A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(54)

“Pregnant?” asked Lacoste. When Jean-Guy nodded, she gave him a quick embrace. “Félicitations.”

“Merci.”

“I think you feel the same way,” said Gamache. “About Vivienne and Annie.”

“Not really.”

Gamache stared at his son-in-law, frankly and openly amazed. “I beg your pardon?”

“This is a terrible case, absolutely. But I haven’t personalized it.”

There was silence as Gamache watched him. And then spoke.

“You almost killed yourself trying to get to her body,” he pointed out. “I’ve seen you desperate to stop a murderer, but I’ve never seen you take it so personally.”

“I’m not.” Then he relented. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s hard not to. But I have my feelings well under control. Don’t worry.”

Isabelle Lacoste looked from one to the other. Both, she knew, were personalizing this. Far more than she’d ever seen. Far more than was healthy.

If they weren’t worried, she was.

“Bon,” said Gamache. “I’m happy to hand over the case. May I act as your second-in-command, patron?”

“For the first time?”

“And, with luck, the last.”

Beauvoir gave a small laugh and put out his hand. “Welcome aboard. I’ll try to go easy on you, son. Just don’t screw up.”

“You inspire me already, Chief Inspector.”

“Now, isn’t it your nap time?”

“You might want to consider grabbing some sleep yourself,” said Gamache. “Long day behind us and long day ahead.”

“Work still to be done. I need to set up an incident room.”

“I’m sure your second-in-command can do that.”

“You’re my second-in-command.”

Gamache gave a short grunt of laughter and clapped Beauvoir on the arm. “Well, good luck.”

But as he walked away, Armand’s smile faded. Replaced by a slight frown.



* * *



He called his RCMP colleague as soon as he got back home.

It rang. And rang. Finally clicking over to voice mail.

Gamache looked at his watch. The sun had been up for slightly over an hour.

The floodgates at the mighty dams had been open for slightly under an hour.

What was happening up there?

He left a message, then went upstairs, suspecting he wouldn’t be able to sleep. But the moment his head hit the cool, fresh pillow, he was out.

Reine-Marie, also exhausted, had joined him, and in their sleep they moved to the middle until their warm bodies touched.



* * *



Beauvoir and Lacoste walked past the thick wall of sandbags, pausing to consider them.

“Came close,” she said, pointing to the ones that had been pushed over by the force of the river.

Beauvoir grunted.

How close they all were, without knowing it, to disaster. All the time.

They walked over the stone bridge to the old brick train station. It had seen its share of reunions. And partings. Its share of tears. And shouts of joy.

Even he, fairly immune to fantasy, could feel that every time he entered the familiar building.

It had also seen its share of murder investigations, having been used in the past by Chief Inspector Gamache as temporary headquarters for the homicide unit.

Now Chief Inspector Beauvoir directed his team to set up shop.

Abandoned decades earlier by the railway, the building was now home to the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department, overseen by its chief, Ruth Zardo, who glared down at them from the official photo, taken when she’d been given the Governor General’s Award for poetry.

“I didn’t feel the aimed word hit,” Beauvoir said, looking up at the embittered old poet. “And go in like a soft bullet.”

I didn’t feel the smashed flesh

closing over it like water

over a thrown stone.



“What was that, patron?” asked one of the agents.

“Nothing.”

“Sounded like poetry,” she said with some alarm.

“Keep working.” Beauvoir caught Isabelle Lacoste’s eye and saw amusement there. And recognition.

My God, he thought. I’m turning into Gamache.

But while he feigned alarm, what he actually felt was a sort of contentment. That on his last case he should finally turn into his mentor.

He stood still amid the activity and let the evidence come to him. But what came to him was an image. Clear as day. Young and pregnant Vivienne Godin, breaking through the railing. Arms out. The duffel bag, her worldly possessions, falling with her.

Her blue eyes wide, as realization hit.

And then the water. Cold as ice. Closing over her.

… like water over a thrown stone.

How would I feel if it was Annie …

Armand was right, of course. He was struggling to separate the two women.

Does my twisting body spell out Grace?

I hurt, therefore I am.

Faith, Charity, and Hope

are three dead angels

falling like meteors—



“Always cheerful, eh, you old witch,” muttered Jean-Guy as he gave one last glance up at Ruth before turning to examine the sodden items at his feet.