A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(120)

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.