Page 220 of A Better Man

He heard a splash as Jean-Guy hit the water.

Then his back arched and arms spread out, and he saw the river roiling below.

Armand had managed to throw Jean-Guy clear of the worst of the torrent, but still he’d splashed down in deep water. Arms flailing, trying to get his head above the bone-chilling water, he felt the current grab him, sweeping him out into the river.

Just as he was about to go under, hands gripped him. Water washing over him, retching and coughing, he felt himself pulled to shore.

He looked up, through the brilliant sunshine and cascading water, to where he’d come from.

Afraid to see a void where Armand had been.

Eyes screwed shut, Armand prepared to hit the water, then fight for his life.

But instead he was jerked to a stop.

The blood rushed to his head, mixing with the rush of the river below, until the sounds were indistinguishable. Water into blood. Blood into water.

Then he looked up, into the smashed face of Bob Cameron. The tackle. Penalized for holding, too often and too tight.

Holding on, tight.

As Armand hung there, suspended. Between the bridge and the water.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Reine-Marie hugged him.

And he held her.

Finally letting go, Armand asked, “Is he all right?”

She nodded. “Hot bath, warm clothing. He’s in the kitchen by the fire. Annie’s on her way down. Homer?”

Armand shook his head.

Reine-Marie sighed. “God.” Then she turned and embraced Isabelle.

When they entered the kitchen, Jean-Guy got to his feet. He was clutching a blue blanket around his shoulders and looked a little, though Armand would never ever say it to his face, like Ruth. From Clara’s portrait.

Jean-Guy would not appreciate being told he looked like the old poet. Never mind the Virgin Mary.

When he’d gotten to the rocky shore, gagging and heaving, Jean-Guy had first made sure Armand was safe. Only then did he focus on the person bending over him.

Wiping the Bella Bella from his eyes, Jean-Guy looked at Isabelle Lacoste.

Through chattering teeth he managed, “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, putting her warm coat over Jean-Guy’s shoulders. “I just arrived. He got to you first.”

She pointed to the person collapsed next to him.

Soaking and shivering, there was Carl Tracey. He’d seen Beauvoir fall and had slithered quickly down the embankment to the river.

“You?” said Beauvoir.

“Yeah, well,” mumbled Tracey through blue lips, “sometimes ya gotta do something stupid.”

Hands trembling, Jean-Guy took off the warm coat and gave it to Carl Tracey.