The Madness of Crowds--A Novel Page 7

The bistro owner was smiling. Not fully, but warmly. Like everyone else, he’d heard what had happened. Seen the reports on the internet and television.

  “Armand,” he said, and put a hand on his arm. “All right?”

  Armand smiled thinly and nodded. “Fine.”

  “I believe it. You?” he asked Jean-Guy.

  “Okay.”

  Olivier studied them for a moment, and while wanting to say something that would help, he could see that whatever was wrong, it was beyond his ability to fashion comfort into words.

  So he offered what he could. “We have some lemon meringue pie going begging.”

  “Just a sparkling water for me, patron,” said Armand. “Merci.”

  “I’ll have a Diet Coke. Thanks.” Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave.

  Olivier left, offering a glance of support to Jean-Guy. While he could not fathom what was up, he knew a world of trouble when he saw it.

  As he made his way back to the bar, he headed off Gabri. His partner had been on his way over to greet Armand and Jean-Guy and commiserate.

  “Don’t.”

  * * *

  They waited to talk until their drinks were put in front of them.

  A slice of lemon bobbed in Armand’s sparkling water. Though he hadn’t asked for it, it was, Olivier knew, how he liked it. And a twist of lime in Jean-Guy’s drink. As he liked his.

  Gabri had insisted on being the one to take them their orders. Large and naturally voluble, he didn’t say a word as he placed a wedge of lemon meringue pie between them.

  “Merci,” said Armand, while Jean-Guy stared at it as though at a holy relic.

  The toe of St. Jude, of lost causes. The knucklebone of Ste. Marguerite, the patron saint of people rejected by religious orders, which made her Jean-Guy’s favorite saint.

  And now the holy tarte of St. Gabri. Though Jean-Guy knew even this offering could not work miracles. Unless Gabri could also bake a time machine, there’d be no answer to his prayers.

  When Gabri left, a crushing silence descended.

  The red, blue, and green Christmas lights on the huge pines on the village green played on Armand’s face. The cheery lights at stark contrast to the look in his eyes as Armand waited for his second-in-command to say something.

  “Would you like my resignation?” asked Jean-Guy, quietly.

  “I’d like an explanation first, then I’ll decide.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Chief Inspector Gamache remained silent. Waiting for more. But his hands, clasped together on the table, tightened, until the knuckles were white and the intertwined fingers almost purple, suffused with trapped blood.

  “I wanted to hear her for myself,” said Jean-Guy. “I wanted to see what it was about. To get a sense of how much support she really has. How convincing she could be. How dangerous she really is.”

  Jean-Guy waited for his father-in-law to say something. But in the prolonged silence he realized that would not happen.

  His father-in-law was not there.

  Jean-Guy was sitting across from his boss. The head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec. A man who’d once led the entire provincial police and who’d turned down the offer to head the national Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  Instead Armand Gamache had returned to homicide. To hunt killers.

  Sitting across from Jean-Guy was the man who’d found him years ago, banished to some remote Sûreté outpost. Stuck in the basement evidence locker because none of the other agents could stand working with him.

  Chief Inspector Gamache, there to investigate a murder, had gone down to the locker, taken one look at Agent Beauvoir, and requested he be assigned to the case. The station commander was all too happy to do it, no doubt in hopes Agent Beauvoir would get himself killed. Or disgraced and fired. Either would work for the commander.

  As they’d driven through the woods, to the side of the lake where the body had washed up, Chief Inspector Gamache had talked. In a quiet voice he’d instructed the young agent on what to do, and what not to do.

  Once parked, Gamache had stopped Beauvoir from getting out of the car. He’d looked him square in the face, holding him there.

  “There’s something else you need to know.”

  “Yes, I’ve got it. Don’t disturb the evidence. Don’t touch the body. You’ve told me all that, and it’s pretty obvious.”

  “There are,” said the Chief, unbothered and undeterred by what he’d just heard, “four sentences that lead to wisdom. Do with them as you will.”

  No one had ever spoken to Beauvoir in that way.

  Do with them as you will. Who talks like that?

  But, more than that oddly formal phrase, no one in Beauvoir’s experience had ever strung together three words without saying “fuck,” or “calice,” or “merde.” Including, especially, his father. And his mother, for that matter. And they sure had never mentioned wisdom in his presence.

  He stared at this older man, who spoke so softly. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir found himself actually listening.

  “‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I was wrong.’ ‘I don’t know.’” As he listed them, Chief Inspector Gamache raised a finger, until his palm was open. “‘I need help.’”

  Beauvoir looked into Gamache’s eyes and in them he saw something else that was new. It was kindness.

  It had so shocked him that he blushed. And blustered. And practically fell out of the car in his hurry to get away from something he didn’t understand, and that terrified him.

  But he’d never forgotten. That moment. When he’d met kindness for the first time. And been shown the path to wisdom in four simple, though not easy, sentences.

  Jean-Guy had often wondered exactly what the storied head of homicide had seen in the fucked-up, insecure, neurotic, and egotistical agent. Probably the same thing Gamache saw in his other recruits.

  The homicide department was made up of the dregs, the refuse. The lost and the broken. But each had been found by the man sitting across from Beauvoir now.

  The night before, over Idola’s crib, he’d begged Armand to let him be part of the team.

  That morning, Armand had agreed. And assigned him the duty of securing the outside of the auditorium.

  After the briefing and just before they’d opened the doors, the Chief Inspector had taken Lacoste and Beauvoir aside. Gamache had reached behind him and taken his own handgun off his belt, and given it to Jean-Guy.

  “You said no—” Beauvoir began.

  “I know what I said, but we need at least one officer with a weapon, in case. And it needs to be you, the senior officer outside the building. If there’s trouble—”

  “I’ll be there, patron,” said Beauvoir, taking the weapon in its worn holster and attaching it to his belt.

  But he hadn’t been.

  He’d abandoned his post. Disregarded orders. Left a junior agent in charge outside. Not because some crisis had arisen inside, but because he wanted to see Robinson for himself.

  The cheery light from the Christmas trees in the Chief Inspector’s eyes could not hide the outrage there. In fact, they somehow made it worse. Like the angry placards in crayon.

  “I’ve never believed in the temporary insanity defense,” said Jean-Guy, finding his voice. “I thought it was bullshit. Now I believe it. It was a moment of insanity.”

  “That’s your explanation? Temporary insanity?”

  “I don’t know.” Beauvoir dropped his gaze to the table, then he looked back up into those eyes. “I don’t really know why I did it. It was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  “I think you do know.” Gamache’s voice was strained, his anger barely contained.

  “I don’t. I’ve asked myself over and over. I can’t explain it.”

  “Of course you can,” said the Chief. “You’re just too afraid to look that deep.”

  Jean-Guy felt a flush as his own anger rushed up his neck to his face, burning his cheeks.

  “I need more than ‘I don’t know.’” Ga
mache’s eyes bored into Beauvoir’s. “You abandoned your post. You essentially left the entrance unsupervised. You took a weapon into an incendiary situation, the very thing I’d said must not be done. You endangered lives. Do you realize how close it came to a tragedy? Not the professor or me getting shot, but hundreds of people trampling each other to death? The children—”

  Gamache stopped, unable to go on. Overcome with the nightmare vision of what might have been.

  The lines down his face became crevices. There was a noise in his throat, as he gagged on his own words, his own rage. It was almost the rattle they’d heard too often, in those about to die. And this felt to Beauvoir like a sort of death. The end of something precious and, as it turned out, fragile.

  Trust.

  Jean-Guy watched in dismay, knowing if trust had died, he’d murdered it.

  Gamache composed himself and finally got the words out. “You made it worse.”

  The words were like a slap across Beauvoir’s face. And with it he seemed to wake up. To come to. And he saw with clarity why he’d done it. It might not be enough to satisfy the Chief Inspector, but it might satisfy his father-in-law.

  “Idola—” Jean-Guy began, but only got the one word out.

  “Don’t you dare blame your daughter. This isn’t about her and you know it.”

  And that was it. Jean-Guy exploded.

  “What I know … sir, is that I’m her father. You’re only her grandfather.” All bonds had broken and he was again free from all constraint. “You’re nothing. You’ll be long dead and buried, and she’ll still be living with us. Forever. And then, one day, she’ll be Honoré’s burden. So don’t you ever, ever fucking tell me what is or is not about my daughter. Because everything is.”

  By the time he finished, his snarl had turned into a shout. His hands gripped the table, and in his anger, his sudden madness, he jerked it and the lemon meringue pie bounced off and crashed to the floor.

  The bistro had grown quiet as patrons stared, then looked away. As though Jean-Guy had unexpectedly stripped down to his underwear. To what normally never showed.

  And then, with that one word, that too fell. Until he was as naked as the day he was born.

  Burden. Burden.

  Another silence enveloped them, punctured only by Jean-Guy’s small gasping cries as he struggled for breath, and fought off the tears that were taking him under.

  He shoved his chair back, or tried to. Tried to get up. To get away. But he was too tightly wedged in.

  And still Gamache said nothing.

  About to yell at him again, to scream at Gamache to let him go, Jean-Guy looked directly at the Chief. And saw tears in his father-in-law’s eyes.

  * * *

  “What’s wrong with them?” asked Haniya Daoud.

  She alone had continued to stare.

  “Nothing,” said Clara. “They’ve had a hard day.”

  “Yes.” Haniya recognized the larger, older cop, from the news reports. “Why don’t you like them? What’ve they done to you?”

  “Nothing,” said Ruth.

  “Well, they must’ve done something. When they came in, you did this.” Haniya held up her middle finger. “I believe it means ‘go fuck yourself.’”

  Myrna’s brows shot up in surprise.

  “It’s also a term of endearment,” said Ruth. “If you win the Nobel Peace Prize, you might start with that.”

  Haniya Daoud smiled, but her eyes were hard as she stared at the elderly woman. Then over to the two Sûreté officers.

  “They’re angry. Unstable. And no doubt armed.” She looked around. “I don’t think I like it here.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Jean-Guy dropped his head and covered his face, his hands muffling the sobs.

  Armand remained quiet, though the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were filled with tears.

  He brought out a clean handkerchief and pushed it across the table, then used a napkin on his own face.

  Finally, after wiping his face and blowing his nose, Idola’s father looked at her grandfather.

  But before Jean-Guy could speak, Armand said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. Everything in your life now is about Idola and Honoré. I should have known that. Forgive me. I should never have put you in that position. It was wrong of me.”

  What was it about this situation, about Abigail Robinson, that brought out the worst in people? Though Gamache now faced his own uncomfortable truth.

  Professor Robinson was revealing, not creating, the anger. The fear. And yes, perhaps even the cowardice they kept hidden away. She was like some genetic mutation awakening illnesses that would have normally lain dormant.

  She was the catalyst. But the potential, the sickness, was already there.

  And now Abigail Robinson was moving across the country, around the world on the internet, triggering, with her dry statistics, people’s deepest fears and resentments. Their desperation and hopes.

  Jean-Guy had dropped his gaze to the floor and was staring as though comatose at the wreckage of lemon meringue pie.

  “What is it?” whispered Armand, sensing there was more. “You can tell me.”

  “Burden. I called my own daughter a burden.” He raised his gaze to Armand’s bloodshot eyes. “And…”

  Armand waited.

  “… and I meant it.” Each word had dropped in volume until the last one was barely more than mouthed.

  His eyes held a plea now. A watery cry for help. Armand reached across the table and grasped Jean-Guy’s arm.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Go on.”

  Jean-Guy, his mouth open, his breathing rapid, said nothing.

  Armand waited. Keeping his hand on Jean-Guy’s sweater.

  “I…” Jean-Guy began and paused to gather himself. “I’m afraid that part of me agrees with her. About aborting … I hate her.”

  It came out in a rush, and he looked up to see how that was greeted. The eyes that met his were thoughtful. And sad.

  “Go on,” said Armand, quietly.

  “She’s saying what I’ve felt. Feel. There’re times I wish someone, a doctor, had told us we had to abort. That we had no choice. So that Annie and I wouldn’t feel guilty about doing it. So that we wouldn’t have … her. So that life could be … normal. Oh, God.” Jean-Guy lifted his hands to his face again. “Help me.”

  Only when Jean-Guy lowered his hands did Armand speak.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Abort. You found out the fetus had Down syndrome early enough in the pregnancy. You could have.”

  Far from being afraid of this question, this conversation, Jean-Guy felt nearly overwhelming relief. The dark thing curled around his heart was exposed. And far from reeling away from him in disgust, Armand was behaving as though all this was painful but perfectly natural.

  And maybe, Jean-Guy began to think, it was.

  “Annie and I talked about it. Were going to. We had the appointment. But just couldn’t. It wasn’t religious. You know we don’t belong to any church or religion. It just didn’t feel right. We decided that if the fetus developed normally in every other way, we’d—”

  What, thought Jean-Guy, keep her? It made their daughter sound like a puppy.

  But that had been the decision, and the wording they’d used.

  “—keep her.” Jean-Guy hesitated. “I’m so afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “That I won’t love her enough, that I won’t be a good father. That I’m not up to this.”

  Armand took a deep, long breath, but remained quiet. Letting Jean-Guy get it all out.

  “I look at her, Armand, and I don’t see Annie, or me. Or you, or Reine-Marie. My parents. I can’t see anyone in the family. There’re times I think I can’t live without her, and there are times she feels like a stranger.”

  Armand nodded. “She fell far from the tree.”

  It took Jean-Guy a moment to understand the reference, and then he smiled
a little and looked out the frosted window. At the village green. At the three huge pines.

  “But maybe not so far,” he said quietly, and felt lighter than he had in a long time. Perhaps, he thought, the burden wasn’t Idola. It was the shame.

  “You know, don’t you,” Armand said, “that almost every parent feels like you do at some stage. Wishes they could go back to a carefree life. I can’t tell you how often Reine-Marie and I looked at Daniel and Annie throwing tantrums and wished they were someone else’s children. How many times we preferred the dogs to the kids.”

  For some reason, hearing that made Jean-Guy want to weep. With relief.

  “There’s a difference between what you just said about struggling to decide whether to keep Idola,” said Armand, his voice steady, certain, “and the mandatory abortion of any fetus that isn’t perfect. That’s what Professor Robinson is moving toward, what she’s now hinting at. It’s couched in different language, but it’s still a form of eugenics. Can you imagine the people we’d lose?”

  Armand could feel his rage threatening to become outrage.

  And what Abigail Robinson was advocating went far beyond that.

  After studying the statistics on who died in the pandemic, and doing the cost-benefit analysis, she’d concluded there was a way to kill two birds with one stone. And Abigail Robinson was, in her pleasant way, happy to throw that stone.

  What if those in unimaginable and uncontrollable pain, the dying, those left bedridden and vegetative by strokes, the frail and sick, what if they could be helped? Their suffering eased? With an injection. They’d be spared suffering, and society would be spared the expense. The burden.

  Though that word was never actually used, it was understood. That was the code.

  If what had happened by mistake in the pandemic, the wholesale deaths of hundreds of thousands of elderly men and women, were to become policy, wouldn’t that be a mercy? A kindness? Humane even?

  After all, don’t they put down suffering animals? Wasn’t that considered an act of love? What could be the difference?

  The Royal Commission, when given Robinson’s report, had refused to hear it. To legitimize any such suggestion.