A Better Man

by Louise Penny

  And Annie was worried. Otherwise she’d never have called and asked him to go down.

  After he hung up, he continued to look out the window. She’d mentioned the St. Lawrence. If the Bella Bella was flooding, what was the huge river that encircled the island of Montréal doing?

  Through the skyscrapers, he could see the river was still frozen. He sighed with some relief. Now, that would be a problem.…

  But then he looked more closely, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see fissures. And long shadows. That meant columns of ice had pushed their way up and out. Great chunks were piling up, and unless something happened soon, the St. Lawrence would also flood. And worse. The force of it could crush the pylons holding the bridges in place.

  He picked up the phone. As he waited for Chief Superintendent Toussaint to answer, he thought again about Paris. Where the flowers were in bloom.

  Where his little, growing family would live. In peace.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Awful! Arrogant poseur #MorrowSucks

  Overrated. No talent. #MorrowSucks

  Just plain shit. #MorrowSucks

  Lock him up #GamacheSux

  The donkeys noticed first.

  They turned in the field and started forward. Toward the fence. One or two were braying.

  Carl Tracey came out and stood in the doorway of the barn and watched as three figures, covered in mud, trudged down the drive.

  They looked like something out of a horror film. Golems, heading his way.

  Tracey reached over and took hold of the pitchfork.

  * * *

  Gamache raised his hand in a fist, to signal them to stop.

  Cameron, familiar with the silent combat gesture, did.

  Cloutier did not.

  “Agent Cloutier.”

  When she turned, Gamache nodded forward, and she saw it then.

  Framed in the open barn door was a man straight out of some horror film.

  He was disheveled. Filthy. With a pitchfork.

  * * *

  Tracey watched them closely. The two men were large. Disheveled. Filthy. The woman was small and filthy.

  He tightened his grip on the pitchfork.

  * * *

  “Monsieur Tracey?”

  “What do you want?” he shouted. In English.

  Gamache lifted his hands, to show they held no weapon, and stepped forward. Cameron instinctively went to join him, to protect his quarterback, but once again Gamache gave him a signal.

  To stand down. But remain alert.

  The Chief Inspector took a few steps toward Tracey. There were at least fifteen paces to go before they’d be face-to-face, but already he could smell the booze.

  “We’re with the Sûreté du Québec—” Gamache began, in English.

  “Get off my land.”

  “My name is Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. This is Agent Cloutier. And this—”

  “I know who that is.” Now that they were closer, Tracey recognized the man who’d threatened him with a beating not long ago. “Get him the fuck off my land.”

  He lifted the pitchfork and pointed it toward Cameron. Making a small jabbing movement. It was a futile, almost comic gesture.

  But Gamache wasn’t smiling. Instead he put his arms out at his sides and took a few steps closer.

  Carl Tracey was in his mid-thirties. Slightly shorter, slightly lighter than Gamache. But where Gamache was solid, this man was not. As he jabbed, he jiggled.

  Still, Gamache knew it was never wise to underestimate anyone. Especially someone with a pitchfork.

  He stopped.

  “We’d like to speak with your wife, please. Vivienne Godin. Is she here?”

  “No. I already told the cops that she’s gone away.”

  “And you haven’t heard from her? She hasn’t called?”

  “No.”

  The only one who’d called him was her crazy father. Every hour, on the hour. Even through the night. Threatening him. But he wouldn’t tell them that.

  He noticed Cameron had opened his jacket. To reveal a gun on his belt.

  Shit.

  But the man standing just a few feet away, the guy in charge, displayed no weapon. In fact, he seemed to be trying to lull Tracey into some sort of trance. So deep and calm was his voice.

  When Gamache took another step toward him, Tracey also stepped forward and thrust the pitchfork at the cop. “Stop right there.”

  The sharp tines stopped within a foot of Gamache’s face. But he didn’t flinch. Instead he looked right past the points. Straight into Tracey’s eyes.

  His gaze, Tracey saw with some alarm, wasn’t angry. Wasn’t threatening. Certainly wasn’t frightened. It was thoughtful.

  Anger, rage, violence Tracey could handle. But this was just confusing. And off-putting. And a little frightening.

  Gamache, a pitchfork away from Tracey, could see the bloodshot eyes. And sense the havoc.

  “I’m going to reach into my pocket and bring out my Sûreté ID.” As he spoke, he did just that, watching the man closely. Tracey’s nostrils flared with each breath. Longing to attack. And he probably would have, Gamache knew, if it weren’t for Cameron. And his earlier threat to beat Tracey. This man obviously knew it was not an empty threat.

  While Gamache did not have a loaded gun, he did have Cameron. A biological weapon.

  Bringing out the card, he offered it to Tracey, who pushed his head forward and read.

  “It says here you’re Chief Superintendent.”

  “My new card hasn’t arrived.”

  “So you were the big boss, but not anymore?”

  Tracey was more with-it than Gamache had given him credit for. Replacing the card, Gamache shrugged and smiled.

  “I messed up. It happens.”

  He looked at Tracey now with a slightly conspiratorial gaze. Wanting Tracey to try to guess what he could possibly have done to warrant such a demotion.

  Gamache knew what a man like Tracey would naturally assume.

  It would have to be something illegal. Almost certainly brutal. If Tracey thought Cameron was threatening, just wait for it …

  So now Tracey was well and truly confused.

  Gamache’s manner was courteous, calm. But he intimated he was capable of something else.

  “What do you want?” demanded Tracey.

  “Do you know what I’d really like?”

  “What?”

  “Water. And to use your phone.”

  “What?”

  “Do you mind?” asked Gamache.

  It appeared such a reasonable, though random, request that Tracey was struck dumb for a moment.

  “There’s a hose over there.” He gestured to the side of the barn. “I’ll bring the phone out. Make your call, then leave.”

  “Merci. I’m most grateful.”

  Everyone in the farmyard was now staring at Gamache with open astonishment, including the donkeys. But human behavior often astonished them.

  “Are you okay, patron?” asked Cameron when Tracey left.

  He’d walked over to the Chief and scanned him for blood, concerned he might have hit his head on a rock in one of the many falls as they’d made their way, slipping and sliding, up the hill.

  “How would you have had me handle this?” Gamache asked as they walked over to the hose. “Grab the pitchfork and beat him with it?”

  Cameron flushed. It was, actually, exactly what he’d expected. And would have done.

  Gamache gestured to the others to take the water first.

  “You could’ve demanded to see Vivienne,” said Cloutier, reaching for the hose.

  “I did ask.”

  “Ask, yes, but couldn’t you have pushed harder?”

  “To what end? Do you know what he’d have done? Run us off his property, and he’d have had every right. We have no warrant.” Gamache glanced behind him to make sure Tracey wasn’t approaching. Then he lowered his voice.

  “We have to assume we’re dealing with a person

capable of murdering his pregnant wife. And everything we’ve heard about him confirms he’s abusive. Violent.”

  Gamache reached over and patted a donkey, taking in the barnyard as he did. He also assumed Tracey was watching them from the house.

  There were a lot of places to bury a body here. Though he doubted that Carl Tracey would be stupid enough to put her on their own property.

  But then, people did stupid things. Like kill each other. And Carl Tracey did not strike him as the brightest of people.

  Besides, he held out some hope that Vivienne Godin was indeed alive and had fled this terrible place.

  “Violence, threats, he understands,” said Gamache quietly, as though speaking to the donkey, who was now nuzzling him. Leaving a slimy trail of drool and grass on his already filthy coat. “The best way to keep Carl Tracey off balance is to be courteous. Didn’t you notice how confused he became?”

  “So you want us to be nice to him?” asked Cameron.

  “Exactly. We can always ratchet it up later. Steps. Degrees. And always keep something in reserve. And,” said Gamache as he took the hose once Cameron had finished. “We have to keep something else in mind.”

  “That he’s a killer,” said Cloutier.

  Gamache bent over and drank. He was parched, and as he gulped, it struck him as ironic, and so like nature, to provide Tracey, a rancid man, with such sweet water.

  “That he might be innocent,” said Gamache, lowering the hose, washing off his muddy hands, and turning off the tap.

  “Of murder, let’s hope,” said Cloutier. “But not of beating his wife. His pregnant wife.”

  “True,” said Gamache. “But we’re here to investigate, not convict. Try to keep your emotions in check. A clear head, right, Agent Cloutier?”

  “Oui, patron.”

  “You want the phone or not,” shouted Tracey, stepping off the porch and holding the handset out. “Make the call and get off my fucking land.”

  Gamache clicked it on and heard a dial tone. Finally, a phone that worked. In the background, almost unnoticed by now, was the sound of the Rivière Bella Bella, rushing toward Three Pines.

  As Gamache dialed the number from memory, he watched Carl Tracey walk over to the donkeys, who nuzzled him, pushing him playfully. Tracey produced huge carrots and gave one to each.

  The phone rang a few times before being answered.

  “Oui, allô,” Gamache said, clearly relieved. “Yes, everything’s fine. No cell-phone coverage here, so I’ve had to borrow a phone. How are things with you?… I see.… Yes. Sandbagging. Good idea.… I will.” He looked at Tracey, who’d, at the mention of sandbagging, turned from the donkeys with a look of some alarm.

  “But I do need a favor,” said Gamache. “I’m at the farm where Vivienne Godin and her husband live. Carl Tracey refuses to answer questions or let us into the house or barn. I need a search warrant immediately. T-R-A-C-E-Y.… Oui.”

  Tracey’s face went slack. As though he’d been sandbagged.

  “You can call back at this number,” continued Gamache. “If you don’t get an answer, send patrol cars up. They know the place. In fact, when the search warrant comes through, send them up to help search. But tell them the road is pretty much impassable.… No, everything’s fine. I’ll let you know when we have more news about Madame Godin. Au revoir.”

  * * *

  At Sûreté headquarters, Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up and quickly made out a warrant request, then put in a call to a judge.

  “Yes, Your Honor, we need it immediately. Chief Inspector Gamache is on-site and waiting. A woman is missing and perhaps murdered by her husband. I’m sending the request now.”

  He hit the send key. “Please let me know.”

  Then he hung up and looked out the window.

  The rain had begun. It was pissing April showers.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gamache handed the phone back to Tracey, with a smile. “Merci. Most helpful.”

  “What the fuck was that?”

  “You heard, Mr. Tracey. In a few minutes, that phone will ring again. It’ll be about a warrant to search your property. Best to answer it. Let’s go into your house, and while we wait for the call confirming the search warrant, you can answer some questions.”

  Tracey’s face hardened. He looked like an obstinate child.

  “Or not,” said Gamache pleasantly. “But we’re cold and wet and would appreciate your cooperation.”

  He could almost hear Cameron and Cloutier gagging at his courteous tone.

  Tracey, it seemed, had gotten the point. He gestured for them to follow.

  The mud had hardened onto their coats and pant legs and boots. They looked and felt like Québec’s version of the Terra-Cotta Warriors. The Sûreté officers took off their coats and boots, leaving them on the porch. But they couldn’t very well remove their wet and filthy slacks.

  Tracey had no such hesitation about trailing muck through his house and had kept his rubber boots on.

  It was hot in the home, almost stifling. An elderly mutt lay by the woodstove in the kitchen.

  “Beer walk soon,” said Tracey, gesturing toward the dog.

  Gamache knew what that meant, though the others did not. He looked past the gray muzzle into the tired old eyes and thought of the walk into the woods, with the rifle.

  And wondered if the same fate had befallen the dog’s mistress.

  Dishes, pots, and pans were piled into and out of the sink. The place stank of grease and rotting food. Booze and old dog and cigarettes. The smell was almost overpowering.

  Gamache took a deep breath through his nose. Wondering if, in the sweltering heat, he could pick up another scent.

  Something familiar. Something unmistakable. Something far worse.

  But he could not. It was, perhaps, masked by the other rotting odors. But he doubted it. There was really no masking that one putrid stench.

  The three Sûreté officers had joined Tracey at the Formica kitchen table. Tracey lit a cigarette while Cloutier and Cameron waited for Gamache to do something.

  But he was doing something. Armand Gamache was listening.

  For a sound, however remote, telling him that there was someone else in the home. A tapping. A muffled call.

  Anything.

  But there was only silence.

  Finally he said, “Monsieur Tracey, you say your wife isn’t here. Do you know where she is?”

  Cloutier had brought out her iPhone and was recording everything.

  “I already told you cops. All I know is when I woke up yesterday morning, she was gone. No note, no nothin’.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Tracey laughed. “She could be anywhere. On a bender. Shacked up with some guy. I’ll tell you, when she comes back—”

  He remembered, too late, who he was talking to.

  “Yes?” said Gamache. “Go on.”

  “Nothin’.”

  Armand Gamache had looked across lots of tables, at lots of murderers. He didn’t kid himself that he had, even after all these years, some sort of special talent. To spot a killer.

  He didn’t really know if he was looking at one now. But he found himself increasingly repulsed by Carl Tracey.

  “We understand from Vivienne’s father that she’s pregnant.”

  “Yeah. Who knows who knocked her up? Doubt it’s mine. And if she thinks I’m going to raise the bastard, she has another thing coming.”

  “And what would she have coming?” asked Gamache.

  Tracey smirked. “How would you feel if your wife screwed another man and got pregnant?”

  Gamache raised his chin and stared at Tracey.

  And Carl Tracey stared back across the table into those calm, focused eyes and knew that while that shot had missed, this Sûreté officer was human. And therefore vulnerable. And he’d find that chink eventually.

  “Aren’t you worried at all about her?” asked Agent Cloutier.

  Tracey took his eyes from Gamache and shifted to the woman cop. “Why should I be? Look, like I said, she’s probably just taken off, and when that guy gets tired of her, she’ll come back. I don’t even know why it’s any of your business.”

  Just then the phone rang.

  “You might as well answer it,” said Tracey. “It’s for you.”

  Gamache clicked it on, but before he could say anything, he was met with a torrent of abuse. Culminating in the man shouting, “Where’s my daughter? If you don’t tell me, I’m coming down, and I’m going to beat it out of you. You understand?”

  Everyone in the room heard the voice, and Gamache could see Tracey looking triumphant.

  See what I have to put up with? his expression said.

  “Monsieur Godin?” Gamache began.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Gamache, I’m with the Sûreté—”

  “Oh, God, has something happened? Have you found her? Oh, God—”

  “Non, monsieur. We have no news of your daughter. I’m here with Lysette Cloutier. She’s a friend of yours, I understand. Agent Cloutier asked us to investigate.”

  There was heavy breathing on the other end as Godin composed himself.

  “We’re interviewing Monsieur Tracey right now.”

  “Monsieur Tracey? Monsieur? The man’s a monster and you call him ‘monsieur’? He might’ve … he could’ve … Do you know she’s pregnant?”

  “Yes. Please, calm yourself. We’re doing all we can. I promise you, we’ll find her.”

  “You will. Alive?”

  It was said so pathetically. Not just a word but a world. Alive. Alive. And all that meant. For him. For her. For the child. A life spread out before them. With birthdays and holidays. Celebrations.

  Alive.

  “We’ll find her,” Gamache repeated, and wondered if Monsieur Godin noticed he hadn’t said “alive.” “Do you have someone with you?”

  “Non, non. Vivienne’s my only child. My wife died a few years ago. I was expecting her here, you know. She was going to leave him. I’d begged her for years to leave that son of a bitch.”

  There was a pause. Gamache heard heavy breathing, almost sobs, before Monsieur Godin was able to speak again.

  -->