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He tightened his grip on the pitchfork.
“Monsieur Tracey?”
“What do you want?” he shouted. In English.
Gamache lifted his hands, to show they held no weapon, and stepped forward. Cameron instinctively went to join him, to protect his quarterback, but once again Gamache gave him a signal.
To stand down. But remain alert.
The Chief Inspector took a few steps toward Tracey. There were at least fifteen paces to go before they’d be face-to-face, but already he could smell the booze.
“We’re with the Sûreté du Québec—” Gamache began, in English.
“Get off my land.”
“My name is Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. This is Agent Cloutier. And this—”
“I know who that is.” Now that they were closer, Tracey recognized the man who’d threatened him with a beating not long ago. “Get him the fuck off my land.”
He lifted the pitchfork and pointed it toward Cameron. Making a small jabbing movement. It was a futile, almost comic gesture.
But Gamache wasn’t smiling. Instead he put his arms out at his sides and took a few steps closer.
Carl Tracey was in his mid-thirties. Slightly shorter, slightly lighter than Gamache. But where Gamache was solid, this man was not. As he jabbed, he jiggled.
Still, Gamache knew it was never wise to underestimate anyone. Especially someone with a pitchfork.
He stopped.
“We’d like to speak with your wife, please. Vivienne Godin. Is she here?”
“No. I already told the cops that she’s gone away.”
“And you haven’t heard from her? She hasn’t called?”
“No.”
The only one who’d called him was her crazy father. Every hour, on the hour. Even through the night. Threatening him. But he wouldn’t tell them that.
He noticed Cameron had opened his jacket. To reveal a gun on his belt.
Shit.
But the man standing just a few feet away, the guy in charge, displayed no weapon. In fact, he seemed to be trying to lull Tracey into some sort of trance. So deep and calm was his voice.
When Gamache took another step toward him, Tracey also stepped forward and thrust the pitchfork at the cop. “Stop right there.”
The sharp tines stopped within a foot of Gamache’s face. But he didn’t flinch. Instead he looked right past the points. Straight into Tracey’s eyes.
His gaze, Tracey saw with some alarm, wasn’t angry. Wasn’t threatening. Certainly wasn’t frightened. It was thoughtful.
Anger, rage, violence Tracey could handle. But this was just confusing. And off-putting. And a little frightening.
Gamache, a pitchfork away from Tracey, could see the bloodshot eyes. And sense the havoc.
“I’m going to reach into my pocket and bring out my Sûreté ID.” As he spoke, he did just that, watching the man closely. Tracey’s nostrils flared with each breath. Longing to attack. And he probably would have, Gamache knew, if it weren’t for Cameron. And his earlier threat to beat Tracey. This man obviously knew it was not an empty threat.
While Gamache did not have a loaded gun, he did have Cameron. A biological weapon.
