A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(16)

But Rosa just turned back and nestled into the crook of Ruth’s arm. And went to sleep.

Unaware of, or unconcerned about, the rising waters.

But then, thought Clara, as they entered the bistro, ducks could fly. And people could not.



* * *



Their tires spun in the thick mud, and the car slewed sideways on the hill.

The spring thaw had once again brought hope and muck. It was a beautiful filthy season.

“Stop, stop,” said Gamache. “Arrêt,” he commanded when Cloutier gunned it one more time. And the car slipped a few more feet sideways, toward the gully.

Up ahead, Cameron’s patrol car was sliding backward. Toward them.

“Back up,” said Gamache. “Slowly.”

He kept his voice calm and level, even as he watched Cameron’s vehicle gather speed on the steep slope.

“What you want to do,” he said, “is—”

“I know, I know.”

As he watched, she put the car in reverse and touched the gas. Nursing it backward. Gamache braced, watching Cameron’s car coming at them even as Cloutier applied gas and theirs sped up.

There was a small thud as the S?reté vehicles met. Cloutier expertly nursed the brakes as both slowed down and came to a halt on the shoulder.

She’d executed the maneuver perfectly. Gamache doubted he could have done nearly as well.

“Formidable,” he said, and saw her smile.

“Please don’t ask me to do that again.”

He laughed. “Believe me, Agent Cloutier, if that ever needs to be done again, you’re the one I’ll call.”

Cameron had gotten out and was sliding toward them, gripping the cars as he went. Finally stopping at Gamache’s window.

“That was impressive. Merci.” Bending in, he looked at Gamache. “What now?”

“Now”—Gamache grabbed his hat and gloves—“we walk.”

Cloutier looked up the hill. “It’s at least half a kilometer to their place.”

“Then we’d better get going,” said Gamache, already out of the car and looking around.

The plump April snowflakes had stopped, and the air was cool and fresh. He took a deep breath and smelled sweet pine needles and musky leaves and mud.

And heard—

“What’s that?” asked Cloutier, cocking her head.

“A river,” said Cameron. “It must’ve broken up. The spring runoff’s started.”

Gamache turned toward the sound coming from deep in the woods.

While the river could not be seen, it could be heard. The waters rushing down the side of the mountain. It was a sound as familiar to those in the Québec countryside as sirens were in the city.

When he’d left Three Pines early that morning to get into Montréal, all had been silent. Except for the gentle tap-tap-tapping as the huge flakes landed on the trees and homes and vehicles.

But something had broken, something had woken, in the meantime. Something not at all gentle.

He took another deep breath, but with less pleasure.

All sorts of things woke up in the spring. With the warmer weather. Bears. Chipmunks. Skunks and racoons. And rivers.

They came to life.

There were few things more powerful, or destructive, or terrifying, than a hungry bear or a river in full flood.

Gamache knew exactly where the river was heading. While he’d never been along this road before, he knew the area. They weren’t all that far from his own village.

Which meant the roar they heard was the Rivière Bella Bella, heading straight into Three Pines.

He took out his phone to call Reine-Marie, to warn her and find out how things were, but Cameron was right. There was no signal.

He clicked the phone off, put it back in his pocket, and turned to look up the muddy road.

“Come on,” he said, and started the climb.



* * *



“The lottery ticket,” said Isabelle Lacoste, looking over the file at Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

“What?”

Lacoste was between meetings. She’d dropped by to chat, and instead he’d put her to work, tossing her files and saying, “Take a look at these and tell me what you think.”

The two sat in companionable silence, reading about sometimes gruesome, sometimes straightforward, always tragic murders. Every now and then, Superintendent Lacoste had asked a question. Or made a note. Or a comment.

“In the Anderson case,” she said. “The victim was found with a lottery ticket in her pocket.”

“Oui. A group of co-workers were in a pool.”

“Which she organized.”

“Yes.” He leaned over so he could read the file she was holding. “But it was a losing ticket.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Then what does?”

“Everyone in her section was in the lottery pool, right? Ten people?”

“Yes.”

“But it says here there’re eleven in that division. One was left out. Which one?”

Beauvoir sat back and thought. It seemed a tiny detail, but that was the thing about murders. And murderers. They hid in the details. The small things easily overlooked.

“You think whoever was left out killed her for the lottery ticket? But why not take it?”