“Are you accusing me of hurting our child?” Daniel’s voice was no longer full of reason and patience. “Are you really suggesting I’d hurt my son? He isn’t even born yet and you’re already accusing me? You still see me as a screw-up, don’t you?”
“Daniel, calm down. I never saw you as a screw-up, you know that.”
Across the room he could hear Reine-Marie inhale.
“You’re right. Always right. You get to win because you know things I don’t, you’ve seen things I haven’t. And you seem to know I’m so willful I’d give our child a name that will ruin him.”
“Life can be hard enough without giving a child a name that will lead to abuse, to bullying.”
“Yes, it could lead to that, but it could also lead to pride, to self-worth—”
“He’ll find his own self-worth no matter what name you give him. Don’t handicap him.”
“You consider Honoré a birth defect?” Daniel’s voice was dangerously distant.
“I didn’t say that.” Gamache tried to pull back but knew it had gone too far. “Look, we should talk about this in person. I’m sorry if I seemed to say you’d deliberately hurt your child. I know you wouldn’t. You’re a wonderful parent—”
“Glad you think so.”
“Any child would be fortunate to be born to you. But you asked how I feel, and it’s possible I’m wrong but I think it would be unfair to name your son Honoré.”
“Thanks for calling,” said Daniel and hung up.
Gamache stood with the phone to his ear, stunned. Had it really gone so far wrong?
“Was it bad?” Reine-Marie asked.
“Bad enough.” Gamache hung up. “But we’ll work it out.”
He wasn’t worried, really. He and Daniel argued sometimes, as he did with his daughter Annie. Disagreements were natural, he told himself. But this was different. He’d hurt his son in a place he himself knew. He’d questioned his ability as a father.
“Oh good, you’re back.”
Beauvoir swung into the room, narrowly avoiding a technician carrying a huge box. “Agent Lacoste’s just finishing her search of the guest rooms. They’ve been all over the buildings. Nothing. And I’ve interviewed Thomas, Marianna and just now Sandra. They’re not exactly the Waltons.”
Equipment was arriving and the old log library was being transformed into a modern incident room. Desks were cleared, computers hooked up, blackboards and foolscap put up on easels, ready for Inspector Beauvoir’s facts, for witness lists and movement charts. For evidence lists and clues.
“We have a problem, Chief.” This came from a technician kneeling beside a computer.
“I’ll be right with you. Did you get through to the B and B?”
“All arranged,” said Reine-Marie.
“Inspector, will you join me? We’ll drive over to Three Pines with Madame Gamache then head on to the Sherbrooke detachment. We’re meeting the crane operator there in an hour.”
“With pleasure,” said Beauvoir, adjusting an easel and fishing in a box for Magic Markers.
“What’s the problem?” Gamache stood over the technician.
“This place. Hasn’t been rewired in years, sir. I don’t think we can plug these in.” She held up the plug for a computer.
“I’ll find the maître d’,” said Beauvoir, heading to the dining room.
Fucking country. Middle of nowhere. He’d been doing quite well until now. Trying to ignore the mosquitoes and blackflies and no-see-’ems. At least in Montreal you see what’s coming at you. Cars. Trucks. Kids jonesing on crack. Big things. Out here everything’s hidden, everything’s hiding. Tiny bloodsucking bugs, spiders and snakes and animals in the forests, rotten wiring behind walls made from tree trunks for God’s sake. It was like trying to conduct a modern murder investigation in Fred Flintstone’s cave.
“Bonjour?” he called. No one.
“Anyone there?” He poked his head into the dining room. Empty.
“Hello?” What, was it siesta time? Maybe they were out shooting dinner. He swung open a door and stepped into the kitchen.
“Oh, hello. Can I help you?”
A voice, deep and sing-song, came from a walk-in cold room. Then a woman walked out, carrying a roast. She wore a white apron round her neck and tied at her thick waist. It was simple, no-nonsense. Nothing cute written on it. She marched toward him, her eyes keen and enquiring. She was six feet if she was an inch, Beauvoir guessed. Far from young and far from slim. Her hair was curly, black and gray, short and unbecoming. Her hands were huge, indelicate.