A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(37)

“What’re you thinking?” Reine-Marie asked.

“I’m thinking that if we need to leave, I can’t take all my paintings. So which do I choose, if any?”

“If any?”

Clara turned to look at her. “Are they crap?”

“Why would you say that?”

“You know why.”

“You haven’t let those comments get into your head, have you? Those people are ignorant—”

“It was the New York Times. And Art World. Thank God the Oddly Report hasn’t said anything.”

“The what?” asked Ruth, who’d sensed pain and had gone over to bask in and, with luck, magnify it. “The Oddly Report? What’s that?”

“The one major art journal that’s never reviewed my work. Wouldn’t you know it? It’s the biggest, the most prestigious. Most people just call it Odd.”

“And obviously the smartest,” said Ruth.

“Now I’m glad they’ve ignored me,” said Clara, snapping off the lights.

But, having reexamined the miniatures, she was both heartened and confused. They were, she felt, actually very good. Exceptional, even. Why couldn’t others see what she saw?

She joined her friends, crowded around the kitchen window, while Ruth limped into the living room and stood behind the one person not watching the Bella Bella.

Homer Godin was staring out a window in the other direction. Into the forest.

Ruth’s reflection, like an apparition, hovered in the window just over his shoulder. The rain coursed down both their faces.

“She’s out there somewhere.” Homer’s words fogged the windowpane. He didn’t turn around, but his eyes in the reflection met Ruth’s. “Please. Can you help me?”

In the background, the CBC was broadcasting continuous updates on the flooding.

Reports were coming in from all over Ontario, Québec, the Maritimes, while Vivienne’s father stared at Rosa’s mother.

She reached out and touched his arm.

Homer closed his eyes tight. “Oh, please. Help.”



* * *



Armand checked the wall of sandbags.

Floodlights had been set up on either side of the river. One pointing upriver, the other pointing down. So that the villagers could see what was happening. From where he stood, he could also see the lights in Clara’s back garden.

The rain mixed with snow was teeming down, and he hunched deeper into his coat as a gust of wind lashed water into his face.

Every half hour since getting back, he went out to check the height of the river. It was, Ruth had made clear, his assignment. The least he could do.

“You don’t think you can just swan in here and relax by the fire after we spent all day building the goddamned wall?” said Ruth.

Rosa, in her arms, bristled. She didn’t like swans.

“Clearly the S?reté doesn’t think you’re much use, or you wouldn’t be back here. And don’t get me started on what they’re saying on Twitter, the dumb-asses. Not that I disagree.”

“Ruth!” said Reine-Marie.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“All truth with malice in it,” said Armand.

“But still the truth,” said Ruth.

Reine-Marie walked Armand to the door. “That was from Moby-Dick, wasn’t it?”

Rosa turned and looked at Ruth, who whispered reassuringly, “Dick. Not duck.”

“Yes,” said Armand. “Someone quoted from the book today. Now it’s lodged in my mind.”

“Well, there’s a coincidence,” Ruth said to Clara. “You were talking about it, too.”

“What were you hearing? I was talking about my art, not a book.”

“You were talking about your critics, and the big one that got away,” said Ruth. “Your white whale.”

Armand went to put on his heavy rubber boots, then realized he’d grabbed the wrong pair. Looking around, he noticed they all had much the same boots, all bought at Monsieur Béliveau’s general store.

“Don’t let Homer out of your sight,” he said to Reine-Marie as he did up his coat. “And whatever happens, make sure he doesn’t get any car keys.”

“You don’t want him bolting,” said Reine-Marie.

He nodded. “Bolting” was one way of putting it.

As he trudged through the mud, head bent into the sleet, Armand heard splashing behind him and turned to see Olivier running toward him.

The slender man was bundled up so that he would be unrecognizable, except to someone who knew him well.

“Thought you could use some help,” said Olivier, above the roar of the water.

“To look at a river?”

“Okay, some company.” On seeing the expression on Armand’s face, Olivier amended that. “Okay, it was time to do dishes.”

Armand laughed. Knowing that in fact Olivier had come out into the frigid night to offer help. In case.

“Merci.”

At the wall, Armand put his arm out to Olivier. “Hold my hand.”

“This is so sudden,” said Olivier. “But not unexpected.”

“Silly man,” said Armand with a grunt of laughter. “Just hold on so I don’t fall in.”