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It would have to be near catastrophic for his mother-in-law to give up precious time with them.
Jean-Guy dropped his feet off the desk and leaned forward.
“They’ll need help sandbagging,” said Annie. “Still, how bad can it be? It’s the Bella Bella, not the St. Lawrence or the Mighty Mississippi. The worst that can happen is water in the basements, right? It’s never completely flooded before.”
Beauvoir walked to the window.
Lots of things never happened before, he knew. Then suddenly did. It only took once. Murder, for instance. A person was only killed once. And that was enough.
Yes, just because something had never happened, that didn’t mean it couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
And Annie was worried. Otherwise she’d never have called and asked him to go down.
After he hung up, he continued to look out the window. She’d mentioned the St. Lawrence. If the Bella Bella was flooding, what was the huge river that encircled the island of Montréal doing?
Through the skyscrapers, he could see the river was still frozen. He sighed with some relief. Now, that would be a problem.…
But then he looked more closely, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see fissures. And long shadows. That meant columns of ice had pushed their way up and out. Great chunks were piling up, and unless something happened soon, the St. Lawrence would also flood. And worse. The force of it could crush the pylons holding the bridges in place.
He picked up the phone. As he waited for Chief Superintendent Toussaint to answer, he thought again about Paris. Where the flowers were in bloom.
Where his little, growing family would live. In peace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Awful! Arrogant poseur #MorrowSucks
Overrated. No talent. #MorrowSucks
Just plain shit. #MorrowSucks
Lock him up #GamacheSux
The donkeys noticed first.
They turned in the field and started forward. Toward the fence. One or two were braying.
Carl Tracey came out and stood in the doorway of the barn and watched as three figures, covered in mud, trudged down the drive.
They looked like something out of a horror film. Golems, heading his way.
Tracey reached over and took hold of the pitchfork.
Gamache raised his hand in a fist, to signal them to stop.
Cameron, familiar with the silent combat gesture, did.
Cloutier did not.
“Agent Cloutier.”
When she turned, Gamache nodded forward, and she saw it then.
Framed in the open barn door was a man straight out of some horror film.
He was disheveled. Filthy. With a pitchfork.
Tracey watched them closely. The two men were large. Disheveled. Filthy. The woman was small and filthy.
