A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(46)

The water churned and frothed as Godin, his arms flailing wildly, knocked them off.

He fought ferociously. Screaming now. Wailing. Baying.

Sobbing.

Gamache got an elbow in the head and was knocked backward, submerged. So cold was the water that his chest locked and he couldn’t breathe, even when arms pulled him to the surface.

It was Jean-Guy. Armand stared at him for a moment, then managed, with a great whoop, to get air back into his lungs.

Then it was back to Godin. Who, after what seemed like hours, finally tired of dragging them with him. Like some great whale, harpooned, he slowed. Slowed. Sobbing.

Then stopped. It took both of them to drag Vivienne’s father back to shore.

But Homer Godin wasn’t finished yet. Once again he tried to break free, but this time they were ready for him. And he had little fight left in him.

“Stop,” said Beauvoir softly.

And he did.

“Vivienne?”

“I’m sorry,” Armand said.

Homer looked out into the river. “Please,” he whispered. “I need to get her.”

“We will,” said Beauvoir. His teeth were chattering, and he was finding it difficult to form words.

He looked over at Gamache, whose lips were purple and trembling in the cold.

They were all on the verge of exposure. With Homer Godin also suffering from shock, it was a potentially fatal combination.

“Not you,” said Homer, his voice shaky. “Me. I have to help her. I can get to her. Let me try.”

“The water’s too cold. You’ll drown,” said Gamache through chattering teeth.

“Does it matter?”

“It matters.”

But Armand understood. He’d try, too. He’d fight, too. He’d run back into that freezing water, too. If …

Homer turned away from him, to once again face the river. And his daughter in the middle of it. Bobbing gently up and down in the current. Her body knocking against the ice.

A small sound escaped the large man.

Only then did Armand notice a figure standing farther down the path, toward the village. Even at a distance. Even in the dark. He knew who it was.

He walked toward her.

“I’m sorry,” said Reine-Marie. “I tried to stop him, but he ran out of the house so fast. He must’ve been watching from the bedroom window and seen you come here.”

Armand bent his face close to hers. “Your face. It’s bruised.”

“Is it?”

“Did he hit you?”

“Not on purpose. He didn’t know what he was doing. I reached for his arm to try to stop him—”

Armand brought one shaking finger to within a millimeter of the bruise on Reine-Marie’s cheekbone, below her eye. It was swollen, and swelling further.

Gamache could feel himself begin to tremble uncontrollably. It came in waves, sending shudders through his body.

It was, he recognized, the beginning of hypothermia. And outrage.

“My God, Armand, you’re soaked. You need to get warm.” She looked down the path and only then noticed that Jean-Guy and Homer were also dripping wet. Homer was standing on the shore of the Bella Bella, staring. She followed his eyes. “Is that…?”

“Oui.”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The water cascaded over Armand’s body as he showered. Over his head, over his upturned face. He opened his mouth and shut his eyes. And felt his body finally getting warm.

But then, unbidden, a sudden panic took him.

He was back in the water. Submerged. But this time Jean-Guy wasn’t there. No one was there, to reach down and save him.

His eyes flew open, and he dropped his head, away from the water. Reaching out, he leaned against the wet tiles of the shower.

As he breathed, he knew his momentary terror was just a tiny part of what Vivienne must have gone through.

The horror of those final moments. Breaking through the railing. Hanging in midair. Nothing between the bridge and the water to stop her fall.

And then she fell.

Hitting the freezing-cold water. The breath knocked out of her. The shock. The bitter Bella Bella closing over her. And then she breached. Breaking the surface. Mouth open, fighting for air.

The struggle to keep head, mouth, nose above the water. To take a breath. Turning, tumbling, thrashing in the current. Hitting rocks and branches.

The terror. The tumult. The desperate struggle. Growing less and less desperate as the cold and the battering began to win.

And finally the knowing.

Both hands on the tiles, his head hanging down, warm water hitting his back, Armand gasped for breath. And watched the water swirl around the drain.

Annie’s pregnant. Annie’s pregnant, he repeated, following the words to the surface. And trying not to allow the rest of that thought to seep in. But still, it was there.

And so was Vivienne.

He opened his eyes and finished his shower.

Then went downstairs, to face Vivienne’s father.



* * *



Homer and Jean-Guy were in the kitchen, in front of the woodstove, wrapped in Hudson’s Bay blankets. Mugs of strong tea in their hands.

Armand kissed Reine-Marie, softly, on her bruised cheek. “You okay?” he whispered.

The bruise wasn’t as bad as he feared, more a glancing blow. But a blow nonetheless.