Chapter 20 #4
“The IP addresses in Charles Langlois’s file, the Water Shed one, took us to a whole other level in the dark web. Beyond .onion,” said Beauvoir. “A new domain. A new territory. The addresses end with ‘family.’ Dot family.”
Armand grew very quiet.
He was no longer in the comfortable home, with the log fire in the living room muttering and the scent of wet wool and wetter dog in the air.
The Chief Inspector was lying on the hot asphalt road, breathing in the smell of melting tar and holding the bloody hand of Charles Langlois, moments after the vehicle had struck the young biologist. Just nicking Gamache himself as they’d left the Montréal café Open Da Night.
The boy was dying. Armand knew it. Charles knew it. And when Armand had begged him for something, anything, useful, Charles Langlois had said, “Family.”
The single word, the final word, had come out in a sputter of blood that hit Armand’s face.
Family.
Armand had thought Charles meant he was to tell his family what had happened, and he promised to do so. And he did. But instead of providing some comfort, that pledge had created panic in the young man’s eyes.
That had been Charles Langlois’s last word and final feeling.
Armand had thought the panic was because Charles knew he was about to die. But now he realized he’d been wrong. The young biologist was trying to tell him something. And he’d misunderstood. Charles’s panic was that he knew, in his final moments, that he’d failed.
“I understand,” Armand whispered. “Finally. I’m sorry it took so long, son.”
Not all the .family sites were password-protected.
“They assume anyone who got this far was directed here. That they belong,” said Nichol, at her own keyboard, exploring the sites.
Gamache turned to Isabelle. “We need to find out all we can about Margaux Chalifoux.”
“I’m on it, patron.”
Isabelle had interviewed Margaux Chalifoux back in August, and had organized the search of AQB.
She herself had conducted the search of Chalifoux’s tiny, cluttered home.
And found nothing except a map with pins in it in her basement.
She’d had that brought in as “evidence,” mostly because she felt she had to show something for their efforts. The map had proved useless.
Isabelle now realized she’d missed something vital. She was determined to correct that.
“And tell Agent Fontaine to be careful,” said Gamache.
He knew young agents could be cavalier, take chances. Because they were immortal. He was damned if he was going to walk behind another coffin.
Gamache turned back to Jean-Guy. “What is it?”
His brows had drawn together in surprise. “This topic on .family. The subject line.”
Worst attack on US soil since 9/11.
“What are they talking about? What attack?” Lacoste also leaned in.
“They mean the wildfires. It’s an older post.”
It was accompanied by images, some AI-enhanced, some not, of ash-covered streets and homes, cars and people. The wildfire fallout was side by side with images from 9/11.
Though an exaggeration, it was compelling. And a trigger.
“It’s what General Whitehead also said, when I met him in DC,” said Jean-Guy.
“Bert Whitehead said our wildfires were a deliberate terrorist attack?” Armand was dumbfounded.
“He was quoting what others are saying. I forgot to tell you. Actually, to be honest, patron, it seemed such a ridiculous claim I dismissed it. But…”
They turned back to the screen.
“Send these links to General Whitehead over the secure server.”
While Beauvoir did that, Nichol said, “Why bother. He’s obviously already seen the posts.
Those images are beginning to break out onto the regular web.
Not just dark sites. Even mainstream media is beginning to pick it up.
And they’re warning there’s more coming.
The crazier ones are saying the fires were deliberately set. ”
“Do they say why?” asked Lacoste.
“No, never. Who cares why?” said Nichol with a snort. “This isn’t about reasons or reason. It’s all emotion.”
Armand opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. There was nothing intelligent to say. Checking his watch, he turned to the door.
“I need to leave.”
“I’ll drive you,” said Jean-Guy, knowing perfectly well where he was going.
“Me too, patron. I can work on this on the drive,” said Lacoste. She lowered her voice. “Please don’t leave me with her.”
She jerked her head to indicate Yvette Nichol, who was shoving popcorn into her mouth, picking at her teeth, and humming three notes over and over as she stared at her screen.
She spat out a shard of popcorn; then, on seeing Beauvoir’s face, she rolled her eyes, heaved a long-suffering sigh, and picked it off the floor.
Gamache went in search of Reine-Marie.
He found her in the kitchen. The dogs, and Gracie, were gobbling their dinner, and she was opening a can of ravioli from Monsieur Béliveau’s General Store.
“Has it come to that?” he asked.
“I made the mistake of asking our guest what she might like for dinner. This was the answer. We haven’t had it since Annie insisted. Remember that?”
For two weeks it was all their eight-year-old daughter would eat, thanks to some ad on television showing a little boy running through a street in Italy.
“Better than when all Daniel would eat was canned spinach, thanks to Popeye,” said Armand. “What are you having?”
“I’m going over to the bistro.”
“Don’t you mean taking refuge there?”
She laughed. “Sauve qui peut.” At the door she said, “Do you remember how Animal House—”
“Farm.”
“—Farm ends?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head.
“The pigs and the humans sit down to dinner together. And it’s impossible to tell them apart.”
What a brilliant, terrifying book, thought Armand as they drove to the meeting.