A Better Man Read online

She’d long since given up trying to stop Ruth from calling her son-in-law “numbnuts.” And even he’d begun answering to it.

  The car stopped in front of the Gamache home, and two men and a dog got out.

  * * *

  Homer Godin looked around.

  All he could see through the sleet and darkness was a ring of lights that seemed to hang in midair. He knew they came from homes, but those were invisible.

  They’d stopped in Montréal and dropped Lysette and that superintendent woman at Sûreté headquarters.

  Homer had sat in the outer office, listening, while Gamache met with a fellow named Jean-Guy something.

  The young fellow was obviously another cop. Senior, it seemed. Gamache’s equal? At times it seemed so. His superior? At times it seemed so. His subordinate? At times it seemed so.

  They’d discussed the flooding. It was far worse than Homer had realized.

  “Have they dynamited the jams on the St. Lawrence?” Gamache asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “What’re they waiting for?” asked Gamache.

  “A decision, I guess. The Corps of Military Engineers is pushing for it, but the Deputy Premier seems afraid it’ll set off a panic.”

  Gamache took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “Bon. I’m almost afraid to ask, but … the dams?”

  The dams? thought Homer. What dams?

  And then he realized what dams they were talking about. The huge hydroelectric dams in James Bay. He leaned his head around the doorway and asked, “Are they in trouble?”

  And for one brief moment, his personal catastrophe was replaced by the collective disaster that was threatening.

  “Non,” said the younger man. But Homer Godin recognized a lie when he heard it.

  It was said in the same grim tone Vivienne used every time he’d asked if Tracey was hurting her.

  Non.

  The two continued to talk, but now in tones that suggested much more than just colleagues. These men were friends.

  “Keep in touch,” said Gamache, at the door.

  “You too. Good luck, patron.” Then this Jean-Guy Someone turned to Homer. “I promise, once the crisis is past, we’ll do everything we can to find your daughter. In the meantime Chief Inspector Gamache will help. He’s the best.”

  Godin looked at Gamache and couldn’t help but think if he was the best, why weren’t they using him in this emergency? Why send him away?

  Homer couldn’t help himself. He grabbed the younger man’s arm. “I need more. Help me, please. Help.”

  “We’re doing all we can. I’m sorry.”

  And now Homer Godin stood in the bleak village. In the mud. In the half rain, half snow, and while he couldn’t see much, he could hear a great deal.

  He looked toward the sound. The river. That was in full flood. And he thought of his daughter. Disappearing into the night. Disappearing into the flood.

  Then he looked past the lights. Somewhere in the darkness, not all that far away, was Carl Tracey.

  Homer wasn’t sure how, but he’d get to him.

  * * *

  Lysette Cloutier poured herself another glass of wine and returned to the sofa.

  She was at home now, having volunteered to help with the emergency measures but told she wasn’t needed.

  She was both very annoyed and very relieved. Mostly she was very worried.

  Lysette hadn’t been completely honest with Chief Inspector Gamache and Superintendent Lacoste about her relationship with Homer, such as it was. But also her relationship with Vivienne. Such as it was.

  She wasn’t sure why, but it had seemed important not to tell them that she was Vivienne’s godmother. Perhaps because she was a god-awful godmother. Not having had one herself, Lysette had no idea what was expected. Except for her to take Vivienne, should anything happen to her parents, Kathy and Homer.

  But beyond that?

  The only other thing she could remember from the baptism was being told she needed to act as Viv’s guardian. To guard her. To keep the child safe.

  “Well,” she mumbled. “Fucked that one up.”

  After taking a long gulp, perhaps even a guzzle, of wine, she pulled her laptop onto her lap and logged in. Agent Cloutier had been told to find out everything she could about Carl Tracey. Might as well start.

  She was prepared to have to do a fairly deep dive into government records but had decided, as a lark, to just put his name into a Google search.

  She sat there, openmouthed, when up came a website.

  “Can’t be.”

  Clicking on it, she looked at the photo of the man. Definitely Tracey. Surrounded by his pottery.

  “Shit,” she said, and clicked on more links. To exhibitions he’d had. To a buying link. To a brief bio that mentioned his wife, Vivienne, and their dog, Fred.

  Like most of the stuff on the Web, it was bullshit. The life people wanted people to see. The neat front yard, not the squalor behind the front door.

  She snapped the laptop closed in disgust and, putting it on the floor, she lay back and grabbed the TV remote. But then she looked down at the slender rectangle sitting on the floor below her. And she got to wondering.

  How did a man without internet have a website?

  * * *

  Isabelle Lacoste ignored the phone call from Lysette Cloutier.

  It was her strict policy to leave work behind, at least until the kids were fed and in bed. Unless the call was from Monsieur Gamache or Jean-Guy.

  Besides, she was on leave.

  It was only after the third attempt that Isabelle picked up.

  “Oui, allô?”

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, patron.” The voice was just the tiniest bit off. Not slurred. If anything, the words were too well enunciated. Too precise.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Carl Tracey has a web page.” And then came a sound between a laugh and a snort.

  “Yes.”

  “But he doesn’t have internet. He also has an Instagram account. That’s active. So how does he do it?”

  Now Lacoste’s mind was engaged. How did he do it? There was only one answer—

  “He has a webmaster,” said Cloutier. “Some woman named Pauline. She must manage it all for him. Post for him.”

  “Okay,” said Lacoste, sitting at her own laptop and putting in Carl Tracey’s name.

  “Dinner,” her husband called.

  “Be right there.”

  “You’re coming here?” asked Cloutier with alarm, looking at the almost empty wine bottle and empty bag of chips.

  “No, I was speaking to my husband.” Putting her hand over the receiver, she called, “Start without me.” Then she returned to Cloutier. “Is there anything incriminating on the sites?”

  “Not that I can see, but there might be a private Instagram account that they use, just the two of them.”

  “That no one else can see? That’s possible?”

  “Yup.”

  “How would we know?”

  “We wouldn’t, unless we asked and she told us.”

  “And to get access to the private account?” asked Lacoste. By now she’d found the public Instagram account. It was pretty standard, clearly meant for marketing his pottery.

  “Need to be invited.”

  “Why would they have a private account?” Lacoste asked.

  “Dunno.” Then Cloutier thought. “Private messages. That’s why.”

  She sounded both triumphant and a little surprised she’d managed that answer.

  “Things they don’t want public,” said Lacoste.

  Cloutier sang, “Someone’s trying to hide their privates.” Then she definitely snorted.

  Lacoste looked at the phone. She’d mentored the older woman since she’d been transferred, kicking and screaming, from accounting into homicide. Never once had the accountant snorted. Or even made a joke. She’d barely smiled.

  She’s drunk, Lacoste knew. Now, why would Lysette Cloutier get drunk?

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just fine.” Now Cloutier sounded insulted. “I thought you’d be pleased about this.”

  Now she sounded hurt and a little irritated.

  “I am. Look, it’s been a long, difficult day. You’ve done well. Leave it and start fresh in the morning. And for God’s sake, don’t contact this woman, right? We don’t want Tracey to know we’re interested in his private Instagram. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Lysette Cloutier hung up but did not take that advice.

  She should have.

  * * *

  Clara put on the outdoor lights at the back of her home.

  On warm summer evenings, she and her friends would sit in the garden having drinks and dinner. The lights were placed to illuminate the perennial beds of delphiniums and phlox and old garden roses.

  Beds that had been first planted more than a century ago.

  But on this cold April evening, Clara had climbed the ladder and repositioned the lights so that they pointed into the night, to where her garden met the river.

  Now the lights illuminated an expanse of mud and the wall of sandbags.

  “Floodlights,” said Gabri, standing beside Myrna in the kitchen and staring out the window.

  They’d gathered in Clara’s home, partly out of habit, partly out of a need to be together, partly because it was the best vantage point to monitor the Bella Bella and still be protected.

  And privately out of fear that this would be the last time.

  The neighbors put the food they’d brought onto the kitchen island, buffet style. And now they gathered around the window, to see if they could see anything.

  But Clara herself had left them and gone back to the doorway into her studio, where Reine-Marie joined her.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m well in body,” said Clara. “But considerably rumpled up in spirit.”

  Reine-Marie laughed. Easily recognizing the lines from the Anne of Green Gables books she, her daughter, and now her granddaughters loved so much.

  She put her arm through Clara’s. “Fortunately, you’re among kindred spirits.”

  Clara squeezed her hand and continued to stare into the studio.

  “What’re you thinking?” Reine-Marie asked.

  “I’m thinking that if we need to leave, I can’t take all my paintings. So which do I choose, if any?”

  “If any?”

  Clara turned to look at her. “Are they crap?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You know why.”

  “You haven’t let those comments get into your head, have you? Those people are ignorant—”

  “It was the New York Times. And Art World. Thank God the Oddly Report hasn’t said anything.”

  “The what?” asked Ruth, who’d sensed pain and had gone over to bask in and, with luck, magnify it. “The Oddly Report? What’s that?”

  “The one major art journal that’s never reviewed my work. Wouldn’t you know it? It’s the biggest, the most prestigious. Most people just call it Odd.”

  “And obviously the smartest,” said Ruth.

  “Now I’m glad they’ve ignored me,” said Clara, snapping off the lights.

  But, having reexamined the miniatures, she was both heartened and confused. They were, she felt, actually very good. Exceptional, even. Why couldn’t others see what she saw?

  She joined her friends, crowded around the kitchen window, while Ruth limped into the living room and stood behind the one person not watching the Bella Bella.

  Homer Godin was staring out a window in the other direction. Into the forest.

  Ruth’s reflection, like an apparition, hovered in the window just over his shoulder. The rain coursed down both their faces.

  “She’s out there somewhere.” Homer’s words fogged the windowpane. He didn’t turn around, but his eyes in the reflection met Ruth’s. “Please. Can you help me?”

  In the background, the CBC was broadcasting continuous updates on the flooding.

  Reports were coming in from all over Ontario, Québec, the Maritimes, while Vivienne’s father stared at Rosa’s mother.

  She reached out and touched his arm.

  Homer closed his eyes tight. “Oh, please. Help.”

  * * *

  Armand checked the wall of sandbags.

  Floodlights had been set up on either side of the river. One pointing upriver, the other pointing down. So that the villagers could see what was happening. From where he stood, he could also see the lights in Clara’s back garden.

  The rain mixed with snow was teeming down, and he hunched deeper into his coat as a gust of wind lashed water into his face.

  Every half hour since getting back, he went out to check the height of the river. It was, Ruth had made clear, his assignment. The least he could do.

  “You don’t think you can just swan in here and relax by the fire after we spent all day building the goddamned wall?” said Ruth.

  Rosa, in her arms, bristled. She didn’t like swans.

  “Clearly the Sûreté doesn’t think you’re much use, or you wouldn’t be back here. And don’t get me started on what they’re saying on Twitter, the dumb-asses. Not that I disagree.”

  “Ruth!” said Reine-Marie.

  “What? It’s the truth.”

  “All truth with malice in it,” said Armand.

  “But still the truth,” said Ruth.

  Reine-Marie walked Armand to the door. “That was from Moby-Dick, wasn’t it?”

  Rosa turned and looked at Ruth, who whispered reassuringly, “Dick. Not duck.”

  “Yes,” said Armand. “Someone quoted from the book today. Now it’s lodged in my mind.”

  “Well, there’s a coincidence,” Ruth said to Clara. “You were talking about it, too.”

  “What were you hearing? I was talking about my art, not a book.”

  “You were talking about your critics, and the big one that got away,” said Ruth. “Your white whale.”

  Armand went to put on his heavy rubber boots, then realized he’d grabbed the wrong pair. Looking around, he noticed they all had much the same boots, all bought at Monsieur Béliveau’s general store.

  “Don’t let Homer out of your sight,” he said to Reine-Marie as he did up his coat. “And whatever happens, make sure he doesn’t get any car keys.”

  “You don’t want him bolting,” said Reine-Marie.

  He nodded. “Bolting” was one way of putting it.

  As he trudged through the mud, head bent into the sleet, Armand heard splashing behind him and turned to see Olivier running toward him.

  The slender man was bundled up so that he would be unrecognizable, except to someone who knew him well.

  “Thought you could use some help,” said Olivier, above the roar of the water.

  “To look at a river?”

  “Okay, some company.” On seeing the expression on Armand’s face, Olivier amended that. “Okay, it was time to do dishes.”

  Armand laughed. Knowing that in fact Olivier had come out into the frigid night to offer help. In case.

  “Merci.”

  At the wall, Armand put his arm out to Olivier. “Hold my hand.”

  “This is so sudden,” said Olivier. “But not unexpected.”

  “Silly man,” said Armand with a grunt of laughter. “Just hold on so I don’t fall in.”

  With Olivier gripping his hand and sleeve, Gamache climbed over the wall and leaned out. Clicking on his flashlight as he did.

  He saw that while there was certainly ice and debris in the swiftly moving river, it was at least moving.

  They checked several other spots downriver.

  At the last stop, Armand took longer. And leaned farther.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” yelled Olivier. “I’m losing my grip.”

  “Another moment.” The floodlights didn’t reach this far, so Armand shone his flashlight on the frothing water.

  “What?” asked Olivier, the strain of holding on apparent in his voice.

  “There’s some buildup beginning. In the bend in the river. I can see ice and some tree limbs.”

  He stayed there another few seconds. Trying to see more clearly. Though the sleet was hitting his face and he had to blink away the moisture.

  “Better come back. Now.” The strain in Olivier’s voice was apparent, and Armand could feel his grip slipping.

  He climbed back over the sturdy wall of sandbags. His brow furrowed in thought.

  Wiping the rain from his eyes, he looked upriver. Past the stone bridge. Past Clara’s home. Past St. Thomas’s Church, lit so that even through the rain he could see the three stained-glass boys, trudging forever through the mud of some far-off foreign field.

  “We need Billy Williams,” he yelled above the river.

  “Why?”

  “The Bella Bella’s about to break her banks. The sandbags will hold for a little while, but there’s too much water coming down, and ice is backing up at the bend.”

  “What can Billy do? Break it up?”

  Gamache looked upriver again, remembering the donkeys in the field and the sound of the Bella Bella behind them.

  “He can dig a trench.”

  * * *

  It was an oddity of Armand’s relationship with Billy that they had a strangely close connection and yet Armand could not understand a word the man said. Granted, Billy Williams had a thick backcountry English accent, though Gamache managed to understand everyone else.

  Despite this, Billy remained for Armand both a cipher and a confidant.

  Olivier had run back to Clara’s home and brought Billy out with him. Now the three stood next to the Bella Bella.

  “How can I help?” Billy asked.

  All Armand heard was a series of guttural sounds ending in an upward inflection. He looked at Olivier, who translated.

  Armand told him what he wanted. Billy considered.

  “For God’s sake, hurry up and tell us,” said Olivier, his teeth chattering in the cold.

  “I’ll need my backhoe,” said Billy, pointing to the piece of machinery he’d used earlier in the day to move the piles of sand. “But it’s heavy. It won’t make it up the hills in this mud. The place you’re suggesting is kilometers away.”

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