A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(75)

“You won’t have to. I was thinking of inviting Monsieur Godin to stay with us. His things are already here. And that way I can keep an eye on him. Besides, he shouldn’t be alone.”

“Is that smart?”

“Probably not,” said Gamache with a small laugh. “Is it my first choice? Non. But sometimes you have to do something stupid.”

Beauvoir laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. Sounds more like something I’d say.”

“Guess you’re rubbing off on me, patron.” Gamache smiled, then it faded. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

“He’s not your brother,” said Jean-Guy.

“Non, that’s true. And Vivienne isn’t Annie. But still, I’d want someone to do this for me, to watch over me, if…”

If Annie … If Reine-Marie …

Beauvoir considered and realized that if anything happened to Annie.… To Honoré …

Someone would have to do the same for him.

“Agreed, patron,” he said. “By the way, who were you talking to in the store room?”

“The Montreal Alouettes.”

“What did they say about Cameron? Why’d they let him go?”

“Too many penalties. He was a good player but was costing them yards.”

“Roughing?” asked Beauvoir.

“I’d have thought so, but no. Holding. Apparently it was almost a reflex of his, to grab hold of something and not let go. They couldn’t break him of it.”

As Gamache walked to the car, listening to Agent Cloutier go on excitedly about continuing to string Pauline Vachon along in hopes of getting more evidence, he felt some anxiety stir.

It wasn’t the slight sour feeling he’d had in his gut earlier. The worry they wouldn’t be able to nail Tracey. That was still there, but less and less as the evidence mounted and now threatened to bury Carl Tracey.

This was something else. A prickling at the back of his neck.

Something was wrong. A mistake had been made, or was about to be made.



* * *



“Who’s that?” asked Myrna, nodding toward a car just arriving in Three Pines as Armand’s vehicle left.

“Probably more S?reté,” said Clara. “They’ve set up in the old railway station again.”

“Huh,” said Myrna. “It’s stopped in front of your house.”

“Really?” said Clara, turning to take a closer look.

“Is that who you’ve been looking for?” Reine-Marie asked Ruth. The elderly poet had been glancing out the bistro window all morning.

Now Ruth was smiling as she, too, watched the car arrive.

“What’ve you done?” asked Myrna.

“You’ll see.” Ruth turned to Clara. “You might want to go say hello.”

A young woman was just getting out of the car.

“Why?” asked Clara, not at all liking the satisfied expression on the old woman’s face.

“All that most maddens and torments,” said Ruth. “All that stirs up the lees of things. Moby-Dick.”

“Have you stirred up the lees of things?” Myrna asked.

Ruth was so pleased with herself she was almost exploding with pleasure. It was not an attractive sight.

As they watched, the stranger knocked on Clara’s door and, getting no answer, turned to look around.

And Clara recognized her. “Oh, God, Ruth. What’ve you done?”

“Your white whale,” said Ruth, triumphant. “Thar she blows.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


@CarlTracey: I’ve put up more pictures of Carl’s work for you to see.

@NouveauGalerie: Who’s this? I thought I was communicating with Tracey.

@CarlTracey: Pauline Vachon. Carl’s partner.

@NouveauGalerie: Business or life partner?

@CarlTracey: Does it matter?

@CarlTracey: Hello?

@CarlTracey: Hello?

@CarlTracey: Both.

Gamache sat on the cot across from Homer Godin while Lysette Cloutier stood by the open door to the holding cell.

Homer looked sick. Gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his face blotched. Bright red in places, white, almost green, in others.

“We’ve come to release you,” said Gamache. “If you promise not to do anything to Carl Tracey.”

“Or yourself,” said Cloutier.

Homer continued to stare at his large hands, hanging limp between his knees.

When he finally spoke, his voice was remote. “I can’t promise.”

“Then I can’t release you,” said Gamache. He leaned forward and dropped his voice even further, so that Homer had to also lean forward. Had to make some small effort.

Which he did.

“You can do this,” Armand said softly.

“There’s only one thing I want to do.”

That sat between them. The silence stretching on. Until Homer finally broke it himself, lifting his eyes to Armand’s.

“How’m I gonna go on?”

Armand placed his hand on Homer’s. “You’ll come stay with us. We’ll keep you safe.”

“Really?”

And for a moment, a split second, Armand saw a glimmer amid the gloom. And then it was gone.