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Despite himself, Gamache felt tugged into that world. Just for an instant, he crossed the line. To where the unimaginable happened. Where monsters lived. Where Vivienne’s father now lived.

“You’re right, monsieur. You have to act now. But confronting Carl Tracey won’t get you anywhere. He won’t tell you anything, and he’ll just have you arrested. It would only make it worse.”

Now Godin almost laughed. Almost.

“It can’t get worse. And to be clear, Chief Inspector, I don’t plan on confronting him. I plan on beating him until he tells me where Vivienne is. And then I’ll beat him to death.”

Gamache regarded Godin and knew he was serious. He made a decision.

“Come with us now. I live in the area. You can stay with my wife and me. We’ll organize a search for Vivienne. You can help us. Will you do that?”

“Stay with you?” Homer asked. “Are you serious?”

It was, not surprisingly, exactly the same question Lacoste wanted to ask. Was he serious?

“Yes.”

“Give me two minutes. I’ll pack a bag.”

Homer ran from the kitchen and along the corridor, the small home practically shaking with the force of his feet.

“Was that wise?” asked Lacoste, looking down the now-empty hallway. “You’re taking him to within a few kilometers of the man he wants to kill.”

“He’d have gone there himself, probably as soon as we left. This way we have some control. I can watch over him.”

“I know him,” said Cloutier. “If he says he’ll kill Tracey, he means it. You can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day.”

“And what would you have us do, Agent Cloutier? Leave him?”

She thought and finally shook her head.

“Non,” said Gamache. “This isn’t the best solution, I agree, but it’s the only one I can think of right now. And we’re running out of time.” He looked out the window, where ice pellets were slapping against the panes. “Maybe Monsieur Godin’s right. Sometimes we have to do something stupid.”

It did not seem to Isabelle Lacoste a great addition to the Sûreté motto.

Service, integrity, justice, and, occasionally, stupidity.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Clara Morrow stood in her studio, her dog, Leo, at her side. Her shoulders were drooping from exhaustion as she wondered which, if any, paintings she’d rescue, should the evacuation order come.

Would she take the miniatures? Were they worth saving? Had they earned their place on the ark? Two days ago she thought so. Now she wasn’t so sure.

And with the water rising, decisions had to be made.

They’d run out of sandbags two hours earlier. Then villagers had begun bringing pillowcases and feed bags, garbage bags. Anything that could hold sand.

And then they’d run out of sand.

And then they’d run out of light.

And then they’d run out of steam.

And still the rain kept coming. Changing to ice pellets, then freezing rain, then back to rain.

It had stopped for half an hour, giving them hope that maybe …

And then it started to snow.