A Better Man Page 10

  “Fred,” he said.

  On seeing Monsieur Godin, Fred slithered out of the car. The man dropped to his knees to embrace the old dog.

  Then Godin got up and wiped his face as he turned to Gamache and put out his hand.

  “Thank you, thank you for coming. I’m Vivienne’s father.”

  Not, Gamache noticed, Monsieur Godin. Not Homer. But Vivienne’s father. That was his identity now. And, perhaps, had been since his only child’s birth.

  “Armand Gamache. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes. I stayed here, as you suggested. But she hasn’t called.” Monsieur Godin searched Gamache’s face for reassurance. That she would.

  But Armand Gamache was silent.

  Homer looked down. At the dog. His shoulders rose and fell. And there was a gasp. A sob. His hands covered his face, and through the fingers came the muffled words.

  “This’s all my fault.”

  “No, no, that’s not true, Homer,” said Lysette Cloutier, reaching out to touch his arm.

  But he didn’t seem to notice. Then he finally dropped his hands, and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “I’m sorry. I’m better now.” He pulled himself up, rigid. Then noticed the third person.

  Gamache introduced Superintendent Lacoste.

  “Thank you for coming. Thank you, thank you,” said Godin, composed. Of stone and wishful thinking.

  He was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. Gray stubble was beginning to form a beard. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were weary and bloodshot. And moist.

  Homer Godin was tall, solidly built. A man clearly used to physical labor. He spoke with the broad country accent of someone who’d left school early to work on the land.

  Lacoste knew this man. Not personally, but her own grandfather was just such a Québécois. Still vigorous at ninety-one, he liked nothing better than getting into the forest, even in winter, and chopping wood.

  “I thought you couldn’t come,” Godin said, turning to Gamache. “That there were more important things—”

  He stopped here. Unable to go on.

  “There’s nothing more important to us, Monsieur Godin,” said Gamache, “than finding your daughter. There is, though, that state of emergency I mentioned. We are, for now, the only ones assigned to the search.”

  Godin looked at the three of them, with new eyes. An accountant. A woman with a cane. A man covered in mud and smelling like—“You’re not needed?”

  “Non.”

  With some surprise Gamache realized he had become part of the refuse he’d spent his career salvaging.

  But that didn’t mean he was useless. Just, maybe, repurposed.

  “Come inside, out of the weather,” said Godin. “I’m sure this’s nothing. I’m sure Vivienne’s off with girlfriends, having fun, and I’m worrying for nothing. She’ll call soon.”

  He searched their faces. Trying to find some reason to hope that what he’d just said could possibly be true. A patient in a doctor’s office, self-diagnosing the lump as a cyst. The confusion as exhaustion. The numbness as a pinched nerve.

  The missing daughter on holiday. Soon to call. Full of apologies.

  Gamache recognized the natural, and probably necessary, delusion. That allowed parents, children, spouses, to go on. At least temporarily.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Cloutier, as they followed Homer through the neat house and into the kitchen.

  But Vivienne’s father was watching Gamache.

  “What do you think has happened to her?” Homer asked, sitting at the kitchen table.

  Gamache, taking a seat across from Homer, could hear the fear creeping back into his voice. The dread. A frost quake, approaching.

  “We don’t know. We’ve just come from her home—”

  “That was never her home. This’s her home.”

  And it felt like a home. Smelled like a home. It was modest in size, comfortable and welcoming, with slightly worn furniture. A La-Z-Boy was close to the woodstove, positioned perfectly to see the television.

  One chair. This was a man who not only lived alone but didn’t often have company.

  Fred lay on the floor, his head on Monsieur Godin’s feet.

  “Has he done something to her?”

  Again the eyes were pleading with Gamache for reassurance. But there was, in them, more desperation than conviction.

  “We don’t know,” said Cloutier. “We—”

  “That bastard’s done something, hasn’t he.”

  It was a statement now, not a question.

  “Why do you say that, sir?” asked Gamache.

  “Because she’d have called me. I know my Vivienne. She’d know I was worried. She’d never—”

  He stopped and looked down. Breathing heavily from the strain of carrying such terror.

  Gamache watched as Vivienne’s father groped his way forward. Into a terrible new world. Stumbling over shards of words he dared not say. Falling into emotions he dared not admit. Picking himself up. Moving forward.

  Walking that tightrope of needing to push for action while not yet admitting the reason.

  “Is there someplace you think she could have gone?” asked Gamache.

  “I’ve called all her old friends. No one’s seen her. They haven’t even heard from her in a long time.”

  “How about friends she made since moving away?”

  “If she had any, she never mentioned them. But I haven’t seen her for a while myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wouldn’t let her come here, and I knew I wasn’t welcome there. I tried a few times, but he wouldn’t even let me on the porch. Said some terrible things.”

  “Like what?”

  Homer paused, clearly unhappy with the question—and the answer. “That Vivienne didn’t want to see me. That she hated me. That I was a terrible father.”

  He hung his head, his mouth falling open. After an excruciating few seconds, a thin line of spittle dropped from his parted lips.

  His huge hands were trembling in his lap, and his breath came in short, sharp inhales and exhales. Panting. Like a wild animal in pain.

  Lysette Cloutier reached out toward him, but Gamache put his hand on her arm and stopped her.

  The man needed his space. His illusion of privacy.

  Having seen more than his share of grief, Gamache knew that Vivienne’s father must be allowed to cry, without well-meaning people trying to stop it. An act that looked like mercy but was more about their own extreme discomfort than any comfort they could offer him.

  “He wasn’t wrong,” said Godin at last, his voice squeezing through his throat. “I wasn’t a good father.”

  “What do you mean?” Gamache asked. “You said something similar when we arrived. You said it was all your fault.”

  “Did I? I meant that I should’ve said something. Done something. Way back even when they got engaged. I knew he was trouble. But I didn’t want her to think, after her mother died, that I was jealous or anything. And I wasn’t even sure if that’s why I hated Tracey so much. It was confusing. But I could see, I could just see, that he wasn’t good for her. But I never thought”—he paused to take some more breaths—“he’d hurt her. Not at first, anyway. Not like this.”

  “Hurt her in what way?” asked Gamache.

  Though they knew, they needed to hear what Vivienne’s father also knew.

  Homer’s mouth moved, trying to form the words. But no sound would come out. Finally he just stared at Gamache. Begging him not to make him say it.

  Cloutier went to speak, but Lacoste stopped her.

  And still they waited.

  “He beat her.”

  The words came from Vivienne’s father like blood from an open vein. Quiet. Almost belying the cost of it.

  He continued to stare at Gamache. Pleading now. Not for understanding, because it seemed Godin himself didn’t understand. How he could have suspected his precious child was being beaten and not stopped it.

  He was pleading for help. To say what needed to be said. To admit the inexcusable. The inconceivable.

  That he suspected his little girl was being hurt but had failed to stop it. Failed her.

  “Do you have children?” he asked Gamache.

  “Two. A son and a daughter.”

  “I’m guessing she’d be about Vivienne’s age.”

  “Oui. Her name’s Annie.”

  “You?” Homer asked Lacoste.

  “Two as well. Son and daughter.”

  Homer nodded.

  Lacoste watched this man. Was it possible to really put herself in his place? Inside the nightmare?

  “He kept her away from me,” said Homer, speaking now to Lacoste. “The few times I was able to see her in the past year, she was thin. There were bruises.” He held his arms. “I begged her to leave him. To come to me, but she wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.

  “I don’t know.” He looked down at Fred, dropping his hand to stroke the sleeping dog.

  “You tried,” said Lysette. “There’s nothing more you could’ve done.”

  “Oh, there was something I could’ve done.” He looked at Gamache. “What would you have done? If your Annie…”

  “When was the last time you saw Vivienne?” he asked, deflecting the question.

  Godin smiled a little. “Not going to answer that, are you? Probably smart. But sometimes ya just gotta be stupid, you know? If I’d killed the shit, she’d be here today instead of you.”

  “But you would not be,” said Gamache.

  “Do you think I care?” said Godin. “I’d trade my life for hers like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “When, Monsieur Godin?” Gamache repeated.

  “I saw her just before Christmas. I went down to drop off presents. I’d even bought one for him. Oh, God.” He stared at Gamache in disbelief. “I was so afraid of losing her I was willing to”—he fought to control himself again—“suck up to him. What was I thinking? Oh, God. She didn’t invite me in. I think he was there. So I just left. That was the last time—”

  Lysette Cloutier reached out, and this time Gamache didn’t stop her. She put her hand on Homer’s forearm and left it there.

  “But you did hear from her again,” said Gamache.

  “Yes. She called on Saturday morning.”

  Godin seemed confused now. Could it have been so recently? Just two days ago? Time made no sense anymore. Days, dates, they were meaningless and would be for the rest of his life. There would only be before Vivienne disappeared and after.

  A firm line drawn against which all else would be measured. Until the day he died.

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me she was pregnant and was finally going to leave him. I was so happy I could barely speak. I said I’d come and get her, but she told me not to. She needed to pick the time. When it was safe. When he was gone or passed out. She told me she’d be here sometime that night or maybe Sunday morning. She made me promise not to come. So I just waited.” There was a long, long exhale. “I should’ve gone to get her. Why didn’t I?”

  But there was no answer, and Gamache was not going to give this dignified man some drivel.

  They sat silently, staring at each other. Vivienne’s father and Annie’s father.

  “It’s my fault,” Homer whispered.

  “Non, monsieur. This isn’t your doing.”

  But Gamache knew that no matter what he said, Godin would spend the rest of his life in an endless loop. Skidding along the same ground. Going back over and over and over the last conversation. And what he did or did not do. What he could have done, what he should have done.

  As I would, thought Gamache.

  “You said you called all her old friends,” Gamache continued, “but do you know if she had a more recent friend? Someone special?”

  If Godin caught his meaning, he chose to ignore it.

  “No. No one.”

  And Gamache was forced to be more blunt.

  “Carl Tracey says she had a—”

  “I know what Tracey says,” the man erupted. “He’s trying to make her sound like some sort of … some sort of…” He couldn’t bring himself to utter the word. “Vivienne wasn’t like that. She never would, would she?”

  He appealed to Cloutier, who managed not to respond.

  Godin looked down at his hands, gripped so tightly on the edge of the table that the entire thing rattled. Like a visitation from the other side.

  He brought himself under control, though his knuckles remained white.

  “Besides,” he said, his voice strained, “how would she meet anyone? He barely let her off the property.”

  “We have to ask,” said Gamache. “If she did have a lover, she might’ve gone to him. Or he might be the one who—”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Though you say you hadn’t seen her in a while. She might have—”

  “She didn’t,” he all but shouted. “I know her. Look, why’re you wasting time? If something’s happened to Vivienne, we all know who did it. If you won’t make him tell, I will.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise, Monsieur Godin,” said Gamache, getting to his feet.

  “Really? Really?” demanded Godin, also getting up and turning to face Gamache. “And what would you call ‘wise’? Was what I did on Saturday wise? Doing nothing? Maybe it’s time to do something stupid.”

  There was silence.

  “Imagine your Annie was pregnant. I want you to imagine that.”

  “Monsieur Godin—”

  “Now imagine her missing. Them missing.”

  Despite himself, Gamache felt tugged into that world. Just for an instant, he crossed the line. To where the unimaginable happened. Where monsters lived. Where Vivienne’s father now lived.

  “You’re right, monsieur. You have to act now. But confronting Carl Tracey won’t get you anywhere. He won’t tell you anything, and he’ll just have you arrested. It would only make it worse.”

  Now Godin almost laughed. Almost.

  “It can’t get worse. And to be clear, Chief Inspector, I don’t plan on confronting him. I plan on beating him until he tells me where Vivienne is. And then I’ll beat him to death.”

  Gamache regarded Godin and knew he was serious. He made a decision.

  “Come with us now. I live in the area. You can stay with my wife and me. We’ll organize a search for Vivienne. You can help us. Will you do that?”

  “Stay with you?” Homer asked. “Are you serious?”

  It was, not surprisingly, exactly the same question Lacoste wanted to ask. Was he serious?

  “Yes.”

  “Give me two minutes. I’ll pack a bag.”

  Homer ran from the kitchen and along the corridor, the small home practically shaking with the force of his feet.

  “Was that wise?” asked Lacoste, looking down the now-empty hallway. “You’re taking him to within a few kilometers of the man he wants to kill.”

  “He’d have gone there himself, probably as soon as we left. This way we have some control. I can watch over him.”

  “I know him,” said Cloutier. “If he says he’ll kill Tracey, he means it. You can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day.”

  “And what would you have us do, Agent Cloutier? Leave him?”

  She thought and finally shook her head.

  “Non,” said Gamache. “This isn’t the best solution, I agree, but it’s the only one I can think of right now. And we’re running out of time.” He looked out the window, where ice pellets were slapping against the panes. “Maybe Monsieur Godin’s right. Sometimes we have to do something stupid.”

  It did not seem to Isabelle Lacoste a great addition to the Sûreté motto.

  Service, integrity, justice, and, occasionally, stupidity.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Clara Morrow stood in her studio, her dog, Leo, at her side. Her shoulders were drooping from exhaustion as she wondered which, if any, paintings she’d rescue, should the evacuation order come.

  Would she take the miniatures? Were they worth saving? Had they earned their place on the ark? Two days ago she thought so. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  And with the water rising, decisions had to be made.

  They’d run out of sandbags two hours earlier. Then villagers had begun bringing pillowcases and feed bags, garbage bags. Anything that could hold sand.

  And then they’d run out of sand.

  And then they’d run out of light.

  And then they’d run out of steam.

  And still the rain kept coming. Changing to ice pellets, then freezing rain, then back to rain.

  It had stopped for half an hour, giving them hope that maybe …

  And then it started to snow.

  But still the villagers were reluctant to leave the wall they’d built. Four bags high. Two bags thick. Running a hundred meters on either shore of the Bella Bella. From Jane Neal’s back garden, along Clara’s garden, to the bridge. Then it continued behind Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, Sarah’s Boulangerie, the bistro, and Myrna’s bookstore.

  And ten meters beyond that, to the bend in the river.

  It had been a herculean task. But as they finally dragged themselves back to their homes, for hot showers and dry clothes, each villager suspected that it was not enough. That the Bella Bella would rise up in the night and overwhelm Three Pines.

  And there was nothing more they could do to stop it.

  Ruth had stayed on the stone bridge, with Rosa. Like a droopy sentinel. Unwilling to leave her post. Staring at the river that had been her friend.

  Until Clara and Myrna, Reine-Marie and Sarah the baker had coaxed her off. It wasn’t fine words that did it, or fine food, or even the bottle of fine scotch that Myrna had brought with her.

  It was Reine-Marie pointing out that Rosa was getting cold.

  It was finally love that drew Ruth away from the river.

  As the women accompanied the old poet back to her home, a car had appeared on the hill.

  “Armand,” said Reine-Marie.

  “He’s not alone,” said Clara.

  “Is it numbnuts?” asked Ruth.

  “No, Jean-Guy’s staying in Montréal,” said Reine-Marie.

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