now, was the sound of the Rivière Bella Bella, rushing toward Three Pines.
As Gamache dialed the number from memory, he watched Carl Tracey walk over to the donkeys, who nuzzled him, pushing him playfully. Tracey produced huge carrots and gave one to each.
The phone rang a few times before being answered.
“Oui, allô,” Gamache said, clearly relieved. “Yes, everything’s fine. No cell-phone coverage here, so I’ve had to borrow a phone. How are things with you?… I see.… Yes. Sandbagging. Good idea.… I will.” He looked at Tracey, who’d, at the mention of sandbagging, turned from the donkeys with a look of some alarm.
“But I do need a favor,” said Gamache. “I’m at the farm where Vivienne Godin and her husband live. Carl Tracey refuses to answer questions or let us into the house or barn. I need a search warrant immediately. T-R-A-C-E-Y.… Oui.”
Tracey’s face went slack. As though he’d been sandbagged.
“You can call back at this number,” continued Gamache. “If you don’t get an answer, send patrol cars up. They know the place. In fact, when the search warrant comes through, send them up to help search. But tell them the road is pretty much impassable.… No, everything’s fine. I’ll let you know when we have more news about Madame Godin. Au revoir.”
* * *
At Sûreté headquarters, Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up and quickly made out a warrant request, then put in a call to a judge.
“Yes, Your Honor, we need it immediately. Chief Inspector Gamache is on-site and waiting. A woman is missing and perhaps murdered by her husband. I’m sending the request now.”
He hit the send key. “Please let me know.”
Then he hung up and looked out the window.
The rain had begun. It was pissing April showers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gamache handed the phone back to Tracey, with a smile. “Merci. Most helpful.”
“What the fuck was that?”
“You heard, Mr. Tracey. In a few minutes, that phone will ring again. It’ll be about a warrant to search your property. Best to answer it. Let’s go into your house, and while we wait for the call confirming the search warrant, you can answer some questions.”
Tracey’s face hardened. He looked like an obstinate child.
“Or not,” said Gamache pleasantly. “But we’re cold and wet and would appreciate your cooperation.”
He could almost hear Cameron and Cloutier gagging at his courteous tone.
Tracey, it seemed, had gotten the point. He gestured for them to follow.
The mud had hardened onto their coats and pant legs and boots. They looked and felt like Québec’s version of the Terra-Cotta Warriors. The Sûreté officers took off their coats and boots, leaving them on the porch. But they couldn’t very well remove their wet and filthy slacks.
Tracey had no such hesitation about trailing muck through his house and had kept his rubber boots on.
It was hot in the home, almost stifling. An elderly mutt lay by the woodstove in the kitchen.
“Beer walk soon,” said Tracey, gesturing toward the dog.
Gamache knew what that meant, though the others did not. He looked past the gray muzzle into the tired old eyes and thought of the walk into the woods, with the rifle.
And wondered if the same fate had befallen the dog’s mistress.
Dishes, pots, and pans were piled into and out of the sink. The place stank of grease and rotting food. Booze and old dog and cigarettes. The smell was almost overpowering.
Gamache took a deep breath through his nose. Wondering if, in the sweltering heat, he could pick up another scent.
Something familiar. Something unmistakable. Something far worse.
But he could not. It was, perhaps, masked by the other rotting odors. But he doubted it. There was really no masking that one putrid stench.
The three Sûreté officers had joined Tracey at the Formica kitchen table. Tracey lit a cigarette while Cloutier and Cameron waited for Gamache to do something.
But he was doing something. Armand Gamache was listening.
For a sound, however remote, telling him that there was someone else in the home. A tapping. A muffled call.
Anything.
But there was only silence.
Finally he said, “Monsieur Tracey, you say your wife isn’t here. Do you know where she is?”
Cloutier had brought out her iPhone and was recording everything.
“I already told you cops. All I know is when I woke up yesterday morning, she was gone. No note, no nothin’.”
“Any ideas?”
Tracey laughed. “She could be anywhere. On a bender. Shacked up with some guy. I’ll tell you, when she comes back—”
He remembered, too late, who he was talking to.
“Yes?” said Gamache. “Go on.”
“Nothin’.”
Armand Gamache had looked across lots of tables, at lots