A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(35)

It was Reine-Marie pointing out that Rosa was getting cold.

It was finally love that drew Ruth away from the river.

As the women accompanied the old poet back to her home, a car had appeared on the hill.

“Armand,” said Reine-Marie.

“He’s not alone,” said Clara.

“Is it numbnuts?” asked Ruth.

“No, Jean-Guy’s staying in Montréal,” said Reine-Marie.

She’d long since given up trying to stop Ruth from calling her son-in-law “numbnuts.” And even he’d begun answering to it.

The car stopped in front of the Gamache home, and two men and a dog got out.



* * *



Homer Godin looked around.

All he could see through the sleet and darkness was a ring of lights that seemed to hang in midair. He knew they came from homes, but those were invisible.

They’d stopped in Montréal and dropped Lysette and that superintendent woman at S?reté headquarters.

Homer had sat in the outer office, listening, while Gamache met with a fellow named Jean-Guy something.

The young fellow was obviously another cop. Senior, it seemed. Gamache’s equal? At times it seemed so. His superior? At times it seemed so. His subordinate? At times it seemed so.

They’d discussed the flooding. It was far worse than Homer had realized.

“Have they dynamited the jams on the St. Lawrence?” Gamache asked.

“Not yet.”

“What’re they waiting for?” asked Gamache.

“A decision, I guess. The Corps of Military Engineers is pushing for it, but the Deputy Premier seems afraid it’ll set off a panic.”

Gamache took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “Bon. I’m almost afraid to ask, but … the dams?”

The dams? thought Homer. What dams?

And then he realized what dams they were talking about. The huge hydroelectric dams in James Bay. He leaned his head around the doorway and asked, “Are they in trouble?”

And for one brief moment, his personal catastrophe was replaced by the collective disaster that was threatening.

“Non,” said the younger man. But Homer Godin recognized a lie when he heard it.

It was said in the same grim tone Vivienne used every time he’d asked if Tracey was hurting her.

Non.

The two continued to talk, but now in tones that suggested much more than just colleagues. These men were friends.

“Keep in touch,” said Gamache, at the door.

“You too. Good luck, patron.” Then this Jean-Guy Someone turned to Homer. “I promise, once the crisis is past, we’ll do everything we can to find your daughter. In the meantime Chief Inspector Gamache will help. He’s the best.”

Godin looked at Gamache and couldn’t help but think if he was the best, why weren’t they using him in this emergency? Why send him away?

Homer couldn’t help himself. He grabbed the younger man’s arm. “I need more. Help me, please. Help.”

“We’re doing all we can. I’m sorry.”

And now Homer Godin stood in the bleak village. In the mud. In the half rain, half snow, and while he couldn’t see much, he could hear a great deal.

He looked toward the sound. The river. That was in full flood. And he thought of his daughter. Disappearing into the night. Disappearing into the flood.

Then he looked past the lights. Somewhere in the darkness, not all that far away, was Carl Tracey.

Homer wasn’t sure how, but he’d get to him.



* * *



Lysette Cloutier poured herself another glass of wine and returned to the sofa.

She was at home now, having volunteered to help with the emergency measures but told she wasn’t needed.

She was both very annoyed and very relieved. Mostly she was very worried.

Lysette hadn’t been completely honest with Chief Inspector Gamache and Superintendent Lacoste about her relationship with Homer, such as it was. But also her relationship with Vivienne. Such as it was.

She wasn’t sure why, but it had seemed important not to tell them that she was Vivienne’s godmother. Perhaps because she was a god-awful godmother. Not having had one herself, Lysette had no idea what was expected. Except for her to take Vivienne, should anything happen to her parents, Kathy and Homer.

But beyond that?

The only other thing she could remember from the baptism was being told she needed to act as Viv’s guardian. To guard her. To keep the child safe.

“Well,” she mumbled. “Fucked that one up.”

After taking a long gulp, perhaps even a guzzle, of wine, she pulled her laptop onto her lap and logged in. Agent Cloutier had been told to find out everything she could about Carl Tracey. Might as well start.

She was prepared to have to do a fairly deep dive into government records but had decided, as a lark, to just put his name into a Google search.

She sat there, openmouthed, when up came a website.

“Can’t be.”

Clicking on it, she looked at the photo of the man. Definitely Tracey. Surrounded by his pottery.

“Shit,” she said, and clicked on more links. To exhibitions he’d had. To a buying link. To a brief bio that mentioned his wife, Vivienne, and their dog, Fred.

Like most of the stuff on the Web, it was bullshit. The life people wanted people to see. The neat front yard, not the squalor behind the front door.