A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(93)

“If only.”

Gamache glanced at Beauvoir but said nothing.



* * *



They stood as the judge took her seat.

The prosecutor, with Chief Inspector Beauvoir beside him, was on one side of the courtroom. Tracey and his lawyer on the other.

Gamache and Agent Cloutier sat immediately behind the prosecution desk, with Homer Godin between them. Behind them sat Simone Fleury with at least twenty other women.

Young. Middle-aged. Elderly. Stony-faced.

Valkyries. Warrior Fates. Magnificent and terrifying.

Gamache caught Madame Fleury’s eye. She nodded.

The seats behind Tracey were empty.

Barry Zalmanowitz, a prosecutor they knew well, had been given the case. He was feeling confident enough to kid Gamache when the S?reté officers showed up at his office.

“I see you’re trending, Armand. Of course, I knew the video was faked. You’re not that good a shot.”

He smiled. Obviously trying, with a spectacular lack of success, to lighten the mood.

Seeing the grim look on Chief Inspector Gamache’s face and the anger on Beauvoir’s, the prosecutor dropped his voice and added, “I also saw the real thing. I can’t believe it was posted again. I’m sorry. I hope they find out who did that. Someone calling themselves ‘dumbass.’”

“We have an idea,” said Beauvoir.

He’d stayed away from Three Pines, not wanting to see Ruth. Not wanting to say things that could never be taken back. He knew that the elderly woman actually meant well. But in true Ruth fashion, she’d managed to inflict a wound.

And this one went deep.

Before the proceedings started, Beauvoir had pulled Vivienne’s father aside and said, “This won’t take long. The judge will ask Tracey how he pleads—”

“What will he say?”

“We think his plea will be not guilty.”

Beauvoir waited for the outburst, but there was none. Monsieur Godin, in the past twelve hours, had managed to harness his emotions. Though Beauvoir could see it was a struggle.

Gamache had prepared the man the night before, as much as possible, for what would happen.

Carl Tracey would be led in. He’d sit at a distance from them, but Godin would certainly see him.

“Will you be able to control yourself?” Gamache had asked.

“I think so.”

Gamache had paused before speaking again. “If you don’t think you can, then you shouldn’t go. If there’s an outburst, you’ll be thrown out, or even arrested. You’ll do yourself and the case no favors.”

Homer had glanced into the fire, mesmerized by the liquid flames. It was just the two of them now, and Fred the dog.

They’d had dinner in the kitchen with Reine-Marie and Lysette Cloutier. It was a simple meal of lentil soup and thick-cut fresh bread, warm from the oven, and cheese.

Homer managed a few spoonsful and finished off one piece of bread, with melted butter.

Now they sat alone in the restful room, with coffee and a plate of untouched chocolate chip cookies. Reine-Marie had gone to bed. Henri and Gracie trailing along behind her. Agent Cloutier had driven back to Montréal.

“I’ll control myself,” said Homer.

Gamache studied the man. And nodded. He wasn’t completely convinced Godin would do it, or that it was even possible. But he also knew there was no way to prevent Vivienne’s father from being there when Carl Tracey was arraigned for Vivienne’s murder.

Homer had to face his daughter’s killer.

They talked into the night. About Vivienne. About her mother. About everything except what had happened.

Finally, at just after two in the morning, Godin fell silent. After a few minutes, he got up.

“I think I’m ready for bed.” He looked at Armand. “I’ve never had a brother. Not even a close man friend. Know a lotta guys, but we never really talk. Now I wonder why not.” He paused and gathered himself before speaking again. “This has helped.”

“I’m glad.”

Gamache slept lightly, listening for the sound of restless footsteps. But finally Homer had to be woken from a deep sleep at six thirty.

“There’s coffee and breakfast, if you’d like,” Armand had said after poking his head in the door and seeing a groggy Homer. “Then we need to drive in.”

And now they sat in the courtroom. The early April, late-morning sun struggling through the grimy windows.

Homer ran his hands, shaking a little, through his short gray hair and then jerked when there was a sound off to their left. A door opening.

He reached out and grabbed Armand’s arm as a passenger on a suddenly doomed aircraft would reach for the person in the next seat.

Gamache turned with him, as did everyone else, and watched as Carl Tracey, in handcuffs, was led in.

Homer rose to his feet and stood stock-still, face immobile, hands clenched at his sides. Eyes fastened on his former son-in-law. Willing Tracey, daring him, to look in his direction.

But Tracey did not.

Homer stared, in a pose so contained, so dignified, so stoic it both amazed Gamache and bruised his heart.

Armand had also gotten to his feet, to stand with Homer. And now the others joined them, as the bailiff announced, “Silence. All rise, please. The Superior Court is now in session, the Honorable Caroline Pelletier presiding.”