A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(83)

But he couldn’t go. Couldn’t let go. Not yet.

Instead he stood there, staring. Willing the boy to see what he saw. They held each other’s eyes.

Finally Toby spoke. “I’m fucked, aren’t I? If I shoot, he’ll kill me. If you leave without the gun, you’ll be back to get it. You have to. You’ll find us and arrest us. Daph and me.”

“That’s true,” said Beauvoir.

He gave Toby a small nod. Of admiration. Acknowledging the boy’s logic. And clarity.

“So either I kill you all now. Or I give up.”

Oh, God, thought Cameron. Oh, God, here it comes.

“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “That’s about it. One you live. One you die.”

Toby seemed to make up his mind. He braced.

It was slight and too subtle for Cameron to see. But Gamache could, and he knew what it meant. Every muscle tightened, even as he realized there was nothing he could do.

Toby was about to shoot. Jean-Guy.

“You know,” said Beauvoir, his voice remaining conversational even as his knees threatened to give way. “I once faced exactly the same situation.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’d reached the end. Couldn’t go on. I didn’t care anymore.”

“Shut up.”

“I thought about killing myself. But when it came down to it, I realized that what I really wanted was for the pain to stop. I didn’t really want to die, but I didn’t know how to live. How to go on.”

There was silence then. Utter, almost suffocating silence. As the air was sucked out of the alley.

“What did you do?”

“I let go.” Beauvoir closed his eyes. “I let go.” Then he opened them again and met Toby’s. “Sometimes we just have to let go. And trust. There is a way back. Believe me.” He smiled and opened his arms wide. “And look at the great place it brought me.”

The words hung in the air of the void before the boy laughed.

Jean-Guy cocked his head. “Toby, I don’t want to die. And I don’t think you do either.”

Toby closed his eyes, and while they could have moved, no one did.

Then, eyes still shut, Toby let go of his gun.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


@S?retéCrooked: I knew it! Cops killing kids.

@dumbass: You morons. That tape’s doctored. Here’s the real one.

@CommonGround: @S?retéCrooked Can’t we all just get along?

@S?retéCrooked: @CommonGround Go fuck yourself.

“Your name?” asked Superintendent Lacoste.

“Pauline Vachon.”

“Your profession?”

“Web designer and manager.”

“Do you know this man?” Isabelle Lacoste placed a photograph on the metal table in the interview room.

Lysette Cloutier sat off to the side. Watching closely.

Pauline Vachon was younger than she appeared in the Instagram pictures.

Her hair was clean and nicely done. Makeup carefully applied. She was pretty.

Her clothes were simple, almost elegant, thought Cloutier. Black slacks and a white blouse, with a bright red silk scarf.

Lacoste was also taking in Vachon’s appearance. The makeup was cheap, clumping, and too heavily applied. The slacks were from a discount store, and the red scarf was rayon. Masquerading as silk. And hiding, Lacoste could see, a coffee stain on the white blouse.

Lysette Cloutier saw what she was meant to see. Isabelle Lacoste saw the truth.

Still, Lacoste knew that making the most of herself, on very little money, while holding together her own company at the age of twenty-one, was far from criminal. In fact, it was remarkable.

Pauline Vachon was a remarkable young woman. But she was also a nervous young woman. She clearly had not expected them to connect her to Tracey. And certainly not this quickly. And certainly not in any way that would lead her to be sitting in a S?reté interview room.

Beneath Pauline’s calm, helpful veneer, Lacoste could sense alarm. Barely suppressed. But suppressed. This was indeed a self-possessed young woman.

So why had she hooked up with the mess that was Carl Tracey? That was just one of many questions that came to mind.

Pauline sat upright in the interview room. Almost prim. And looked down at the photo on the metal table.

“Yes. He’s one of my clients. Carl Tracey.”

“And what do you do for him?”

“I set up his website and manage his social media.”

“Which platforms?”

“Instagram mostly.”

“Can you give us the address of his website and social-media accounts?”

Cloutier wrote it down, though, of course, she already knew it. Vachon did not volunteer the private account.

“Many followers?” Lacoste asked.

“Not really. I tried to tell him that you need to post a lot to get interest, but honestly, what can a potter post that could go viral? More pictures of a lump of clay on a wheel?”

Lacoste smiled. “I sympathize. Unreasonable clients. The worst.”

Pauline relaxed a little. “He’s not really that bad. He just doesn’t understand.”

“You post for him?”

She nodded.

“Why doesn’t he do it himself?” asked Lacoste.