something Beauvoir had never seen him do before. In all the years, all the cases, all the death and despair and exhaustion of past cases.
Chief Inspector Gamache lowered his head into his hands.
Just for a moment, but it was a moment Inspector Beauvoir would never forget. As young Paul Morin laughed, Chief Inspector Gamache covered his face.
Then he looked up, and met Inspector Beauvoir’s eyes. And the mask reappeared. Confident. Energetic. In command.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir entered the Chief’s office with the evidence. And at Gamache’s request, invited Chief Superintendent Francoeur in and played him the tape.
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?”
The Chief was on his feet. He’d asked Paul Morin to carry the conversation, to keep speaking. And had whipped his headphone off, covering the microphone with his hand.
“Where’d you even get that recording?” Francoeur demanded. In the background Paul Morin was talking about his father’s vegetable garden and how long it took to grow asparagus.
“It’s background sound, from where Morin’s being held,” said Gamache.
“But where did you get it?” Francoeur was annoyed.
“It can’t possibly matter. Are you listening?” Gamache replayed the fragment Agent Nichol had found. “They mention it two or three times.”
“La Grande, yes I hear, but it could mean anything. It could be what they call whoever’s behind the kidnapping.”
“La Grande? As in La Grande Fromage? This isn’t a cartoon.” Gamache took a long breath and tried to control his frustration. On the speakers they could hear that Morin had moved on to a monologue on heirloom tomatoes.
“This is what I think, sir,” said Gamache. “The kidnapping wasn’t done by a frightened backwoods farmer with a marijuana crop. This was planned all along—”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before. There’s no evidence.”
“This is evidence.” With a mighty effort Gamache stopped himself from shouting, instead lowering his voice to a growl. “The farmer has not left Morin alone as he said he would. In fact, not only is Morin clearly not alone, there’re at least two, maybe three others with him.”
“So, what? You think he’s being held at the dam?”
“I did at first, but there’re no turbine sounds in the background.”
“Then what’s your theory, Chief Inspector?”
“I think they’re planning to blow the dam and they kidnapped Agent Morin to keep us occupied elsewhere.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur stared at Gamache. It was a scenario the Surete had practiced for, had protocols for. Dreaded. A threat against this mighty dam.
“You’re delusional. Based on what? Two words barely heard far in the background. It might even be crossed wires. You think that in what”—Francoeur turned to look at the clock—“six hours someone’s going to destroy the La Grande dam? And yet, they’re not even there? They’re sitting with your young agent somewhere else?”
“It’s misdirection. They wa—”
“Enough,” snapped Chief Superintendent Francoeur. “If it’s misdirection it’s one you’ve fallen for. They want you to hare off after a ridiculous clue. I thought you were smarter than that. And who are this mysterious ‘they’ anyway? Who’d want to destroy the dam? No, it’s absurd.”
“For God’s sake, Francoeur,” said Gamache, his voice low and hoarse with fatigue, “suppose I’m right?”
That stopped the Chief Superintendent as he made for the door. He turned and stared at Chief Inspector Gamache. In the long silence between the men they heard a small lecture on cow versus horse compost.
“I need more evidence.”
“Agent Lacoste is trying to collect it.”
“Where is she?”
Chief Inspector Gamache glanced quickly at Inspector Beauvoir. They’d dispatched Agent Lacoste two hours ago. To a remote Cree community. To the settlements closest to the great dam. Most affected by it going up. And most affected were it to suddenly, catastrophically, come down. There she’d been told to visit an elderly Cree woman Gamache had met years earlier. On a bench. Outside the Chateau Frontenac.
They’d hoped to have her evidence by now. To convince Chief Superintendent Francoeur to stop his high-tech search and lower his sights. To change course. To stop looking at the present and look to the past.
But so far, nothing from Agent Lacoste.
“I’m begging you, sir,” said Gamache. “Just put a few people on it. Quietly alert security at the dam. See what the other forces might have.”
“And look like a fool?”
“Look like a thorough commander.”
Chief Superintendent Francoeur glared at Gamache. “Fine. I’ll do that much.”
