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But still the villagers were reluctant to leave the wall they’d built. Four bags high. Two bags thick. Running a hundred meters on either shore of the Bella Bella. From Jane Neal’s back garden, along Clara’s garden, to the bridge. Then it continued behind Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, Sarah’s Boulangerie, the bistro, and Myrna’s bookstore.

And ten meters beyond that, to the bend in the river.

It had been a herculean task. But as they finally dragged themselves back to their homes, for hot showers and dry clothes, each villager suspected that it was not enough. That the Bella Bella would rise up in the night and overwhelm Three Pines.

And there was nothing more they could do to stop it.

Ruth had stayed on the stone bridge, with Rosa. Like a droopy sentinel. Unwilling to leave her post. Staring at the river that had been her friend.

Until Clara and Myrna, Reine-Marie and Sarah the baker had coaxed her off. It wasn’t fine words that did it, or fine food, or even the bottle of fine scotch that Myrna had brought with her.

It was Reine-Marie pointing out that Rosa was getting cold.

It was finally love that drew Ruth away from the river.

As the women accompanied the old poet back to her home, a car had appeared on the hill.

“Armand,” said Reine-Marie.

“He’s not alone,” said Clara.

“Is it numbnuts?” asked Ruth.

“No, Jean-Guy’s staying in Montréal,” said Reine-Marie.

She’d long since given up trying to stop Ruth from calling her son-in-law “numbnuts.” And even he’d begun answering to it.

The car stopped in front of the Gamache home, and two men and a dog got out.

Homer Godin looked around.

All he could see through the sleet and darkness was a ring of lights that seemed to hang in midair. He knew they came from homes, but those were invisible.

They’d stopped in Montréal and dropped Lysette and that superintendent woman at Sûreté headquarters.

Homer had sat in the outer office, listening, while Gamache met with a fellow named Jean-Guy something.

The young fellow was obviously another cop. Senior, it seemed. Gamache’s equal? At times it seemed so. His superior? At times it seemed so. His subordinate? At times it seemed so.

They’d discussed the flooding. It was far worse than Homer had realized.

“Have they dynamited the jams on the St. Lawrence?” Gamache asked.

“Not yet.”

“What’re they waiting for?” asked Gamache.

“A decision, I guess. The Corps of Military Engineers is pushing for it, but the Deputy Premier seems afraid it’ll set off a panic.”

Gamache took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “Bon. I’m almost afraid to ask, but … the dams?”

The dams? thought Homer. What dams?

And then he realized what dams they were talking about. The huge hydroelectric dams in James Bay. He leaned his head around the doorway and asked, “Are they in trouble?”

And for one brief moment, his personal catastrophe was replaced by the collective disaster that was threatening.

“Non,” said the younger man. But Homer Godin recognized a lie when he heard it.