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Files were flashing up on the screen.
“Damn. They’re encrypted. Merde,” Nichol whispered.
“All of them?” Gamache asked, looking at the labels Charles Langlois had put on his files.
Lakes. Rivers. Treatment Plants. Water Sheds.
She clicked on the one labeled Poisoning.
“Look.” Sure enough, all they saw was gibberish. “We need the code.”
“Leave it,” said Gamache. “It’s not important.”
She turned to glare at him. “Don’t you think the Poisoning file could be important?”
“No. We’ve gone beyond that. And I doubt he’d label it so blatantly. It’s a ruse, a time waster. Charles was smart. He wanted anyone who found this and broke in to spend precious time on nothing. I’ll bet whatever’s in there is nonsense, maybe even misdirection. Open this one.”
He pointed to Water Sheds.
“Patron—” Lacoste began.
The commotion downstairs, and the smell of coffee, had dragged her up from a dream about being chased by a huge root that looked like Ruth. A Québécoise trying to pronounce the English “Ruth” would almost always say “Root.” It made a sort of warped sense. As much as any dream about an animated tree could.
“Open it,” commanded Gamache.
“Why that one?” Jean-Guy asked.
“Because it’s misspelled,” said Armand.
“‘Watershed.’ It’s right, no?” said Isabelle.
“No,” said Jean-Guy. “He labeled it as two words. Water Shed. As a biologist Charles would know it’s a single word.”
“He wants you to notice it,” said Reine-Marie.
“Wait,” said Jean-Guy as Nichol, huffing her disdain, moved the cursor down.
“What now?”
“Could he have sabotaged his files?” asked Jean-Guy. “Maybe by clicking on it, a virus will be released.”
They looked at each other. It was possible.
“I think if he was going to do it, it would have been when we clicked on Poisoning,” said Armand. “We have no choice. Do it.”
A watershed, he knew, was a divide, a place where fresh water changed direction. But it was more than that. It was an expression. A watershed moment was when a decision needed to be made that changed everything. It was a turning point.
They were, he knew, at a watershed.
With a less-than-respectful snort, Yvette Nichol double-clicked on the file.
It opened.
Things were moving quickly now.
Isabelle Lacoste drove to Ottawa through the sleet, with Gamache in the passenger’s seat, where he was free to send and receive messages. Or just stare out the window at the worsening weather. And think.
He’d prodded his contact at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service for information on the third set of prints they’d lifted off the laptop. For some reason it was taking time. He asked her to copy Beauvoir and Lacoste on the findings.
