A Better Man

CHAPTER TEN

The patrol car slid down the road, but the agent managed to guide it to where they’d left their vehicles. She dropped them off and continued down the hill. Opening the windows to air out her once-pristine vehicle. That now smelled of old wet dog, and mud, and donkeys.

“What do we do now, patron?” asked Cameron as they stood in the rain outside their cars.

“You return to your station. You’ll be needed for flood control or evacuations. We’re heading back to Montréal.”

Once in the car, Agent Cloutier asked, “What about Vivienne? What do I tell Homer?”

“I’ll call him once we’re out of the mountains and have communications.”

Rain was hitting the windshield. The clouds were low, mingling with the mist clinging to the forest.

“Can I stay on it, though? Keep looking for her?”

“You’ll do as you’re ordered, Agent Cloutier,” said Gamache. “As will I.”

He turned toward the woods, where the Bella Bella, invisible, was rushing toward the valley. And the village.

Ruth stood at the top of the fieldstone bridge and watched the activity around her.

The whole village was out, filling sandbags. It was something they did most springs, but until now it had been a precaution, that had morphed into a tradition, that had become a party. A celebration. To mark the end of a long winter.

The spring runoff often coincided with the running of the maple sap.

They’d fill sandbags and hold a sugaring-off party, with baked beans and crêpes and cauldrons boiling down the sap into syrup. A fiddler played as children, and Gabri, stood around the pots waiting to pour the sweet liquid onto snow, where it turned into a sort of soft caramel called tire d’erable.

While mothers and fathers, friends and neighbors filled sandbags to build walls along the Bella Bella, children, and Gabri, used twigs to roll the tire, then ate the maple candy and watched horses return from the forest bearing buckets brimming with more sap.

It was a festive end to winter. After all, the river had never broken her banks. There’d never been reason to worry.

But today was different. The fiddler was holding a shovel. The kids were safely in St. Thomas’s Church, their evacuation center. There was no tire. Only tired and sodden villagers.

Ruth stood in the rain, almost sleet, and watched as they bowed, then straightened, then bowed again, filling the sandbags in what looked like a pagan ritual.

But if this was a ritual, it was to an angry, vindictive deity.

I just sit where I’m put, composed / of stone and wishful thinking, Ruth muttered one of her own poems as she watched her neighbors and friends bow and lift. Bend and shovel. That the deity who kills for pleasure / will also heal.

Villagers, under Ruth’s direction, had formed two lines and were passing the bags along, then piling them one on top of the other. Building a wall on either side of the Bella Bella.

The old poet turned from surveying her dripping and dirty neighbors and looked upstream.

She tried not to let her face reflect her feelings. Gnawing her cheek to stop the fear from showing, she looked at the Bella Bella. Until recently it had been beige with froth, but now it was almost black. As the churning became more and more violent. Dredging up muck and sediment and God knew what else from the river bottom. Things left undisturbed for decades, centuries perhaps, were now roiling to the surface. Rotten. Decayed.

Ruth watched as the bloated river swept great chunks of ice and tree limbs down the mountain. Crashing toward them. Jamming, then breaking apart.

But eventually, she knew, the jam would be too dense. The debris too solid. It would hold. And then…?

Until this day, the villagers had considered the Bella Bella a friendly, gentle presence. It would never hurt them.

Now it was as though someone they thought they knew well, someone they loved and trusted, had turned on them. The only thing more shocking would be if the three huge pine trees in the center of the village broke free and began to attack them.

Gabri and Olivier were handing out hot drinks. Tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and soup. Monsieur Béliveau, the grocer, and Sarah the baker, were taking around trays of sandwiches. Brie and thick slices of maple-cured ham, and arugula on baguettes and croissants, and pain ménage.

Though the most popular proved to be the ones Reine-Marie had made before she took a place in the line, filling sandbags.

“God,” said Clara, taking a huge bite. “These are delicious.”

Her gloves were wet through, and her large hands trembled in the cold.

“What do you have?” asked Myrna as she swallowed a huge bite of baguette.

“Peanut butter and honey on Wonder Bread,” said Clara, barely intelligible through the thick peanut butter.

“Oh, jeez,” said Myrna, breaking from the line and turning to look for Sarah the baker. “I’m going to get one of those.”

“Here,” said Billy Williams. “Take mine.”

Though he was famished, he offered her half his sandwich.

Myrna smiled and shook her head. “It’s okay. I’ll get my own. But thanks.”

Billy looked after her, then down at his damp sandwich. And understood that he had nothing that Myrna wanted.

She was unattainable, and he worried he’d love her for the rest of his life.

Gabri walked over to the bridge and offered Ruth a coffee. “I put a shot of brandy in it.”

“That’s okay,” shouted the old poet over the sound of the river. She reached for a steaming mug. “I’ll take the soup.”

Gabri paled. It was, he knew, a sign of the End of Days. Ruth refusing booze.

He looked down and saw that the river was not just angry, there was a madness about it. As though all the indignities visited on all the waterways in the New World, by generations of settlers, were coming to the surface.

The waters were rising up, not in protest but in revenge.

He could barely hear himself think for the howling.

It was, he thought as he walked off the bridge, the sound a soul might make as it approached hell.

Gamache’s mind was racing. Had they thought to open the spillways for the dams across the province?

Hospitals needed to be put on alert. Other provinces contacted and asked for possible assistance. The water-filtration plants needed to be protected. Hydro crews needed to be ready to restore power. Military reserves and first responders called out. Emergency measures put in place.

A sudden catastrophic event, natural or otherwise, brought with it turmoil. Places so pastoral and pretty one minute became war zones the next.

A populace unused to these sudden emergencies needed to be rallied and directed. And kept calm.

It was vital to take control.

Gamache tried to stop his mind from going there. And his hand from reaching for his phone to call Emergency Management. Call his successor at the Sûreté. Call the Premier Ministre. And tell them what to do.

Instead he took a deep breath and forced himself to sit back in the passenger seat.

This was no longer his job. No longer his responsibility. They knew what they were doing. They did not need him.

Still, he felt like a swimmer treading water offshore. Watching some terrible event unfold on the mainland and being unable to stop it. Or even help.

Once out of the mountains, his phone had gone wild with emails. Texts. Phone messages.

He tried Reine-Marie first and finally got through to Olivier in the bistro, who called Reine-Marie in.

“We’re all right, Armand. Sandbagging, of course. But there’s no panic.”

“Ruth didn’t—”

“Put valium in the hot chocolate again?” asked Reine-Marie. “Non. But I am feeling very, very calm.”

Actually, she sounded tired.

“How is it really?” he asked.

“We’re getting the barriers built. The Bella Bella’s higher than anyone’s ever seen it. A few inches from the top. But even if it floods, it won’t be too bad.”

Reine-Marie had never been in a flood. He had. It wasn’t just a few inches of water in basements. A wave of water, even a small one, that had traveled that distance contained almost unimaginable energy. The force of even a minor breach could knock down walls. Buildings. Wells would be contaminated. Power lines knocked over. People, animals swept away.

It didn’t take as much water as people thought.

“I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Where are you?”

“There’s a state of emergency. I’m on my way into Montréal.”

There was the briefest of pauses. “Of course.”

She’d tried to sound upbeat, but the disappointment in her voice took his breath away. He was heading away from her, not to her.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare be sorry. We’re fine. We really are. Be careful. You have your water wings?”

“The blow-up swan? Always.”

“Good. Make sure you wear it.”

He laughed. “Now, that would be a photo for social media.”

Hearing her laughter as she imagined her husband in suit, tie, and pink swan around his waist, directing emergency operations, went some way to healing his heart. They talked another minute or so before hanging up.

Then he phoned Monsieur Godin. It was a difficult call. He had to tell Vivienne’s father that the search for his daughter was temporarily on hold, during the emergency. But would be resumed as soon as possible.

“You can’t stop,” said Homer. “You have to find her. You promised.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gamache. “There’s nothing we can do right now, but believe me—”

“I’m coming down.”

“No, don’t.” Gamache’s voice was sharp. “The roads will wash out soon. Bridges will be closed. You’ll be trapped away from home. Stay where you are. In case she calls.”

There it was again. Giving Vivienne’s father what Gamache suspected was false hope. For a call he was more and more convinced would never come.

But he had to keep the man away. For any number of reasons, not just the flooding.

As soon as he hung up, Agent Cloutier put the siren on. They were on the autoroute now, racing toward the city. As they headed over the Champlain Bridge, he asked her to pull over and put the flashers on.

“But there’s no emergency lane, sir. We’ll block traffic.”

“This won’t take long.”

Once the car stopped, he got out quickly, before he could change his mind.

Hardly believing he was doing this, he made for the side of the bridge.

It was only a few steps away, but he had to fight for every inch.

Terrified of heights and suffering from vertigo, he felt himself grow instantly light-headed. And wondered if he’d pass out.

But he had to look. Had to see.

He battled his way forward, just a few feet that felt like miles. Reaching out, he gripped the concrete wall that separated him from the void. The wind and rain hit his face. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Then, opening them, he leaned out.

And gasped. His eyes wide, his knuckles white.

The world seemed to spin, and he realized, with horror, that he was in danger not of falling but of throwing himself off the bridge. The vertigo was dragging him over the edge. And there was nothing to stop his fall. Nothing between the bridge and the water.

He could hear, as though from very, very far away, cars honking. He thought he heard his own name called and had the peculiar feeling it was coming from the void below.

But still he stared, willing his eyes to focus.

And when they did, he saw. It was worse than that morning. Much worse. Ice was heaving, pushing against the pylons of the bridge. Halfway up already, and climbing.

He looked out at the wide, wide expanse of river. Some open water was visible, dark jagged lines between the fissures. The ice floes, many feet thick, were crashing together. Mounting each other. Forcing huge shards of ice to jut out.

Then he heard the rumble and forced himself to look farther out, farther downriver. The sound grew louder and louder, moving quickly now. A frost quake was tearing toward the bridge.

Gamache took a couple of deep breaths. And tightened his grip on the low concrete wall.

Trying not to close his eyes. Trying not to flinch.

He stood up slightly straighter as the rumble turned into a roar.

And then the boom. Like cannon fire, as the ice ruptured under the pressure. About fifty meters away.

He exhaled.

If it was this bad here, it must be just as bad, if not worse, all around the island of Montréal. Never mind all the other rivers. All the other bridges, across Québec.

He needed to leave. To make it to that meeting at headquarters. But first he had to get back to the car. Across the vast three feet of asphalt. He found that his grip was so tight he couldn’t let go.

He ripped his hands off the concrete and, turning, took a few shaky steps, then practically threw himself the last few feet.

“Patron?” asked Agent Cloutier on seeing his face.

“It’s all right,” Gamache said, his hands in tight fists so that the trembling wouldn’t show. “But we need to hurry.”

Sûreté headquarters was buzzing. Officers rushing along the hallways.

Bullpens on each floor were all but empty, only skeleton crews remaining to answer calls and continue the most urgent of investigations.

Everyone else had been reassigned to the flooding.

Gamache went directly to homicide and met briefly with Jean-Guy.

On entering the office, he saw Beauvoir on the phone, looking energized, in his element. Though the younger man would no doubt fiercely deny it, Jean-Guy Beauvoir liked nothing better than an emergency.

He hung up and raised his brows. “Been to a spa?”

“Spa?”

“Mud bath.”

“Oh, that.” Gamache looked down at his caked coat and slacks. He’d forgotten that he was covered in muck. “More like mud wrestling.”

“Who won?”

“Not me.” He took off his heavy coat and hung it on the hook at the back of the door. “I’ll tell you about it later. Oh, there is one thing I’d like to leave here with you. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“His name’s Fred. He might like some water.”

He left the bedraggled dog and the befuddled man staring at each other and hurried upstairs.

The meeting in Chief Superintendent Toussaint’s office was well under way by the time Gamache arrived.

He’d made a quick trip to the bathroom and tried to clean up, but the facilities and time didn’t allow for much more than a good scrub of his hands and face.

He looked in the mirror and ran his hands through his hair.

Then shook his head and gave up. There were far more important things to focus on.

“Chief Inspector.”

Chief Superintendent Madeleine Toussaint greeted her predecessor. If she noticed his unusually disheveled appearance, she didn’t show it. “You know everyone here.”

She was confident enough to invite her predecessor to the meeting and savvy enough about the realpolitik of power to highlight Gamache’s diminished status by emphasizing his new rank.

There were senior representatives from the Corps of Military Engineers, from the RCMP, from Hydro-Québec. Environment Canada’s chief meteorologist was there, as was the Deputy Premier of Québec.

All men and women Gamache knew well.

“I see some of the crap thrown at you today on Twitter has stuck,” said the senior officer from the RCMP, gesturing at Gamache’s clothing.

Gamache smiled. “Fortunately, it won’t stain.”

“But it does smell,” said the Mountie, with a wry smile. “Helluva first day back on the job, Armand.”

“It is that.”

“We were going over the situation,” said Toussaint, bristling slightly at the obvious familiarity and warmth between Gamache and the RCMP officer.

She waved him to the huge ordnance map of the province, where the others had gathered.

It didn’t just show where the problems were now, but also the knock-on effects farther downriver. And Québec had a lot of rivers, a lot of water.

Gamache had bent over many such maps, from his time occupying this very office. Ones that showed criminal activity and natural disasters.

But he’d never seen anything quite like this.

There were so many markings the map was almost unrecognizable.

“I was just about to show this,” said the chief meteorologist. She nodded to a colleague who was sitting at a laptop. After a few taps, another map of Québec appeared, projected on the wall. “These are our predictions of what we think could happen in the next twenty-four hours.”

An animation began playing, but nothing Disney would recognize.

It showed a natural disaster of epic scope. As rivers flowed into each other. As ice jams piled up. As tributaries broke their banks.

Whole islands disappeared.

Populated islands, Gamache knew.

His eyes widened, and his stomach twisted. Cities and towns that had stood for centuries, along the St. Lawrence in particular, were engulfed.

And then it stopped. And the water receded. Leaving mud and rubble.

Below the animation was a timeline. All this took just a day.

There was silence in the room. And finally the chief meteorologist spoke.

“Would you like to see it again?”

“Non,” they said in unison.

Non. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone in that room would go to their graves with those images playing.

“That’s the worst-case scenario,” said the meteorologist. “If the dams burst. Unlikely, but possible.”

Gamache wanted to ask the Hydro rep the only question that mattered at the moment.

Will they hold?

But he refrained, knowing this was Toussaint’s meeting. Not wanting to undermine her.

While the others looked to him, he turned to her. And slowly they all looked at the new Chief Superintendent.

“Will they hold?” the Mountie finally asked.

The Hydro-Québec rep gave a curt nod. Her face grim. “They’re holding for now. The thaw hasn’t reached that far north yet. And when it does, we can open the floodgates and relieve the pressure.”

Gamache turned to Toussaint, who was clearly thinking.

Ask, he thought. Ask.

“Will it work?” she asked.

“If the gates don’t jam, and if the ice pressure on the structure isn’t too great, yes.”

If, if, if …

There was silence in the room while they replayed the animation in their heads, if the ifs didn’t happen.

“But even if they hold,” the meteorologist continued, “what we’re looking at is a catastrophic combination of record snowfall through the winter, record cold creating thick ice, a flash thaw and freeze-up, and now heavy rains. So that the melt is pouring into the rivers before the ground has thawed and the ice has left. Backing everything up.”

“Right,” said the Deputy Premier. “We can see that. The question is, what do we do about it?”

“There’re emergency measures—”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I know that. That’s how we’re responding. I want to know how to stop this. Or at least lessen the impact. What can we do?”

His voice wasn’t just urgent, it was tinged with panic and some petulance. A child who suspects he won’t be getting what he wants.

Silence met his pleas.

Gamache had put on his reading glasses and now glanced over at the chief meteorologist. He’d had many meetings with her, in this very room. Leaning over ordnance maps.

But never had he heard the dry, precise, careful scientist use that word.

Catastrophic.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s our worst fear realized,” said the meteorologist, her voice weak with exhaustion. Her shoulders sagged. “What wakes any forecaster in the small hours. All that most maddens and torments.”

“What’re you talking about?” demanded the politician. “Was that some quote? Have you lost your mind?”

Gamache recognized the quote, though he couldn’t quite place where it was from.

“Maybe,” said the meteorologist, rubbing her face. “I’ve been up for two days solid running simulations. I do feel as though my brain is caked.”

“You wanted to say something, Chief Inspector?” Once again Toussaint emphasized his rank.

He’d removed his glasses and was looking at her intently.

But she’d also been watching him. From the moment he arrived, she’d been waiting for Gamache to take over.

But instead he’d held off. Deferring to her.

It appeared respectful, but now she wondered if he had another reason. Did he see, even before she did, that whoever was in charge would be blamed?

Madeleine Toussaint was beginning to appreciate her mistake. And the near-impossible position she found herself in. If she took charge, she’d be blamed if her ideas failed. If she let Gamache take over, all her authority would disappear.

She’d invited him to the meeting partly for his expertise, but she’d also seen her chance to make a point in front of the other senior officials.

There was a new sheriff in town. The old one was weakened, diminished. Demoted.

She hadn’t counted on the fact that the others in the room would naturally turn to him. Out of habit, perhaps. Or because he still commanded their respect.

Except for the Deputy Premier, of course. Who despised the man.

Nor had she counted on the fact Gamache would voluntarily hand the lead to her. In an act of apparent humility.

Toussaint hadn’t seen her former boss in months, but now, seeing him again, she felt some shame at doing this to him. But mostly she felt annoyance. That he didn’t seem to notice he’d been diminished.

Gamache tapped the map with his glasses, then looked at her. “We might have less time than you think.”

He told them about the ice and the Champlain Bridge.

“How do you know about it?” Toussaint asked.

“Because I looked.”

“How?”

“I got out of the car just now and looked.”

“Over the edge?” she asked. “You stood on the bridge and looked over?”

While Gamache’s fear of heights was not generally known, those who served with him longest knew, or at least suspected, he had that phobia.

“I did.”

“That means the bridges will have to be closed soon,” she said to him. “And roads, I expect.”

Gamache gave the tiniest of nods. Of agreement. And Toussaint felt both gratified and annoyed at herself, for wanting, needing, his approval.

“Demolition teams are on their way to the major trouble spots,” said the head of the Corps of Engineers for the Armed Forces. “Including the Hydro dams, of course. We’ll blow the ice jams, if necessary.”

“Good. Thank you, Colonel,” said Toussaint, regaining control.

“Wait a minute,” said the Deputy Premier. “You’re suggesting setting off explosions all over the province? Can you imagine the panic?”

“I’d rather be panicked than drowned,” said the military officer.

“But can’t we do anything else?” asked the politician.

“Like stop the rain, sir?” asked the chief meteorologist. “I’ve tried. Doesn’t work.”

“I have a thought.” Gamache turned to the Hydro rep. “You talked about the floodgates. Can we do the same thing farther south?”

“There are no dams farther south. No gates to open.”

“I know, but we can dig runoffs, can’t we? It comes to the same thing.”

He looked around for support.

“I can’t see that working,” said Toussaint.

“Why not?” Gamache asked, apparently genuinely interested. “What’re you thinking?”

“I think it would take far too much equipment to do anything effective,” she said. “We’d have to divert some from the dams, and that’s just too dangerous. It would leave them vulnerable.”

“That’s a good point,” said Gamache, returning to stare at the map.

“Still,” said the RCMP officer. “If we could, it would relieve some of the smaller rivers. We could divert the water before it gets to the big rivers.”

“Chief Superintendent Toussaint is right,” said the head of the Corps of Engineers. “It would take a huge amount of equipment and personnel, and we just don’t have the resources for that. The crisis is moving quickly and is widespread. Emergencies have just been declared in Ontario and the Maritime provinces. We’re deploying across the east.”

“Wait a minute,” said the politician. “Are you saying that not only are you not giving us more people and equipment, you’re actually taking some away?”

“I was going to tell you,” said the colonel.

“When? When we’re treading water?”

“The Van Doos will be assigned to help, but that’s all,” said the colonel, refusing to be provoked. “We need the other regiments for other areas.”

Gamache straightened up. The Royal 22^e Régiment of the Canadian Armed Forces was based just outside Québec City. A storied regiment, affectionately nicknamed the Van Doos, they’d be, Gamache knew, a formidable help in any emergency and had already been deployed.

But they would not be enough. Not nearly.

He, along with everyone else in the room, looked with some dismay at the senior armed forces engineer, who dropped her eyes before meeting their stares again.

“Désolée.”

As were they.

“But if you redirect most of the resources we do have, it could be done,” pressed the RCMP officer.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said the Deputy Premier.

“You don’t like the idea of setting off explosions, you don’t like redirecting resources,” said the Mountie. “You demand action, then refuse to actually act.”

Toussaint turned to Gamache, seeing her chance. “What do you suggest?”

Two people could play at humility, and this would put him not in the driver’s seat but in the hot seat.

“It’s a risk,” agreed Gamache. “But one I think we need to take.”

“Just to be clear,” said the Hydro rep. “Are you suggesting removing the equipment and teams from the dams?”

“Yes,” said Gamache, nodding slowly. He turned to the chief meteorologist. “You said it yourself. The thaw hasn’t hit there yet. Might not. Why keep precious resources there when they’re needed down south, where the crisis isn’t just imminent, it’s upon us.”

“Because if the dams go, we’re blown back into the Stone Age,” said Toussaint. “If there’s a flash thaw, like there has been down south, we’re screwed. We won’t be able to get the workers and equipment back up there fast enough. If even one of those dams breaks…”

She didn’t need to say more. They all finished her thought.

Hundreds of millions of tons of water would be released, shooting straight down the province. Gathering ice and debris. Trees. Houses, cars, bridges. Animals. People.

Until much of Québec was smeared across Vermont.

“So we have a choice,” said the colonel. “Keep the dams safe and guarantee terrible flooding down south. Or risk the dams.”

“Like you say,” said the RCMP officer. “One’s a risk, the other’s a certainty.”

“To put it another way,” said the colonel. “One’s catastrophic, the other’s Armageddon.”

It sounded melodramatic, but anyone who’d witnessed a tidal wave, a tsunami, would know it was no exaggeration.

The Deputy Premier moaned.

“Bet you’re glad you’re not sitting in my seat now,” Toussaint said to Gamache.

He smiled. “I’m glad you’re in this office, yes. We all are.”

She doubted that was true. “Any more advice, Armand?”

He thought, looking at the map. “I think you should open the sluice gates at the dams now. As a precaution—”

“But we’d lose power,” said the Hydro rep, and the politician moaned again.

“Non. You’d lose money. But we both know you have plenty of power in reserve you could use.” Gamache stared at the executive. “We won’t be shivering in the cold and dark just yet.”

That had been a threat, by Hydro, by politicians, for decades, justifying all sorts of draconian measures by the massive utility.

There was a long silence before the Hydro exec gave a curt nod. The politician just glared at Gamache. The old lie exposed.

“You keep one team at the most vulnerable dam,” said Gamache. “In case opening the gates isn’t enough. Then redirect all possible resources to digging those runoffs, the spillways along the tributaries.”

“Merci,” Toussaint said, in an attempt to interrupt. To stop this torrent of advice.

“There’re clearly key spots,” the colonel from the Corps of Engineers said, taking up the suggestion and pointing to several rivers. “We can choose a dozen of the most significant tributaries. Maybe here … and here.”

“Oui,” said Gamache, familiar with the terrain. “We don’t have to divert all of them.” He looked up from the map and held Toussaint’s eyes. “And we could get local farmers to help. Use their equipment to dig—”

“We?” she asked, and once again the room grew still. Except for the smile that was spreading across the politician’s face.

“You,” said Armand, straightening up and removing his reading glasses. “This’s your operation, Chief Superintendent. You asked for my help and advice. I’m simply giving it.”

“Thank you.”

“A battle might be won on a single front,” he pressed on. “But a war is won on many. You’re concentrating your forces on the most urgent need. Which makes sense. But you can also get out in front of the crisis. Though it is a risk.”

“Not just a risk, Gamache,” said the Deputy Premier. “It’s reckless.”

While the others watched, Gamache raised his head and turned to the politician.

“This would be a calculated risk, monsieur.” His voice formal, freezing. Those listening were surprised the words didn’t come out in an icy vapor. “There’s more risk in paralysis. In reckless indecision.”

“You think so? Maybe we should ask those under your command who were wounded and killed because of your so-called calculated risks. You shouldn’t even be here. You should be at home, or guarding some Walmart. Or in prison.”

No one spoke, no one breathed. Eyes opened wide. Even Madeleine Toussaint was shocked by the vitriol.

“Chief Superintendent Gamache did—” she began, but a look from the politician silenced her.

“When your committee offered me the chance to return as head of homicide, sir,” said Gamache, glaring at the Deputy Premier, “you must’ve known there was a risk that I’d take it.”

At least two in the room snorted in amusement. Or it might have been amazement.

“We never thought you’d be that desperate. Or that stupid,” said the politician.

“Well, you took your best shot,” said Gamache, with a thin smile. “And yet here I am. Still standing. Right in front of you.”

“You think that was our best shot, Armand?”

There was shocked silence then, until Chief Superintendent Toussaint jumped in.

“I think we hold the course. Keep the equipment at the Hydro dams to prevent a catastrophe and dynamite as it’s necessary down south.”

The Deputy Premier, ignoring her, leaned over the map. “I see in your scenario, Gamache, one of the villages spared would be your own. Don’t you live in some tiny backwater in the townships? I can smell it on you. Smells like shit.”

“Actually, it’s donkey.” He stared at the politician. “What’s your point, Pierre?”

“Oh, Armand, I think you know my point. Once again you would misuse power for your own gain. And…” The Deputy Premier paused and inhaled. “I think what I smell isn’t a donkey. It’s an ass.”

The room bristled.

“You’re right,” said Gamache. “One of the places in the path of the flooding is mine. A small village, insignificant by your standards, called Three Pines. No one’s ever heard of it, and if it disappeared in the deluge, I suspect it wouldn’t be missed. But it would still be a tragedy. As it would for all the other towns and villages you’re ignoring.”

“Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector.” Toussaint put out her hand. “We’ll take it from here. I’ll let you get back to your own work now.”

They stared at each other. The former occupant and the current occupant of the highest office in the Sûreté.

He was dismissed.

He found himself unceremoniously on the other side of the door as it closed.

Armand Gamache had been put in his place.

When he walked into Beauvoir’s office to get his coat and boots and dog, Jean-Guy stood up at the desk. Isabelle Lacoste was also there.

“Interviews over?” Gamache asked.

“Interviews canceled,” she said. “Because of the emergency.”

“Meeting over?” asked Beauvoir.

“Not yet. I gave my opinion, and we’ll see. There’re smart people in there.”

“So why’re you out here?” asked Beauvoir.

“I guess I’m not so smart,” said Gamache with a smile.

“I’m sorry,” said Lacoste. “They shouldn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Gamache assured her. Then noticed that Jean-Guy’s suit, his papers, his chair, and the ceiling had little brown dots all over them.

“Your dog shook,” explained Beauvoir.

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes. That’s pretty much what I said as I washed myself off and scraped down my desk. Gosh, I said. Bit of a mess.” His eyes widened in a crazed look, and Lacoste laughed.

“By the way, do you mind my asking why you have a dog?”

“He belongs to the missing woman.”

“I see.” Beauvoir looked down at the smelly old thing, lying contentedly on the now-filthy rug. “I’m sorry we have to put that search on hold.”

“Actually, we don’t. Or at least I don’t. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to speak to her father in Ste.-Agathe, before the roads are closed. Do you mind if I take Agent Cloutier with me?”

“No, of course not. You don’t need to ask, patron,” said Beauvoir.

“But I do.” Gamache smiled.

“Mind if I come, too?” asked Lacoste. “Seems I’m free for the afternoon.”

“That would be great,” said Gamache. Not only did he value her judgment and company, but he knew that she was a mentor to Agent Cloutier.

Isabelle Lacoste had been a young woman when, to everyone’s surprise, he’d chosen her for homicide. That hadn’t been all that many years ago.

Now her hair was prematurely graying and there were lines at her forehead and from her mouth. Caused by stress. And pain. She walked with a limp and a cane, still recovering from near-fatal injuries almost a year earlier.

He’d often wondered if he’d really done her, done Jean-Guy, done any of them such a favor by recruiting them into homicide. But they were adults, he told himself, and could make their own decisions.

And now one had decided to leave and one had decided to return.

As he waited for the elevator, with Isabelle and Fred, he looked out at Montréal. So much rain was sliding down the window, it looked as though the city was underwater.

Gamache put his hands behind his back, one gripping the other, and felt his core grow cold. And saw again the animation. Of much of Québec sliding into Vermont. Sent there by a flood of water and a fear of making the wrong decision.

“All that most maddens and torments,” he said.

“Moby-Dick,” said Lacoste. “Studied it at university.”

“Right,” said Gamache, turning to her. “I couldn’t remember where it’s from.”

“But why remember it at all?”

“Just something someone in the meeting said.”

“Well, that can’t be good,” said Isabelle Lacoste as they stepped into the elevator. “Hardly reassuring.”

“Non.”