A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15) - Louise Penny Page 0,56
*
Beauvoir and Lacoste walked past the thick wall of sandbags, pausing to consider them.
“Came close,” she said, pointing to the ones that had been pushed over by the force of the river.
Beauvoir grunted.
How close they all were, without knowing it, to disaster. All the time.
They walked over the stone bridge to the old brick train station. It had seen its share of reunions. And partings. Its share of tears. And shouts of joy.
Even he, fairly immune to fantasy, could feel that every time he entered the familiar building.
It had also seen its share of murder investigations, having been used in the past by Chief Inspector Gamache as temporary headquarters for the homicide unit.
Now Chief Inspector Beauvoir directed his team to set up shop.
Abandoned decades earlier by the railway, the building was now home to the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department, overseen by its chief, Ruth Zardo, who glared down at them from the official photo, taken when she’d been given the Governor General’s Award for poetry.
“I didn’t feel the aimed word hit,” Beauvoir said, looking up at the embittered old poet. “And go in like a soft bullet.”
I didn’t feel the smashed flesh
closing over it like water
over a thrown stone.
“What was that, patron?” asked one of the agents.
“Nothing.”
“Sounded like poetry,” she said with some alarm.
“Keep working.” Beauvoir caught Isabelle Lacoste’s eye and saw amusement there. And recognition.
My God, he thought. I’m turning into Gamache.
But while he feigned alarm, what he actually felt was a sort of contentment. That on his last case he should finally turn into his mentor.
He stood still amid the activity and let the evidence come to him. But what came to him was an image. Clear as day. Young and pregnant Vivienne Godin, breaking through the railing. Arms out. The duffel bag, her worldly possessions, falling with her.
Her blue eyes wide, as realization hit.
And then the water. Cold as ice. Closing over her.
… like water over a thrown stone.
How would I feel if it was Annie …
Armand was right, of course. He was struggling to separate the two women.
Does my twisting body spell out Grace?
I hurt, therefore I am.
Faith, Charity, and Hope
are three dead angels
falling like meteors—
“Always cheerful, eh, you old witch,” muttered Jean-Guy as he gave one last glance up at Ruth before turning to examine the sodden items at his feet.
They’d found Vivienne’s purse in the tangle of the dam. Its contents were spread out on the sanitized plastic sheet on the floor, alongside the things from the duffel bag.
An agent described each item for the recording as it was removed. Tagged. Cataloged. Photographed. Swabbed. Examined.
Private items transformed, like black magic, into public property.
Finally the entire contents were spread out.
From the purse they’d taken a wallet, with a hundred and ten dollars and change. Driver’s license. A bank card but no credit card. Some paper, too wet to read, the water having turned it into pulp. Some mints. A Bic lighter but no cigarettes. What looked like house keys and car keys.
“Nothing unusual,” said Lacoste. But something had caught her eye. Taken from the duffel bag.
Wearing gloves, she picked up the pill bottle and sounded out the label. “Mifegymiso. I don’t know it.”
“I do,” said one of the agents, looking over. “It’s an abortion pill.”
“You mean the morning-after pill?” asked Beauvoir.
“No, that’s different. That’s for the day after sex, to stop insemination from going further. This’s for pregnancies in the first few months. To terminate them.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” said Beauvoir. “Legal?”
“Yessir.”
“What do you think?” he asked Lacoste as they stared down at the collection of items.
“I think it’s strange that Vivienne Godin was beyond three months pregnant and she takes abortion pills with her. I’m assuming they won’t work this far into a pregnancy. If she had the pills, why not use them earlier?”
“Maybe she thought they would work,” said Beauvoir. “Maybe she was waiting to see how the father would react, and if it went badly, she’d take them.”
“This isn’t prescription,” said Lacoste. “There’s no doctor or pharmacy on the label. Not even her name.”
“Black market,” said Beauvoir.
“Seems so. If they’re legal, why go onto the black market?”
“And why would she tell her husband that the baby wasn’t his, even if it was true? She must’ve known how he’d react. Why not just get out while she could?” said Beauvoir.
Tracey, goddamn him, had said the same thing. That Vivienne knew what he’d do. That he’d hit her. Beat her. Though surely she never thought he’d kill her.