“But where do we find a satellite dish?” Jér?me asked. “It can’t be a regular one. It needs to be some satellite dish that can’t be traced.”
“Let’s say we do get online,” said Thérèse, her mind racing ahead, “we’d have another problem. We can’t use the S?reté log-ins to get into the system, Francoeur would be looking for those. So how do we get back in?”
Gamache placed a piece of notepaper on the wooden table.
“What is it?” Thérèse asked.
But Jér?me knew. “It’s an access code. But using what network?”
Gamache turned the paper over.
“La Bibliothèque nationale,” said Thérèse, recognizing the logo. “The national archives of Québec. Reine-Marie works there, doesn’t she?”
“Oui. I did my research on the Ouellet Quints yesterday at the Bibliothèque nationale and I remembered Reine-Marie saying that the archive network goes all over the province, into the smallest library and into the massive archives at the universities. It’s connected to every publicly funded library.”
“It also goes into the S?reté archives,” said Thérèse. “The files of all the old cases.”
“It’s our way in,” said Jér?me, his eyes glued to the bit of paper and the logo. “Is it Reine-Marie’s? A code belonging to Reine-Marie Gamache would trip an alarm.”
He knew he was looking for reasons this wouldn’t work, because he knew what was waiting on the other side of that electronic door. Prowling. Pacing. Looking for him. Waiting for him to do something stupid. Like go back in.
“I thought of that,” said Gamache, his voice reassuring. “It belongs to someone else. She’s one of the supervisors, so no one will question if that code is logged on.”
“I think it might work.” Thérèse’s voice was low, afraid to tempt the Fates.
Gamache pushed himself out of the chair. “I’m off to see Ruth Zardo, then I need to head in to Montréal. Can you speak with Clara Morrow and see if she knows anyone who puts up satellite dishes?”
“Armand,” said Thérèse at the door, as he collected his car keys and put on his coat and gloves. “You must know that you might’ve solved two ends of the problem. The satellite connection and the access codes, but how do we get from one to the other? The whole middle part is missing. We’ll need cables and computers and someone to connect it all.”
“Yes, that’s a problem. I might have an idea about that though.”
Superintendent Brunel thought Gamache looked even unhappier about the solution than the problem.
After the Chief Inspector left, Thérèse Brunel walked back into the kitchen and found her husband sitting at the table, staring at his now cold breakfast.
“The worm has turned,” she announced, joining him at the table.
“Yes,” said Jér?me, and thought that was a perfect description of them.
EIGHTEEN
“You lied to me.”
“You sound like a schoolgirl,” said Ruth Zardo. “Are your feelings all hurt? I know what’ll help. Scotch?”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“I was asking, not offering. Did you bring Scotch?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Well then, why’re you here?”
Armand Gamache was trying to remember that himself. Ruth Zardo had the strange ability to muddle even the clearest goal.
They sat in her kitchen, on white plastic preform chairs, at a white plastic table, all salvaged from a Dumpster. He’d been there before, including at the oddest dinner party he’d ever attended, where he’d been far from certain they’d all survive.
But this morning, while maddening, was at least predictable.
Anyone who placed himself within Ruth’s orbit, and certainly within her walls, and wasn’t prepared for dementia had only himself to blame. What often came as a surprise to people was that the dementia would be theirs, not Ruth’s. She remained sharp, if not clear.
Rosa slept in her nest made from an old blanket, on the floor between Ruth and the warm oven. Her beak was tucked into her wing.
“I came for the Bernard book, on the Quints,” he said. “And for the truth about Constance Ouellet.”
Ruth’s thin lips pursed, as though stuck between a kiss and a curse.
“Long dead and buried in another town,” Gamache quoted, conversationally, “my mother hasn’t finished with me yet.”
The lips unpursed. Flatlined. Her entire face went limp, and for a moment Gamache was afraid she was having a stroke. But the eyes remained sharp.
“Why did you say that?” she asked.
“Why did you write that?” He brought a slim volume out of his satchel and placed it on the plastic table. Her eyes rested on it.
The cover was faded and torn. It was blue. Just blue, no design or pattern. And on it was written Anthology of New Canadian Poetry.
“I picked this up from Myrna’s store last night.”
Ruth lifted her eyes from the book to the man. “Tell me what you know.”
He opened the book and found what he was looking for. “Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair that you would greet each overture / with curling lip? You wrote those words.”