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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.