by Louise Penny
“True,” said Lacoste.
They’d checked all the calls into and out of the farmhouse, going back months. It was not as arduous as it sounded. There were hardly any, and those there were, were easily traced.
“One of the things I don’t understand,” said Gamache, “is why Vivienne didn’t leave earlier.”
“She had to get up courage,” said Lacoste, a little surprised by the question. “We’ve talked about this. Lots of abused women never leave—” Her phone buzzed. “Sorry. Allô?”
“A message just came in,” said Agent Cloutier. “I’d asked the forensic accountants to look into the bank accounts of all the people involved.”
“Yes? And?” asked Lacoste.
“I’ve forwarded it to you.”
Lacoste went to her emails. “Got it.” She clicked on it. “What’m I looking at?”
She waved the others over to her laptop.
Gamache and Beauvoir bent and stared at the screen while Lacoste put Cloutier on speaker.
“Scroll down,” said Cloutier. “To the bottom link.”
Lacoste did, and clicked. “But this’s Monsieur Godin’s bank account.”
“I didn’t ask for it to be part of the search,” explained Cloutier. “But his name must’ve been on the list of people involved in the case. So the forensic accountant included him, I guess.”
They looked at the numbers. Twenty thousand dollars had been transferred into Homer Godin’s bank account on Friday. And taken out in cash that afternoon.
“It’s a mortgage loan,” said Cloutier. “You can tell by the code attached to the transfer. He must’ve taken it out against his house.”
“Why?” asked Beauvoir.
“I don’t know,” said Cloutier. “But I thought you should see it.”
“Anything in the other accounts?” asked Lacoste.
“Tracey’s massively overdrawn, and Pauline’s credit cards are maxed out.”
“And Vivienne was sitting with eighteen thousand dollars in her account,” said Beauvoir.
“And twenty thousand in cash with Homer,” said Lacoste. “Merci.”
Lacoste hung up, and Beauvoir looked at Gamache, who’d cocked his head to one side. Considering.
“Must’ve been for Vivienne,” said Lacoste. “Don’t you think? She knew she was leaving Carl and asked her father for more money.”
“When? And wasn’t the eighteen thousand enough?” asked Beauvoir. “This would give her almost forty thousand. Why would she need that much? And in cash? And why didn’t he tell us about it?”
“He had other things on his mind,” said Lacoste.
“And he just forgot about the twenty thousand?”
“Maybe he did tell us,” said Gamache. “Well, not us exactly, but Lysette Cloutier. She says they hadn’t kept in touch since he broke it off, but that might not be true. Homer didn’t say they’d lost touch. Maybe he asked her advice on how to raise the money.”
“Yes, she’s a trained accountant, after all,” said Lacoste. “So he asked her, and she told him about the home loan. Maybe that was the final straw for Cloutier.”
Beauvoir was nodding now. Following the logic. “She could see that Vivienne wasn’t just ruining their lives but now was bleeding her dad dry. So she arranges to meet her.”
“To kill her?” asked Lacoste.
“No, probably not. But to have it out with her, finally.”
“Why would Vivienne agree to that?”
“Maybe Cloutier told her she had the money,” suggested Beauvoir. “Vivienne chose a spot close by, where she’d had private meetings before.”
“The bridge,” said Lacoste.
“The bridge,” he said.
Despite her affection for the woman, Lacoste could see it now. Could see how an uncomfortable confrontation could spiral out of control.
“Only Cloutier was lying,” said Beauvoir. “She didn’t really have the cash, of course. When Vivienne realized that, she’d be furious. Might’ve even attacked Cloutier, who pushed her away.”
And through the railing.
“But if it was all triggered by that twenty thousand, why would she tell us about it now?” asked Lacoste.
“She’d have no choice,” said Gamache. “The information was in the email about all the finances. She’d know we’d work it out. What I’m still wondering is why Homer didn’t say anything about that loan.”
“He might’ve worried that it made Vivienne look bad,” said Beauvoir. “And it does. Taking so much money from her father, then running away with a married lover.”
“No. It makes her look like a woman who’s been beaten for years and was now desperate to save herself and her unborn child,” snapped Lacoste. “Was it a series of decisions a healthy person would make? Probably not. But who can say what any of us would do to survive? You want to know what I think actually happened?”
She looked at her two colleagues.
“Please,” said Gamache.
“I think we were right all along, and this’s just complicating things. I think Carl Tracey killed his wife. Maybe he knew about that secret account, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he wanted to get rid of her. With Pauline Vachon’s help, they came up with the plan to throw her into the river. And you know what?”
“What?” said Beauvoir.
“He might be a moron, but it looks like it worked. We can’t get him. He’s going to walk free.”
“Oh, shit,” said Jean-Guy, hanging his head.
Isabelle was right.
“I think we need to speak to Homer,” said Gamache. “Find out about the money. At least this’s new, and admissible.”
“Yeah,” said Beauvoir, getting up. “Untainted by that goddamned poisonous tree. But before we do, I want to go back over the evidence one more time.”
“Again?” asked Lacoste. “I have it memorized.”
“Again,” said Beauvoir. “I’m not giving up on Tracey yet. There’s something in there we’ve missed.”
They spent the next hour sifting through evidence. Testimony. Events. They knew it by heart. They knew it was futile. That the search would prove fruitless.
And it did.
Finally Beauvoir stood up and yanked his coat from the back of his chair.
“Nothing. Let’s go speak to Homer about this money. Maybe something will come up.”
They had nowhere else to turn. Just this one slender thread to follow.
Reine-Marie greeted them at the door, and when Armand asked about Homer, she pointed upstairs.
“He went to his room right after you left.”
Jean-Guy climbed the stairs, and from the living room they heard him knock. Then knock again.
“Monsieur Godin, it’s Jean-Guy Beauvoir. I’m afraid we have some more questions.”
There was silence.
Armand and Isabelle looked at each other, then started up the stairs. But only got halfway before Jean-Guy appeared on the landing.
“It’s empty. He’s not there.”
“Bathroom?” asked Gamache, taking the stairs two at a time.
They searched the upstairs, but there was no Homer.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Armand asked Reine-Marie.
“Right after you left. He went straight to his room.”
Gamache looked at his watch. “Over an hour ago.”
“Cloutier! Cameron!” Beauvoir shouted as he walked quickly toward the kitchen. The two agents came out. “Where’s Monsieur Godin?”
“In his bedroom,” said Cloutier.
“He’s not.”
“Could he have slipped out?” said Gamache. “Taken Fred for a walk? There’s a heavy fog, so we might not have seen him.”
But on hearing his name, the dog appeared at the kitchen door. His tail slowly swishing back and forth.
“I’m sorry,” said Reine-Marie. “I thought he was in his bedroom.”
“It’s not your fault at all,” said Armand. “Your—”
An
“Well done,” he said with a smile. “That’s a relief. That means he’s on foot.”
Beauvoir was in the study, using the landline to warn the agents guarding Carl Tracey’s home.
“How long will it take him to get there?” asked Cloutier.
“At least half an hour, walking along the road, in good conditions,” said Gamache, going to the kitchen as he spoke.
The others followed him.
“He’s not there, patron,” said Cameron.
But Gamache didn’t answer him, choosing to answer Cloutier instead.
“He probably took the woods at first, so we wouldn’t see him, then cut back onto the road. Once he sees the Sûreté car at Tracey’s place, he’ll head into the forest, to avoid being seen.”
As he spoke, he opened and closed drawers.
“I’ve been through those woods—it’s not easy going. I’d think it’ll take him a good hour or more.” Once again he looked at his watch.
Homer would be arriving right about now.
“Damn.” Armand turned to Reine-Marie. “The carving knife’s gone.”
She paled, visualizing the large, sharp knife.
“I just called Tracey’s home,” Lacoste reported. “No answer.”
“We’ve gotta go,” said Beauvoir.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Anything?” asked Beauvoir.
He’d slammed the car door, not trying to be discreet. Just the opposite. He wanted to make noise. Let Homer know they were there.
“Nothing,” said one of the agents.
“Did you speak to Tracey?” asked Beauvoir. “Warn him?”
“We knocked on the door, but there was no answer,” said the other agent. “Without a warrant, we didn’t think we should break in. But we’ve been watching closely, and no one’s approached the house.”
He looked at his colleague, who nodded agreement.
“You did the right thing,” said Beauvoir.
Homer had been gone for just under an hour and a half. He should be there soon. If he wasn’t already.
Beauvoir looked around and considered the options.
They could go into the woods and hope to find Homer.
They could go into the house and take Tracey into protective custody.
They could leave him there as bait, stake out the house, and arrest Homer when he appeared.
Or they could do nothing. And let Homer do what he came to do.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew he’d never do that. But still …
“I’m going to get Tracey,” he said. “Bring him into protective custody. We’ll knock down the door if we have to.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Lacoste. “You two come with us.” She indicated the agents who’d been on duty. “You two”—she pointed to Cloutier and Cameron—“stay here and watch the road.”
While clearly not happy about being left behind, they had no choice.
Beauvoir looked at Gamache, who was scanning the tree line. “Patron?”
“I’ll stay out here.”
His eyes returned to Beauvoir, briefly, before coming to rest on the two officers. Cloutier and Cameron.
Beauvoir couldn’t make out what Gamache was thinking.
“Monsieur Godin isn’t armed, is he?” asked one of the agents.
“He has a kitchen knife,” said Gamache.
She gave a snort. An old man with a kitchen knife.
“Not much good against…” The agent placed her hand on her gun.
“You’re not to use that,” said Beauvoir. “Unless there’s absolutely no other option. Understand?”
“Oui, patron,” she said, immediately dropping her hand to her side.
“And don’t be fooled by his weapon,” said Gamache.
The agent looked unconvinced. But she was young and didn’t understand that Homer Godin wasn’t an old man with a kitchen knife. He was a father with nothing to lose.
Isabelle Lacoste studied Gamache as he scanned the terrain, his eyes narrow as he tried to penetrate the mist rising from the snow in the fields.
She’d asked him a few weeks back, over drinks at the bistro one Saturday when she and her husband and children were visiting Three Pines, why he wanted to return to the Sûreté.
He was still on suspension at the time. He could easily just quit and get on with his life.
The Chief had smiled broadly. “I could ask you the same thing. You have even more reason to leave the Sûreté.”
He’d glanced over her shoulder, to the door between Myrna’s bookstore and the bistro. And saw, yet again, Isabelle Lacoste crumple to the floor. Shot. Her last act had saved all their lives. She’d done it knowing full well it would cost her her own.
Fortunately, she didn’t remember it, so great was the trauma.
And Gamache could never forget, so great was the trauma.
But she’d recovered. Fought her way back, one excruciating step at a time.
Things are strongest where they’re broken. If ever there was a person who proved that, it was Isabelle Lacoste.
“Honestly?” Isabelle said. “I didn’t think I would, but then I realized I missed it. So?” she’d pressed. “Why do you want to go back? We both know you could name your job outside the Sûreté. You could run for Premier and probably win.”
“Now there’s a terrifying thought,” he’d said. But she’d earned the right to a truthful answer. And so, after a pause, he gave it to her.
“It’s where I belong. We’re all handed a cup. This’s mine.”
Lacoste stared at him. Seeing the ghosts in his eyes.
The horrific decisions, the terrible orders conceived and carried out.
The consequences of leadership.
As long as Armand Gamache carried the burden, no one else had to. He was already shattered. The damage done. The cup to his lips.
On seeing the sadness in her face, he smiled. “Not to worry, Isabelle. Maybe I’m being selfish.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “After all, it’s how the light gets in.”
That conversation flashed through her mind, more as a feeling than actually verbatim, as they stood on the side of the road, the icy mist seeping into their bones.
Beauvoir started down the drive.
Lacoste turned to Gamache. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “Be careful. Tracey has knives, too.”
As Beauvoir and the others approached the house, Gamache signaled to Cameron to walk to the far side of the field and hold the position.
“And me?” asked Cloutier.
“You stay here, by the car. We’ll need you when we find Homer.”
“He won’t listen to me.”
“I think you’d be surprised.”
Gamache walked along the slushy road, in the opposite direction to Cameron, who was now barely visible through the mist.
Gamache heard Beauvoir on the other side of the house, knocking on the door.
“Tracey, it’s the Sûreté. Chief Inspector Beauvoir.”
Gamache took a few steps off the road, onto the soft grass, soaked by melting snow.
There was a door back there. Closed. It led, he knew, into Tracey’s studio.
As he got closer, he saw the boot prints.
He stopped. And stood absolutely still.
He heard pounding now. Beauvoir. At the door. Trying to get a response.
But there was no one there to respond, Gamache knew. At least no one alive.
He turned and shouted to Cloutier. “Homer’s already been here and gone. Beauvoir needs to get inside and find Tracey.”
“Yessir.”
She ran down the drive, sliding slightly in the mud but keeping her footing.
“He’s here,” she shouted. “Homer’s here.”
At the door, everyone turned.
“How’d you know?” demanded Beauvoir.
“Chief Inspector Gamache told me. Said to tell you to go inside. Tracey might be—”
“Merde,” said Beauvoir, and reached for the door handle as the two agents reached for their guns.
“Holster them,” said Lacoste.
The door was locked, and solid. They threw themselves against it, just as Cameron arrived. The human battering ram.
Putting his shoulder to it, the door burst open.
As he rushed in, Beauvoir wondered, very briefly, where Gamache was.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Tell him I’m following Homer,” Gamache shouted after Cloutier, as she ran to warn Beauvoir.
Then he turned back to the prints.
One set arriving.
One set returning.
Gamache followed the boot prints into the forest.
After a few steps, he paused and looked around. He knew then where Homer was heading.
No longer needing to follow the prints, Gamache moved through the woods as fast as he could, weaving between trees. Brittle branches scraped his coat, his hands, his face.
Once he had to stop as the mist grew thick and he lost his bearings. But he reoriented himself and pressed on.
It took ten minutes of slipping and slogging through mud and ankle-deep slush before he broke through to what was little more than an overgrown path.
He could hear labored breathing ahead of him, but it wasn’t until he turned the corner that he saw.
Homer. On the bridge. The mist rising from the Bella Bella almost enveloping him.
But he wasn’t alone.
Carl Tracey’s body was slung over his shoulder.
“Homer!”
Godin turned.
* * *
“Here,” shouted Cameron from the back of the house. “In the studio.”
Beauvoir hurried back there, expecting to find Tracey, either cowering behind his pots or dead. Instead he found Cameron standing by the back door.
“Godin must’ve gotten in this way,” said Cameron.
“No sign of Tracey?” said Beauvoir, pushing past Cameron. “Jesus, there’re footprints coming and going.”
“There’s blood on the floor,” said Lacoste, pointing to the stains. “Not a lot. Someone’s hurt, but doesn’t look like a fatal stabbing. There’d be lots more blood.”
“And a body,” said Beauvoir.
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