The Madness of Crowds--A Novel Page 5

  The surge stopped. The stomping petered out. The crowd grew still, and quiet, except for a few random shouts.

  And Gamache immediately saw the genius of it.

  Instead of launching into her talk, she’d greeted them in the most polite, most familiar fashion. And since these were, for the most part, good, decent people, they responded. In the most polite fashion.

  Gamache wasn’t fooled. This disarming start hadn’t miraculously eased all the emotions. It was a respite that allowed Professor Robinson to begin, to be heard.

  Yes, it was brilliant. And calculated.

  She smiled. “Oh, good. I’m always afraid when I make what feels like such an endless walk from way over there”—she pointed to the wings—“to here, that once I arrive, the microphone won’t work. Can you imagine?”

  Now her shoulders rose and she chortled. There was no other word for it. A cross between a laugh and a giggle. It was charming, self-deprecating. And, once again, calculated.

  The place grew even quieter. A few laughs could be heard.

  The friends and neighbors, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers were listening. Drawn in. Far from the frothing maniac the protesters had expected, what they saw was their sister, their aunt, the woman next door. Standing alone on the gym stage, smiling.

  She wished them a merry Christmas, a joyeux Noël. A happy new year and a bonne année.

  There was scattered applause for her Anglo-accented French.

  And then she went into a dissertation. Citing figures. Dates. Data. Facts compiled by various sectors both before and during the pandemic.

  She cited projections.

  As she talked, Gamache realized it wasn’t just words. There was a rhythm, a cadence, to what she was saying.

  There was a musicality in her voice, a beat not unlike Bach, as she went through the litany of disasters. Of crises facing not just the health sector but also education. Infrastructure. The environment. Pensions. Jobs. The monstrous national debt that would eat the children’s futures.

  What was clear was that there were too many calls on dwindling resources. It was a crisis heightened but not created by the pandemic.

  The place had grown quiet as she methodically built her case.

  Her voice never wavered, never rose above a drone. It was calming, mesmerizing, and somehow made what she was saying sound reasonable.

  The Chief Inspector knew, from years of interrogating murderers, that if you yelled at someone, they clammed up. Walls rose. Minds and mouths closed.

  But if you spoke softly, their defenses might drop. At least you had a better chance of it.

  That’s what she was doing. With a melodic voice, Abigail Robinson was crawling into people’s heads. Mining their bleakest thoughts, drawing forth their buried fears.

  As he listened, Armand Gamache realized that the Chancellor had been right.

  This lecture on statistics, on mathematics, was also music. And it was art. Albeit a dark art. Not at all the sort Clara Morrow created, with her luminous portraits.

  Professor Robinson was, before their very eyes, turning thoughts into words, and words into action. Facts into fear. Angst into anger. It was artful.

  Abigail Robinson was not simply an academic, she was an alchemist.

  This was the moment, Gamache knew from watching her previous talks, when she’d reached the turning point.

  Having painted a bleak picture of a society on the verge of collapse, she would now offer hope. All will be well. Professor Robinson would tell them what they needed to do to move forward into a bright new world.

  She would give them her simple solution. One revealed, ironically, by the pandemic itself.

  Abigail Robinson paused now and looked at the gathering.

  As did Gamache.

  What he saw in their upturned faces was desperation. They’d just been through hell. They might’ve lost family members, friends. Many had lost jobs.

  But he also saw hope.

  Still, he wondered how many who’d followed her this far would be willing to take this next step. And he wondered how many who’d come to protest had changed their minds after listening to her rhythmic litany of disaster.

  He could even see some of the agents, especially the younger ones lined up in front of the stage, turning to grab quick glances at her.

  Their senior officer obviously said something because the faces snapped back forward. But still …

  A child was hoisted up on a man’s shoulders. Then another one.

  “Inspector Lacoste—” he began.

  “I see them, patron,” she said. “I have eyes on twelve children in the auditorium. Agents are ready to grab them if things turn.”

  “Bon. Inspector Beauvoir, how many children came into the hall?”

  There was silence.

  “Inspector?”

  “Sir,” came an unfamiliar female voice. “He’s not here, but Inspector Beauvoir did make note. There are fifteen children.”

  “Merci. Inspector Lacoste, did you hear that.”

  “I did. I’m on it.”

  Gamache could see that the press forward had begun. Professor Robinson had come to the moment juste.

  The noise in the auditorium rose, as demonstrators awoke from their daze.

  “Shame!” they shouted.

  “Too late!” the others screamed back.

  It became a primal call and response. The beating of drums before battle.

  “Where did Inspector Beauvoir go?” Gamache asked the agent at the door.

  “But there is a solution,” he heard Professor Robinson break her silence, as his sharp eyes scanned the now pulsing crowd. “It takes courage, but I think you have that.”

  “He’s inside,” the agent said.

  “Inside?” said Gamache. “Are you sure?”

  If it was true, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had disobeyed orders, abandoned his post, and, worst of all, brought the gun in with him. There was now a loaded weapon in this crowd.

  It was not only shocking, it was unforgivable.

  “Yessir.”

  “Shame, shame,” half the crowd chanted.

  “Too late,” came the angry response.

  “—money and time and expertise are being spent on what is futile. Hopeless. Even cruel. Do you want your parents, your grandparents, to suffer, as too many already have?”

  “No!” came the cry from the crowd.

  “Do you want your children to suffer?”

  “No!”

  “Because they will. They are. But we can change that.”

  Gamache stepped out onto the stage, quickly assessing the situation. He saw that, while the situation was volatile, his officers had it under control.

  Still, he could … No one would blame him …

  But he did not stop it. Instead he gave a brief, reassuring nod to the nearest agent on the front line. A young man who reminded him of another impossibly young agent from a lifetime ago.

  The man nodded back and turned forward, to face the crowd.

  “But it’s not too late. I’ve done the numbers and the solution is clear, if not easy,” Abigail Robinson was saying. “If the pandemic taught us anything, it’s that not everyone can be saved. Choices must be made. Sacrifices must be made.”

  Gamache kept his eyes forward.

  “It’s called—”

  From the middle of the auditorium there came a rapid series of explosions.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Gamache flinched but recovered almost immediately. Running to the center of the stage, he pointed into the crowd. “Lacoste!”

  “On it.”

  He saw her leap off the riser and head toward the smoke rising from the middle of the hall. Saw the line of Sûreté officers brace.

  Saw the crowd ducking down as it reacted to the explosions. Heard the screams. Saw the beginning of a panicked surge for the doors.

  Holding up his arms, he shouted, “Arrêtez! Stop. They’re firecrackers. Stop.”

  He knew the
y weren’t shots. He’d heard too many of those to be fooled. But the fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives squeezed together in the hot gym had not.

  It sounded to them like automatic weapons fire. Rat-ta-ta-ta-tat. And they did what any reasonable person would do.

  They ducked, then turned toward the exits, in the natural instinct to get out.

  “Stop,” he shouted. “There’s no danger.”

  No one was listening. No one heard.

  He pushed Professor Robinson aside and grabbed the microphone off the podium.

  “Stop!” he commanded. “Those are firecrackers. Stop where you are. Now.”

  He repeated it quickly, in French and English. In a clear, authoritative voice, until slowly, slowly the panic eased. The surge ebbed, stopping just sort of a crush.

  Isabelle Lacoste found the string of firecrackers, black and smoldering, and held it up.

  The room began to settle. There was even some nervous laughter as foes a moment earlier smiled at each other in relief.

  And then there was another loud bang and the wood of the podium beside Gamache splintered.

  This was no firecracker.

  Gamache knocked Professor Robinson to the floor as another shot hit the stage inches from them.

  He covered Robinson’s body with his own, squeezing his eyes shut, and waited for the next shot.

  He’d had to do this once before, when there’d been an attempt on the Premier’s life. They’d been out for dinner together at the bistro Leméac in Montréal and were walking along rue Laurier one summer’s evening. The Sûreté du Québec security detail was just ahead and just behind the leader of the province as Armand strolled beside him, the two deep in conversation when the shots were fired.

  Fortunately, the would-be assassin was a terrible shot and the Chief Inspector was quick to react, knocking the Premier to the ground and covering him.

  When it was over and they were safe, the Premier, who was openly gay, joked that that would be the photo on social media within minutes. The Premier and the head of homicide frolicking together on the grass.

  “You could do worse, mon ami,” said Gamache.

  “As could you.”

  Still, neither man would forget the look on the other’s face in those split seconds, as they hit the ground and the bullets struck around them. As each waited for the sharp shock, as one found its mark.

  Now Gamache covered Abigail Robinson with his body. To die for the Premier was one thing, but for her?

  “Got him,” came Lacoste’s crisp voice in his earphone. “We’ve got the shooter. Chief, are you all right?”

  “Oui.” He got quickly to his feet and saw that Lacoste and two others had wrestled a man to the floor.

  But he also saw a terrible sight. Bodies everywhere. Hundreds of people sprawled on the floor. He knew, in his rational mind, that they were not hurt. That the only bullets fired had come in his direction.

  But still, he felt a wave of horror.

  And then they stirred.

  Mere seconds had passed since the first shot. He knew this was the gap, the gasp, before shock turned to real panic. It was that moment of grace when a riot might be avoided.

  He found the microphone among the debris of the podium and, grabbing it, he called for calm.

  Keeping his voice steady, standing visible and reassuring on the stage, apparently unperturbed, Gamache repeated over and over, in French and English, that they were safe.

  He almost said, “Ça va bien aller.” All will be well. But stopped himself.

  The problem was, Gamache had no idea if there was another shooter still out there. Or even a bomb.

  They needed to evacuate the place as quickly as possible. And he saw his agents doing exactly that. Monsieur Viau, the caretaker, was also guiding people to the exits. Using his mop to push them along.

  “Abby!” Debbie Schneider ran across the stage to where Professor Robinson was sitting up.

  He turned briefly, saw she was unhurt, and told them to get off the stage.

  As he directed the operations, as the place emptied out, as Lacoste contained the gunman, Inspector Beauvoir appeared.

  “Patron—” he began, but was cut off.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” Gamache snapped. “Go outside. Help the injured.”

  He could see through the open doors the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. In another act most had considered a vast overreaction, Gamache had asked that two ambulances and a team of first responders be at the ready.

  “We’ve secured the gunman,” said Lacoste.

  “Search the building,” he commanded. “Block the roads into and out of the University. Search every person and go over every vehicle.”

  The auditorium was almost empty now. The place littered with boots and tuques and mittens. Buttons and papers. A few handbags and knapsacks and phones were on the floor. But no people. No bodies, Gamache saw with relief.

  The officers not searching the building were outside, along with the paramedics, tending to the shocked and frightened people. Checking for injuries. Checking IDs. Checking for weapons, in case a second attacker had slipped out with the crowd.

  The gunman, head down and cuffed, was being led out the back way.

  Monsieur Viau stood at the far end, by the big doors, gripping the long handle of his mop. A warrior-king surveying his land after a battle.

  Through the open door, through the darkness, Gamache could see the outline of men and women moving in front of the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.

  People were sitting in snowbanks, while others knelt to help. All animosity forgotten. For now.

  Monsieur Viau lifted his mop in acknowledgment, as Gamache lifted his hand. In thanks. Then the caretaker left, and Gamache was alone.

  He looked at the room and thanked God and his lucky stars that no one, as far as he knew, had been killed. Though the shock, the psychic damage, would be with each person for a long time to come.

  “Could’ve been worse,” came the voice behind him.

  Gamache didn’t turn. Couldn’t turn. Could not stand to look at her. “Please leave.”

  “You saved my life,” said Professor Robinson. “Thank you.”

  He continued to stare straight ahead until he heard her footsteps recede and the place again fell into silence.

  He closed his eyes, and in that silence Chief Inspector Gamache again heard the shots. The shouts and screams. The wails of the children.

  And he heard the last word Professor Abigail Robinson had uttered. “Mercy—”

  The solution is called mercy—

  And then the firecrackers had gone off, and the shots were fired. But Gamache could finish her sentence. The word she didn’t get a chance to say.

  Killing. But it wasn’t mercy killing she was proposing. It was, he knew, just plain old killing.

  CHAPTER 7

  Late that night, when the family was asleep and they were finally alone at home, Jean-Guy approached Armand.

  He stood in the doorway of the study.

  Armand knew Jean-Guy was there but needed to finish this last report and send it out. His fingers dashed along the keyboard. Part of him knew he was really too tired to write this message, but he needed to get it off.

  Then he could crawl into bed with Reine-Marie. Could curl his body around hers and know that he could rest for a little while.

  Finally he hit send. Then, taking off his glasses, he turned toward the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Can we talk?”

  It was the last thing Armand wanted to do. He was drained after what had happened and the aftermath.

  Taking care of the injured. The search of the building, and the people, and the vehicles.

  Interviewing witnesses, none of whom saw anything, though that was probably shock. Someone saw something, they just needed time to come back to their senses.

  They had the gunman, a local man named Édouard Tardif. Aged fifty-three. He worked
cutting trees in the forest, for firewood.

  Tardif had been questioned but refused to say anything. Including whether he had an accomplice.

  “What news on the weapon?” Gamache had asked, on leaving the interview room.

  “A handgun,” said Beauvoir, almost running to keep up with the striding Gamache. “Registered to him. He belongs to the local gun club and keeps it locked up there, of course. The manager says he’s a very good shot. Tardif visited the place yesterday, fired a few rounds, then left. I’m getting the security video.”

  “Right. We need to interview his family and friends. Employers. Anyone who might’ve shared his view about Professor Robinson. And we need to track down those fireworks.”

  Tardif’s wife and family were shocked. Could not believe he’d do that. The only one they couldn’t contact was his brother, who was on a snowmobile trip six hundred kilometers north, in the Abitibi.

  He’d left that afternoon.

  “Find him,” said Gamache. “Those fireworks and the gun got into the gym somehow. Presumably not with Tardif through the front door.”

  He’d glared at Beauvoir, who colored and stammered, “No. I mean yes. No, I mean no.”

  The media had descended on the University by then.

  Chief Inspector Gamache had stood outside the gym, in the cold and the glare of camera lights, and issued a statement, reassuring the population that the gunman had been arrested.

  Then he answered reporters’ questions.

  “What’s his name?”

  “We won’t be releasing that just yet.”

  “Is he local?”

  “I can’t tell you yet. The investigation is ongoing.”

  “What investigation? If you have him? Was there anyone else involved?”

  “We’re looking into that. We have to cover all possibilities.”

  “How did he get a weapon into the event?”

  “That we don’t know. We had officers at the door, making sure no one entered with a weapon. We confiscated some bottles, some placards. But no knives or guns. I don’t think anyone could have gotten through with a handgun.”

  “And yet they did.”

  “Yes. They did. And we’ll find out how.” He looked into the cameras and asked that anyone who might have information come forward. And that anyone who’d been at the event and recorded it send the video to the Sûreté.