UBERT WAS IN HIS CHAIR, LOOKING LIKE DECADES OF WAY TOO much bakery.

“Have a seat, Dr. Brennan.”

I sat, expecting a reprimand, clueless as to why.

“Let me ask you something.” The coroner’s expression was one of perplexed disappointment. “Do you enjoy working here?”

“What?”

“A simple question.”

“Of course I do.”

“Are you preoccupied with some personal crisis?”

“No.” What the hell?

“Experiencing burnout?”

“No.” What the bloody hell?

“This feud you’re involved in. Could it—”

“I’m involved in no feud.” Defensive.

“This situation in Chicago—” Hubert rotated a hand. It was so fat the knuckles showed no wrinkles.

“I can hardly feud with a nameless accuser.”

“Something is impacting your work.”

“Bullshit.” Not clever, but it jumped from my lips.

“Must I lay it out?”

“Indulge me.” The morning’s buoyancy was gone, replaced by anger.

“Quentin Jacquème has called my office repeatedly since the discovery of the Lac Saint-Jean skeletons. Jacquème is retired SQ. His late wife was Achille Gouvrard’s sister. Three weeks of calls, Dr. Brennan. And nothing to tell the man.”

I focused on my breathing, trying to stay calm.

“On Friday, Dr. Briel asked permission to examine the remains. Since you were absent, I allowed her to do so.”

“Well-done.” I kept my eyes hard on Hubert’s. “Now you have news for Jacquème. A nonexpert has been called in.”

“Au contraire. I will tell him I am prepared to close the file.”

Using one sausage finger, Hubert slid a paper my way.

The report was brief—ages, genders. The description of the younger child included a discussion of tetracycline staining in the baby molars.

Reading the final paragraphs, I translated to English in my head. To be sure.

The tetracycline staining of the deciduous second right maxillary and mandibular molars is sufficiently unique, in combination with skeletal and dental development, to allow positive identification of the younger individual as Valentin Gouvrard, age eight.

Given consistency in the demographic profile, including adult sexes and individual ages at death, the bone condition, and the pattern of perimortem trauma, it is my opinion that the bones recovered from the vicinity of Lac Saint-Jean on January 12 of this year are those of the Gouvrard family, vanished and presumed dead August 14, 1967.

—Marie-Andréa Briel, M.D.

I looked up, stunned into silence.

“How could you have missed something so important, Dr. Brennan?”

I didn’t trust myself with words.

“The staining is obvious. Briel saw it. When she showed me, I saw it. Tetracycline is discussed in the child’s medical record.”

Still, I said nothing.

“First the Oka phalanges. Now this.” Hubert ran a hand over one jowl. “Eh, misère. I think you need a break.”

“Are you placing me on leave?”

“I am placing you on notice.” The leviathan belly rose, fell, as the coroner sighed deeply. “No more screwups.”

“Are we finished?”

Hubert looked as though he wanted to say something else. Didn’t.

I rose and headed for the door, anger radiating from me like heat from a teapot.

Downstairs, I went directly to the younger child. Uncapping the plastic vial, I slid the three small teeth onto the tabletop.

And stared in astonishment.

Both baby molars had dark brown bands wrapping their crowns.

Hubert was right. The defect was glaring, even with a cursory glance.

The upper-second molar also had a pinpoint of dullness on its proximal cusp. A restoration? Had I spotted that?

I checked my comments.

There was no mention of a filling. I made a note to check the dental X-rays.

Now the heat was in my chest.

How could I have missed the staining? A possible filling?

Was the coroner right? Was I distracted? Becoming careless?

Distracted by what? Ryan? My eagerness to escape on holiday with Katy? Obsession over finding Edward Allen’s informant? Over putting Rose Jurmain to rest in my mind?

My cheeks still burned, now from shame.

I was still staring at the teeth when my mobile sounded. I almost ignored it. Instead, I slipped the phone from my belt.

“Do da dance! Sing da song!” Ryan. “Woohoo! We got our man.”

“Adamski.”

“No. Harry Houdini.”

“That’s great, Ryan.” Flat.

“Try to curb your jubilation.”

“I’m thrilled.”

“Are you getting sick again?”

“I just went another round with Hubert.” I rolled one of the molars around on my palm. “Where’d you nail Adamski? Or Lucky Labatt, or Keith, or whatever the dirtbag now calls himself.”

“Genius was watching Rockford reruns at a cousin’s flat in Moncton. Piece of work name of Denton Caffrey. Adamski’s hometown, Adamski’s real surname. Gee, who’d have thought to check Caffrey’s place? The King of Beers is dumber than a bowl of noodles.”

“Where is he now?”

“Claudel flew to Moncton this morning. We’ll work Adamski as soon as his ass hits Montreal.”

“Think you can crack him?”

“I have to.” Ryan’s vehemence was palpable even at a distance. “Adamski’s dirty, I can feel it in my gut. But everything we’ve got so far is circumstantial. His marriage to Marilyn Keiser. His known alias, Keith, in the Villejoins’ ledger. Florian Grellier fingering him for running his mouth about Christelle’s body. His working at L’Auberge des Neiges when Jurmain turned up dead.”

“Enough circumstantial evidence can make a case.”

“Impressions. The statement of a convicted felon. Adamski’s criminal record.” Ryan snorted. “Juries want physical evidence. So far we’ve got zip.”

“You’ll get it.”

“We’re rechecking Keiser’s cabin for latents, canvassing neighbors, stores in the vicinity to see if anyone remembers Adamski buying kerosene. Doing door-to-door in Pointe-Calumet, refloating his picture. Villejoin’s cold a year and a half, Jurmain over three. It’s tough.”

“Then get a confession.”

“That’s the plan, ma’am. Claudel’s going to schmooze Adamski on the plane. When we work him, he’ll play good cop. I’ll hit him with the two-by-four.”

“Poor casting.”

“Hey. The Emmy’s as good as mine.”

After clicking off, I sat staring at the baby tooth.

How had I overlooked the discoloration?

Returning all three teeth to the vial, I crossed to the window and gazed down.

I missed it.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I watched a barge slip silently upriver, not really computing what I was seeing.

Briel found it.

Molecules of an idea began coagulating. Lost. Lac Saint-Jean. Fleuve Saint-Laurent.

Twelve floors down, the water looked gray and forbidding. Deep. Unyielding.

The idea took shape.

Adamski’s body was never found.

The Gouvrards were never found.

Did others lie forgotten in cold, wet graves?

Crossing to the computer, I called up Wikipedia.

I learned that Lac Saint-Jean is a crater impact lake in the Laurentian Highlands, two hundred kilometers north of the Saint Lawrence River, into which it drains via the Saguenay River. Lac Saint-Jean covers approximately a thousand square kilometers, and drops to sixty-three meters at its deepest point.

Quick calculation. Roughly four hundred square miles by two hundred feet deep. That’s a whole lot of water.

I researched a number.

Dialed.

Worked my way through a dazzling hierarchy of voice mail choices.

When a nice lady finally answered, I made my inquiry. She asked me to hold.

I held.

In a while the nice lady came back on the line.

They had one source that might be of help.

Far from optimistic, I headed out.

Montreal has many libraries, both English and French. The Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, or the Grande Bibliothèque, is the newest, having opened in April of 2005. Located on Boulevard de Maisonneuve, near the Université du Québec à Montréal campus, the massive glass and steel structure houses Quebec’s largest collection of recent, rare, and old editions, multimedia documents, reference materials, maps and prints. Auditorium. Exhibition hall. Café. Boutique. Bien sûr! It’s all there pour vous at the BAnQ.

Following the nice telephone lady’s instructions, I climbed to the first floor, walked to the north wing, and passed through doors marked Collection nationale. Bellying up to a counter, I asked for assistance.

Hands on bony hips, a not quite so nice lady listened to my request, frown deepening with my every word. When I’d finished, she told me I’d need to obtain a library membership. When I returned, card in hand, she indicated a set of microfilm readers and told me to wait.

Ten minutes later, she reappeared carrying a tray filled with small gray and yellow boxes. With an expression of gothic gloom, she asked if I knew how to spool.

I assured her I’d practically majored in spooling.

Telling me there was additional microfilm going back to 1897, she took her leave.

I checked labels. The dates ran from 1948 to 1964, the year the Progrès du Saguenay ended publication.

Deciding to start with the newspaper’s most recent editions, I spooled up the first reel. The film scratched softly as I cranked backward through time: 1964. 1963. 1962.

The black-and-white images floated in and out of focus. At first I went slowly, checking every page. As my skill grew, I was able to zip through the irrelevant, focusing solely on news and obits.

After an hour I felt a twinge behind one eye. After two a kettle drum was banging fortissimo.

I looked at the tray. Only a billion little boxes to go.

Was my idea crazy?

Maybe. But I had to look. Had to satisfy myself I’d done everything possible.

Threading a new film leader, I began winding through the first half of 1958.

Just past midway, I found what I was after.