A Better Man Page 8

  The spring runoff often coincided with the running of the maple sap.

  They’d fill sandbags and hold a sugaring-off party, with baked beans and crêpes and cauldrons boiling down the sap into syrup. A fiddler played as children, and Gabri, stood around the pots waiting to pour the sweet liquid onto snow, where it turned into a sort of soft caramel called tire d’erable.

  While mothers and fathers, friends and neighbors filled sandbags to build walls along the Bella Bella, children, and Gabri, used twigs to roll the tire, then ate the maple candy and watched horses return from the forest bearing buckets brimming with more sap.

  It was a festive end to winter. After all, the river had never broken her banks. There’d never been reason to worry.

  But today was different. The fiddler was holding a shovel. The kids were safely in St. Thomas’s Church, their evacuation center. There was no tire. Only tired and sodden villagers.

  Ruth stood in the rain, almost sleet, and watched as they bowed, then straightened, then bowed again, filling the sandbags in what looked like a pagan ritual.

  But if this was a ritual, it was to an angry, vindictive deity.

  I just sit where I’m put, composed / of stone and wishful thinking, Ruth muttered one of her own poems as she watched her neighbors and friends bow and lift. Bend and shovel. That the deity who kills for pleasure / will also heal.

  Villagers, under Ruth’s direction, had formed two lines and were passing the bags along, then piling them one on top of the other. Building a wall on either side of the Bella Bella.

  The old poet turned from surveying her dripping and dirty neighbors and looked upstream.

  She tried not to let her face reflect her feelings. Gnawing her cheek to stop the fear from showing, she looked at the Bella Bella. Until recently it had been beige with froth, but now it was almost black. As the churning became more and more violent. Dredging up muck and sediment and God knew what else from the river bottom. Things left undisturbed for decades, centuries perhaps, were now roiling to the surface. Rotten. Decayed.

  Ruth watched as the bloated river swept great chunks of ice and tree limbs down the mountain. Crashing toward them. Jamming, then breaking apart.

  But eventually, she knew, the jam would be too dense. The debris too solid. It would hold. And then…?

  Until this day, the villagers had considered the Bella Bella a friendly, gentle presence. It would never hurt them.

  Now it was as though someone they thought they knew well, someone they loved and trusted, had turned on them. The only thing more shocking would be if the three huge pine trees in the center of the village broke free and began to attack them.

  Gabri and Olivier were handing out hot drinks. Tea, coffee, hot chocolate, and soup. Monsieur Béliveau, the grocer, and Sarah the baker, were taking around trays of sandwiches. Brie and thick slices of maple-cured ham, and arugula on baguettes and croissants, and pain ménage.

  Though the most popular proved to be the ones Reine-Marie had made before she took a place in the line, filling sandbags.

  “God,” said Clara, taking a huge bite. “These are delicious.”

  Her gloves were wet through, and her large hands trembled in the cold.

  “What do you have?” asked Myrna as she swallowed a huge bite of baguette.

  “Peanut butter and honey on Wonder Bread,” said Clara, barely intelligible through the thick peanut butter.

  “Oh, jeez,” said Myrna, breaking from the line and turning to look for Sarah the baker. “I’m going to get one of those.”

  “Here,” said Billy Williams. “Take mine.”

  Though he was famished, he offered her half his sandwich.

  Myrna smiled and shook her head. “It’s okay. I’ll get my own. But thanks.”

  Billy looked after her, then down at his damp sandwich. And understood that he had nothing that Myrna wanted.

  She was unattainable, and he worried he’d love her for the rest of his life.

  Gabri walked over to the bridge and offered Ruth a coffee. “I put a shot of brandy in it.”

  “That’s okay,” shouted the old poet over the sound of the river. She reached for a steaming mug. “I’ll take the soup.”

  Gabri paled. It was, he knew, a sign of the End of Days. Ruth refusing booze.

  He looked down and saw that the river was not just angry, there was a madness about it. As though all the indignities visited on all the waterways in the New World, by generations of settlers, were coming to the surface.

  The waters were rising up, not in protest but in revenge.

  He could barely hear himself think for the howling.

  It was, he thought as he walked off the bridge, the sound a soul might make as it approached hell.

  * * *

  Gamache’s mind was racing. Had they thought to open the spillways for the dams across the province?

  Hospitals needed to be put on alert. Other provinces contacted and asked for possible assistance. The water-filtration plants needed to be protected. Hydro crews needed to be ready to restore power. Military reserves and first responders called out. Emergency measures put in place.

  A sudden catastrophic event, natural or otherwise, brought with it turmoil. Places so pastoral and pretty one minute became war zones the next.

  A populace unused to these sudden emergencies needed to be rallied and directed. And kept calm.

  It was vital to take control.

  Gamache tried to stop his mind from going there. And his hand from reaching for his phone to call Emergency Management. Call his successor at the Sûreté. Call the Premier Ministre. And tell them what to do.

  Instead he took a deep breath and forced himself to sit back in the passenger seat.

  This was no longer his job. No longer his responsibility. They knew what they were doing. They did not need him.

  Still, he felt like a swimmer treading water offshore. Watching some terrible event unfold on the mainland and being unable to stop it. Or even help.

  Once out of the mountains, his phone had gone wild with emails. Texts. Phone messages.

  He tried Reine-Marie first and finally got through to Olivier in the bistro, who called Reine-Marie in.

  “We’re all right, Armand. Sandbagging, of course. But there’s no panic.”

  “Ruth didn’t—”

  “Put valium in the hot chocolate again?” asked Reine-Marie. “Non. But I am feeling very, very calm.”

  Actually, she sounded tired.

  “How is it really?” he asked.

  “We’re getting the barriers built. The Bella Bella’s higher than anyone’s ever seen it. A few inches from the top. But even if it floods, it won’t be too bad.”

  Reine-Marie had never been in a flood. He had. It wasn’t just a few inches of water in basements. A wave of water, even a small one, that had traveled that distance contained almost unimaginable energy. The force of even a minor breach could knock down walls. Buildings. Wells would be contaminated. Power lines knocked over. People, animals swept away.

  It didn’t take as much water as people thought.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Where are you?”

  “There’s a state of emergency. I’m on my way into Montréal.”

  There was the briefest of pauses. “Of course.”

  She’d tried to sound upbeat, but the disappointment in her voice took his breath away. He was heading away from her, not to her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare be sorry. We’re fine. We really are. Be careful. You have your water wings?”

  “The blow-up swan? Always.”

  “Good. Make sure you wear it.”

  He laughed. “Now, that would be a photo for social media.”

  Hearing her laughter as she imagined her husband in suit, tie, and pink swan around his waist, directing emergency operations, went some way to healing his heart. They talked another minute or so before hanging up.

  Then he phoned Monsieur Godin. It was a difficult call. He had to tell Vivienne’s father that the search for his daughter was temporarily on hold, during the emergency. But would be resumed as soon as possible.

  “You can’t stop,” said Homer. “You have to find her. You promised.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Gamache. “There’s nothing we can do right now, but believe me—”

  “I’m coming down.”

  “No, don’t.” Gamache’s voice was sharp. “The roads will wash out soon. Bridges will be closed. You’ll be trapped away from home. Stay where you are. In case she calls.”

  There it was again. Giving Vivienne’s father what Gamache suspected was false hope. For a call he was more and more convinced would never come.

  But he had to keep the man away. For any number of reasons, not just the flooding.

  As soon as he hung up, Agent Cloutier put the siren on. They were on the autoroute now, racing toward the city. As they headed over the Champlain Bridge, he asked her to pull over and put the flashers on.

  “But there’s no emergency lane, sir. We’ll block traffic.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Once the car stopped, he got out quickly, before he could change his mind.

  Hardly believing he was doing this, he made for the side of the bridge.

  It was only a few steps away, but he had to fight for every inch.

  Terrified of heights and suffering from vertigo, he felt himself grow instantly light-headed. And wondered if he’d pass out.

  But he had to look. Had to see.

  He battled his way forward, just a few feet that felt like miles. Reaching out, he gripped the concrete wall that separated him from the void. The wind and rain hit his face. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Then, opening them, he leaned out.

  And gasped. His eyes wide, his knuckles white.

  The world seemed to spin, and he realized, with horror, that he was in danger not of falling but of throwing himself off the bridge. The vertigo was dragging him over the edge. And there was nothing to stop his fall. Nothing between the bridge and the water.

  He could hear, as though from very, very far away, cars honking. He thought he heard his own name called and had the peculiar feeling it was coming from the void below.

  But still he stared, willing his eyes to focus.

  And when they did, he saw. It was worse than that morning. Much worse. Ice was heaving, pushing against the pylons of the bridge. Halfway up already, and climbing.

  He looked out at the wide, wide expanse of river. Some open water was visible, dark jagged lines between the fissures. The ice floes, many feet thick, were crashing together. Mounting each other. Forcing huge shards of ice to jut out.

  Then he heard the rumble and forced himself to look farther out, farther downriver. The sound grew louder and louder, moving quickly now. A frost quake was tearing toward the bridge.

  Gamache took a couple of deep breaths. And tightened his grip on the low concrete wall.

  Trying not to close his eyes. Trying not to flinch.

  He stood up slightly straighter as the rumble turned into a roar.

  And then the boom. Like cannon fire, as the ice ruptured under the pressure. About fifty meters away.

  He exhaled.

  If it was this bad here, it must be just as bad, if not worse, all around the island of Montréal. Never mind all the other rivers. All the other bridges, across Québec.

  He needed to leave. To make it to that meeting at headquarters. But first he had to get back to the car. Across the vast three feet of asphalt. He found that his grip was so tight he couldn’t let go.

  He ripped his hands off the concrete and, turning, took a few shaky steps, then practically threw himself the last few feet.

  “Patron?” asked Agent Cloutier on seeing his face.

  “It’s all right,” Gamache said, his hands in tight fists so that the trembling wouldn’t show. “But we need to hurry.”

  * * *

  Sûreté headquarters was buzzing. Officers rushing along the hallways.

  Bullpens on each floor were all but empty, only skeleton crews remaining to answer calls and continue the most urgent of investigations.

  Everyone else had been reassigned to the flooding.

  Gamache went directly to homicide and met briefly with Jean-Guy.

  On entering the office, he saw Beauvoir on the phone, looking energized, in his element. Though the younger man would no doubt fiercely deny it, Jean-Guy Beauvoir liked nothing better than an emergency.

  He hung up and raised his brows. “Been to a spa?”

  “Spa?”

  “Mud bath.”

  “Oh, that.” Gamache looked down at his caked coat and slacks. He’d forgotten that he was covered in muck. “More like mud wrestling.”

  “Who won?”

  “Not me.” He took off his heavy coat and hung it on the hook at the back of the door. “I’ll tell you about it later. Oh, there is one thing I’d like to leave here with you. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “His name’s Fred. He might like some water.”

  He left the bedraggled dog and the befuddled man staring at each other and hurried upstairs.

  * * *

  The meeting in Chief Superintendent Toussaint’s office was well under way by the time Gamache arrived.

  He’d made a quick trip to the bathroom and tried to clean up, but the facilities and time didn’t allow for much more than a good scrub of his hands and face.

  He looked in the mirror and ran his hands through his hair.

  Then shook his head and gave up. There were far more important things to focus on.

  “Chief Inspector.”

  Chief Superintendent Madeleine Toussaint greeted her predecessor. If she noticed his unusually disheveled appearance, she didn’t show it. “You know everyone here.”

  She was confident enough to invite her predecessor to the meeting and savvy enough about the realpolitik of power to highlight Gamache’s diminished status by emphasizing his new rank.

  There were senior representatives from the Corps of Military Engineers, from the RCMP, from Hydro-Québec. Environment Canada’s chief meteorologist was there, as was the Deputy Premier of Québec.

  All men and women Gamache knew well.

  “I see some of the crap thrown at you today on Twitter has stuck,” said the senior officer from the RCMP, gesturing at Gamache’s clothing.

  Gamache smiled. “Fortunately, it won’t stain.”

  “But it does smell,” said the Mountie, with a wry smile. “Helluva first day back on the job, Armand.”

  “It is that.”

  “We were going over the situation,” said Toussaint, bristling slightly at the obvious familiarity and warmth between Gamache and the RCMP officer.

  She waved him to the huge ordnance map of the province, where the others had gathered.

  It didn’t just show where the problems were now, but also the knock-on effects farther downriver. And Québec had a lot of rivers, a lot of water.

  Gamache had bent over many such maps, from his time occupying this very office. Ones that showed criminal activity and natural disasters.

  But he’d never seen anything quite like this.

  There were so many markings the map was almost unrecognizable.

  “I was just about to show this,” said the chief meteorologist. She nodded to a colleague who was sitting at a laptop. After a few taps, another map of Québec appeared, projected on the wall. “These are our predictions of what we think could happen in the next twenty-four hours.”

  An animation began playing, but nothing Disney would recognize.

  It showed a natural disaster of epic scope. As rivers flowed into each other. As ice jams piled up. As tributaries broke their banks.

  Whole islands disappeared.

  Populated islands, Gamache knew.

  His eyes widened, and his stomach twisted. Cities and towns that had stood for centuries, along the St. Lawrence in particular, were engulfed.

  And then it stopped. And the water receded. Leaving mud and rubble.

  Below the animation was a timeline. All this took just a day.

  There was silence in the room. And finally the chief meteorologist spoke.

  “Would you like to see it again?”

  “Non,” they said in unison.

  Non. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone in that room would go to their graves with those images playing.

  “That’s the worst-case scenario,” said the meteorologist. “If the dams burst. Unlikely, but possible.”

  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?”

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