A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(48)

“Give her time.”

“Have you been following the social-media posts? About you?”

“A bit.”

“Where do you think some of that information’s coming from?”

“Are you kidding?” said Gamache. “You think Madeleine Toussaint is leaking it?”

There was silence.

“You’re wrong,” said Gamache.

“How can you be loyal to her, Armand, when it’s so clearly not mutual?”

“Does it have to be mutual? She’s a decent person, who stepped up. She’s earned my loyalty. And she’ll grow into a great leader. I know that. Otherwise I’d never have suggested her for Chief Superintendent.”

“There was no one left,” said the Mountie, his exasperation growing. “Everyone else was either wounded or tainted by your actions. Even if you hadn’t recommended her, Toussaint was the only one standing. Look”—there was a heaved sigh down the line—“I hope I’m wrong. Just be careful. You’ve gotta know, once she gets wind of what we’re doing, she’ll blame you, even if we’re successful.”

“God willing we are. That’s all that matters.”

“Inshallah.”

“B’ezrat HaShem,” said Gamache. “We’ll worry about the rest later. Good luck. Let me know.”

“I will, my friend. Anything I can do?”

Armand looked toward the kitchen. “Do you have any divers you can spare?”

“Huh?”



* * *



As the RCMP divers reached the body, Beauvoir heard a sharp intake of breath and prepared to grab hold of Vivienne’s father, if necessary.

But it wasn’t.

Homer Godin stood on the shore. Face rigid. Body at attention.

Only when the team turned Vivienne over did he move. But not forward, as they expected and were prepared for.

Vivienne’s father sank, slowly, slowly to his knees. Then slowly, slowly he folded over. His head in the muck. His hands clutching the ground. The big man curled himself around his heart.



* * *



As Vivienne Godin approached the shore, her father lifted his head, sensing more than seeing her close by. Then he raised his body. Sitting back on his heels. And, with the help of Gamache and Beauvoir, he struggled to his feet.

They kept their hands under Homer’s arms. Supporting him. Holding him upright.

Homer was swaying, openmouthed. Eyes glazed. As Vivienne was lifted onto a stretcher.

Dr. Harris bent over the body. Glancing at Gamache and Beauvoir, she shook her head. Confirming what was painfully obvious.

“I need to see her,” said her father.

Dr. Harris whispered to Gamache. “It isn’t good. She’s been in the water at least two days.”

“We need an identification,” said Beauvoir.

Lysette Cloutier, who’d just arrived, said, “I’ll do it.”

“Me,” said Vivienne’s father. “Me.”

“I’ll take you over,” said Armand quietly. “But you must promise not to touch her. If we’re going to get enough evidence to convict, no one but the investigators must touch Vivienne. Do you understand?”

Homer’s heavy head bobbed up and down.

“Are you ready?” Armand asked.

He nodded again.

They escorted Vivienne’s father to Vivienne’s body.

He stared down at her. With the eyes of a man who’d reached the end of a long tunnel and realized there was no light there.

He gave one curt nod. And mouthed, “That’s Vivienne.” Then, with more effort, he said it out loud. “That’s Vivienne.”

He brought his hand up to his face, covering his mouth, in a grotesque imitation of Reine-Marie’s joy just hours earlier.

Gamache looked down at the body.

Her blue eyes were open, not in fear but in that surprise they often saw in those suddenly, prematurely meeting Death. He wondered if Death had been just as surprised.

Gamache swiftly, expertly took in the condition of her body before meeting Beauvoir’s eyes. And nodding.

“Come away.” He spoke softly to Homer. “We’ll let the officers do their job.”

“No,” said Homer. “I need to stay. With her. Until … Please. I won’t make trouble. I promise.”

He motioned toward a tree stump, and Gamache nodded. “Of course.” Then turned to Cloutier. “Stay with him, please.”

Gamache noticed then a uniformed agent walking down the path toward them.

“What’re you doing here?” Gamache asked. “You’re supposed to be guarding Carl Tracey.”

“I was relieved.”

“By whom?”

“Agent Cameron.”

“He’s there with Tracey? Alone?”

“Well, there’re others. The owners of the bistro—”

“Come with me.”



* * *



Through the windows of the bistro, Gamache could see Bob Cameron. He was standing within feet of Carl Tracey, who was crammed into a corner. His chair overturned at his feet.

Cameron held something in his right hand. Something black.

His gun?