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In 1895 there were only two automobiles in the whole state. And they’d collided.
The duck was sitting on Ruth’s lap and looked irritated. But then, ducks often did.
No citizen is safe in a state where police feel free to beat those they don’t like.
Ruth looked fairly sober, somber even. Though the duck looked bleary. But then, ducks often did.
Everyone in the farmyard was now staring at Gamache with open astonishment, including the donkeys. But human behavior often astonished them.
Gamache hoped that was true.
“Suitcase? We don’t have any of those. Why would we?” Gamache nodded. That alone was pretty telling. And slightly chilling.
He hoped that was true.
No one could possibly use Tracey’s works for anything practical. They wouldn’t hold food or drink or flowers. But they did hold the attention. Not unlike the man himself. Carl Tracey seemed an unfinished, partially formed man. Soft. Useless. And yet there was also something about the man. Not attractive. In fact, Gamache felt repulsed by him. But he also felt his eyes returning to him. Carl Tracey was a presence. There was no denying that. A statement piece. Like his works.
“Look,” Tracey said as he followed Gamache into the kitchen, “it wasn’t much of a marriage, but she did her thing, I did mine. Why would I kill her?” “Why would you kill him?” Gamache pointed to the old dog, still lying by the warm stove. “Because he’s no use anymore. He can’t hunt and isn’t gonna guard the place. He just eats and shits. Gonna get a new dog. A better dog.”
He made a shooting gesture with his hand. The dog struggled up, took a step closer to Tracey, and licked the trigger finger.
As strict as the laws were governing firearms in Canada, they could be tighter. Here was a man known to abuse his wife, and he’s allowed to have a gun?
“His name’s Fred.”
Ruth stood in the rain, almost sleet, and watched as they bowed, then straightened, then bowed again, filling the sandbags in what looked like a pagan ritual. But if this was a ritual, it was to an angry, vindictive deity.
She tried not to let her face reflect her feelings. Gnawing her cheek to stop the fear from showing, she looked at the Bella Bella. Until recently it had been beige with froth, but now it was almost black. As the churning became more and more violent. Dredging up muck and sediment and God knew what else from the river bottom. Things left undisturbed for decades, centuries perhaps, were now roiling to the surface. Rotten. Decayed.
Until this day, the villagers had considered the Bella Bella a friendly, gentle presence. It would never hurt them. Now it was as though someone they thought they knew well, someone they loved and trusted, had turned on them.
And understood that he had nothing that Myrna wanted.
Gabri paled. It was, he knew, a sign of the End of Days. Ruth refusing booze.
He looked down and saw that the river was not just angry, there was a madness about it. As though all the indignities visited on all the waterways in the New World, by generations of settlers, were coming to the surface.
composed. Of stone and wishful thinking.
Service, integrity, justice, and, occasionally, stupidity.
She’d long since given up trying to stop Ruth from calling her son-in-law “numbnuts.” And even he’d begun answering to it.
“I’m well in body,” said Clara. “But considerably rumpled up in spirit.”
Rosa, in her arms, bristled. She didn’t like swans.
Ruth shouted into the phone. Partly to be heard over the roar of the river and partly because she always shouted into a phone.
Obviously, she thought, his idea of “all right” and hers were very different.
From the cab, Billy Williams watched Jean-Guy pace. He knew torment when he saw it. Then he looked over at Armand. Standing right up against Carl Tracey. Not side by side but facing him, in an act of extreme and ghastly intimacy. Billy Williams knew that what he was witnessing was also an act of love. Not for Tracey, of course, but for Jean-Guy. Armand had sent the younger man away to, on the surface, do the worst job. To look for the body of a young woman and her unborn child. But in reality, Armand was saving Jean-Guy. From himself. Gamache was standing that close to Carl Tracey so that
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The limbs of the trees loomed overhead, a tunnel of dead branches. Their flashlights created shadows so macabre that even Beauvoir, not given to fantasy, felt his skin crawl. This was how horror films began. Or ended.
“God willing we are. That’s all that matters.” “Inshallah.” “B’ezrat HaShem,” said Gamache.
Her blue eyes were open, not in fear but in that surprise they often saw in those suddenly, prematurely meeting Death. He wondered if Death had been just as surprised.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered the duck.
“Does that remind you of anything?” Olivier asked. “A clown in a sewer?” Gabri suggested. “No, not him. Them.” Olivier gestured toward the three Sûreté officers on the village green. Reine-Marie cocked her head, staring. And then she gave a short puff of amusement and recognition. Isabelle. Jean-Guy. Armand. Three colleagues. Three friends. A trinity. Sturdy. Eternal. Together. “Three Pines,” she said. “Three Stooges,” said Ruth as she walked by and entered the bistro.
“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.
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.
Does my twisting body spell out Grace? I hurt, therefore I am. Faith, Charity, and Hope are three dead angels falling like meteors—
Something she’d never admitted to Armand. For many years she’d felt that as long as Jean-Guy was close by, he’d protect Armand. They were meant to be together. Had been, in her opinion, for many lifetimes. As colleagues, as father and son. As brothers. As long as they were together, both would be safe.
They were, Gamache recognized, the words of either an extremely well-balanced person who didn’t care what others thought. Or a psychopath. Who didn’t care what others thought.
“What do you need money for, anyway?” asked Ruth. “We live in a tiny village. We buy clothes from the general store, barter turnips for milk, and the booze is free.” “Not free,” said Olivier, pouring her another shot of what looked like scotch but was actually cold tea. There was a suspicion Ruth knew about the substitution but played along. Because, as with so much else in her life, she didn’t really care. As she watched Ruth, Clara remembered that in the past few hours someone had gone onto Twitter and defended her. You ignorant turd. Clara’s works are genius. #MorrowGenius If it wasn’t
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“Is it true? Is it kind? Does it need to be said?”
“That’s either a really great guy,” said Cloutier, putting the car in gear, “or a monster.” Lysette Cloutier never dreamed, while working in accounting, that it could be so difficult to tell the two apart. But it was.
@MyrnaLanders: I love @ClaraMorrow works. They’re genius. @ClaraMorrow: Thanks @MyrnaLanders, but you sent this to me privately. Did you mean to? I’m sitting with you in the bistro. Oh, oh. Here comes Ruth. Look busy! @MyrnaLanders: #ClaraSucks Merde. @ClaraMorrow: @MyrnaLanders That one you put out on the public twitter feed. You just agreed with everyone who says my art is shit. @MyrnaLanders: #ClaraSucks Did I? Fuck @ClaraMorrow: @MyrnaLanders Please stop.
Ruth was so pleased with herself she was almost exploding with pleasure. It was not an attractive sight.
Lysette Cloutier sat off to the side. Watching closely. Pauline Vachon was younger than she appeared in the Instagram pictures. Her hair was clean and nicely done. Makeup carefully applied. She was pretty. Her clothes were simple, almost elegant, thought Cloutier. Black slacks and a white blouse, with a bright red silk scarf. Lacoste was also taking in Vachon’s appearance. The makeup was cheap, clumping, and too heavily applied. The slacks were from a discount store, and the red scarf was rayon. Masquerading as silk. And hiding, Lacoste could see, a coffee stain on the white blouse. Lysette
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I’ll be the ghost of his dead wife.”
She looked at him with genuine curiosity. As did the duck. But then, ducks were often curious.
Dominica Oddly was shocked by the violence, and even more shocked by the tenderness. She snapped her laptop shut. And for the first time felt real revulsion for social media. That would cut, twist, put a lie to the truth. That would nail decent people to posts. And then she remembered what she’d just done.
By Ruth, with Rosa, who was silent for once. Though she did watch Armand with sad eyes. But then, ducks were often sad.
“Sometimes you just have to do something stupid.”
It was the secret wave he and his grandfather had worked out after Great-aunt Ruth had shown the boy the one-finger wave. Papa had explained that really, three fingers were even better. For the three pines.
Bishop, the golden retriever who shared Michael’s and my life for many years, died while I was writing this book. In fact, I almost changed the name of the dog in the book from Fred to Bishop, but for some reason, “Fred” just worked better. Besides, that was the name of my assistant Lise’s dog, who also died while I was writing A Better Man. He deserved to be remembered, too.
