A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,27

“There’s nothing we can do right now, but believe me—”

“I’m coming down.”

“No, don’t.” Gamache’s voice was sharp. “The roads will wash out soon. Bridges will be closed. You’ll be trapped away from home. Stay where you are. In case she calls.”

There it was again. Giving Vivienne’s father what Gamache suspected was false hope. For a call he was more and more convinced would never come.

But he had to keep the man away. For any number of reasons, not just the flooding.

As soon as he hung up, Agent Cloutier put the siren on. They were on the autoroute now, racing toward the city. As they headed over the Champlain Bridge, he asked her to pull over and put the flashers on.

“But there’s no emergency lane, sir. We’ll block traffic.”

“This won’t take long.”

Once the car stopped, he got out quickly, before he could change his mind.

Hardly believing he was doing this, he made for the side of the bridge.

It was only a few steps away, but he had to fight for every inch.

Terrified of heights and suffering from vertigo, he felt himself grow instantly light-headed. And wondered if he’d pass out.

But he had to look. Had to see.

He battled his way forward, just a few feet that felt like miles. Reaching out, he gripped the concrete wall that separated him from the void. The wind and rain hit his face. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Then, opening them, he leaned out.

And gasped. His eyes wide, his knuckles white.

The world seemed to spin, and he realized, with horror, that he was in danger not of falling but of throwing himself off the bridge. The vertigo was dragging him over the edge. And there was nothing to stop his fall. Nothing between the bridge and the water.

He could hear, as though from very, very far away, cars honking. He thought he heard his own name called and had the peculiar feeling it was coming from the void below.

But still he stared, willing his eyes to focus.

And when they did, he saw. It was worse than that morning. Much worse. Ice was heaving, pushing against the pylons of the bridge. Halfway up already, and climbing.

He looked out at the wide, wide expanse of river. Some open water was visible, dark jagged lines between the fissures. The ice floes, many feet thick, were crashing together. Mounting each other. Forcing huge shards of ice to jut out.

Then he heard the rumble and forced himself to look farther out, farther downriver. The sound grew louder and louder, moving quickly now. A frost quake was tearing toward the bridge.

Gamache took a couple of deep breaths. And tightened his grip on the low concrete wall.

Trying not to close his eyes. Trying not to flinch.

He stood up slightly straighter as the rumble turned into a roar.

And then the boom. Like cannon fire, as the ice ruptured under the pressure. About fifty meters away.

He exhaled.

If it was this bad here, it must be just as bad, if not worse, all around the island of Montréal. Never mind all the other rivers. All the other bridges, across Québec.

He needed to leave. To make it to that meeting at headquarters. But first he had to get back to the car. Across the vast three feet of asphalt. He found that his grip was so tight he couldn’t let go.

He ripped his hands off the concrete and, turning, took a few shaky steps, then practically threw himself the last few feet.

“Patron?” asked Agent Cloutier on seeing his face.

“It’s all right,” Gamache said, his hands in tight fists so that the trembling wouldn’t show. “But we need to hurry.”

* * *

Sûreté headquarters was buzzing. Officers rushing along the hallways.

Bullpens on each floor were all but empty, only skeleton crews remaining to answer calls and continue the most urgent of investigations.

Everyone else had been reassigned to the flooding.

Gamache went directly to homicide and met briefly with Jean-Guy.

On entering the office, he saw Beauvoir on the phone, looking energized, in his element. Though the younger man would no doubt fiercely deny it, Jean-Guy Beauvoir liked nothing better than an emergency.

He hung up and raised his brows. “Been to a spa?”

“Spa?”

“Mud bath.”

“Oh, that.” Gamache looked down at his caked coat and slacks. He’d forgotten that he was covered in muck. “More like mud wrestling.”

“Who won?”

“Not me.” He took off his heavy coat and hung it on the hook at the back of the door. “I’ll tell you about it later. Oh, there is one thing I’d