A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(127)

“Monsieur Godin isn’t armed, is he?” asked one of the agents.

“He has a kitchen knife,” said Gamache.

She gave a snort. An old man with a kitchen knife.

“Not much good against…” The agent placed her hand on her gun.

“You’re not to use that,” said Beauvoir. “Unless there’s absolutely no other option. Understand?”

“Oui, patron,” she said, immediately dropping her hand to her side.

“And don’t be fooled by his weapon,” said Gamache.

The agent looked unconvinced. But she was young and didn’t understand that Homer Godin wasn’t an old man with a kitchen knife. He was a father with nothing to lose.

Isabelle Lacoste studied Gamache as he scanned the terrain, his eyes narrow as he tried to penetrate the mist rising from the snow in the fields.

She’d asked him a few weeks back, over drinks at the bistro one Saturday when she and her husband and children were visiting Three Pines, why he wanted to return to the S?reté.

He was still on suspension at the time. He could easily just quit and get on with his life.

The Chief had smiled broadly. “I could ask you the same thing. You have even more reason to leave the S?reté.”

He’d glanced over her shoulder, to the door between Myrna’s bookstore and the bistro. And saw, yet again, Isabelle Lacoste crumple to the floor. Shot. Her last act had saved all their lives. She’d done it knowing full well it would cost her her own.

Fortunately, she didn’t remember it, so great was the trauma.

And Gamache could never forget, so great was the trauma.

But she’d recovered. Fought her way back, one excruciating step at a time.

Things are strongest where they’re broken. If ever there was a person who proved that, it was Isabelle Lacoste.

“Honestly?” Isabelle said. “I didn’t think I would, but then I realized I missed it. So?” she’d pressed. “Why do you want to go back? We both know you could name your job outside the S?reté. You could run for Premier and probably win.”

“Now there’s a terrifying thought,” he’d said. But she’d earned the right to a truthful answer. And so, after a pause, he gave it to her.

“It’s where I belong. We’re all handed a cup. This’s mine.”

Lacoste stared at him. Seeing the ghosts in his eyes.

The horrific decisions, the terrible orders conceived and carried out.

The consequences of leadership.

As long as Armand Gamache carried the burden, no one else had to. He was already shattered. The damage done. The cup to his lips.

On seeing the sadness in her face, he smiled. “Not to worry, Isabelle. Maybe I’m being selfish.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “After all, it’s how the light gets in.”

That conversation flashed through her mind, more as a feeling than actually verbatim, as they stood on the side of the road, the icy mist seeping into their bones.

Beauvoir started down the drive.

Lacoste turned to Gamache. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “Be careful. Tracey has knives, too.”

As Beauvoir and the others approached the house, Gamache signaled to Cameron to walk to the far side of the field and hold the position.

“And me?” asked Cloutier.

“You stay here, by the car. We’ll need you when we find Homer.”

“He won’t listen to me.”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

Gamache walked along the slushy road, in the opposite direction to Cameron, who was now barely visible through the mist.

Gamache heard Beauvoir on the other side of the house, knocking on the door.

“Tracey, it’s the S?reté. Chief Inspector Beauvoir.”

Gamache took a few steps off the road, onto the soft grass, soaked by melting snow.

There was a door back there. Closed. It led, he knew, into Tracey’s studio.

As he got closer, he saw the boot prints.

He stopped. And stood absolutely still.

He heard pounding now. Beauvoir. At the door. Trying to get a response.

But there was no one there to respond, Gamache knew. At least no one alive.

He turned and shouted to Cloutier. “Homer’s already been here and gone. Beauvoir needs to get inside and find Tracey.”

“Yessir.”

She ran down the drive, sliding slightly in the mud but keeping her footing.

“He’s here,” she shouted. “Homer’s here.”

At the door, everyone turned.

“How’d you know?” demanded Beauvoir.

“Chief Inspector Gamache told me. Said to tell you to go inside. Tracey might be—”

“Merde,” said Beauvoir, and reached for the door handle as the two agents reached for their guns.

“Holster them,” said Lacoste.

The door was locked, and solid. They threw themselves against it, just as Cameron arrived. The human battering ram.

Putting his shoulder to it, the door burst open.

As he rushed in, Beauvoir wondered, very briefly, where Gamache was.





CHAPTER FORTY


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