The Madness of Crowds

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.

But …

But then she’d gone on tour, put up her graphs and shown in her calm, measured way the surprisingly clear correlation between money saved and money needed for rebuilding after the economic ruin of the coronavirus.

If they did what her findings suggested, all would be well.

And wasn’t assisted suicide already legal in Canada? This was just one step further.

Of course, if Professor Robinson’s findings were implemented, it meant the right to die became the obligation to die, but sacrifices needed to be made. In a free society.

And recently, emboldened by growing support, Professor Robinson was delicately turning her attention to the other end of life. Babies. With birth defects.

And how their suffering might be relieved.

It felt now to Gamache as though they were locked in a sort of passion play, the outcome of which would decide their direction for generations to come.

Though there was one way to stop it. If the person leading, legitimizing, the campaign were to …

“I’ve written my report about the events this afternoon,” said Gamache, interrupting his own thoughts. “There’ll be an inquiry, of course.”

“I’ll—” Jean-Guy was about to say,… have my letter of resignation to you in the morning. But was interrupted.

“How?” Gamache asked, leaning forward, his arms on the table, his hands clasped lightly together. “How did the firecrackers get in? And the gun? How did it get into the shooter’s hands? Tell me honestly, at what stage did you leave the front door?”

“Not until everyone was in, and the doors had been closed. No one came in behind me, patron. And everyone who did get in was thoroughly searched. I know that.”

Gamache believed him. “Then someone must’ve planted it there. Someone who had access to the building beforehand.”

“Tardif’s brother.”

“Yes. Probably. But we need to look further afield. To someone who knew early on that the event was going to happen and could get into the old gym.”

“The caretaker?”

“Possibly.” Gamache didn’t want to think that Éric Viau could be involved, but knew it was a legitimate question.

Unfortunately, security cameras had never been installed in the old gym. Too expensive for a building rarely used and not particularly valuable. But Beauvoir had a thought.

“The video we were watching from her talk a few weeks ago. It was too clear, too professional to be some random audience member with a phone. I bet she hires someone to record her events.”

“You might be right. Though the camera would be trained on the stage, not the audience. But you never know. Any luck with the videos taken by spectators?”

“Not yet. Like you said, the phones were aimed at the stage. Then, when the firecrackers went off, everything goes nuts. Too shaky to see anything. You think the two are related? The firecrackers were set off to cause panic and cover the shots? Make sure no one noticed the shooter in the stampede?”

As he replayed it in his mind, Gamache slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. It seems a stretch that it could be a coincidence, but if it was planned, it didn’t work. The shots were fired thirty-two seconds after the firecrackers went off. By then people had begun to calm down. You’d have thought they were meant to happen together.”

“Maybe it was a coincidence, and when Tardif heard the firecrackers, he saw his chance and scrambled to get a shot off. But in his hurry he missed Robinson.”

“Could be.” Gamache paused in thought. “The manager of the gun club said Tardif is an excellent shot, didn’t he? And yet he missed. Twice.”

“The stress of battle. We’ve all missed. With the panic around him, his arm might’ve been jostled. And he didn’t miss by much, patron.”

“That is true.” He was still picking bits of the podium out of his jacket. “If the point was to not just kill Robinson, but cause complete mayhem, then maybe it was executed perfectly. First the firecrackers to shatter nerves, then the shots to guarantee a riot.”

To guarantee a stampede for the doors. And the subsequent crush. The injuries and deaths of men, women, and children. What sort of monster, Beauvoir wondered, was this Tardif?

“So even if Professor Robinson survived,” he said, “the deaths in the crowd would forever be associated with her campaign. It would kill her movement, if not her.”

“But would it?” Gamache asked. “Think about it. A riot with tens, maybe hundreds of injuries and deaths, would be news worldwide. She’d get publicity no amount of money could create. She wouldn’t be blamed. In fact, she’d be a victim, narrowly escaping assassination. It’s already happening. In the news tonight she had her reaction pretty perfect. Almost as though she’d prepared.”

“Wait a minute.” Jean-Guy held up his hand, trying to catch up to the Chief’s rapid train of thought. “You think she’s behind it?”

“Tardif’s an expert shot who missed,” said Gamache. “Twice.”

“Barely,” Beauvoir repeated. He also knew, but didn’t say, that had he been Tardif, he’d have taken the shot and not missed.

He brought out his notebook and made a note to see if there could have been any contact between Tardif and Professor Robinson or her assistant.

Then he stopped and looked at Gamache.

“You’re not fired,” said the Chief, understanding the look. “In the reports I sent off tonight, I didn’t mention you.”

“You lied?”

“The sin of omission. I couldn’t see the benefit to the Sûreté, or the public, if an exceptional officer was fired for a one-off event that did not actually hurt anyone.”

“If it comes out, you’ll be fired,” Beauvoir said.

“I’ve been fired before,” said Gamache. “I suspect by now they’re tired of changing the name on the door. Look, Jean-Guy, the fault was mine. While I was protecting a stranger, you were protecting your daughter. You said it last night. You warned me. And you were right. She needs protecting. That’s your life’s work. The one that matters.”

“I disobeyed orders,” Beauvoir pointed out.

“I know that. Look, do you want to be fired?” When Beauvoir shook his head, Gamache said, “Bon, then stop arguing. Just accept.”

“Merci.” Then something occurred to Jean-Guy. “Is Serious Crime going to take over? It’s not a homicide. Not our department.”

“Non. I’ve asked to be given the investigation. They’ve agreed.”

Jean-Guy began to ask why Gamache wanted this dog’s breakfast of an investigation but stopped himself. He knew why.

If Serious Crime took over, they’d dig into what exactly had happened. And they’d discover Beauvoir’s dereliction of duty.

Gamache was doing it to protect him. But Jean-Guy suspected it went further than that.

Armand Gamache wanted to know more about this Abigail Robinson. Knowledge was power, and he needed as much power as he could get, to protect his granddaughter and others like her. And unlike her.

Jean-Guy glanced toward the hearth and Haniya Daoud, the extraordinary woman sitting there. Who’d, at great peril to herself, led so many to safety. Especially children. Leaving her own behind.

He tilted his head toward the fireplace.

Armand, understanding what he meant, stood up and pulled the table from the corner, releasing his prisoner.

As Jean-Guy slipped by, Armand laid a hand on his arm.

“You don’t look anything like me,” he said. “But you’re still my son.”

Olivier and Gabri had joined the women, and now all got up to greet Armand and Jean-Guy. Even Ruth.

As he embraced her, Jean-Guy could feel the birdlike bones beneath the moth-eaten sweater, and marveled that maybe the mad old poet was Rosa’s mother after all.

“We made a mess, patron,” Armand said to Olivier, pointing to the pile of pie on the floor. “We can clean it up.”

“No worries. I can do that. I have a disposal system.” He looked over at Ruth.

The only one who’d remained seated was the guest, in her bright fuchsia-and-gold caftan and hijab.

“I’d like to introduce you to Haniya Daoud,” said Myrna. “Haniya, these are our friends Armand Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir.”

Now that he was closer, Jean-Guy could see that she was actually quite young. The scarring on her face and her large, worn eyes had made her look much older.

Haniya Daoud stared at them. “You’re police.”

“Yes. And neighbors,” said Armand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Madame.”

He bowed slightly, not offering a hand he knew she would refuse.

“I don’t like police,” she said after staring at him for a moment.

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either if I’d been through what you have.”

She smiled at him. “I’ve met people, men, like you. Dignified. Thoughtful. Powerful. A natural leader, no?” She looked around, and the others nodded. She dropped her voice and leaned forward, so that he had to bend further to hear her. “I also know what you do with that power, and what you’d do to hold on to it. You don’t fool me.”

“I’m not trying to,” he whispered back. “You don’t know me, Madame Daoud. I hope that might change in the next few days.” He straightened up. “It’s late and we’re all tired. I hope you have a good night’s rest. Perhaps this will all look different in the morning.”

“Will the snow be gone? Will there be flowers and grass?” She glanced toward the window. “I’ve never seen a bleaker landscape.”

“No,” said Armand. “The outside won’t change, but the inside might. We can but hope.”

“We can do more than that, Chief Inspector, if we choose. Hope on its own is rarely enough.”

Her smile only deepened the scars, the slashes down her face.

“So you do know who I am,” said Gamache. “You called me Chief Inspector.”

“I know your rank, and yes, after watching the news reports I think I have a pretty good idea who you are. And what you are.”

Haniya Daoud muttered something into the hearth.

“Excusez-moi?” said Gamache.

“Was my French not good? I said”—she raised her voice for all to hear—“faible.”

She looked into the surprised faces of the friends and neighbors. “Am I pronouncing it right?”

“Oui,” said Gabri, and got sharp elbows in both sides from Olivier and Clara.

“Good. I’m just learning. Beautiful language, French. I think ‘faible’ sounds better, softer, than the English word. And is more nuanced.”

She was speaking directly, and exclusively, to Gamache now, having disappeared the others.

“It’s what came to mind when I watched you on the news tonight, Chief Inspector. It means weak. Small. Feeble. Am I right?”

“That is the translation,” he agreed, more curious than insulted. Why would Haniya Daoud bother to insult him? To what purpose?

Haniya pushed herself up from the depths of her chair, and said, “I’m going to bed.” She looked at Clara. “I believe I’m staying with you. There’s a luxury Inn and Spa, just up the hill.”

“The Auberge, yes,” said Clara.

“Good. I will move there tomorrow. And now I give the smug-faced crowd the traditional gesture of endearment and wish you all a bonne nuit.”

She raised her middle finger.

As Gamache stepped back to let her pass, she stopped dead in front of him.

“You want to know why I call you weak.”

“To be honest, I don’t really care.”

“I wonder if that’s true. I think you care about a lot of things, including how you’re perceived. You know what that woman is preaching.”

“Abigail Robinson?” said Gamache. “Oui.”

“Mass murder. I watched the report, several times. I recognized the look in your eyes when you were watching her. It was loathing, wasn’t it.”

When he didn’t disagree, she continued.

“And yet you not only failed to stop her event, you actually saved her life. You made it look like heroics, but I know better. I know you, Chief Inspector. Met thousands of you. You’ll give money. I imagine you even donated to my cause. You’ll serve food to the needy and collect coats for the homeless. You’ll give impassioned speeches, but you won’t actually lift a finger to stop a tyrant. You want others to do it. You want me to do it. You’re small. Feeble. A hypocrite. I think…” She looked at him more closely. Her eyes running over his face, pausing at his own scar, at his temple. “Yes, I think you’re probably a good man, at least you like to think so. Decent. But you’re also faible. I, on the other hand, am not. I’m neither decent nor weak.” When Armand didn’t reply, she lowered her voice. “Best to get out of my way.”

“They’re thinking of giving her the Nobel Peace Prize?” said Ruth, watching her leave. “Who else is on the list? Kim Jong-un? Putin?”

Myrna turned to Armand. “You okay? Looks like she hit a nerve.”

Armand gave a short laugh. “My fault for leaving it exposed.”

The nerve she’d hit, either by a good guess or some strange insight, was his own earlier thought. Of what would have happened had he moved just a little bit slower …

And part of him, part of him, wished he had. And part of him wondered if maybe Haniya Daoud, the Hero of the Sudan, was right. He lacked courage.

It was the second time in as many days he’d been accused of cowardice. All to do with Abigail Robinson.

As he and Jean-Guy walked home, Armand thought of the scars on Haniya’s young face and wondered what she’d been like as a child. Before. What she would have been like had she been born and raised here.

If her cheeks had been brushed by winter winds and not sliced by machete blades. He wondered what he, what Reine-Marie, what Annie and Daniel would have been like had they been born and raised in her village.

Armand paused at the path to their home and looked up. Into the clear night sky and the stars above. Jean-Guy stopped and also looked up.

While angered by what that woman had said, Jean-Guy mostly felt relief. The weight he’d carried for so long had been at least partially lifted.

It helped that he remembered there were butter tarts in the cookie tin in the kitchen.

Armand spoke, his words directed at the Big Dipper, the huge vessel in the sky.

Jean-Guy lowered his gaze. “Pardon?”

“I said, Sneak home and pray you’ll never know / the hell where youth and laughter go.”

“Nice.” Don’t tell me it’s a poem, thought Jean-Guy.

“It’s a poem,” said Armand.

Please, don’t make it a long one.

Armand met his eyes and smiled. “She called us a ‘smug-faced crowd.’”

“Oui.” Butter tarts. Butter tarts. “So?”

“I wondered if she was referring to a line from that Sassoon poem, from the Great War.”

“Not everything comes from a poem. And how could she know it?”

“She knows far more than I think we realize, mon ami.”

Including the hell where youth and laughter go.

But then, he thought, so do I.