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“You need to see what we’ve found.” He dragged the two of them into the study before they’d had time to take off their boots and coats. “I didn’t want to risk writing or calling.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Nichol, equally excited.

Gamache took Jean-Guy’s seat. “What am I looking at?”

“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.