The Madness of Crowds--A Novel Page 4

  He wondered if one of the Christmas cards on the bookshelves and along the mantelpiece was signed Abigail.

  He couldn’t see how it mattered, but then no information was wasted.

  “Thank you, Madame Chancellor, for hearing me out.”

  “I’m sorry to have dragged you into this. I can see it’s causing you discomfort.”

  “It goes with the territory.”

  “When you have a grandchild with Down syndrome,” she said.

  He paused at the door as he put on his gloves and looked at her. She obviously knew more than she let on.

  “Non. Idola is the solace, the balm. The pain is making decisions like this.”

  “I won’t ask where the pain is.”

  He laughed. “Will you be there?”

  “Moi? Non. I’ll be hiding under the covers and not taking any calls. Listen, Armand, you and I both know this is moot. Professor Robinson will give her talk tomorrow, but it’ll be to an empty auditorium. And that’ll be the end of it.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Joyeux Noël. Bonne année. Give my love to Reine-Marie.”

  “And to you, Colette, and Jean-Paul.”

  As he walked back down the path to the car, Armand turned and noticed the pages still plastered in the front window of the Chancellor’s home. On the paper were rainbows, probably drawn by the grandchildren during the pandemic, with the words in crayon, Ça va bien aller.

  He turned away, his face grave. All will be well. It depended, he knew, on what “well” meant. And he had a sinking feeling he and the Chancellor had two different ideas on that.

  * * *

  Colette Roberge pulled her cardigan tighter and watched as the Chief Inspector drove away.

  Just then she heard young voices raised in shouts and heated arguments as her grandchildren returned with their friends.

  Doors banged, cold air blew in. Thuds were heard as winter boots were kicked off and skates tossed into corners.

  “Hot chocolate?” she asked.

  “Yes, please, Granny.”

  Even those not related to her called her Granny. In fact, Colette knew that some of her colleagues and even the Premier Ministre du Québec called her Grand-mère.

  It was, she’d decided, both a term of endearment and an advantage. They were far less likely to be guarded around their grandmother.

  She stirred the pot of cocoa and watched her husband in the corner, where he’d been all morning, lost in his jigsaw. While life swirled, unnoticed, around him.

  * * *

  That night, as he sat in his study with Jean-Guy, Armand leaned forward and clicked play on his laptop. They watched as Abigail Robinson, the nice woman on the screen, began talking.

  Twelve minutes later Jean-Guy reached over and hit pause.

  “Is she saying what I think she is?”

  Armand nodded.

  “Fuck,” whispered Jean-Guy. His eyes shifted from the computer to his father-in-law. “And you’re going to protect her?”

  “Someone has to.”

  “Did you know what she was saying when you agreed?”

  “Non.”

  “Did you know what she was saying when you told me you didn’t need me there?”

  “Non.”

  They held each other’s eyes. Jean-Guy’s complexion had gone from a rosy glow to a flush. The seeds of anger sown.

  “I’m going upstairs,” said Jean-Guy.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Armand turned off the Christmas tree. In the darkness he could see the three great pine trees anchoring the village green. Their multicolored Christmas lights glowed red, blue, and green under the weight of snow on their boughs.

  Henri and Fred slowly followed them up the stairs. Gracie was already asleep in Stephen’s room.

  Armand kissed Florence and Zora good night, then went next door, where Jean-Guy was staring down at his daughter. A cold wind puffed out the curtains, dropping the temperature in the room. As though something nasty were approaching.

  Armand lowered the window until it was open just a crack, then pulled the blankets up over Honoré. Somehow he’d managed to sneak his new toboggan into the bed. Kissing the child, Armand then joined his son-in-law.

  Little Idola was sleeping peacefully, unaware of the forces gathering around her.

  Jean-Guy raised his eyes. “I know you’ve brought Isabelle in to help with tomorrow’s event, and others from the department. I want to be there too.”

  “It’s not a good idea, and you know it.”

  “If I’m not there on your team, I’ll be there as a spectator. Either way, I’m going.”

  Armand saw that the seeds had taken root. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  Later that night, Jean-Guy went down to the living room and sat in the armchair by the fire, now just embers. He found the video Armand had shown him and this time watched it all the way through.

  He now understood why Armand had gone to the Chancellor and asked her, probably pleaded with her, to stop the event.

  And he knew why his father-in-law did not want him anywhere close to this woman.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Professor Robinson? I’m Chief Inspector Gamache of the Sûreté.” He couldn’t avoid speaking with her any longer. “Are you ready to go on?”

  Abigail Robinson looked at the man who’d just approached her.

  Though they hadn’t yet met, Debbie had pointed him out as the officer in charge. Though she needn’t have. His authority was obvious.

  He wasn’t in uniform, instead he wore a jacket and tie. Good material, well cut.

  While not classically handsome, there was something compelling about him. Perhaps it was his calm. But what was most noticeable, now that he was standing right in front of her, were his eyes.

  They were deep brown and clear. Alert, as she’d expect. He was assigned to security, he should be alert.

  There was intelligence there, but it went beyond that. His gaze was thoughtful.

  Here was someone who would consider before he acted. It was rare, she knew, to have some space between thought and action. Most people didn’t. They thought they did, but most acted on impulse, even instinct, then justified it.

  Professor Robinson knew that that gap, that pause, meant the person had control over their actions. Had choices. And with those choices came power.

  This man had choices, and power. And right now, he was choosing to be civil. He tried to hide his dislike for her behind a naturally gracious manner, but she could see it in his thoughtful eyes. He thought very little of her.

  “Professor?” he repeated. “It’s just after four. The auditorium is full. It’s best if you start as soon as possible.”

  She could hear a rumble behind the thick curtains. It sounded like a large freight train bearing down. The place had begun to shudder slightly, from excitement, impatience, and anticipation. It was the sound of hundreds of people. Waiting. For her.

  He held his arm out, trying to shepherd her forward. But her assistant stepped between them.

  “Do you have everything you need, Abby?” She looked around. “Is there water on the podium? You have your notes?”

  “I have everything, Debbie, thank you.”

  Gamache could see that, beyond being employer and employee, they were also friends.

  Professor Robinson turned back to him. Had he not known better, had he not seen the videos of previous events, he’d think by the look in her eyes that she was a nice person.

  But he did know better. And what he knew was that her eyes did not reflect what was going on in her mind or what was about to come out of her mouth.

  Though there was another possibility.

  That Abigail Robinson believed that what she was advocating was reasonable, even noble. Not an act of obscene cruelty, but kindness.

  “Is something wrong?” Isabelle Lacoste asked into his earpiece, her voice slightly higher than usual. “Is she going to start?
”

  He could hear the noise beyond the curtain getting louder.

  “Oui,” he said, then turned to Robinson. “If you don’t mind, it would be best if you went on. Does someone introduce you?”

  He looked around. There was no one else backstage except Madame Schneider and the sound person. In a moment of panic, Gamache thought it would fall to him.

  And maybe, just to get her out and settle the now raucous crowd, he’d actually do it.

  Professor Robinson glanced toward the door, then said, “No. I’ll go out alone. No need for an introduction. These people know who I am.” She smiled. “For better or worse.”

  She’s waiting for someone, thought Gamache. That’s why she’d been stalling. Hoping someone shows up.

  Someone who might, at that moment, be hiding under the covers, not answering her phone.

  “Good luck. You’ll do great, Abby Maria,” said Debbie, and beamed at her friend.

  Though it was obviously meant as support, it seemed to annoy the professor. Perhaps, thought Gamache, she was of the belief that saying “good luck” would jinx it.

  Most of the scientists he’d met were profoundly superstitious. As were cops, for that matter.

  “Come with me, please,” he said and walked her toward the opening in the heavy curtains. “I’ve seen the footage from your last event. We will not have a repeat here. If it looks like the audience is getting out of control, you will tell them to calm down. If that doesn’t work, I’ll come out onstage and repeat the request and warn people if they don’t behave with civility, I’ll end the lecture.”

  “I understand, Chief Inspector. Believe me, I don’t want a repeat either.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes. If you didn’t just watch but listened to what I said, you’d know I don’t advocate violence. Just the opposite. This is about healing. Unfortunately, some people twist my words and meaning.”

  Her statement was so appalling, so inaccurate, that he just stared at her for a moment. With all his heart, Armand Gamache wanted to challenge what she’d just said. But this wasn’t the place, the time, or his job.

  For now, his job was to get everyone out of there in the same condition in which they’d arrived. Though he feared that could never be totally achieved. Many would leave with some terrible idea planted. Like a weed in a crack, weakening the foundation.

  “Inspector Beauvoir, how’s the door?”

  “There was some pushing when we announced no one else could get in,” reported Beauvoir. “But it’s quiet now.”

  “Bon, merci. We’re about to begin.”

  Beauvoir clicked off his microphone and looked at the closed door. He knew, in his bones, in his marrow, that he shouldn’t do this thing. But he also knew he would.

  Turning to the Sûreté officer next to him, he said, “You’re in charge out here.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m going inside.”

  * * *

  Chief Inspector Gamache watched as Abigail Robinson took a deep breath, composing herself.

  It was the same thing he’d seen Olympic divers do, as their heels hung over the edge of the platform, their arms in the air, their backs to the pool.

  That instant before the impossible plunge. The irrevocable.

  It was exactly what he himself did when standing at the closed door. His hand, in a fist, lifted. He paused, giving the family inside that last moment of peace. Before the plunge.

  And then his knuckles rapped the wood.

  I’m sorry to inform you …

  Abigail Robinson took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage.

  Armand Gamache took a deep breath and let her.

  CHAPTER 6

  The reaction was immediate and so overwhelming that it almost knocked Gamache back a step.

  He’d heard roars, uproars, before. From the stands during hockey playoffs when the Habs scored. Or Grey Cup finals. At concerts, when the group finally took the stage.

  But this was a whole other creature.

  He looked out.

  Perhaps it was the density of the crowd, though he’d been careful to underestimate capacity. Perhaps it was the acoustics in the old gymnasium, but the noise was far more than five hundred people should have been able to produce.

  And he quickly realized what was causing it.

  There was cheering, shouts of support, chanting. But there were equal parts booing. Cries of “Shame!” Howls of derision.

  And there were shrieks. It was impossible to tell if they were cries of support, of contempt, or just from people overwhelmed with emotion and needing to blow it off.

  It all came together in an acoustic body blow.

  He stepped farther out from behind the curtain, to get a better look. He expected to see Professor Robinson stopped in her tracks, or even turning back, backing up. Momentarily staggered, even paralyzed, by this assault.

  Instead she kept walking. Slowly. Calmly. As though she were alone in the room.

  Armand Gamache watched her measured progress through the cacophony, and recognized courage when he saw it. But this was not what he’d call valor.

  It was the courage that came with conviction, with absolute certainty. When all doubt was banished. It was the courage of the zealot.

  And then came the stomping, heavy winter boots hitting the old wooden floor. The place was heaving. Gamache spared a thought for the caretaker, who must have been in despair right about then.

  * * *

  At the back of the auditorium, Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood on tiptoes to see.

  Everyone in front of him was doing the same thing, and he needed to sway back and forth to catch glimpses of the woman walking, almost strolling, across the stage.

  Apparently oblivious to the sensation she was causing.

  He’d watched the video of her event ten days earlier. That had been raucous. But nothing like this.

  * * *

  From her vantage point on a riser halfway down the room, Isabelle Lacoste took in the movement of the crowd. People were swaying back and forth, side to side. Like some great churning ocean. Had she suffered from seasickness she’d have been green.

  Her sharp eyes scanned for trouble spots. For eddies and surges. This was one of the danger points. When the crowd first sees the focus of their adoration, and rage.

  She looked at the agents she’d installed at various points around the walls and in the crowd itself. Some in uniform. Some in plain clothes.

  Inspector Lacoste then turned to the stage. Not to the single person on it, almost at the podium, but to the Sûreté agents lined up in front of it.

  And then, from the middle of the crowd like some tribal call to war, the stomping began.

  “Chief,” she said. “This’s about to explode.”

  * * *

  “Hold on,” Gamache said, opening the channels so all officers could hear him. “Steady. Steady. This will pass.”

  He was within twenty feet of the agents lined up in front of the stage. If there was a rush, they’d be the first to get it.

  He looked at their faces. Mostly young. Strong. Determined. Eyes forward. He saw the officer in charge of that section say something, and they, as one, stepped their right legs back. A subtle move to brace themselves, while not threatening the men and women facing them.

  None of his agents had a gun. It was far too easy, in an unpredictable and potentially violent crowd, to have someone take the weapon off them in the mêlée. And use it. He’d seen it happen, with tragic results.

  So Gamache had ordered their firearms be left in the detachment. But they did have truncheons.

  Before the doors had been opened to admit the spectators, he’d briefed the agents on the worst-case scenario. And he made it clear that the worst case was when the cops, there to restore order and protect people, escalated the violence.

  “This”—he held up the bat-like truncheon—“is a tool, not a weapon. Understood?”

  “Oui, patron,” they said. Many were
still annoyed at having to leave their guns behind.

  As Gamache gave them a quick refresher course, Monsieur Viau, the caretaker, watched, gripping the handle of his mop as though it were a club.

  “These are your neighbors, your friends,” said Gamache. “Think of them as your mother and father, your brothers and sisters. These are not bad people. They’re not your enemy. Do not hit them except as a very last resort.”

  He’d looked into their eyes, drilling home his point. They nodded.

  Then the Chief Inspector demonstrated how to use the club defensively, to pry people apart if they were fighting. To restrain, while using restraint.

  He could see by their faces that they really had no idea what they’d be facing. Many were feigning boredom, implying experience they did not actually have. Because those who’d been in a riot were paying close attention. Mostly the senior officers. Lacoste, Beauvoir, and a few others.

  They knew what could happen. How ugly it could get, and how quickly.

  When this event was first assigned to him, two days earlier, Chief Inspector Gamache had asked that a single local agent, already on duty, be loaned to him. Just for the hour.

  Then, as he’d learned more about the professor, his contingent had grown to fifteen agents, brought in from regions nearby. He’d placed the calls himself, asking junior agents and senior commanders if they’d be willing to join him that one day.

  None had refused.

  And now there were thirty-five Sûreté agents watching, as he went over, quickly, expertly, how to drop their grandmothers to the floor. If necessary.

  * * *

  Abigail Robinson had reached the podium. She bent the microphone closer to her and spoke her first words.

  “Hello? Bonjour? Can you hear me?” Her voice was calm, cheerful, almost matter-of-fact.

  It was not what Gamache had expected, nor was it what the crowd had expected.