men’s, my feet are size seven.”
“Women’s.”
“Thank you. Yes. But because the rubber sole is so thick and the treads so deeply stamped, my boot prints look exactly like the ones under the car.”
“Exactly?” He turned the boots over. The treads were made from tough rubber, designed to insulate and grip. And not to wear down. So that the tread of a five-year-old boot would not be much different, if at all, from that of a brand-new one.
“I sent the pictures to the lab, and they’ll analyze them, but I couldn’t see a difference.”
“So—”
“So anyone could’ve made those boot prints under her car. A man, a woman—a child, even, I suppose.”
“This isn’t getting us closer to Tracey,” he said. “In fact, you’re making the defense’s case, if a case was still needed.”
“I know,” she said.
It didn’t have to have been a large man on that bridge. It could have been a smaller woman. And now that Beauvoir thought about it, the coroner had said that those handprints on Vivienne’s chest, bruises made in a shove, probably were made by a large man.
But—
The coroner also pointed out that bruises bleed. Spread internally. Dr. Harris had left the possibility open that they, too, could have been made by a smaller woman.
“Pauline Vachon?” he asked.
Lacoste nodded.
* * *
Lysette Cloutier got to her feet when Chief Inspector Gamache entered the kitchen.
Homer and Reine-Marie sat in front of the woodstove, a pot of tea and some shortbread cookies on a tray on the hassock between them.
Fred lay on the rug at Homer’s feet, barely raising his head to look at the man who’d just come in.
Henri and Gracie had run to the door to greet him and now chased each other into the kitchen, getting between Armand’s legs, almost tripping him up. But he was used to it.
Homer stared down at his large hands, which gripped each other tightly.
Then he got up slowly and turned to Armand. There was a bandage on the left side of his head, above his temple, where he’d hit the floor of the courtroom, knocking himself out. He had a black eye and bruising into his hairline.
His face, as he faced Armand, was impassive. A mask.
He just stood. And stared. And stared.
And then, silently, he moved. Brushing past Armand.
“Homer?” said Armand.
But the man had left the warm kitchen. There was a whistle from the living room. Fred lifted his head, struggled to his feet, and followed the sound.
“Please stay here,” said Armand to the others.
Homer was on the front porch with the old dog.
It was five in the afternoon, and the shadows were long. The temperature was dropping with the sun.
Woodsmoke rose from the homes, slightly scenting the chilly early-evening air.
Armand held the door open, and, at a nod, out shot Henri, followed by Gracie, who was looking, and behaving, more and more like a chipmunk every day.
They caught up with Homer and Fred, who were walking with a measured pace along the edge of the village green. Neither in nor out of the circle.
Lights were on in homes around Three Pines, and Armand could see the glow from the old railway station across the still-swollen river and knew that Jean-Guy and Isabelle were in there, working to solve a crime that seemed to be getting away from them.
Then he turned to the grizzled man, walking through the twilight.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he fell in beside Homer, keeping slow pace with him.
But Homer didn’t reply. Just stared ahead, at the hills and forests growing darker and darker around them.
At the path into the woods, which followed the Rivière Bella Bella and went to the place where Vivienne was found, Homer stopped. It was now little more than a slightly darker opening in a dark forest.
Then he turned and looked in the opposite direction. Upriver. Where Vivienne had first gone into the water. Where she’d last been alive.
His breath came out in warm, soft puffs. Joining, mingling with Armand’s.
“What do you want from me, Armand?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true. I can see it in your eyes.” He turned to face him. “What is it? Forgiveness? You want me to say it’s okay that you messed up? That I now have to do what you couldn’t? Get justice for my little girl.”
Armand was quiet. And he thought maybe Homer was right.
He wanted to be absolved of his guilt.
Vivienne’s father was quiet for a long time, his eyes returning to the river. Before he finally spoke.
“Is it possible some things can’t be forgiven? They’re just