A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(129)

Gamache tried again. Anything to stop Homer’s slow progress toward the edge.

“There’s something else bothering me,” he said. “Tracey was at the art-supply shop Saturday morning. Why didn’t Vivienne go to you then? Why didn’t she leave earlier?”

Again, nothing. Just the vacant stare.

Tracey moved now, groggy, and again Homer tightened his grip.

Stay still, Gamache begged the rousing man. Don’t move.

“You took twenty thousand dollars out of the bank. To give to Vivienne?”

“Yes.”

Simple question. Simple answer. But at least an answer. It gave Gamache information, but, equally important, it created a tiny crack in Homer’s focus. And, maybe, time for Jean-Guy and Isabelle and the others to arrive. If he could just engage Homer.

Though Armand was far from sure that it would matter.

Homer took another step backward.

“She asked for the money?” he said.

“Yes.”

“To raise it, you had to take a mortgage out against your home.”

Homer gave one curt nod.

Gamache took another step. Farther onto the bridge.

“Did you ask Lysette Cloutier about that? About how to do it? Did she know about the money?”

“I don’t know, I might have. It doesn’t matter.”

Homer still looked dazed, but now something else had crept into his eyes. It wasn’t quite fear, but he was wary.

Now, what, thought Gamache, could a man willing to kill himself be wary of? Something to do with Cloutier?

“What is it, Homer? What do you want to tell me? What do you need to tell me?”

“I loved Vivienne.”

“I know you did.”

“I have to do this. It’s my fault. I have to make it right.”

“It’s not your fault, and this won’t make anything right, Homer. You must know that. Following one terrible act with another doesn’t balance the books.”

“All those years of hurt. All the pain.” Homer was pleading with him now, trying to get Armand to see. To understand. “All the times I should’ve stopped it but didn’t. Kathy begged me, but—”

“There was nothing you could do. You sent Vivienne money, you mortgaged your home. You tried to see her, to help—”

Annie’s father stared at Vivienne’s father. His mind racing. Trying to get a hold of something, anything, that would penetrate Homer’s resolve.

But everything he said seemed to be making it worse, if that was possible.

Homer hefted Tracey further onto his shoulder. Tightening his grip.

“You’re wrong,” said Homer. “About everything. This isn’t a terrible act. It’s the one decent thing I can do for Vivienne. To make up for all the damage. All the pain I caused her. I owe her this. You’re right. This might not … what did you call it? Balance the books? Not even close. But it’s all I have left.”

Armand heard a car door slam and saw Homer’s eyes flicker over his shoulder.

“Patron?”



* * *



The sight that met Isabelle Lacoste was chilling. But not surprising.

Vivienne’s father was about to make good on his promise. He was about to throw Vivienne’s killer off the bridge. The only question was whether he’d go over with him.

But that really wasn’t in doubt, she knew, as she looked at his face.



* * *



Beauvoir could see light through the trees. The opening. The road.

They were almost there.

He couldn’t hear anything from up ahead, for all his crashing through the branches and undergrowth.

But as soon as he broke through, he saw the S?reté vehicles and, racing around the corner, saw immediately what was happening. He skidded to a stop.



* * *



Armand felt the heft of Cameron’s gun in his pocket and considered drawing it out. Considered using it, to wound the man. Bring him down.

But decided against it.

Homer was too close to the edge. In every way. It would propel him over.

And the threat of being shot wouldn’t make him drop Tracey. It was no threat at all to a man about to do something far worse. It might even be a kindness.

A coup de grace. A battlefield execution. To end his agony.



* * *



Beauvoir had moved to one side of the road while Lacoste took the far side. They inched along the soft shoulder, where the forest met the road. Once or twice, Homer’s eyes flicked in his direction. The man clearly saw what Beauvoir was doing. And didn’t care.

Beauvoir’s breathing settled, but he remained taut, prepared to move fast. Though, like Lacoste and Gamache, he suspected it would not be nearly fast enough.



* * *



Gamache had an idea.

Wild. Desperate. And maybe the only thing that would stop Homer Godin from throwing Carl Tracey off the bridge.

“He didn’t kill your daughter.”

“What?”

“Tracey. He didn’t kill Vivienne.”

The words, like a soft bullet, entered Vivienne’s father. And he stopped.



* * *



Beauvoir and Lacoste glanced at each other. They were on either side of the narrow road, with Gamache between them, up ahead. On the bridge.