.”

“All those years of hurt. All the pain.” Homer was pleading with him now, trying to get Armand to see. To understand. “All the times I should’ve stopped it but didn’t. Kathy begged me, but—”

“There was nothing you could do. You sent Vivienne money, you mortgaged your home. You tried to see her, to help—”

Annie’s father stared at Vivienne’s father. His mind racing. Trying to get a hold of something, anything, that would penetrate Homer’s resolve.

But everything he said seemed to be making it worse, if that was possible.

Homer hefted Tracey further onto his shoulder. Tightening his grip.

“You’re wrong,” said Homer. “About everything. This isn’t a terrible act. It’s the one decent thing I can do for Vivienne. To make up for all the damage. All the pain I caused her. I owe her this. You’re right. This might not … what did you call it? Balance the books? Not even close. But it’s all I have left.”

Armand heard a car door slam and saw Homer’s eyes flicker over his shoulder.

“Patron?”

The sight that met Isabelle Lacoste was chilling. But not surprising.

Vivienne’s father was about to make good on his promise. He was about to throw Vivienne’s killer off the bridge. The only question was whether he’d go over with him.

But that really wasn’t in doubt, she knew, as she looked at his face.

Beauvoir could see light through the trees. The opening. The road.

They were almost there.

He couldn’t hear anything from up ahead, for all his crashing through the branches and undergrowth.

But as soon as he broke through, he saw the Sûreté vehicles and, racing around the corner, saw immediately what was happening. He skidded to a stop.

Armand felt the heft of Cameron’s gun in his pocket and considered drawing it out. Considered using it, to wound the man. Bring him down.

But decided against it.

Homer was too close to the edge. In every way. It would propel him over.

And the threat of being shot wouldn’t make him drop Tracey. It was no threat at all to a man about to do something far worse. It might even be a kindness.

A coup de grâce. A battlefield execution. To end his agony.

Beauvoir had moved to one side of the road while Lacoste took the far side. They inched along the soft shoulder, where the forest met the road. Once or twice, Homer’s eyes flicked in his direction. The man clearly saw what Beauvoir was doing. And didn’t care.

Beauvoir’s breathing settled, but he remained taut, prepared to move fast. Though, like Lacoste and Gamache, he suspected it would not be nearly fast enough.

Gamache had an idea.

Wild. Desperate. And maybe the only thing that would stop Homer Godin from throwing Carl Tracey off the bridge.

“He didn’t kill your daughter.”

“What?”

“Tracey. He didn’t kill Vivienne.”

The words, like a soft bullet, entered Vivienne’s father. And he stopped.

Beauvoir and Lacoste glanced at each other. They were on either side of the narrow road, with Gamache between them, up ahead. On the bridge.

They knew what he was doing. And it seemed to be working.

Homer Godin was a decent man. Driven mad by grief and despair. But he had no desire to kill anyone, except the person who’d murdered his daughter.

If Gamache could convince him that Carl Tracey was innocent, at least of the murder …

“Who?” was all Homer could say. All he needed to say.

His eyes wide, fixed on Gamache.

Armand had no idea what to say. Though he knew it didn’t matter.

He just had to come up with a name. Someone. Anyone. Would do.

Anything to get Homer to drop Tracey and step away from the edge.

He was just about to say the name of the one suspect not actually on the bridge, Pauline Vachon, when from behind him, came a voice.

“I did.”

Homer shifted his gaze. And while Gamache was tempted to look behind him, he didn’t.

Didn’t have to. He knew who’d spoken.

“I’m sorry, Homer.”

Lysette Cloutier had walked to just a few paces behind Gamache. And now she stepped forward, until she was beside him.

Beauvoir moved swiftly forward until he had one foot on the bridge. His hand on the rickety railing. He was just a few paces from Homer, could almost, almost reach out and touch him.

Homer was staring so intently at Cloutier, standing in the middle of the road, that he didn’t notice Beauvoir off to the side.

Now Beauvoir stopped. Not wanting to spook the man.

“Lysette?” whispered Homer.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her words coming out on a sigh. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

“Why’re you saying this?” he asked.

“Because it’s the truth. I was her godmother. I’d promised to look after her. You’d told me about Carl, about the abuse. She needed support. Needed money. To get away. I felt awful that I hadn’t done more, done anything, to protect her. I’d promised Kathy … promised you…”

“Stay back,” Gamache whispered as Lysette took a step toward Homer.

“I’d saved up some money. I called her a week ago. Told her I’d like to give it to her. She said she needed time to get things in order but that she’d meet me here, on Saturday night. She’d sneak away after her husband was drunk and passed out.”

Homer was staring at her. He looked confused, and Gamache wondered how much he was taking in. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beauvoir almost within reach of Homer.

The mist rising from the Bella Bella was burning off in the early-morning sun.

They could see clearly now. Finally.

“I got here first. Those boot prints were mine. When she arrived, she got out of her car. She had her duffel bag over her shoulder. I was about to give her the money when she said she was pregnant. A girl. A daughter.”

Lysette looked down.

No one moved. No one breathed.

They were there now. At the end.

Lysette mumbled something, and Homer shouted, “What’s that? I can’t hear. What’re you saying?”

“She was so happy to tell me that. About the baby. I don’t know what came over me, Homer.” Lysette’s eyes and voice both rose. “I said something I shouldn’t have. I told her I hoped her daughter was kinder to her than she’d been to her mother.”

There was silence then, except for the Bella Bella rushing beneath them.

“She was standing about where you are,” said Lysette. “She got upset. Started yelling at me that I didn’t know. It just…” she searched for words. “It just all came out, of both of us. She started screaming that it was all her mother’s fault and how dare I…” She heaved and caught her breath. “And I shouted back. Defending Kathy, even though I knew, I knew Viv was right. Oh, God.”

They were frozen in place. A tableau. Waiting for the rest.

“She came at me, and I pushed her away. And…”

And.

Homer, perhaps in shock, maybe intentionally, loosened his grip on Carl Tracey.

And Tracey, coming to, flailed as he fell to the ground.

Kicking. Twisting.

Hitting Homer in the chest and sending him backward.

Gamache jumped forward, but Beauvoir got there first.

Homer’s arms pinwheeled as he stumbled. He reached behind him. Desperate for something to grab, to stop his fall.

But there was nothing there. Just air.

His eyes wide with terror, Homer Godin began to go over the edge. Beauvoir got a handful of Homer’s coat and for a moment the momentum stopped. But Homer was too far gone.

Beauvoir, still clinging to his coat, felt an almighty yank as Homer disappeared.

Dragging Jean-Guy with him.

Time seemed to stand still.

Jean-Guy felt, for a moment, as though he were hanging in midair. Neither flying nor falling.

He’d let go of Homer. The man was gone. Vivienne’s father was gone, into the river. And Jean-Guy was turned to the bridge. Reaching for it. But it was just beyond his grasp.

He was falling.

Annie. Annie. Honoré.

And then he fell.

It all happened so fast it seemed in slow motion.

Gamache leaped off after him. Following Beauvoir over the edge.

With one hand, he grasped the post. With the other, he reached out.

Reaching, reaching.

Jean-Guy’s hand was stretching out toward him. Jean-Guy’s eyes, pleading.

Then their hands touched, and gripped.

There was a yank, as Jean-Guy’s fall was stopped. But not for long, Gamache knew. His arm and shoulder had been wrenched. Slivers from the rotten wood were pushing into his palm. Making it slippery with blood. He was losing his grip, on the post. On Jean-Guy.

Jean-Guy was staring up at him. Eyes wide with terror.

Neither spoke. Neither could.

In a moment they’d both be in the river. The freezing water closing over them. Not able to breathe for the shock, the cold, the turbulence. The roiling. Turning them over and over. Their bodies hitting rocks and tree trunks.

Until all struggle left them. All breath left them. And finally all life left them, as their bodies bobbed and thumped down the Bella Bella. Past St. Thomas’s Chapel. Past Miss Jane Neal’s home. Past Clara’s. Past the old railway station.

Under the stone bridge they’d go. And come to rest at the bend in the river.

He held Jean-Guy’s frantic eyes and saw his lips move. Annie.

And Armand could see what Jean-Guy was about to do.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “You. Dare.”

But Jean-Guy did.

Knowing Armand could not hold him and keep a grip on the bridge, Jean-Guy opened his grip. Released his hand.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir let go.

But Armand did not. He closed his hand even tighter, even as he felt Jean-Guy’s fingers squeezing through his own.

All this took just moments but felt like an eternity.

Just as his hold slipped completely, Armand twisted and heaved. Throwing Jean-Guy as far as he could. Toward the shore.

The effort pulled his hand from the bridge and turned his body onto its back, so that for a moment Armand was looking up. At the sky. Into the April sunshine.

Reine-Marie. Reine-Marie.

He heard a splash as Jean-Guy hit the water.

Then his back arched and arms spread out, and he saw the river roiling below.

Armand had managed to throw Jean-Guy clear of the worst of the torrent, but still he’d splashed down in deep water. Arms flailing, trying to get his head above the bone-chilling water, he felt the current grab him, sweeping him out into the river.

Just as he was about to go under, hands gripped him. Water washing over him, retching and coughing, he felt himself pulled to shore.

He looked up, through the brilliant sunshine and cascading water, to where he’d come from.

Afraid to see a void where Armand had been.

Eyes screwed shut, Armand prepared to hit the water, then fight for his life.

But instead he was jerked to a stop.

The blood rushed to his head, mixing with the rush of the river below, until the sounds were indistinguishable. Water into blood. Blood into water.

Then he looked up, into the smashed face of Bob Cameron. The tackle. Penalized for holding, too often and too tight.

Holding on, tight.

As Armand hung there, suspended. Between the bridge and the water.