A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(56)

He clearly wanted just to be left alone.

If she couldn’t comfort him, there was one thing she could do.

Glancing around, making sure she wasn’t being watched, she went online. Found Carl Tracey’s Instagram feed. And typed.

Reviewing it, going over each word. Changing one, adjusting another. Until it was just right.

Then she hit send and tapped the pen on the desk, waiting for a reply.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


@NouveauGalerie: Hello @CarlTracey Love your ceramic pieces. Am a gallery owner looking for exciting new talent. Can we meet?

The phone woke Armand with a start. He was instantly alert and grabbed it before it could wake up Reine-Marie.

“Oui, all??”

“Sorry to disturb you,” said Beauvoir.

“Not at all,” said Armand, rubbing his hand across his face and feeling the stubble. “You have news?”

“The search warrant has come through.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the car in…” He checked the bedside clock. It was 9:40 in the morning. He’d been asleep for just over an hour, but felt refreshed. “Twenty minutes.”

Armand quickly and quietly showered and shaved, not wanting to wake up Reine-Marie, though he did check and make sure she was okay.

The bruise now spread across the left side of her face, but there was little swelling. Still, it hurt him to see it.

She roused and opened her eyes, giving a start on seeing his face so close to hers.

“Everything all right?” she mumbled, still half asleep.

“I’m just going out. You okay? That must hurt.”

He reached out but didn’t touch it. Not wanting to add to the pain he knew she must be feeling.

“Well, I now have a much better idea, mon coeur, what you’ve gone through.”

“Me? Oh, no,” he said with a smile. “Anytime a fist comes even close, I drop to the ground and play dead. Let Jean-Guy sort it out.”

“Belly up, feet and hands to the ceiling, like a bug. Yes, I’ve seen that. You also do it when Ruth enters a room.”

“I’ll get you a Tylenol,” he said, smiling, and returned a minute later with a couple of pills and a glass of water. She was sitting up in bed now, and he sat beside her.

They talked about Annie and Jean-Guy’s news. A brother or sister for Honoré. Another grandchild for them. Yet one, neither said but both knew, who would grow up a continent away.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” He did up his tie as he spoke. “I arrested Homer Godin.”

“Yes, I know. You think he killed his daughter?”

“No, but I need to keep him from Tracey. I charged him with assault. For that.”

He pointed to her face.

“But—” she began, bringing her own hand to her face.

“I know. I won’t follow through. I just needed to get him off the streets, so he won’t go after Tracey.”

“So this might’ve been a good thing.” She touched the bruise.

“Non.” He kissed her before getting up. “Jean-Guy’s waiting for me.”

“What will you do without him, Armand?”

He opened his mouth, but there was no answer.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. It’s good to talk about it. Jean-Guy reminded me it’s less than two weeks away.”

It wasn’t, of course, just losing Beauvoir as a colleague and friend, it was losing Annie and Honoré. And now the new baby. With their son, Daniel, and his wife and two daughters already in Paris, it meant they had no children or grandchildren close by.

But, for Reine-Marie, the dread went deeper. Something she’d never admitted to Armand. For many years she’d felt that as long as Jean-Guy was close by, he’d protect Armand.

They were meant to be together. Had been, in her opinion, for many lifetimes. As colleagues, as father and son. As brothers. As long as they were together, both would be safe.



* * *



Once downstairs, Armand flicked on the television to cable news and placed a call.

As Radio Canada interviewed an increasingly agitated Deputy Premier about the terrible flooding, Armand waited for the phone to be answered.

The phone rang, as the politician tried to explain that it could have been worse.

The phone rang, as the journalist tried to explain that it was pretty damn catastrophic for those towns that were underwater.

Both, Gamache knew, were right.

The graphic on the screen showed where work was under way to divert floodwaters upriver.

The phone rang. And rang. Then clicked over to voice mail.

The RCMP commissioner wasn’t answering. Or couldn’t answer.

Armand hung up. And decided that no news was good news. There was nothing he could do about it now, anyway.

He grabbed his coat and joined Beauvoir and Lacoste.



* * *



“Knock, knock,” said Myrna.

“Who’s there?” asked Clara, not looking up.

“Me.”

“Me who?”

“No, this isn’t a knock-knock joke,” Myrna said, entering the studio. “I just didn’t want to startle you. We were supposed to meet at the bistro for breakfast, weren’t we?”