Page 57 of A Better Man

It was said in the same grim tone Vivienne used every time he’d asked if Tracey was hurting her.

Non.

The two continued to talk, but now in tones that suggested much more than just colleagues. These men were friends.

“Keep in touch,” said Gamache, at the door.

“You too. Good luck, patron.” Then this Jean-Guy Someone turned to Homer. “I promise, once the crisis is past, we’ll do everything we can to find your daughter. In the meantime Chief Inspector Gamache will help. He’s the best.”

Godin looked at Gamache and couldn’t help but think if he was the best, why weren’t they using him in this emergency? Why send him away?

Homer couldn’t help himself. He grabbed the younger man’s arm. “I need more. Help me, please. Help.”

“We’re doing all we can. I’m sorry.”

And now Homer Godin stood in the bleak village. In the mud. In the half rain, half snow, and while he couldn’t see much, he could hear a great deal.

He looked toward the sound. The river. That was in full flood. And he thought of his daughter. Disappearing into the night. Disappearing into the flood.

Then he looked past the lights. Somewhere in the darkness, not all that far away, was Carl Tracey.

Homer wasn’t sure how, but he’d get to him.

Lysette Cloutier poured herself another glass of wine and returned to the sofa.

She was at home now, having volunteered to help with the emergency measures but told she wasn’t needed.

She was both very annoyed and very relieved. Mostly she was very worried.

Lysette hadn’t been completely honest with Chief Inspector Gamache and Superintendent Lacoste about her relationship with Homer, such as it was. But also her relationship with Vivienne. Such as it was.

She wasn’t sure why, but it had seemed important not to tell them that she was Vivienne’s godmother. Perhaps because she was a god-awful godmother. Not having had one herself, Lysette had no idea what was expected. Except for her to take Vivienne, should anything happen to her parents, Kathy and Homer.

But beyond that?

The only other thing she could remember from the baptism was being told she needed to act as Viv’s guardian. To guard her. To keep the child safe.

“Well,” she mumbled. “Fucked that one up.”

After taking a long gulp, perhaps even a guzzle, of wine, she pulled her laptop onto her lap and logged in. Agent Cloutier had been told to find out everything she could about Carl Tracey. Might as well start.

She was prepared to have to do a fairly deep dive into government records but had decided, as a lark, to just put his name into a Google search.

She sat there, openmouthed, when up came a website.

“Can’t be.”

Clicking on it, she looked at the photo of the man. Definitely Tracey. Surrounded by his pottery.

“Shit,” she said, and clicked on more links. To exhibitions he’d had. To a buying link. To a brief bio that mentioned his wife, Vivienne, and their dog, Fred.

Like most of the stuff on the Web, it was bullshit. The life people wanted people to see. The neat front yard, not the squalor behind the front door.

She snapped the laptop closed in disgust and, putting it on the floor, she lay back and grabbed the TV remote. But then she looked down at the slender rectangle sitting on the floor below her. And she got to wondering.

How did a man without internet have a website?

Isabelle Lacoste ignored the phone call from Lysette Cloutier.