A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(19)

So now Tracey was well and truly confused.

Gamache’s manner was courteous, calm. But he intimated he was capable of something else.

“What do you want?” demanded Tracey.

“Do you know what I’d really like?”

“What?”

“Water. And to use your phone.”

“What?”

“Do you mind?” asked Gamache.

It appeared such a reasonable, though random, request that Tracey was struck dumb for a moment.

“There’s a hose over there.” He gestured to the side of the barn. “I’ll bring the phone out. Make your call, then leave.”

“Merci. I’m most grateful.”

Everyone in the farmyard was now staring at Gamache with open astonishment, including the donkeys. But human behavior often astonished them.

“Are you okay, patron?” asked Cameron when Tracey left.

He’d walked over to the Chief and scanned him for blood, concerned he might have hit his head on a rock in one of the many falls as they’d made their way, slipping and sliding, up the hill.

“How would you have had me handle this?” Gamache asked as they walked over to the hose. “Grab the pitchfork and beat him with it?”

Cameron flushed. It was, actually, exactly what he’d expected. And would have done.

Gamache gestured to the others to take the water first.

“You could’ve demanded to see Vivienne,” said Cloutier, reaching for the hose.

“I did ask.”

“Ask, yes, but couldn’t you have pushed harder?”

“To what end? Do you know what he’d have done? Run us off his property, and he’d have had every right. We have no warrant.” Gamache glanced behind him to make sure Tracey wasn’t approaching. Then he lowered his voice.

“We have to assume we’re dealing with a person capable of murdering his pregnant wife. And everything we’ve heard about him confirms he’s abusive. Violent.”

Gamache reached over and patted a donkey, taking in the barnyard as he did. He also assumed Tracey was watching them from the house.

There were a lot of places to bury a body here. Though he doubted that Carl Tracey would be stupid enough to put her on their own property.

But then, people did stupid things. Like kill each other. And Carl Tracey did not strike him as the brightest of people.

Besides, he held out some hope that Vivienne Godin was indeed alive and had fled this terrible place.

“Violence, threats, he understands,” said Gamache quietly, as though speaking to the donkey, who was now nuzzling him. Leaving a slimy trail of drool and grass on his already filthy coat. “The best way to keep Carl Tracey off balance is to be courteous. Didn’t you notice how confused he became?”

“So you want us to be nice to him?” asked Cameron.

“Exactly. We can always ratchet it up later. Steps. Degrees. And always keep something in reserve. And,” said Gamache as he took the hose once Cameron had finished. “We have to keep something else in mind.”

“That he’s a killer,” said Cloutier.

Gamache bent over and drank. He was parched, and as he gulped, it struck him as ironic, and so like nature, to provide Tracey, a rancid man, with such sweet water.

“That he might be innocent,” said Gamache, lowering the hose, washing off his muddy hands, and turning off the tap.

“Of murder, let’s hope,” said Cloutier. “But not of beating his wife. His pregnant wife.”

“True,” said Gamache. “But we’re here to investigate, not convict. Try to keep your emotions in check. A clear head, right, Agent Cloutier?”

“Oui, patron.”

“You want the phone or not,” shouted Tracey, stepping off the porch and holding the handset out. “Make the call and get off my fucking land.”

Gamache clicked it on and heard a dial tone. Finally, a phone that worked. In the background, almost unnoticed by now, was the sound of the Rivière Bella Bella, rushing toward Three Pines.

As Gamache dialed the number from memory, he watched Carl Tracey walk over to the donkeys, who nuzzled him, pushing him playfully. Tracey produced huge carrots and gave one to each.

The phone rang a few times before being answered.

“Oui, all?,” Gamache said, clearly relieved. “Yes, everything’s fine. No cell-phone coverage here, so I’ve had to borrow a phone. How are things with you?… I see.… Yes. Sandbagging. Good idea.… I will.” He looked at Tracey, who’d, at the mention of sandbagging, turned from the donkeys with a look of some alarm.

“But I do need a favor,” said Gamache. “I’m at the farm where Vivienne Godin and her husband live. Carl Tracey refuses to answer questions or let us into the house or barn. I need a search warrant immediately. T-R-A-C-E-Y.… Oui.”

Tracey’s face went slack. As though he’d been sandbagged.

“You can call back at this number,” continued Gamache. “If you don’t get an answer, send patrol cars up. They know the place. In fact, when the search warrant comes through, send them up to help search. But tell them the road is pretty much impassable.… No, everything’s fine. I’ll let you know when we have more news about Madame Godin. Au revoir.”