A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #15)

by Louise Penny

April in Québec was a month of cruel contrasts. Of sublime afternoons spent sitting outside in the bright sunshine with a glass of wine, then waking to another foot of snow. A month of muttered curses and mud-caked boots and splattered cars and dogs rolling, then shaking. So that every front entrance was polka-dotted with muck. On the walls. On the ceilings. On the floors. And people. April in Québec was a climatological shitstorm. A mindfuck of epic proportions.

Gamache failed, and for a while it appeared he would, the Sûreté would have been crippled, leaving Québec defenseless against an onslaught of gang violence, trafficking, organized crime. Gamache had prevailed. But just barely, and at a cost.

They hadn’t come quite this far, but still, he’d seen it then as he’d leaned out. Olivier holding on to him. The growing dam. He’d noted the pale tree limbs and leaves bobbing up and down in the current. Trapped in the broken ice and debris that was forming.

“Is Mifegymiso free?” “If prescribed by a doctor, yes.” “So if it’s both legal and free, why would anyone pay for it on the black market?” “Well, I guess if she was twenty weeks along, no doctor would prescribe it,” said the coroner. “Possible,” said Gamache. “But you don’t think so,” said Beauvoir. “I’m wondering if Vivienne got those pills,” said Gamache. “Or if Tracey did.” “Why would he do that?” asked Dr. Harris.

She’d worked with them for years. Seen their relationship blossom and wither. Seen it through all its spasms, incarnations, hoops, and dips. The ruptures and the mendings. Things are strongest where they’re broken.

“Names, please.” Gerald Bertrand hesitated and, in doing so, moved up the suspect list. Carl Tracey still held the top spot and would be hard to tumble, but this anxious man was closing in.

this’s Simone Fleury. She’s on the board of the Réseau de Violence Conjugale du Québec and runs the local women’s shelters. We’ve sat on several committees together.”

“Don’t,” Madame Fleury snapped. “Don’t you dare ask why they don’t leave. Don’t you dare judge these women for staying.” “But it’s a legitimate question, isn’t it?” He looked from Madame Fleury to Gamache. “There’s an implied criticism,” said Madame Fleury. “That these women are weak or stupid.” “I never said that.” “No, but you think that. Why don’t they leave? Because they’ve been conditioned to believe it’s their fault. Because they’ve been isolated. They have no money and no support. Because they have a shred of hope or delusion. Because they actually love the guy. Because they’re stuck. Because they’re terrified. And for good reason. Because it’s all they know and all they think they deserve. Because they believe there’s nothing better out there. You can see it in her face. That dazed look. As telling as bruises.”

“First time? Thirteen months. There were other calls after that, but no arrest.” “And then he kills her.” She looked from Beauvoir to Gamache. Neither of whom disagreed. “Alors,” said Madame Fleury, raising her manicured hands. “All we can do is provide a safe place for those who do break free.”

“My father was a judge,” she continued, “and inside our big old house in our respectable neighborhood, he beat us kids. And worse. I married a banker at eighteen, to get away, and guess what? He beat me, too. Then he’d bring me flowers and jewelry and he’d cry. He’d sob and say how sorry he was. And that he’d be a better husband. He’d never do it again. And you know what?” Her eyes opened wide as she stared at Beauvoir. “I believed him. Because I wanted to. Because I had to. I put on the beautiful silk scarf he brought me, to hide the bruises, and went to the country club for lunch.”

“Without realizing it, we go to what’s familiar. When I finally told my best friend, she didn’t believe me. No one did. They didn’t want to know. There was only one shelter here at the time. Overflowing. But they took me in and gave me a mattress on the floor. I slept on it for three months. First time in my life I felt safe. You know why it’s safe? Not because the cops protect us but because we look after ourselves. We make sure it is.” “‘We’ the workers?” “‘We’ every woman there. You asked if we have a weapon? We do. And you gave it to us, with every blow. Every bruise. Every broken bone. It’s the toy at the bottom of the cereal box.” She clunked her mug down on the table so hard that tea shot out the top and other patrons looked over. “Rage,” said Beauvoir. “Baseball bats,” said Madame Fleury. “Next time you see a group of women in a park practicing their swings, you think about that.”

“What you just wrote is true, but no excuse. Cycle of abuse. My husband was beaten by his father. He saw his mother hit. But he was an adult when he hit me, and responsible for his own actions. They all are. After a beating they feel horrible and buy presents and promise to be better men, but they don’t change. They don’t grow up. They remain out-of-control children in a man’s body.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew that every person had a killer inside them. And Madame Fleury knew that every man had an abuser inside of him. Both were unfair. But such was their experience. And conditioning. That was one of the many reasons he had to leave. Had to escape the Sûreté and get far, far away. From a world filled with threats. He longed to see a kinder world.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir quite liked the feel of it. The heft. The ability to just pull back his jacket and expose it. To see people’s eyes widen. The gun on his belt meant not simply safety but power. Though just lately, something odd had begun to happen. It had felt heavier. More awkward. Less natural. The gun had begun to feel foreign. Was this how it had started with Gamache? Surely as a young agent, as an inspector, even, he’d worn a gun? At what stage had he taken it off? When does a cucumber become a pickle? It was the question Gamache sometimes asked when contemplating human behavior. And now Jean-Guy asked himself that. When does change occur? Change that is irreversible.

“But no crime was being committed. A river was flooding. It was an act of nature. A violent one, potentially dangerous, granted. I have no doubt that the actions of the officers saved property if not lives. It was the right thing to do. Except when they found the duffel bag, they should have immediately applied for a warrant, before removing it. And certainly before opening it.”

“The boundaries of a person’s house are clear,” said the judge. “The property line. The front door. A warrant is needed to cross. A warrant is needed to tap into a phone and listen to private conversations, to read private emails. But the very notion, even the name, of social media confuses issues of trespass. How can something social, public, be trespassed? There are limits, of course. Laws against hate speech. Pornography. But even those are unclear, blurry. When is social media private and when is it public? Pauline Vachon and her relationship to Carl Tracey were discovered after a Sûreté officer tricked Madame Vachon into giving her access to her private Instagram account.”

“You know what they say about lawyers—” Gamache gave Beauvoir a warning glance. “—that we’re like children in the dark, imagining all the monsters.” It was, Gamache knew, a pretty apt description of his job, too.

Zalmanowitz nodded his thanks for sharing the blame. “Judge Pelletier had latitude. It could have gone the other way, and I think she genuinely struggled with it. Especially since, as she privately told me, our case was a lock—” Beauvoir’s hands slammed down on the wooden arms of his chair, and he growled, “Jesus.”

“But what is ‘this’?” the young agent persisted. “A conscience.” “Huh?”

“He took her to soccer practice,” said Cloutier. “Coached her hockey team. When she was a child, he’d read to her at bedtime. Babar. Tintin. I’ve never seen a daughter more loved by a father, or a father more adored. I felt bad for Kathy. To be honest, I was never sure if she was jealous of Vivienne or Homer. But I do know that Vivienne left home as soon as she could.” “Pushed out by her mother?” Lysette nodded. “And then Kathy died. It makes this even worse for Homer. Not having Kathy here to turn to.” “Was it a happy marriage?”

He thought for a moment. “Why do you think she married Carl Tracey?” Cloutier considered. “Small community. Not much choice. She probably thought he was the best she could do. Maybe he wasn’t so bad at first. I don’t really know.” Gamache nodded. Could there have been love there once? Or was Vivienne punishing her parents? Look what you made me do. Or was it a childish attempt to make her father jealous?

Across the room, Clara was trying to keep the smile on her face and the bile down as she watched the young woman, who’d just destroyed her career and was now drinking her beer and eating her food. She wouldn’t be surprised if she found this young woman sleeping in her bed. The wolf, not at her door but in her home. In her life. And tearing it apart. With a smile.

But there was one constant. His eyes. Intelligent and thoughtful. And even kindly. It was disconcerting. In a cop.

All truth with malice in it.

“All truth with malice in it,”

“It’s from Moby-Dick.”

All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it.

It wasn’t that she’d tried to be bold and failed, it was that she hadn’t tried. Exactly as Oddly had said. She’d whipped them off without thought. Without feeling. Without caring. Fooling herself into believing that because it was a new medium, new territory for her, it was a brave experiment. It was not.

“So he asked her, and she told him about the home loan. Maybe that was the final straw for Cloutier.” Beauvoir was nodding now. Following the logic. “She could see that Vivienne wasn’t just ruining their lives but now was bleeding her dad dry. So she arranges to meet her.”