He pulled out his cell phone. It was only just registering, clinging to one bar of contact with the outside world. He tapped the screen so rapidly and so expertly Clara was surprised. He always seemed the sort who’d be uncomfortable with computers and tablets and devices.

But watching him, she realized this was a tool as powerful as any gun. It gave him information. And no investigator could survive without that.

He tapped it a few more times, turned, walked quickly toward the village, then stopped.

The lone bar was wavering. Appearing, then disappearing. The thread to the outside world fraying and breaking. Then reappearing.

“Oui, allô,” he spoke loudly. “Is this Vols Côte Nord?”

Clara watched his strained face. The phone was pressed to his ear as though trying to grip that one bar.

“We took a flight this morning, from La Malbaie to Sept-Îles—”

The person on the other end was obviously speaking, and Gamache’s eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the voice that faded in and out.

“That’s right. He let us off at Sept-Îles. Is the pilot back yet?”

Gamache listened. Clara waited, trying to read his expression.

“When?”

Gamache listened some more.

“Can you patch me through to the plane?”

Even Clara, a couple feet away, heard the laugh.

“But you must be able to,” said Gamache.

Now Clara heard words, in rapid French, that sounded like “idiotic,” “impossible,” “delusional.”

“You can do it, I’ve done it before. And I insist. My name is Armand Gamache, I’m the Chief Inspector of homicide for Québec. Emeritus.” The last word was mumbled at best, and he looked at Clara and grimaced.

While the Emeritus seemed to have been lost on whoever was on the other end of the phone, Gamache’s tone of authority was not.

There was another brief pause while Gamache listened and finally said, “Merci.”

Clara took a step closer.

“He’s connecting us.” Gamache stared into the sky, as though that would help. Finally he gave Clara one curt nod.

“Bonjour. Is this Marc Brossard? My name is Gamache. You flew us to Sept-Îles today.”

Beside him Clara was praying the frayed, fragile connection held. Just a minute more. One minute.

“Oui, oui,” said Gamache. “Listen.” But the young man continued to talk. “Listen to me,” said Gamache sharply.

And the young pilot did.

“We showed you a photograph, on an iPhone. You said you recognized the man. Which man?”

Gamache held Clara’s eyes as he spoke. He listened now, with such intensity Clara felt her own heart racing.

“There were two men,” said Gamache clearly. Loudly. “An older and a younger.”

Clara could hear static. The connection was breaking up, but it hadn’t yet broken off. Not yet. Not yet.

“Where did you take him?”

Gamache listened.

“When?”

He listened, and Clara stared into his eyes.

“When?” he repeated, his eyes showing surprise. “Are you sure?”

Clara could feel her heart throbbing in her throat.

“We’re in Port-Menier,” Gamache was saying. “Can you pick us up?” After a pause he shook his head. “I understand. Merci.”

He hung up.

“It was Professor Massey he recognized,” Clara confirmed. “Not Peter.”

Gamache nodded, grim-faced. “He flew to Tabaquen yesterday.”

*   *   *

“Where’re you headed?” The old woman slid into the booth beside Beauvoir.

“Up the coast,” he waved.

“I figured that. Where?”

“Tabaquen.”

“Are you sure?”

He laughed. “Pretty sure.”

“Here,” she said. “You’ll need this.”

She took the hat from beside her on the torn Naugahyde seat and placed it on his head.

“It’s wet and cold out there.”

“I’m not heading into the North Atlantic,” he assured her, taking it off and smoothing his hair.

“You have no idea where you’re headed.” She brought something from the pocket of her cardigan and placed it on the table in front of him.

He looked at it.

A rabbit’s foot. No, not rabbit. Hare.

“No hares here on the island,” she said. “It was given to me years ago, by another visitor. Said it would bring me luck. And it has.”