A Better Man

by Louise Penny

  Now he looked once again at the tangle of ice and tree limbs. Debris and detritus picked up by the Rivière Bella Bella as it rushed down from the mountains.

  Here was Vivienne Godin.

  This is where she’d come to rest.

  Her dark hair, like leaves, floated on the surface, moving with the current. Her pale arms and legs. Limbs. Now so clearly human.

  Armand Gamache crossed himself, just as Beauvoir shoved his flashlight into Gamache’s hands.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” Beauvoir stripped off his coat. “I’m going to get her.”

  “You can’t.” Gamache placed himself between Beauvoir and the Bella Bella and reached out. “Stop.”

  But Beauvoir wasn’t listening to reason. He looked at the bobbing head. At the arms.

  And he saw Annie.

  “Step aside,” he said to Gamache.

  “Non.”

  “Step aside. That’s an order.”

  “Non.”

  Jean-Guy then did something he’d not have thought possible twenty-four hours earlier. An hour earlier. A moment earlier.

  He shoved his father-in-law. Who dropped the flashlights and took a step back, partly from the force of it, partly from the shock of it.

  “Get out of my way,” Jean-Guy yelled, desperate to get to the young woman. As he hoped someone would try to save Annie, if …

  This time Gamache saw him coming and wrapped his arms around Jean-Guy. Gripping him in a bear hug so tight that Jean-Guy could smell the slight scent of sandalwood and feel Armand’s heart thudding against his own.

  “It’s too late,” Armand said, directly into Jean-Guy’s ear.

  But still he struggled. Finally the fight went out of him. And he sagged in Gamache’s arms.

  “She’s gone,” Armand whispered, his own eyes screwed shut.

  “She’s pregnant,” sobbed Jean-Guy.

  “Yes. I know.”

  “Annie. Annie’s pregnant. Almost three months.”

  Armand’s eyes opened. And he heard a sob.

  One. Single. Burst of emotion. Which might have been Jean-Guy’s. Or his own. Or maybe it came from the Bella Bella as the river cried out.

  And then he realized where it had come from.

  Releasing Jean-Guy, he turned and looked up the path. In the darkness there was a greater darkness. A large figure, a father figure, outlined against the trees, standing silent. Rigid.

  Then Vivienne’s father started forward. One. Step. At a time. Picking up speed. Until he was running down the path.

  “Homer, stop!” shouted Gamache.

  But Vivienne’s father didn’t. Couldn’t.

  He made not a sound but ran straight for the river.

  Gamache and Beauvoir just had time to step between Homer Godin and the water. But they might as well have been made of paper. Homer plowed right through them, running straight into the Bella Bella. Wading in. Breaking through the thin ice at the shore, he fought his way forward. To get to his little girl.

  Gamache and Beauvoir plunged in after him.

  The water was so cold their eyes watered, and their breath came in gasps. But on they lurched, toward the man thrashing through the current ahead of them.

  The water churned and frothed as Godin, his arms flailing wildly, knocked them off.

  He fought ferociously. Screaming now. Wailing. Baying.

  Sobbing.

  Gamache got an elbow in the head and was knocked backward, submerged. So cold was the water that his chest locked and he couldn’t breathe, even when arms pulled him to the surface.

  It was Jean-Guy. Armand stared at him for a moment, then managed, with a great whoop, to get air back into his lungs.

  Then it was back to Godin. Who, after what seemed like hours, finally tired of dragging them with him. Like some great whale, harpooned, he slowed. Slowed. Sobbing.

  Then stopped. It took both of them to drag Vivienne’s father back to shore.

  But Homer Godin wasn’t finished yet. Once again he tried to break free, but this time they were ready for him. And he had little fight left in him.

  “Stop,” said Beauvoir softly.

  And he did.

  “Vivienne?”

  “I’m sorry,” Armand said.

  Homer looked out into the river. “Please,” he whispered. “I need to get her.”

  “We will,” said Beauvoir. His teeth were chattering, and he was finding it difficult to form words.

  He looked over at Gamache, whose lips were purple and trembling in the cold.

  They were all on the verge of exposure. With Homer Godin also suffering from shock, it was a potentially fatal combination.

  “Not you,” said Homer, his voice shaky. “Me. I have to help her. I can get to her. Let me try.”

  “The water’s too cold. You’ll drown,” said Gamache through chattering teeth.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  But Armand understood. He’d try, too. He’d fight, too. He’d run back into that freezing water, too. If …

  Homer turned away from him, to once again face the river. And his daughter in the middle of it. Bobbing gently up and down in the current. Her body knocking against the ice.

  A small sound escaped the large man.

  Only then did Armand notice a figure standing farther down the path, toward the village. Even at a distance. Even in the dark. He knew who it was.

  He walked toward her.

  “I’m sorry,” said Reine-Marie. “I tried to stop him, but he ran out of the house so fast. He must’ve been watching from the bedroom window and seen you come here.”

  Armand bent his face close to hers. “Your face. It’s bruised.”

  “Is it?”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “Not on purpose. He didn’t know what he was doing. I reached for his arm to try to stop him—”

  Armand brought one shaking finger to within a millimeter of the bruise on Reine-Marie’s cheekbone, below her eye. It was swollen, and swelling further.

  Gamache could feel himself begin to tremble uncontrollably. It came in waves, sending shudders through his body.

  It was, he recognized, the beginning of hypothermia. And outrage.

  “My God, Armand, you’re soaked. You need to get warm.” She looked down the path and only then noticed that Jean-Guy and Homer were also dripping wet. Homer was standing on the shore of the Bella Bella, staring. She followed his eyes. “Is that…?”

  “Oui.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The water cascaded over Armand’s body as he showered. Over his head, over his upturned face. He opened his mouth and shut his eyes. And felt his body finally getting warm.

  But then, unbidden, a sudden panic took him.

  He was back in the water. Submerged. But this time Jean-Guy wasn’t there. No one was there, to reach down and save him.

  His eyes flew open, and he dropped his head, away from the water. Reaching out, he leaned against the wet tiles of the shower.

  As he breathed, he knew his momentary terror was just a tiny part of what Vivienne must have gone through.

  The horror of those final moments. Breaking through the railing. Hanging in midair. Nothing between the bridge and the water to stop her fall.

  And then she fell.

  Hitting the freezing-cold water. The breath knocked out of her. The shock. The bitter Bella Bella closing over her. And then she breached. Breaking the surface. Mouth open, fighting for air.

  The struggle to keep head, mouth, nose above the water. To take a breath. Turning, tumbling, thrashing in the current. Hitting rocks and branches.

  The terror. The tumult. The desperate struggle. Growing less and less desperate as the cold and the battering began to win.

  And finally the knowing.

  Both hands on the tiles, his head hanging down, warm water hitting his back, Armand gasped for breath. And watched the water swirl around the drain.

  Annie’s pregnant. Annie’s pregnant, he repeated, following the words to the surface. And trying not to allow the rest of that thought to seep in. But still, it was there.

  And so was Vivienne.

  He opened his eyes and finished his shower.

  Then went downstairs, to face Vivienne’s father.

  * * *

  Homer and Jean-Guy were in the kitchen, in front of the woodstove, wrapped in Hudson’s Bay blankets. Mugs of strong tea in their hands.

  Armand kissed Reine-Marie, softly, on her bruised cheek. “You okay?” he whispered.

  The bruise wasn’t as bad as he feared, more a glancing blow. But a blow nonetheless.

  “I am.”

  Armand looked at her, closely, to make sure she was telling the truth. Then he turned his attention to the others.

  Jean-Guy had stopped trembling.

  Homer had not.

  As soon as they’d returned to the house, they’d called the Sûreté divers and a Scene of Crime squad from homicide. But with the state of emergency across the province, they were told it could take some hours. Not before morning, for sure.

  After letting Isabelle Lacoste and Agent Cloutier know what had happened and asking them to come down, they’d split up.

  Jean-Guy had grabbed a shower first, while Armand helped Homer to strip off his wet clothing and get into his own shower. He stayed with the man, who’d sunk into silence, until the shower was over and Homer was in warm, dry clothes.

  Armand stayed with him in the kitchen until Jean-Guy returned.

  While he knew it wasn’t Homer’s fault, and it would almost certainly never happen again, he was damned if he’d leave Reine-Marie alone with Homer. Mad with grief, Vivienne’s father was capable of almost anything.

  Certainly, Armand knew, capable of murder. Though that was aimed at only one person.

  After his own shower, Armand returned to the kitchen and caught Jean-Guy’s eye. Both men turned to Reine-Marie.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Jean-Guy has something that might make you feel better,” said Armand quietly.

  “Can you come with me?” Jean-Guy stood up.

  After a brief, baffled, glance at Armand, Reine-Marie followed her son-in-law out of the kitchen.

  Fred had put his large head on Homer’s slippered feet, and Henri did the same with Armand. Little Gracie was curled up on a blanket close to the fire.

  The only sound was the slight rattle of the old windows as the night tried to get in. Not, perhaps, realizing it was already dark in there.

  A few minutes later, Reine-Marie and Jean-Guy returned.

  She was flushed, and her eyes were moist. And when she met Armand’s, his, too, began to burn. She brought her hands to her mouth, and he embraced her.

  “I just spoke to Annie. A baby,” she whispered, words meant only for Armand.

  Homer did not need to know that they were living his dream, while he lived their nightmare.

  Excusing himself now, Armand went into his study and, picking up his phone, tapped in a familiar number.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard the polite young receptionist say, “but Chief Superintendent Toussaint can’t take your call right now.”

  “Tell her it’s Armand Gamache.”

  There was a pause. “She knows.”

  Now it was his turn to pause. “Merci.”

  Then he called the senior RCMP commissioner who’d been in the meeting the day before.

  “Armand, what is it?” He sounded weary.

  “I wanted an update on the flooding.”

  “Did you call Toussaint?”

  “I tried.”

  Again there was a pause. Gamache could feel the embarrassment down the line.

  “It’s a hectic time,” the officer said.

  “Oui. Can you tell me what’s happening?”

  “The dynamiting on the St. Lawrence worked, but it looks like a temporary reprieve. The thaw’s moving north.”

  “The dams?”

  “Holding. Barely. The pressure’s building. And they still can’t decide whether or not to open the floodgates.”

  “Go on.” Gamache, who knew the man well, could hear the hesitation.

  “I’ve consulted with the armed forces engineer and Hydro-Québec. We’re not waiting for approval. Hydro’s going to open the gates.”

  Gamache took a deep breath. “You know that what you’re doing could be considered insubordination.”

  “You think? Well, you’re the expert, I guess,” the Mountie said with a laugh. He sounded drained. “Once the floodgates are open, we’ll pull the machinery from all but the most vulnerable dams and move it south. The corps of engineers will then begin digging trenches along rivers that’re threatening communities. More insubordination. I don’t think they’re going to let us play together anymore, Armand. You’re a bad influence.”

  Gamache gave a small sound of amusement. It was all he could muster.

  “Armand?”

  “Oui?”

  “Be careful of Toussaint.”

  “She’s doing well,” Gamache said. “These are difficult decisions. She’ll grow into the job.”

  “But what job? She has political aspirations.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Except she’s using her position in the Sûreté not as a responsibility but as a tool, a springboard. Surely that was obvious in the meeting. She needs to distance herself from you. Distinguish herself from you.”

  “Your point being?”

  “With this flood, with our decision to follow your suggestion and not waiting for her approval, she’ll be gunning for you.”

  “Not literally, I hope.”

  But there was silence down the line. Both remembering when that was exactly what senior officers had done to each other, literally. In the time “before.”

  “Non. But she’s no friend of yours. You have the support and loyalty of the rank and file, Armand. She doesn’t.”

  “Give her time.”

  “Have you been following the social-media posts? About you?”

  “A bit.”

  “Where do you think some of that information’s coming from?”

  “Are you kidding?” said Gamache. “You think Madeleine Toussaint is leaking it?”

  There was silence.

  “You’re wrong,” said Gamache.

  “How can you be loyal to her, Armand, when it’s so clearly not mutual?”

  “Does it have to be mutual? She’s a decent person, who stepped up. She’s earned my loyalty. And she’ll grow into a great leader. I know that. Otherwise I’d never have suggested her for Chief Superintendent.”

  “There was no one left,” said the Mountie, his exasperation growing. “Everyone else was either wounded or tainted by your actions. Even if you hadn’t recommended her, Toussaint was the only one standing. Look”—there was a heaved sigh down the line—“I hope I’m wrong. Just be careful. You’ve gotta know, once she gets wind of what we’re doing, she’ll blame you, even if we’re successful.”

  “God willing we are. That’s all that matters.”

  “Inshallah.”

  “B’ezrat HaShem,” said Gamache. “We’ll worry about the rest later. Good luck. Let me know.”

  “I will, my friend. Anything I can do?”

  Armand looked toward the kitchen. “Do you have any divers you can spare?”

  “Huh?”

  * * *

  As the RCMP divers reached the body, Beauvoir heard a sharp intake of breath and prepared to grab hold of Vivienne’s father, if necessary.

  But it wasn’t.

  Homer Godin stood on the shore. Face rigid. Body at attention.

  Only when the team turned Vivienne over did he move. But not forward, as they expected and were prepared for.

  Vivienne’s father sank, slowly, slowly to his knees. Then slowly, slowly he folded over. His head in the muck. His hands clutching the ground. The big man curled himself around his heart.

  * * *

  As Vivienne Godin approached the shore, her father lifted his head, sensing more than seeing her close by. Then he raised his body. Sitting back on his heels. And, with the help of Gamache and Beauvoir, he struggled to his feet.

  They kept their hands under Homer’s arms. Supporting him. Holding him upright.

  Homer was swaying, openmouthed. Eyes glazed. As Vivienne was lifted onto a stretcher.

  Dr. Harris bent over the body. Glancing at Gamache and Beauvoir, she shook her head. Confirming what was painfully obvious.

  “I need to see her,” said her father.

  Dr. Harris whispered to Gamache. “It isn’t good. She’s been in the water at least two days.”

  “We need an identification,” said Beauvoir.

  Lysette Cloutier, who’d just arrived, said, “I’ll do it.”

  “Me,” said Vivienne’s father. “Me.”

  “I’ll take you over,” said Armand quietly. “But you must promise not to touch her. If we’re going to get enough evidence to convict, no one but the investigators must touch Vivienne. Do you understand?”

  Homer’s heavy head bobbed up and down.

  “Are you ready?” Armand asked.

  He nodded again.

  They escorted Vivienne’s father to Vivienne’s body.

  He stared down at her. With the eyes of a man who’d reached the end of a long tunnel and realized there was no light there.

  He gave one curt nod. And mouthed, “That’s Vivienne.” Then, with more effort, he said it out loud. “That’s Vivienne.”

  He brought his hand up to his face, covering his mouth, in a grotesque imitation of Reine-Marie’s joy just hours earlier.

  Gamache looked down at the body.

  Her blue eyes were open, not in fear but in that surprise they often saw in those suddenly, prematurely meeting Death. He wondered if Death had been just as surprised.

  Gamache swiftly, expertly took in the condition of her body before meeting Beauvoir’s eyes. And nodding.

  “Come away.” He spoke softly to Homer. “We’ll let the officers do their job.”

  “No,” said Homer. “I need to stay. With her. Until … Please. I won’t make trouble. I promise.”

  He motioned toward a tree stump, and Gamache nodded. “Of course.” Then turned to Cloutier. “Stay with him, please.”

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