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?
“Are they a match for Tracey’s boots?” asked Gamache.
“They’re looking now.”
“Good, good,” said Gamache, his thoughts moving quickly ahead. Is it enough? Is it enough?
He made up his mind.
“I’m going to hold Godin for another couple of hours until you find out more. By then—”
“We might have enough to nail Tracey. I think it’s time we brought Pauline Vachon in.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ve applied for a warrant to search her place while she’s being questioned,” said Beauvoir. “As soon as it comes through, I’ll have her picked up. Isabelle will interview her at the station. She’d like Cloutier there. Any news from your end?”
“Agent Cameron has a lead on the abortion drug found in Vivienne’s bag. Definitely black-market. I’m hoping we can get proof that Tracey bought it.”
“About that,” said Beauvoir. “We have news on the fetus.”
Gamache listened, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the information. When Beauvoir finished, Gamache simply said, “Merci.”
“What is it, patron?” asked Cloutier, seeing his expression after he’d hung up.
Gamache paused for a moment, staring at the blank wall in front of him. His lips were pressed together in concentration. Then he clicked his device off and slipped it into his pocket.
“Superintendent Lacoste will be by in a few minutes,” he said, striding back to the desk. “We’re bringing in Pauline Vachon.”
“But there’s more I can get from her private Instagram account,” said Cloutier. “I’m sure of it.”
When he turned to her, she was surprised to see that the anxiety that had flitted across his face a few moments ago was gone, replaced by a smile.
“You’ve done a good job. It’s only because of you we’ve found Madame Vachon and the pictures. And the damning messages. Chief Inspector Beauvoir feels we have enough, and I agree with him. Now the job will be to turn her. Pay attention to Superintendent Lacoste. Learn from her. She’ll lead the interrogation. You’ll be there to support.”
It wasn’t lost on either Cloutier or Cameron that he’d said “interrogation.” Not “interview.”
They were almost there. They could see the finish line. It was just a matter now of dashing across it. Without falling.
“And Homer?”
“Let Monsieur Godin know he’ll be released soon. Agent Cameron, I’ll come with you after all. Chief Inspector Beauvoir will meet us there.”
“Oui, patron.”
As they made for the door, Cameron reached behind him, to double-check that he had his gun. He knew he did, but best to be certain. Besides, touching it was a comfort.
But he noticed, as he followed Gamache, that the Chief Inspector was not carrying a weapon.
He wondered if he should say something. Remind him that drug dealers were dangerous. But then he remembered who this man was and what he’d seen. And what he’d done.
Chief Inspector Gamache did not need to be schooled. He was the principal.
Beauvoir stood at his desk in the incident room in Three Pines and checked his belt.
The gun, as always, was there.
He wondered if he’d feel naked going into work every day as a senior executive at the engineering firm in Paris without this accessory.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir quite liked the feel of it. The heft. The ability to just pull back his jacket and expose it. To see people’s eyes widen.
The gun on his belt meant not simply safety but power. Though just lately, something odd had begun to happen.
It had felt heavier. More awkward. Less natural. The gun had begun to feel foreign.
Was this how it had started with Gamache? Surely as a young agent, as an inspector, even, he’d worn a gun? At what stage had he taken it off?
When does a cucumber become a pickle? It was the question Gamache sometimes asked when contemplating human behavior. And now Jean-Guy asked himself that.
When does change occur? Change that is irreversible.
At some point guns had become, for Armand Gamache, a necessary evil. But still, and undoubtedly, evil.
Gamache had knelt beside too many corpses. Had made too many.
Had reached behind him and pulled the weapon from its holster. Had swung it up, steadied his hand. Pointed. And Armand Gamache had fired. Into another human being.
Felt the recoil. Smelled the discharge. Seen the body drop. The person drop.
Someone’s son, daughter, husband, father.
It was a terrible, terrible thing to have to do.
Seeing the bullet strike was almost as bad as feeling it hit, as Jean-Guy knew too well. Being lifted into the air by the impact. The shock. The pain. The terror.
That was almost as bad as seeing colleagues go down. Gunned down.
Seeing Gamache himself hit. Lifted off the ground. And collapse.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir pushed that image, that memory, away. Unable still to really face it. Face the fact he himself had done it once. Had seen Gamache through his sights and fired. Felt the report. Smelled the discharge.
Seen him rise and watched him fall.
It was the worst moment of Jean-Guy Beauvoir’s life. And it had changed his life.
His hand now closed briefly over the holster, but instead of feeling the usual reassurance, he felt a wave of revulsion.
And he knew, in his gut, it was time to leave. He’d done his bit, done his best.
Time to take a job where the only weapon was his mind. Where there were no victims, only clients. And no suspects, only competitors. Where everyone who started the day with a heartbeat ended the day with one.
Or, if not, it wasn’t his doing.
But he wasn’t there yet. Soon. Just this one, last case. Jean-Guy Beauvoir just had to get across the finish line.
Instead of answering Clara’s question, why she’d never reviewed her shows, Dominica Oddly had hauled herself out of the sofa and was wandering around the studio. Nodding as she took in the collection of stuff.
A jumble of old works. Failed and abandoned pieces sat beside finished and lauded portraits. There were stones and twisted tree roots. Feathers and sticks and assorted broken eggs, fallen from nests. It was as though Clara had left the door to her studio wide open and the wilderness had blown in.
Oddly took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The studio smelled of oil paint and turpentine and wet dog. And something else.
Clara had given up trying to look sophisticated and had rolled off the low sofa onto her hands and knees, and now she got to her feet with a grunt.
To Clara’s horror, Oddly had stopped in front of a collection of dusty ceramic pieces. And was taking photographs.
“What do you call these?” she asked.
“Warrior Uteruses.”
Oddly laughed. A deep, rich rumbling sound that filled the space with genuine amusement.
“Perfect. Have you shown them?”
“They’re old. I did them maybe ten years ago,” Clara explained. “Showed them once.”
“And?”
“Not a success.”
Oddly nodded, clearly not surprised. Then she turned back to Clara. “I’ve been to all your shows, you know. Privately.”
She walked over to the small portrait lounging against the wall. The one of Ruth. The old woman glared back at the young woman, her whole being filled with rage and pain, with bitterness and disappointment. Ruth gripped her worn blue shawl at her scrawny throat and looked out at a world that had left her behind.
“I didn’t get it at first,” Dominica admitted, as though talking directly to the old woman. “Didn’t see what others saw. All I saw were portraits done in a predictable, conventional style. Granted, the subjects were interesting, but that struck me as a sort of cheat. A shorthand to cover up for a lack of technique. A lack of depth.”