A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(103)

“Give him the phone, please.”

There was a pause. “He won’t take it.”

“Then hold it up to his ear.”

He knew he had seconds to get through to the man. Only one word, two at most, before Homer would pull away. He had one shot. And he took it.

“Fred.”

Pause. Pause.

There was a rustling of the phone, some muffled conversation, then Cloutier’s voice. “He’ll come. But just to get the dog. He won’t stay.”

“Tell him I’m asking for one night. Just one. Then he can take Fred and go.”

There was more muffled conversation.

Come on. Come on.

Finally, Cloutier’s voice. “One night, patron.”

“Bon.”

It was something. Twenty-four hours he didn’t have before.

“I’ll be in the incident room,” said Gamache. “Let me know when you get to Three Pines.”

“D’accord, patron.”

He hung up and went back to Reine-Marie. And explained what had just happened.

“And you? Are you all right?” she asked.

How could he answer that?

“Never mind,” she said. “I know. Come home soon.”

“We’re not far. Should be there in—”

“What is it, Armand?”



* * *



In the car ahead of him, Jean-Guy had put on the brakes and swerved, taking a dirt road off to the right.

They were almost at Three Pines. But now Jean-Guy was heading away from the village. At speed. Recklessly bumping along the washboard road.

The agent guarding Tracey had just reported that instead of going straight home, as he’d been advised to do after being discharged, Tracey had headed to his local bar.

To celebrate.

“What do you want me to do, patron?” the agent asked. “Should I go in?”

“No, stay where you are. I’m coming to you.”

Jean-Guy knew he shouldn’t, but still he did. He turned the car and now was gunning it toward Carl Tracey.



* * *



Beauvoir pulled in to the parking lot of the dive bar and parked beside the very well-marked S?reté vehicle.

Normally, when doing surveillance, they wanted to be discreet.

But Beauvoir had specifically asked for a vehicle with “S?reté du Québec” clearly marked. “In neon if possible,” he’d said. “And I want the agent in uniform.”

Tracey needed to be in no doubt that he was being not just guarded but watched.

As Beauvoir walked toward the bar, his hands flexed into tight fists, then opened. Then closed again. Into weapons.

Jean-Guy knew this was a mistake. The issue wasn’t whether he was about to step into a pile of something soft and smelly. That much was obvious. The only question was, how big would it be? How deep would he go?

And could he stop himself before…?

Chief Inspector Beauvoir walked right past the agent sitting in the car and said only two words.

“Stay here.”

He heard a car pull in to the parking lot. As he reached the door to the bar, his hand on the knob, he heard the familiar voice behind him.

“Jean-Guy.”

But for one of the few times in his life, Beauvoir chose to ignore Gamache.



* * *



“Stay here,” said Chief Inspector Gamache as he strode by the agent who was beginning to get out of the car.

She stayed.



* * *



Beauvoir stepped into the bar.

It was dark. Smelled of stale cigarettes and fresh urine and flat beer.

A television was on, showing an Andy Griffith rerun. Opie had questions for his father. Again. But the answers were drowned out by the burst of laughter from a group of grubby men at the bar.

Four of them, Beauvoir saw immediately. No, five.

Two bottles of rye on the bar. Beer bottles clasped in hands, the men turned and squinted into the unexpected and unwanted light through the open door before it swung shut.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of them demanded.

Beauvoir didn’t answer. He just stood there. Staring.

At Carl Tracey.

“Wait a minute,” said Tracey. “A little respect, please. This’s Chief Inspector Beauvoir. The guy who arrested me. Come to apologize?”

That brought more laughter.

Beauvoir did not react. Did not speak. Did not move.

Tracey lifted his beer. “Come on in. Jean-Guy, isn’t it? Now that it’s over, we can be friends. No hard feelings. Beer?”

He held the drink out toward Beauvoir, who could smell the musky, familiar aroma.



* * *



Gamache had stopped at the door. Through the dirt-smeared window, he was just able to make out the occupants of the bar.

Every cell in his body was straining forward. Demanding that he go in. To rescue Jean-Guy, from himself.

He was pretty sure, judging by the look on Beauvoir’s face, that the head of homicide for the S?reté du Québec was about to beat the crap out of Carl Tracey.

Maybe worse. Maybe he wouldn’t stop at the crap.

But still, Gamache stopped himself. And he wondered why.

Then the thought appeared. Was it possible he wanted Beauvoir to do it?