Page 31 of A Better Man

“We have to assume we’re dealing with a person capable of murdering his pregnant wife. And everything we’ve heard about him confirms he’s abusive. Violent.”

Gamache reached over and patted a donkey, taking in the barnyard as he did. He also assumed Tracey was watching them from the house.

There were a lot of places to bury a body here. Though he doubted that Carl Tracey would be stupid enough to put her on their own property.

But then, people did stupid things. Like kill each other. And Carl Tracey did not strike him as the brightest of people.

Besides, he held out some hope that Vivienne Godin was indeed alive and had fled this terrible place.

“Violence, threats, he understands,” said Gamache quietly, as though speaking to the donkey, who was now nuzzling him. Leaving a slimy trail of drool and grass on his already filthy coat. “The best way to keep Carl Tracey off balance is to be courteous. Didn’t you notice how confused he became?”

“So you want us to be nice to him?” asked Cameron.

“Exactly. We can always ratchet it up later. Steps. Degrees. And always keep something in reserve. And,” said Gamache as he took the hose once Cameron had finished. “We have to keep something else in mind.”

“That he’s a killer,” said Cloutier.

Gamache bent over and drank. He was parched, and as he gulped, it struck him as ironic, and so like nature, to provide Tracey, a rancid man, with such sweet water.

“That he might be innocent,” said Gamache, lowering the hose, washing off his muddy hands, and turning off the tap.

“Of murder, let’s hope,” said Cloutier. “But not of beating his wife. His pregnant wife.”

“True,” said Gamache. “But we’re here to investigate, not convict. Try to keep your emotions in check. A clear head, right, Agent Cloutier?”

“Oui, patron.”

“You want the phone or not,” shouted Tracey, stepping off the porch and holding the handset out. “Make the call and get off my fucking land.”

Gamache clicked it on and heard a dial tone. Finally, a phone that worked. In the background, almost unnoticed by now, was the sound of the Rivière Bella Bella, rushing toward Three Pines.

As Gamache dialed the number from memory, he watched Carl Tracey walk over to the donkeys, who nuzzled him, pushing him playfully. Tracey produced huge carrots and gave one to each.

The phone rang a few times before being answered.

“Oui, allô,” Gamache said, clearly relieved. “Yes, everything’s fine. No cell-phone coverage here, so I’ve had to borrow a phone. How are things with you?… I see.… Yes. Sandbagging. Good idea.… I will.” He looked at Tracey, who’d, at the mention of sandbagging, turned from the donkeys with a look of some alarm.

“But I do need a favor,” said Gamache. “I’m at the farm where Vivienne Godin and her husband live. Carl Tracey refuses to answer questions or let us into the house or barn. I need a search warrant immediately. T-R-A-C-E-Y.… Oui.”

Tracey’s face went slack. As though he’d been sandbagged.

“You can call back at this number,” continued Gamache. “If you don’t get an answer, send patrol cars up. They know the place. In fact, when the search warrant comes through, send them up to help search. But tell them the road is pretty much impassable.… No, everything’s fine. I’ll let you know when we have more news about Madame Godin. Au revoir.”

At Sûreté headquarters, Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up and quickly made out a warrant request, then put in a call to a judge.

“Yes, Your Honor, we need it immediately. Chief Inspector Gamache is on-site and waiting. A woman is missing and perhaps murdered by her husband. I’m sending the request now.”

He hit the send key. “Please let me know.”

Then he hung up and looked out the window.

The rain had begun. It was pissing April showers.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gamache handed the phone back to Tracey, with a smile. “Merci. Most helpful.”

“What the fuck was that?”