A Better Man

by Louise Penny

  His voice wasn’t just urgent, it was tinged with panic and some petulance. A child who suspects he won’t be getting what he wants.

  Silence met his pleas.

  Gamache had put on his reading glasses and now glanced over at the chief meteorologist. He’d had many meetings with her, in this very room. Leaning over ordnance maps.

  But never had he heard the dry, precise, careful scientist use that word.

  Catastrophic.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s our worst fear realized,” said the meteorologist, her voice weak with exhaustion. Her shoulders sagged. “What wakes any forecaster in the small hours. All that most maddens and torments.”

  “What’re you talking about?” demanded the politician. “Was that some quote? Have you lost your mind?”

  Gamache recognized the quote, though he couldn’t quite place where it was from.

  “Maybe,” said the meteorologist, rubbing her face. “I’ve been up for two days solid running simulations. I do feel as though my brain is caked.”

  “You wanted to say something, Chief Inspector?” Once again Toussaint emphasized his rank.

  He’d removed his glasses and was looking at her intently.

  But she’d also been watching him. From the moment he arrived, she’d been waiting for Gamache to take over.

  But instead he’d held off. Deferring to her.

  It appeared respectful, but now she wondered if he had another reason. Did he see, even before she did, that whoever was in charge would be blamed?

  Madeleine Toussaint was beginning to appreciate her mistake. And the near-impossible position she found herself in. If she took charge, she’d be blamed if her ideas failed. If she let Gamache take over, all her authority would disappear.

  She’d invited him to the meeting partly for his expertise, but she’d also seen her chance to make a point in front of the other senior officials.

  There was a new sheriff in town. The old one was weakened, diminished. Demoted.

  She hadn’t counted on the fact that the others in the room would naturally turn to him. Out of habit, perhaps. Or because he still commanded their respect.

  Except for the Deputy Premier, of course. Who despised the man.

  Nor had she counted on the fact Gamache would voluntarily hand the lead to her. In an act of apparent humility.

  Toussaint hadn’t seen her former boss in months, but now, seeing him again, she felt some shame at doing this to him. But mostly she felt annoyance. That he didn’t seem to notice he’d been diminished.

  Gamache tapped the map with his glasses, then looked at her. “We might have less time than you think.”

  He told them about the ice and the Champlain Bridge.

  “How do you know about it?” Toussaint asked.

  “Because I looked.”

  “How?”

  “I got out of the car just now and looked.”

  “Over the edge?” she asked. “You stood on the bridge and looked over?”

  While Gamache’s fear of heights was not generally known, those who served with him longest knew, or at least suspected, he had that phobia.

  “I did.”

  “That means the bridges will have to be closed soon,” she said to him. “And roads, I expect.”

  Gamache gave the tiniest of nods. Of agreement. And Toussaint felt both gratified and annoyed at herself, for wanting, needing, his approval.

  “Demolition teams are on their way to the major trouble spots,” said the head of the Corps of Engineers for the Armed Forces. “Including the Hydro dams, of course. We’ll blow the ice jams, if necessary.”

  “Good. Thank you, Colonel,” said Toussaint, regaining control.

  “Wait a minute,” said the Deputy Premier. “You’re suggesting setting off explosions all over the province? Can you imagine the panic?”

  “I’d rather be panicked than drowned,” said the military officer.

  “But can’t we do anything else?” asked the politician.

  “Like stop the rain, sir?” asked the chief meteorologist. “I’ve tried. Doesn’t work.”

  “I have a thought.” Gamache turned to the Hydro rep. “You talked about the floodgates. Can we do the same thing farther south?”

  “There are no dams farther south. No gates to open.”

  “I know, but we can dig runoffs, can’t we? It comes to the same thing.”

  He looked around for support.

  “I can’t see that working,” said Toussaint.

  “Why not?” Gamache asked, apparently genuinely interested. “What’re you thinking?”

  “I think it would take far too much equipment to do anything effective,” she said. “We’d have to divert some from the dams, and that’s just too dangerous. It would leave them vulnerable.”

  “That’s a good point,” said Gamache, returning to stare at the map.

  “Still,” said the RCMP officer. “If we could, it would relieve some of the smaller rivers. We could divert the water before it gets to the big rivers.”

  “Chief Superintendent Toussaint is right,” said the head of the Corps of Engineers. “It would take a huge amount of equipment and personnel, and we just don’t have the resources for that. The crisis is moving quickly and is widespread. Emergencies have just been declared in Ontario and the Maritime provinces. We’re deploying across the east.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the politician. “Are you saying that not only are you not giving us more people and equipment, you’re actually taking some away?”

  “I was going to tell you,” said the colonel.

  “When? When we’re treading water?”

  “The Van Doos will be assigned to help, but that’s all,” said the colonel, refusing to be provoked. “We need the other regiments for other areas.”

  Gamache straightened up. The Royal 22e Régiment of the Canadian Armed Forces was based just outside Québec City. A storied regiment, affectionately nicknamed the Van Doos, they’d be, Gamache knew, a formidable help in any emergency and had already been deployed.

  But they would not be enough. Not nearly.

  He, along with everyone else in the room, looked with some dismay at the senior armed forces engineer, who dropped her eyes before meeting their stares again.

  “Désolée.”

  As were they.

  “But if you redirect most of the resources we do have, it could be done,” pressed the RCMP officer.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said the Deputy Premier.

  “You don’t like the idea of setting off explosions, you don’t like redirecting resources,” said the Mountie. “You demand action, then refuse to actually act.”

  Toussaint turned to Gamache, seeing her chance. “What do you suggest?”

  Two people could play at humility, and this would put him not in the driver’s seat but in the hot seat.

  “It’s a risk,” agreed Gamache. “But one I think we need to take.”

  “Just to be clear,” said the Hydro rep. “Are you suggesting removing the equipment and teams from the dams?”

  “Yes,” said Gamache, nodding slowly. He turned to the chief meteorologist. “You said it yourself. The thaw hasn’t hit there yet. Might not. Why keep precious resources there when they’re needed down south, where the crisis isn’t just imminent, it’s upon us.”

  “Because if the dams go, we’re blown back into the Stone Age,” said Toussaint. “If there’s a flash thaw, like there has been down south, we’re screwed. We won’t be able to get the workers and equipment back up there fast enough. If even one of those dams breaks…”

  She didn’t need to say more. They all finished her thought.

  Hundreds of millions of tons of water would be released, shooting straight down the province. Gathering ice and debris. Trees. Houses, cars, bridges. Animals. People.

  Until much of Québec was smeared across Vermont.

  “So we have a choice,” said the colonel. “Keep th

e dams safe and guarantee terrible flooding down south. Or risk the dams.”

  “Like you say,” said the RCMP officer. “One’s a risk, the other’s a certainty.”

  “To put it another way,” said the colonel. “One’s catastrophic, the other’s Armageddon.”

  It sounded melodramatic, but anyone who’d witnessed a tidal wave, a tsunami, would know it was no exaggeration.

  The Deputy Premier moaned.

  “Bet you’re glad you’re not sitting in my seat now,” Toussaint said to Gamache.

  He smiled. “I’m glad you’re in this office, yes. We all are.”

  She doubted that was true. “Any more advice, Armand?”

  He thought, looking at the map. “I think you should open the sluice gates at the dams now. As a precaution—”

  “But we’d lose power,” said the Hydro rep, and the politician moaned again.

  “Non. You’d lose money. But we both know you have plenty of power in reserve you could use.” Gamache stared at the executive. “We won’t be shivering in the cold and dark just yet.”

  That had been a threat, by Hydro, by politicians, for decades, justifying all sorts of draconian measures by the massive utility.

  There was a long silence before the Hydro exec gave a curt nod. The politician just glared at Gamache. The old lie exposed.

  “You keep one team at the most vulnerable dam,” said Gamache. “In case opening the gates isn’t enough. Then redirect all possible resources to digging those runoffs, the spillways along the tributaries.”

  “Merci,” Toussaint said, in an attempt to interrupt. To stop this torrent of advice.

  “There’re clearly key spots,” the colonel from the Corps of Engineers said, taking up the suggestion and pointing to several rivers. “We can choose a dozen of the most significant tributaries. Maybe here … and here.”

  “Oui,” said Gamache, familiar with the terrain. “We don’t have to divert all of them.” He looked up from the map and held Toussaint’s eyes. “And we could get local farmers to help. Use their equipment to dig—”

  “We?” she asked, and once again the room grew still. Except for the smile that was spreading across the politician’s face.

  “You,” said Armand, straightening up and removing his reading glasses. “This’s your operation, Chief Superintendent. You asked for my help and advice. I’m simply giving it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “A battle might be won on a single front,” he pressed on. “But a war is won on many. You’re concentrating your forces on the most urgent need. Which makes sense. But you can also get out in front of the crisis. Though it is a risk.”

  “Not just a risk, Gamache,” said the Deputy Premier. “It’s reckless.”

  While the others watched, Gamache raised his head and turned to the politician.

  “This would be a calculated risk, monsieur.” His voice formal, freezing. Those listening were surprised the words didn’t come out in an icy vapor. “There’s more risk in paralysis. In reckless indecision.”

  “You think so? Maybe we should ask those under your command who were wounded and killed because of your so-called calculated risks. You shouldn’t even be here. You should be at home, or guarding some Walmart. Or in prison.”

  No one spoke, no one breathed. Eyes opened wide. Even Madeleine Toussaint was shocked by the vitriol.

  “Chief Superintendent Gamache did—” she began, but a look from the politician silenced her.

  “When your committee offered me the chance to return as head of homicide, sir,” said Gamache, glaring at the Deputy Premier, “you must’ve known there was a risk that I’d take it.”

  At least two in the room snorted in amusement. Or it might have been amazement.

  “We never thought you’d be that desperate. Or that stupid,” said the politician.

  “Well, you took your best shot,” said Gamache, with a thin smile. “And yet here I am. Still standing. Right in front of you.”

  “You think that was our best shot, Armand?”

  There was shocked silence then, until Chief Superintendent Toussaint jumped in.

  “I think we hold the course. Keep the equipment at the Hydro dams to prevent a catastrophe and dynamite as it’s necessary down south.”

  The Deputy Premier, ignoring her, leaned over the map. “I see in your scenario, Gamache, one of the villages spared would be your own. Don’t you live in some tiny backwater in the townships? I can smell it on you. Smells like shit.”

  “Actually, it’s donkey.” He stared at the politician. “What’s your point, Pierre?”

  “Oh, Armand, I think you know my point. Once again you would misuse power for your own gain. And…” The Deputy Premier paused and inhaled. “I think what I smell isn’t a donkey. It’s an ass.”

  The room bristled.

  “You’re right,” said Gamache. “One of the places in the path of the flooding is mine. A small village, insignificant by your standards, called Three Pines. No one’s ever heard of it, and if it disappeared in the deluge, I suspect it wouldn’t be missed. But it would still be a tragedy. As it would for all the other towns and villages you’re ignoring.”

  “Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector.” Toussaint put out her hand. “We’ll take it from here. I’ll let you get back to your own work now.”

  They stared at each other. The former occupant and the current occupant of the highest office in the Sûreté.

  He was dismissed.

  He found himself unceremoniously on the other side of the door as it closed.

  Armand Gamache had been put in his place.

  When he walked into Beauvoir’s office to get his coat and boots and dog, Jean-Guy stood up at the desk. Isabelle Lacoste was also there.

  “Interviews over?” Gamache asked.

  “Interviews canceled,” she said. “Because of the emergency.”

  “Meeting over?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Not yet. I gave my opinion, and we’ll see. There’re smart people in there.”

  “So why’re you out here?” asked Beauvoir.

  “I guess I’m not so smart,” said Gamache with a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lacoste. “They shouldn’t—”

  “It’s all right,” Gamache assured her. Then noticed that Jean-Guy’s suit, his papers, his chair, and the ceiling had little brown dots all over them.

  “Your dog shook,” explained Beauvoir.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes. That’s pretty much what I said as I washed myself off and scraped down my desk. Gosh, I said. Bit of a mess.” His eyes widened in a crazed look, and Lacoste laughed.

  “By the way, do you mind my asking why you have a dog?”

  “He belongs to the missing woman.”

  “I see.” Beauvoir looked down at the smelly old thing, lying contentedly on the now-filthy rug. “I’m sorry we have to put that search on hold.”

  “Actually, we don’t. Or at least I don’t. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to speak to her father in Ste.-Agathe, before the roads are closed. Do you mind if I take Agent Cloutier with me?”

  “No, of course not. You don’t need to ask, patron,” said Beauvoir.

  “But I do.” Gamache smiled.

  “Mind if I come, too?” asked Lacoste. “Seems I’m free for the afternoon.”

  “That would be great,” said Gamache. Not only did he value her judgment and company, but he knew that she was a mentor to Agent Cloutier.

  Isabelle Lacoste had been a young woman when, to everyone’s surprise, he’d chosen her for homicide. That hadn’t been all that many years ago.

  Now her hair was prematurely graying and there were lines at her forehead and from her mouth. Caused by stress. And pain. She walked with a limp and a cane, still recovering from near-fatal injuries almost a year earlier.

  He’d often wondered if he’d really done her, done Jean-Guy, done any of them such a favor by recruiting them into homicide. But they were adults, he told himself, and could make their own decisions.

  And now one had decided to leave and one had decided to return.

  As he waited for the elevator, with Isabelle and Fred, he looked out at Montréal. So much rain was sliding down the window, it looked as though the city was underwater.

  Gamache put his hands behind his back, one gripping the other, and felt his core grow cold. And saw again the animation. Of much of Québec sliding into Vermont. Sent there by a flood of water and a fear of making the wrong decision.

  “All that most maddens and torments,” he said.

  “Moby-Dick,” said Lacoste. “Studied it at university.”

  “Right,” said Gamache, turning to her. “I couldn’t remember where it’s from.”

  “But why remember it at all?”

  “Just something someone in the meeting said.”

  “Well, that can’t be good,” said Isabelle Lacoste as they stepped into the elevator. “Hardly reassuring.”

  “Non.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They pulled in to the driveway of the neat bungalow in the center of Ste.-Agathe forty minutes later.

  As they stood on the driveway, they could see that ice still covered the lake. But it was heaved up here and there. Ice-fishing cabins had been abandoned, and there was a huge fissure through the middle of the hockey rink twenty feet off shore.

  Lac des Sables was breaking up. It had obviously hit swiftly. Taking the villagers by surprise.

  Even from there they could hear the bangs. Booms. As new cracks formed in the thick ice.

  The thaw was moving north. More swiftly than imagined. More swiftly, certainly, than hoped.

  Gamache put his hands in his pockets and brought his shoulders up against the wind.

  They were in the Laurentian Mountains, and it was considerably colder. What had been coming down as rain farther south was turning to ice pellets here. And soon, he thought, freezing rain.

  They’d have to be quick about this if they hoped to make it back home.

  Chief Inspector Gamache brought out his phone and called in the report of the ice breakup. He rang off just as a man appeared at the door.

  Homer Godin had clearly been waiting for them. He came out of his house, but he stopped short and brought his hand to his face.

  -->