A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(121)

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 S?reté 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 pri vate 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.