A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(18)
He picked up the phone. As he waited for Chief Superintendent Toussaint to answer, he thought again about Paris. Where the flowers were in bloom.
Where his little, growing family would live. In peace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Awful! Arrogant poseur #MorrowSucks
Overrated. No talent. #MorrowSucks
Just plain shit. #MorrowSucks
Lock him up #GamacheSux
The donkeys noticed first.
They turned in the field and started forward. Toward the fence. One or two were braying.
Carl Tracey came out and stood in the doorway of the barn and watched as three figures, covered in mud, trudged down the drive.
They looked like something out of a horror film. Golems, heading his way.
Tracey reached over and took hold of the pitchfork.
* * *
Gamache raised his hand in a fist, to signal them to stop.
Cameron, familiar with the silent combat gesture, did.
Cloutier did not.
“Agent Cloutier.”
When she turned, Gamache nodded forward, and she saw it then.
Framed in the open barn door was a man straight out of some horror film.
He was disheveled. Filthy. With a pitchfork.
* * *
Tracey watched them closely. The two men were large. Disheveled. Filthy. The woman was small and filthy.
He tightened his grip on the pitchfork.
* * *
“Monsieur Tracey?”
“What do you want?” he shouted. In English.
Gamache lifted his hands, to show they held no weapon, and stepped forward. Cameron instinctively went to join him, to protect his quarterback, but once again Gamache gave him a signal.
To stand down. But remain alert.
The Chief Inspector took a few steps toward Tracey. There were at least fifteen paces to go before they’d be face-to-face, but already he could smell the booze.
“We’re with the S?reté du Québec—” Gamache began, in English.
“Get off my land.”
“My name is Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. This is Agent Cloutier. And this—”
“I know who that is.” Now that they were closer, Tracey recognized the man who’d threatened him with a beating not long ago. “Get him the fuck off my land.”
He lifted the pitchfork and pointed it toward Cameron. Making a small jabbing movement. It was a futile, almost comic gesture.
But Gamache wasn’t smiling. Instead he put his arms out at his sides and took a few steps closer.
Carl Tracey was in his mid-thirties. Slightly shorter, slightly lighter than Gamache. But where Gamache was solid, this man was not. As he jabbed, he jiggled.
Still, Gamache knew it was never wise to underestimate anyone. Especially someone with a pitchfork.
He stopped.
“We’d like to speak with your wife, please. Vivienne Godin. Is she here?”
“No. I already told the cops that she’s gone away.”
“And you haven’t heard from her? She hasn’t called?”
“No.”
The only one who’d called him was her crazy father. Every hour, on the hour. Even through the night. Threatening him. But he wouldn’t tell them that.
He noticed Cameron had opened his jacket. To reveal a gun on his belt.
Shit.
But the man standing just a few feet away, the guy in charge, displayed no weapon. In fact, he seemed to be trying to lull Tracey into some sort of trance. So deep and calm was his voice.
When Gamache took another step toward him, Tracey also stepped forward and thrust the pitchfork at the cop. “Stop right there.”
The sharp tines stopped within a foot of Gamache’s face. But he didn’t flinch. Instead he looked right past the points. Straight into Tracey’s eyes.
His gaze, Tracey saw with some alarm, wasn’t angry. Wasn’t threatening. Certainly wasn’t frightened. It was thoughtful.
Anger, rage, violence Tracey could handle. But this was just confusing. And off-putting. And a little frightening.
Gamache, a pitchfork away from Tracey, could see the bloodshot eyes. And sense the havoc.
“I’m going to reach into my pocket and bring out my S?reté ID.” As he spoke, he did just that, watching the man closely. Tracey’s nostrils flared with each breath. Longing to attack. And he probably would have, Gamache knew, if it weren’t for Cameron. And his earlier threat to beat Tracey. This man obviously knew it was not an empty threat.
While Gamache did not have a loaded gun, he did have Cameron. A biological weapon.
Bringing out the card, he offered it to Tracey, who pushed his head forward and read.
“It says here you’re Chief Superintendent.”
“My new card hasn’t arrived.”
“So you were the big boss, but not anymore?”
Tracey was more with-it than Gamache had given him credit for. Replacing the card, Gamache shrugged and smiled.
“I messed up. It happens.”
He looked at Tracey now with a slightly conspiratorial gaze. Wanting Tracey to try to guess what he could possibly have done to warrant such a demotion.
Gamache knew what a man like Tracey would naturally assume.
It would have to be something illegal. Almost certainly brutal. If Tracey thought Cameron was threatening, just wait for it …