Page 116 of A Better Man

“Died, too.”

He covered Vendredi’s ears and said, “Goddamned fucking shit of a fucking horrible world.”

Then he uncovered his niece’s ears and kissed her. Gently.

“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.

As Beauvoir and Gamache slid into the booth at the café in Cowansville, Gamache’s phone rang. It was from the RCMP.

“Excuse me.” He slid back out and went outside to take the call.

“Armand?” came the familiar voice, shouting over a familiar noise. “Sorry, meant to get to you sooner, but I wanted to see it for myself.”

“Are you in a helicopter?”

“Oui. Over the La Grande-3 dam.”

One of the oldest, Gamache knew. If any dam was going to—

“We’ve opened the spillways,” the RCMP officer shouted above the rotors.

“And?” Gamache shouted back.

Inside the café, Beauvoir could hear Gamache’s voice through the window and saw him hunkered over, a hand covering his other ear, straining to hear whoever was on the other end.

“It seems to be working. Will let you know about the others.” Gamache heard him give muffled instructions to the pilot. “Call you back.”

“And the diversions farther south? Are they being dug?” Gamache shouted into the phone, but the connection had been broken.

Gamache hung up and exhaled. Closing his eyes for a moment. It just might work.

“What was that about?” Jean-Guy asked when he returned, but there was no chance for an answer.

Someone was walking toward them.

“Thank you for coming, Simone,” said Gamache, as the elegant woman in her early forties approached their booth. “I’m not sure you’ve met Chief Inspector Beauvoir. He’s the head of homicide for the Sûreté. Jean-Guy, 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.”

“Committees.” Madame Fleury made a dismissive, almost rude noise.

She looked at Beauvoir’s outstretched hand, ignored it, and sat down.

“Nothing’s changed. Women are beaten, women are killed. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“Oui,” said Beauvoir, dropping his hand and sitting down next to Gamache.

“I see you’re back at work, Armand.” Her voice was abrupt. There was a tone of displeasure and impatience. “Not everyone seems pleased.”

“I’m sure the vast majority are thrilled I’m back,” he said with a smile.

“They’re just too busy to mention it on Twitter, I suppose,” she said. “Though you do have one defender. A dumb-ass.”

Beauvoir looked at her with surprise. But Gamache just gave a small grunt of laughter. What Madame Fleury said next confirmed Beauvoir’s suspicions about her.

“Let’s get on with it.” She looked at her watch. “I have a hair appointment, then a luncheon.”

Rich. Bored. The kids gone, husband busy making more money. A do-gooder.