A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(34)

He brought himself under control, though his knuckles remained white.

“Besides,” he said, his voice strained, “how would she meet anyone? He barely let her off the property.”

“We have to ask,” said Gamache. “If she did have a lover, she might’ve gone to him. Or he might be the one who—”

“She didn’t.”

“Though you say you hadn’t seen her in a while. She might have—”

“She didn’t,” he all but shouted. “I know her. Look, why’re you wasting time? If something’s happened to Vivienne, we all know who did it. If you won’t make him tell, I will.”

“That wouldn’t be wise, Monsieur Godin,” said Gamache, getting to his feet.

“Really? Really?” demanded Godin, also getting up and turning to face Gamache. “And what would you call ‘wise’? Was what I did on Saturday wise? Doing nothing? Maybe it’s time to do something stupid.”

There was silence.

“Imagine your Annie was pregnant. I want you to imagine that.”

“Monsieur Godin—”

“Now imagine her missing. Them missing.”

Despite himself, Gamache felt tugged into that world. Just for an instant, he crossed the line. To where the unimaginable happened. Where monsters lived. Where Vivienne’s father now lived.

“You’re right, monsieur. You have to act now. But confronting Carl Tracey won’t get you anywhere. He won’t tell you anything, and he’ll just have you arrested. It would only make it worse.”

Now Godin almost laughed. Almost.

“It can’t get worse. And to be clear, Chief Inspector, I don’t plan on confronting him. I plan on beating him until he tells me where Vivienne is. And then I’ll beat him to death.”

Gamache regarded Godin and knew he was serious. He made a decision.

“Come with us now. I live in the area. You can stay with my wife and me. We’ll organize a search for Vivienne. You can help us. Will you do that?”

“Stay with you?” Homer asked. “Are you serious?”

It was, not surprisingly, exactly the same question Lacoste wanted to ask. Was he serious?

“Yes.”

“Give me two minutes. I’ll pack a bag.”

Homer ran from the kitchen and along the corridor, the small home practically shaking with the force of his feet.

“Was that wise?” asked Lacoste, looking down the now-empty hallway. “You’re taking him to within a few kilometers of the man he wants to kill.”

“He’d have gone there himself, probably as soon as we left. This way we have some control. I can watch over him.”

“I know him,” said Cloutier. “If he says he’ll kill Tracey, he means it. You can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day.”

“And what would you have us do, Agent Cloutier? Leave him?”

She thought and finally shook her head.

“Non,” said Gamache. “This isn’t the best solution, I agree, but it’s the only one I can think of right now. And we’re running out of time.” He looked out the window, where ice pellets were slapping against the panes. “Maybe Monsieur Godin’s right. Sometimes we have to do something stupid.”

It did not seem to Isabelle Lacoste a great addition to the S?reté motto.

Service, integrity, justice, and, occasionally, stupidity.





CHAPTER TWELVE


Clara Morrow stood in her studio, her dog, Leo, at her side. Her shoulders were drooping from exhaustion as she wondered which, if any, paintings she’d rescue, should the evacuation order come.

Would she take the miniatures? Were they worth saving? Had they earned their place on the ark? Two days ago she thought so. Now she wasn’t so sure.

And with the water rising, decisions had to be made.

They’d run out of sandbags two hours earlier. Then villagers had begun bringing pillowcases and feed bags, garbage bags. Anything that could hold sand.

And then they’d run out of sand.

And then they’d run out of light.

And then they’d run out of steam.

And still the rain kept coming. Changing to ice pellets, then freezing rain, then back to rain.

It had stopped for half an hour, giving them hope that maybe …

And then it started to snow.

But still the villagers were reluctant to leave the wall they’d built. Four bags high. Two bags thick. Running a hundred meters on either shore of the Bella Bella. From Jane Neal’s back garden, along Clara’s garden, to the bridge. Then it continued behind Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, Sarah’s Boulangerie, the bistro, and Myrna’s bookstore.

And ten meters beyond that, to the bend in the river.

It had been a herculean task. But as they finally dragged themselves back to their homes, for hot showers and dry clothes, each villager suspected that it was not enough. That the Bella Bella would rise up in the night and overwhelm Three Pines.

And there was nothing more they could do to stop it.

Ruth had stayed on the stone bridge, with Rosa. Like a droopy sentinel. Unwilling to leave her post. Staring at the river that had been her friend.

Until Clara and Myrna, Reine-Marie and Sarah the baker had coaxed her off. It wasn’t fine words that did it, or fine food, or even the bottle of fine scotch that Myrna had brought with her.