Bury Your Dead

Agent Morin wasn’t alone. The “farmer” hadn’t abandoned him after all. Others were there, speaking softly, softly. Walking softly, softly. Making almost no noise. But some. Enough for the delicate equipment and surprisingly sensitive ears to find.

And the words they’d spoken? It had taken hours, precious hours, but Nichol had finally isolated one crucial phrase.

La Grande.

Over and over she’d played it for Beauvoir, examining each syllable, each letter. The tone, the breath. Until they’d reached a conclusion.

La Grande. The power dam that held back trillions of tons of water. The giant dam that was ten times the size of any other in North America. That provided hydroelectricity for millions, hundreds of millions, of people.

Without it much of Canada and the States would be plunged into a dark age.

The La Grande dam was in the middle of nowhere, near impossible to get to without official permission.

Gamache had looked at his watch at that moment, when Beauvoir and Nichol had written him from the basement. Sent him the sound bite so he could hear what they’d found.

It was three in the morning. Eight hours left. He and Morin had been discussing paint samples and names. Banbury Cream. Nantucket Marine. Mouse Hair.

In a few strides Gamache was over at the huge ordinance map of Québec on his wall. His finger quickly found the La Grande River, and the slash across it that had diverted and dammed the flow, killing thousands of acres of old-growth forest, herds of caribou and deer and moose. Had stirred up mercury and poisoned native communities.

But it had also been a miracle of engineering and continued to provide power decades later. And if it was suddenly removed?

Chief Inspector Gamache’s finger made its dreadful way south, tracing the torrent that would be created when all that water was suddenly released, all that energy suddenly released. It would be like nuclear bombs tumbling down the length of the province.

His finger hit Cree villages then larger and larger towns and cities. Val-d’Or. Rouyn-Noranda.

How far down would the water get before it petered out, before it dissipated? Before all its energy was spent? How many bodies would be swept down with it?

Now Paul Morin was talking about the family cat peeing in his father’s printer.

Had Morin been taken there? Was he being held at the dam?

I’ll find you.

I believe you, sir.

“Sir?”

Gamache looked up into the face of Inspector Langlois.

“Are you all right?”

Gamache smiled. “Just fine. My apologies.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s about the Renaud case. Have you found any boxes of books that might have belonged to Renaud that weren’t in his apartment?”

“His ex-wife has some. He’d taken them over to her basement a few weeks ago. What is it?”

Gamache sat forward and brought out his notebook. “May I have her address please?”

“Certainly.” He wrote the address down and handed it to the Chief Inspector. “Anything else?”

“No, this is perfect. Merci.” Gamache folded the note, put on his coat, thanked the Inspector and left, his boots echoing with purpose down the long corridor and out the door.

Hopping into a cab he called Émile then had the cab swing by his home and together they drove out the old gates, along Grande-Allée with its merrily lit bars and restaurants. The cab turned right onto Avenue Cartier then right again onto a small side street. Rue Aberdeen.

From the taxi Gamache had called Madame Renaud to make sure she was home. A moment later she opened the door and the two men entered. It was a main-floor flat in the gracious old row houses, each with wrought-iron stairs outside, leading to the apartments above.

Inside, the floors were dark wood and the rooms were generous and beautifully proportioned. Wide original crown molding swept around where the walls met the high ceiling. Each chandelier had a plaster rosette. These were genteel homes in a much sought-after quartier of Québec. Not everyone wanted to live within the walls, where life tended to be cramped and dictated by planners long dead. Here the streets were wider, planted with soaring old trees and each home had a modest front garden, when not buried under feet of snow.

Madame Renaud was short and cheerful. She took their coats and offered them a cup of coffee which both men declined.

“We’re sorry for your loss, madame,” said Gamache, taking a seat in the inviting living room.

“Merci. He was unbearable, of course. A pig-headed man, totally self absorbed. And yet—”

Gamache and Émile waited while she composed herself.