A Better Man
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #15
- Год: 2019
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781466873711
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «A Better Man». Краткое содержание книги:
It's Gamache's first day back as head of the homicide department, a job he temporarily shares with his previous second-in-command, Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Floodwaters are rising across the province. In the middle of the turmoil, a father approaches Gamache, pleading for help in finding his daughter.
As crisis piles upon crisis, Gamache tries to hold off the encroaching chaos, and realizes the search for Vivienne Godin should be abandoned. But with a daughter of his own, he finds himself developing a profound, and perhaps unwise, empathy for her distraught father.
Increasingly hounded by the question, how would you feel..., he resumes the search.
As the rivers rise, and the social media onslaught against Gamache becomes crueler, a body is discovered. And in the tumult, mistakes are made.
In the next novel in this constantly surprising series that deepens and darkens as it evolves (The New York Times Book Review), Gamache must face a horrific possibility, and a burning question.
What would you do if your child's killer walked free?
“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.