A Better Man

They left the island of Montréal, driving over the Champlain Bridge to the south shore.

He was in the passenger seat while Cloutier drove. Below them, the St. Lawrence River was packed with broken ice, as the spring melt took hold. Rivers across Québec were freezing and thawing, then freezing again. Creating massive ice jams. The rivers, swollen with melting snow and April showers, had nowhere to go. Except to burst their banks.

It happened every spring, the flooding. But this, he could see, was different.

Gamache hated heights, preferring to look straight ahead whenever he drove across the impressive bridge. But now he forced himself to look down. Feeling light-headed and slightly dizzy, he gripped the door handle and stared over the edge, at the huge, jagged columns of ice thrusting toward him out of the river.

As far down the St. Lawrence as he could see, there was ice. Cracked and heaved. And heading their way.

Turning to the front, he began breathing again, and with each breath he prayed to God the warm weather would take hold and melt the jams. Melt the dams. Relieve the rivers before they burst free.

But it didn’t look promising, he thought as the wipers of their vehicle swept wet snow off the windshield. And the sky ahead was choked with cloud.

“Tell me what you know,” he said to Agent Cloutier.

“Vivienne Godin and Carl Tracey live on a farm in the countryside not far from Cowansville. Before we left, I did a bit of digging. The local Sûreté detachment sent someone to her place yesterday, after Homer called them. They searched but found nothing. No evidence of violence.”

“And no Madame Godin.”

“Non. They’d been called to the home three times in the past, all for domestic violence. But each time they arrived, Madame Godin withdrew the complaint and refused to let them in.”

So her father had been right, thought Gamache. Something bad was happening.

“Officers no longer need a formal complaint,” he said. “They can make an arrest if they themselves see evidence of abuse.”

“Yes, but I guess there wasn’t enough evidence.”

“So no arrests?”

“Non.”

They rode in silence, each looking out at the gray, damp day. Thinking.

Gamache about this young woman, Vivienne Godin.

Cloutier about Vivienne’s father, Homer.

When she went to turn off the highway, Gamache instructed her to continue on.

“We need to get as much information as possible before visiting her home and speaking to her husband. We’ll get one shot at that before he kicks us off the property. We have to make each question count. Take the next turnoff, please, and head for the local detachment. They’re the ones who took the calls, right?”

“Yes, but I’ve already spoken to them.”

“Speaking on the phone and doing it in person are two different things. There’s also the issue of respect. This’s their territory. We shouldn’t just barge in and start questioning people. Besides, we’ll probably need their help.”

A few minutes later they turned in to the town.

“Down here, please,” said Gamache, pointing to a side street and then at a low building with the Sûreté emblem out front.