by Louise Penny
Gamache noticed then a uniformed agent walking down the path toward them.
“What’re you doing here?” Gamache asked. “You’re supposed to be guarding Carl Tracey.”
“I was relieved.”
“By whom?”
“Agent Cameron.”
“He’s there with Tracey? Alone?”
“Well, there’re others. The owners of the bistro—”
“Come with me.”
* * *
Through the windows of the bistro, Gamache could see Bob Cameron. He was standing within feet of Carl Tracey, who was crammed into a corner. His chair overturned at his feet.
Cameron held something in his right hand. Something black.
His gun?
No, Gamache took in quickly as he made for the door. Not a gun. Too big. It was a fireplace poker. As lethal as a gun, if swung at a person’s head.
And it looked, by his stance, that that was exactly what Cameron was preparing to do.
Tracey was raising his arms to protect himself.
Gamache opened the bistro door with a bang, and Cameron turned around.
“He’s going to kill me,” shouted Tracey. “Stop him.”
“Shut up, you stupid shit.”
“Cameron,” snapped Gamache. “Step away. Now.”
After a slight pause, Cameron threw the poker onto the floor in disgust. And stepped back.
“I wasn’t going to hit him,” he said. “I just wanted to scare him.”
“Get over there,” said Gamache, pointing to the far corner.
The former left tackle jerked toward Tracey, who squeezed tighter into the corner. Then Cameron marched away, shoving a table as he passed Gamache.
“What’s happening?” asked Gabri, coming cautiously out of the swinging door between the bistro and the kitchen, followed by Olivier, who was holding up a frying pan.
“Nothing,” said Cameron.
“Nothing?” demanded Tracey. “He was going to hit me with that.” He pointed to the poker.
“Did you see anything?” Gamache asked Gabri and Olivier.
Both men shook their heads.
“He told us to go into the kitchen and stay there,” said Olivier.
“He’d picked up the poker,” said Gabri. “We didn’t need to be told twice. I tried to call you, but of course your phone didn’t work.”
He held up the receiver, still clutched in his hand.
Gamache turned to the agent who’d accompanied him and gestured toward Tracey. “Watch him.”
Then he led Cameron farther away from the others.
“What were you thinking?” he demanded.
“What’re you saying?” demanded Tracey. “I have a right to know. He was going to kill me.”
“Be quiet, please,” said Gamache, and while his tone was polite, anyone who saw the man would not be fooled by the courtesy.
Even as he turned back to Cameron, Gamache admitted that what Tracey said might very well be true. It certainly looked like that.
But how things looked and how they really were, were often two very different things in a murder investigation.
He waited for an answer.
“I wanted to get a confession out of him,” said Cameron. “I wanted to scare him, not beat him. I had my phone on, recording. I can show you.”
“You recorded yourself threatening a suspect with a fireplace poker?” asked Gamache, incredulous. “You know that any confession you might’ve gotten would’ve been inadmissible, and the whole case thrown out.”
“I would’ve erased the beginning,” said Cameron.
Now Gamache stared, clearly dumbfounded. “You say that as though you expect me to go along with you. I warned you about this just hours ago, and now you do exactly the same thing?”
“Not the same. You warned me about hitting a suspect. I never laid a hand on him.”
“Threatening a beating is still brutality,” said Gamache. “If you were under my command, Agent Cameron, I’d relieve you of duty right now.”
“I’m happy to leave.” He took a step away.
“You’ll leave when I tell you to. What’re you even doing here? This isn’t your assignment.”
“You think my responsibility stops at the end of my shift? Does yours?”
“Don’t question me, young man. This isn’t about me, it’s about your behavior—”
“Yeah, well, you’re quite a role model. Sir.” Cameron glared. “I’ve been following the Twitter feed about you. Have you?”
“I asked you a question. What’re you doing here?”
“How can you lead, sir, if you don’t have the support of the population? Wasn’t that the whole point of your lecture to me? Trust? Looks like you’ve lost it. Have you lost it?”
And the inflection made it clear that Cameron was talking about more than trust.
“Answer my question now, Agent Cameron, or I’ll charge you with interfering in a murder investigation.”
Gamache knew exactly what Cameron was doing. He was trying to throw him off balance. Put him on the defensive. Get control of the narrative and take focus away from the real question.
Why was Agent Cameron there? Why was he threatening Tracey for a confession?
This spoke of more than a cop going off the rails. Emotionally het up about the horrific crime. It spoke, and smelled, of personal involvement.
“Tell me,” said Gamache. “You know I’ll find out.”
And Cameron could see that was true. Here was a man determined to, trained to, born to find things out.
Chief Inspector Gamache, sharp intent in his eyes, did not seem like the slightly pathetic, definitely incompetent, occasionally dangerous man described in the tweets.
“I came because I care about Vivienne,” said Cameron.
And there it was. Confirmation of something that had become obvious to Gamache.
But Bob Cameron didn’t just care, he cared so deeply he no longer had control of his actions. Or judgment.
“I see.” Gamache paused. Studying the man. “Were you having an affair?”
“No.”
“The truth.”
“No. I wanted to help her. I asked her to call me, to have a coffee together. To just talk. But she never did.”
“Did you go to the house?”
Cameron lowered his head, no longer looking Gamache in the eye. “A few times. When I knew he wasn’t there. When he was in the bar or in jail to sober up.”
“You detained the husband, then went up and propositioned the wife?”
Cameron’s face flushed, the scars turning white against the red. “It wasn’t like that.”
“I think it was,” said Gamache. “And you just don’t want to admit it. She wasn’t interested, but you continued to harass her.”
“I wasn’t harassing her. She was afraid.” Cameron shot a filthy look at the man across the bistro. “She wanted to leave him, I could tell. I was just trying to help her break away.”
He lifted his head and met Gamache’s eyes. “I love my wife. I have two children. But there was something about Vivienne. Something…” He stopped and thought. “Not innocent. Not even fragile. She seemed strong, but confused. Beaten down. I just wanted to help her.”
Gamache looked at Cameron’s face. Disfigured. And knew how deep the blows went. How deep the disfigurement went. And knew how much this man, while a boy, would have wanted someone to help him.
Motivations were rarely straightforward, as he knew all too well. And Gamache wondered how confused Cameron was, between helping Vivienne and helping himself.
Gamache considered the man, then nodded. “Stay where you are,” he said, and walked across the bistro.
He had a duty to perform. No matter how ludicrous it seemed.
“Monsieur Tracey,” said Gamache, squaring himself in front of the man.
“What?”
“I’m sorry to have to inform you—”
“So she is dead,” said Tracey.
“Thrown? You make it sound like it was done on purpose.”
“We think it was.”
“Prove it.”
“Pardon?”
“How do you know she was thrown? I think she jumped. Killed herself.” His voice changed. “She was very depressed, you know. It sometimes happens to pregnant women. Hormones. She talked about killing herself for weeks. I did my best. Tried to comfort her. Begged her to get help.” Tracey’s voice had become wheedling. Rehearsing lines for a judge. “But she wouldn’t. She was drinking too much. Then she just disappeared. I was distraught.”
A long, long silence greeted that. While Tracey smiled, the others in the bistro stared.
Gamache tilted his head slightly. Then he nodded. Slightly.
Tracey, with the instincts of a rodent, stopped smiling. Had he had hackles, they would have gone up. And for good reason.
He’d goaded the wrong person.
“Your wife was pregnant,” said Gamache. His voice quiet. Unnaturally calm. “The night she disappeared, she told you the child wasn’t yours. You have a history of drunk and disorderly. Police have been called to your place more than once for domestic violence. Judges are smart. Juries are smart. What do you think they’ll make of that?”
“I’ll tell you what they’d make of it.” His voice rose. “That I’m a shit husband, but not a killer. She was drunk and knocked up, and she left me. Try to prove otherwise.”
“And you never asked who the father was?” demanded Gamache.
“I didn’t care.”
“You cared. You cared about how it looked to others. You cared about being made a fool of. We found blood in your living room and in her car. What did you do to her?”
Tracey was silent.
“What did you do, Carl?”
The others in the room stayed absolutely still. Frozen.
“I have a right to know who my wife was screwing, okay. I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t do. Anything any normal guy wouldn’t do.”
He looked around but met only disgust.
“So what did you do? Come on, Carl. Tell me.”
“I gave her what for.”
“You beat her.”
“My drunk and knocked-up wife? She was leaving me to go to the father. What did she think was going to happen? It was her fault.”
But something, besides the grotesque description, struck Gamache.
“Her father or ‘the’ father?” he asked. “What did she say? Who was she going to?”
“The father. Her father. What difference does it make? I took a bottle and went to my studio. Passed out. When I woke up next morning, she was gone. But she was alive when I left her.”
Tracey’s gaze shifted to something over Gamache’s shoulder. Gamache turned.
Homer Godin was standing at the door.
Staring.
“I’m sorry, patron,” said Agent Cloutier, coming through behind Godin. She was out of breath from running. “I was watching the coroner, and when I turned around, he was gone.”
“Don’t let him close to me,” said Tracey, backing away. “He’s crazy.”
“Homer.” Gamache held his hands out in front of him, as though approaching a wounded wild animal. Or an explosive.
It wasn’t that Gamache was afraid of him. Or afraid if Godin burst forward, they wouldn’t be able to stop him before he killed Tracey. They could and would. But …
But would that really matter? Maybe, if I step aside … If I was a little slow to react …
Gamache knew then what he was really afraid of. Himself.
How would I feel…?
With effort, he shoved those thoughts away. To be replaced by a certainty.
They might stop him now, but they couldn’t keep Homer Godin from Carl Tracey forever.
“You have your car here?” he asked Cameron while not taking his eyes off Godin, who wouldn’t take his eyes off Tracey.
“Oui.”
“Good. I’m placing him under arrest. I want you to take him in.”
“Yessir,” said Cameron with enthusiasm, and turned toward Tracey, who backed up further.
“Non,” said Chief Inspector Gamache. “Not him. Him.”
Even Tracey turned to Gamache with surprise.
The Chief Inspector was pointing at Homer.
“You mean Carl Tracey, sir,” said Cameron.
“No. I mean him.” He took a step closer to Vivienne’s father and said, “Homer Godin, I’m placing you under arrest.”
Godin’s eyes remained on Tracey, then slowly refocused on Gamache.
“What did you say?”
“I’m arresting you.”
“What for?” asked Agent Cloutier, going to stand beside Homer.
“For assault.”
“I haven’t done it yet. Give me a moment.” Godin’s voice was flat, his cold stare returning to Tracey. “And you can make it murder.”
“I mean the assault on Madame Gamache. You punched her in the face.”
“I did?”
“He what?” said Gabri.
“Take him in,” said Gamache. Then, in front of everyone, Gamache did something he’d never done before. He apologized, even as he made the arrest. “Désolé.”
“I hit your wife?” asked Homer, more stunned by that than the arrest. “Is she all right?”
“She will be.”
“Oh, God,” sighed Homer. “What’s happening?”
They walked out of the bistro. Homer Godin in custody. And Carl Tracey a free man.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The morning sun was just slanting over the trees as Clara and Myrna stood on the edge of the village green and watched.
Ruth joined them, limping out of her home, clutching Rosa to her chest.
“What’s going on?”
“I think they found Vivienne,” said Clara, pointing to the coroner’s car and then down the path along the river.
Ruth and Rosa shook their heads. “It’s tragic. So young.” Then Ruth’s eyes and voice sharpened. “What’s he doing?”
“Looks like he’s arresting Homer,” said Myrna as they watched Armand walk with Homer to the Sûreté car.
“He can’t think—” Clara began.
“Jesus, even Clouseau can’t be that stupid,” said Ruth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered the duck.
Just then Homer stopped and turned. As did Gamache. As did everyone else on the village green.
Vivienne Godin was being brought out of the woods. In a body bag.
The bistro door opened, and Carl Tracey stepped out. Into the fresh air. And sunshine.
He saw the stretcher, took a deep breath, and said, “I wonder.”
“What?” demanded Olivier, coming out behind him.
“I wonder if she was insured.”
Staring silently at the long black bag as it was slid into the coroner’s vehicle, Homer Godin crossed himself. As did Gabri and Olivier. Even Ruth, unseen by the others, made the familiar gesture.
After the coroner’s vehicle drove away, Vivienne’s father closed his eyes and tilted his head as far back as it would go. Exposing his throat to the Universe.
“Chief Inspector?” said Beauvoir as he came around the corner from the path along the river.
He indicated Homer, clearly in custody, by the car.
“I’ll explain,” said Gamache, then instructed Cameron to take Godin into the local detachment. “Don’t book him. I’ll be in to do the paperwork later. Make him comfortable, but don’t let him out of your sight.”
Cameron turned to Homer. “I’m sorry, sir. Would you mind?”
Homer got into the backseat without complaint.
As Cameron went to walk to the driver’s side, Gamache stopped him.
“One moment, please. I have a question for you.” He led Cameron a few feet from the car. “Was the child yours?”
“You knew she was pregnant before we said anything. She told you. Is the child yours? Tell me the truth.”
“I am. It’s not mine. Couldn’t be.”
“I think you’re lying. I think there’s a lot you aren’t telling us. I understand you’re worried about your family. Your job. But you know it’ll come out. Best if you tell us yourself.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Gamache pressed his lips together and gave a single curt nod. “You’re helping a murderer.”
“How?”
“By muddying the waters. By leaving questions unanswered. Questions we have to now take precious time investigating.”
“I have answered them.”
“But not truthfully.”
Gamache made a mental note to call the Alouettes organization and ask why they’d let Bob Cameron go. And why no other football team picked him up.
* * *
“May I go with him, sir?” Lysette Cloutier asked Chief Inspector Beauvoir.
He looked at her a moment. “Why?”
“Why? Because he’s my friend. He’s just lost his daughter.”
Beauvoir nodded. “Is it possible, Agent Cloutier, that you’re more than friends?”
“More…? Non. I care about him, but his wife was the one who was my friend. My best friend. I was maid of honor at their wedding.”
“When did she die?”
“Five years ago. Ovarian cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” He paused. “You’ve kept up a relationship with Monsieur Godin?”
“There is no relationship. Not in the way I think you mean. We’re old friends, that’s all.” On seeing Beauvoir’s skepticism, she pressed her lips together before nodding. “All right, you’re right. But my relationship isn’t with Homer, it’s with Vivienne. She was my goddaughter.”
She dropped her gaze and studied her muddy boots before lifting her head and looking him straight in the eyes. Perhaps, he thought, a little too straight.
“I should’ve told you sooner, but I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you’d think I was too close. That you’d take me off the case.”
“You’re right. I probably would’ve.”
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