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?
Gamache tried again. Anything to stop Homer’s slow progress toward the edge.
“There’s something else bothering me,” he said. “Tracey was at the art-supply shop Saturday morning. Why didn’t Vivienne go to you then? Why didn’t she leave earlier?”
Again, nothing. Just the vacant stare.
Tracey moved now, groggy, and again Homer tightened his grip.
Stay still, Gamache begged the rousing man. Don’t move.
“You took twenty thousand dollars out of the bank. To give to Vivienne?”
“Yes.”
Simple question. Simple answer. But at least an answer. It gave Gamache information, but, equally important, it created a tiny crack in Homer’s focus. And, maybe, time for Jean-Guy and Isabelle and the others to arrive. If he could just engage Homer.
Though Armand was far from sure that it would matter.
Homer took another step backward.
“She asked for the money?” he said.
“Yes.”
“To raise it, you had to take a mortgage out against your home.”
Homer gave one curt nod.
Gamache took another step. Farther onto the bridge.
“Did you ask Lysette Cloutier about that? About how to do it? Did she know about the money?”
“I don’t know, I might have. It doesn’t matter.”
Homer still looked dazed, but now something else had crept into his eyes. It wasn’t quite fear, but he was wary.
Now, what, thought Gamache, could a man willing to kill himself be wary of? Something to do with Cloutier?
“What is it, Homer? What do you want to tell me? What do you need to tell me?”
“I loved Vivienne.”
“I know you did.”
“I have to do this. It’s my fault. I have to make it right.”
“It’s not your fault, and this won’t make anything right, Homer. You must know that. Following one terrible act with another doesn’t balance the books.”
“All those years of hurt. All the pain.” Homer was pleading with him now, trying to get Armand to see. To understand. “All the times I should’ve stopped it but didn’t. Kathy begged me, but—”
“There was nothing you could do. You sent Vivienne money, you mortgaged your home. You tried to see her, to help—”
Annie’s father stared at Vivienne’s father. His mind racing. Trying to get a hold of something, anything, that would penetrate Homer’s resolve.
But everything he said seemed to be making it worse, if that was possible.
Homer hefted Tracey further onto his shoulder. Tightening his grip.
“You’re wrong,” said Homer. “About everything. This isn’t a terrible act. It’s the one decent thing I can do for Vivienne. To make up for all the damage. All the pain I caused her. I owe her this. You’re right. This might not … what did you call it? Balance the books? Not even close. But it’s all I have left.”
Armand heard a car door slam and saw Homer’s eyes flicker over his shoulder.
“Patron?”
The sight that met Isabelle Lacoste was chilling. But not surprising.
Vivienne’s father was about to make good on his promise. He was about to throw Vivienne’s killer off the bridge. The only question was whether he’d go over with him.
But that really wasn’t in doubt, she knew, as she looked at his face.
Beauvoir could see light through the trees. The opening. The road.
They were almost there.
He couldn’t hear anything from up ahead, for all his crashing through the branches and undergrowth.
But as soon as he broke through, he saw the Sûreté vehicles and, racing around the corner, saw immediately what was happening. He skidded to a stop.
Armand felt the heft of Cameron’s gun in his pocket and considered drawing it out. Considered using it, to wound the man. Bring him down.
But decided against it.
Homer was too close to the edge. In every way. It would propel him over.
And the threat of being shot wouldn’t make him drop Tracey. It was no threat at all to a man about to do something far worse. It might even be a kindness.
A coup de grâce. A battlefield execution. To end his agony.
Beauvoir had moved to one side of the road while Lacoste took the far side. They inched along the soft shoulder, where the forest met the road. Once or twice, Homer’s eyes flicked in his direction. The man clearly saw what Beauvoir was doing. And didn’t care.
Beauvoir’s breathing settled, but he remained taut, prepared to move fast. Though, like Lacoste and Gamache, he suspected it would not be nearly fast enough.
Gamache had an idea.
Wild. Desperate. And maybe the only thing that would stop Homer Godin from throwing Carl Tracey off the bridge.
“He didn’t kill your daughter.”
“What?”
“Tracey. He didn’t kill Vivienne.”
The words, like a soft bullet, entered Vivienne’s father. And he stopped.
Beauvoir and Lacoste glanced at each other. They were on either side of the narrow road, with Gamache between them, up ahead. On the bridge.
They knew what he was doing. And it seemed to be working.
Homer Godin was a decent man. Driven mad by grief and despair. But he had no desire to kill anyone, except the person who’d murdered his daughter.
If Gamache could convince him that Carl Tracey was innocent, at least of the murder …
“Who?” was all Homer could say. All he needed to say.
His eyes wide, fixed on Gamache.
Armand had no idea what to say. Though he knew it didn’t matter.
He just had to come up with a name. Someone. Anyone. Would do.
Anything to get Homer to drop Tracey and step away from the edge.
He was just about to say the name of the one suspect not actually on the bridge, Pauline Vachon, when from behind him, came a voice.
“I did.”
Homer shifted his gaze. And while Gamache was tempted to look behind him, he didn’t.
Didn’t have to. He knew who’d spoken.
“I’m sorry, Homer.”
Lysette Cloutier had walked to just a few paces behind Gamache. And now she stepped forward, until she was beside him.
Beauvoir moved swiftly forward until he had one foot on the bridge. His hand on the rickety railing. He was just a few paces from Homer, could almost, almost reach out and touch him.
Homer was staring so intently at Cloutier, standing in the middle of the road, that he didn’t notice Beauvoir off to the side.
Now Beauvoir stopped. Not wanting to spook the man.
“Lysette?” whispered Homer.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her words coming out on a sigh. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”
“Why’re you saying this?” he asked.
“Because it’s the truth. I was her godmother. I’d promised to look after her. You’d told me about Carl, about the abuse. She needed support. Needed money. To get away. I felt awful that I hadn’t done more, done anything, to protect her. I’d promised Kathy … promised you…”
“Stay back,” Gamache whispered as Lysette took a step toward Homer.
“I’d saved up some money. I called her a week ago. Told her I’d like to give it to her. She said she needed time to get things in order but that she’d meet me here, on Saturday night. She’d sneak away after her husband was drunk and passed out.”
Homer was staring at her. He looked confused, and Gamache wondered how much he was taking in. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beauvoir almost within reach of Homer.
The mist rising from the Bella Bella was burning off in the early-morning sun.