A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,49
spoke to Annie. A baby,” she whispered, words meant only for Armand.
Homer did not need to know that they were living his dream, while he lived their nightmare.
Excusing himself now, Armand went into his study and, picking up his phone, tapped in a familiar number.
“I’m sorry,” he heard the polite young receptionist say, “but Chief Superintendent Toussaint can’t take your call right now.”
“Tell her it’s Armand Gamache.”
There was a pause. “She knows.”
Now it was his turn to pause. “Merci.”
Then he called the senior RCMP commissioner who’d been in the meeting the day before.
“Armand, what is it?” He sounded weary.
“I wanted an update on the flooding.”
“Did you call Toussaint?”
“I tried.”
Again there was a pause. Gamache could feel the embarrassment down the line.
“It’s a hectic time,” the officer said.
“Oui. Can you tell me what’s happening?”
“The dynamiting on the St. Lawrence worked, but it looks like a temporary reprieve. The thaw’s moving north.”
“The dams?”
“Holding. Barely. The pressure’s building. And they still can’t decide whether or not to open the floodgates.”
“Go on.” Gamache, who knew the man well, could hear the hesitation.
“I’ve consulted with the armed forces engineer and Hydro-Québec. We’re not waiting for approval. Hydro’s going to open the gates.”
Gamache took a deep breath. “You know that what you’re doing could be considered insubordination.”
“You think? Well, you’re the expert, I guess,” the Mountie said with a laugh. He sounded drained. “Once the floodgates are open, we’ll pull the machinery from all but the most vulnerable dams and move it south. The corps of engineers will then begin digging trenches along rivers that’re threatening communities. More insubordination. I don’t think they’re going to let us play together anymore, Armand. You’re a bad influence.”
Gamache gave a small sound of amusement. It was all he could muster.
“Armand?”
“Oui?”
“Be careful of Toussaint.”
“She’s doing well,” Gamache said. “These are difficult decisions. She’ll grow into the job.”
“But what job? She has political aspirations.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Except she’s using her position in the Sûreté not as a responsibility but as a tool, a springboard. Surely that was obvious in the meeting. She needs to distance herself from you. Distinguish herself from you.”
“Your point being?”
“With this flood, with our decision to follow your suggestion and not waiting for her approval, she’ll be gunning for you.”
“Not literally, I hope.”
But there was silence down the line. Both remembering when that was exactly what senior officers had done to each other, literally. In the time “before.”
“Non. But she’s no friend of yours. You have the support and loyalty of the rank and file, Armand. She doesn’t.”
“Give her time.”
“Have you been following the social-media posts? About you?”
“A bit.”
“Where do you think some of that information’s coming from?”
“Are you kidding?” said Gamache. “You think Madeleine Toussaint is leaking it?”
There was silence.
“You’re wrong,” said Gamache.
“How can you be loyal to her, Armand, when it’s so clearly not mutual?”
“Does it have to be mutual? She’s a decent person, who stepped up. She’s earned my loyalty. And she’ll grow into a great leader. I know that. Otherwise I’d never have suggested her for Chief Superintendent.”
“There was no one left,” said the Mountie, his exasperation growing. “Everyone else was either wounded or tainted by your actions. Even if you hadn’t recommended her, Toussaint was the only one standing. Look”—there was a heaved sigh down the line—“I hope I’m wrong. Just be careful. You’ve gotta know, once she gets wind of what we’re doing, she’ll blame you, even if we’re successful.”
“God willing we are. That’s all that matters.”
“Inshallah.”
“B’ezrat HaShem,” said Gamache. “We’ll worry about the rest later. Good luck. Let me know.”
“I will, my friend. Anything I can do?”
Armand looked toward the kitchen. “Do you have any divers you can spare?”
“Huh?”
* * *
As the RCMP divers reached the body, Beauvoir heard a sharp intake of breath and prepared to grab hold of Vivienne’s father, if necessary.
But it wasn’t.
Homer Godin stood on the shore. Face rigid. Body at attention.
Only when the team turned Vivienne over did he move. But not forward, as they expected and were prepared for.
Vivienne’s father sank, slowly, slowly to his knees. Then slowly, slowly he folded over. His head in the muck. His hands clutching the ground. The big man curled himself around his heart.
* * *
As Vivienne Godin approached the shore, her father lifted his head, sensing more than seeing her close by. Then he raised his body. Sitting back on his heels. And, with the help of Gamache and Beauvoir, he struggled to his feet.
They kept their hands under Homer’s arms. Supporting him. Holding him upright.