A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(107)

But—

The coroner also pointed out that bruises bleed. Spread internally. Dr. Harris had left the possibility open that they, too, could have been made by a smaller woman.

“Pauline Vachon?” he asked.

Lacoste nodded.



* * *



Lysette Cloutier got to her feet when Chief Inspector Gamache entered the kitchen.

Homer and Reine-Marie sat in front of the woodstove, a pot of tea and some shortbread cookies on a tray on the hassock between them.

Fred lay on the rug at Homer’s feet, barely raising his head to look at the man who’d just come in.

Henri and Gracie had run to the door to greet him and now chased each other into the kitchen, getting between Armand’s legs, almost tripping him up. But he was used to it.

Homer stared down at his large hands, which gripped each other tightly.

Then he got up slowly and turned to Armand. There was a bandage on the left side of his head, above his temple, where he’d hit the floor of the courtroom, knocking himself out. He had a black eye and bruising into his hairline.

His face, as he faced Armand, was impassive. A mask.

He just stood. And stared. And stared.

And then, silently, he moved. Brushing past Armand.

“Homer?” said Armand.

But the man had left the warm kitchen. There was a whistle from the living room. Fred lifted his head, struggled to his feet, and followed the sound.

“Please stay here,” said Armand to the others.

Homer was on the front porch with the old dog.

It was five in the afternoon, and the shadows were long. The temperature was dropping with the sun.

Woodsmoke rose from the homes, slightly scenting the chilly early-evening air.

Armand held the door open, and, at a nod, out shot Henri, followed by Gracie, who was looking, and behaving, more and more like a chipmunk every day.

They caught up with Homer and Fred, who were walking with a measured pace along the edge of the village green. Neither in nor out of the circle.

Lights were on in homes around Three Pines, and Armand could see the glow from the old railway station across the still-swollen river and knew that Jean-Guy and Isabelle were in there, working to solve a crime that seemed to be getting away from them.

Then he turned to the grizzled man, walking through the twilight.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he fell in beside Homer, keeping slow pace with him.

But Homer didn’t reply. Just stared ahead, at the hills and forests growing darker and darker around them.

At the path into the woods, which followed the Rivière Bella Bella and went to the place where Vivienne was found, Homer stopped. It was now little more than a slightly darker opening in a dark forest.

Then he turned and looked in the opposite direction. Upriver. Where Vivienne had first gone into the water. Where she’d last been alive.

His breath came out in warm, soft puffs. Joining, mingling with Armand’s.

“What do you want from me, Armand?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true. I can see it in your eyes.” He turned to face him. “What is it? Forgiveness? You want me to say it’s okay that you messed up? That I now have to do what you couldn’t? Get justice for my little girl.”

Armand was quiet. And he thought maybe Homer was right.

He wanted to be absolved of his guilt.

Vivienne’s father was quiet for a long time, his eyes returning to the river. Before he finally spoke.

“Is it possible some things can’t be forgiven? They’re just too terrible? Abuse? Murder?” He looked at Armand. “Could you?”

“Forgive murder?” asked Armand. He thought about it. He was being asked to consider the murder not of a stranger but of his wife. His child. His grandchild. Could he forgive? Sincerely. “It would take years and a huge amount of work. And help. And still…”

“Yes?”

“I hope I’d get there—”

“But?”

“But I think it would take a better person than I am,” admitted Armand.

Homer deserved the truth. And there it was. Could he forgive? In his heart, in his soul? Armand was far from sure.

“Would it help if whoever did it was genuinely sorry?” asked Homer. He searched Armand’s eyes.

“Yeeesss, I think it would.”

Homer nodded. “I wonder if Vivienne believed it.”

“You think Tracey said he was sorry?”

Armand doubted that Tracey would ever have apologized, but maybe he had. Abusers often did. They begged forgiveness. Declared their love. They brought flowers and gifts, and through a flood of tears they promised to never, ever do it again.

And maybe they were even sincere. Until the next time.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” said Armand. “You don’t have to forgive me. But for your own sake, for your own sanity, you do need to give up this obsession with revenge.”

“Have you given up?”

“Trying to get Tracey? Non.”

“Then why should I? Does your badge give you more of a duty to Vivienne than I have, as her father?” He let that sit there for a moment before going on. “That old woman came to your house to see me this afternoon. I didn’t let her into my room. Didn’t want to see anyone. But she said something anyway, through the door.”