The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 18

“You can stop pretending you’re not listening, Armand,” said Gilbert.

Colette and Debbie were heading down the corridor toward their coats. Preparing to leave.

But Professor Robinson was taking a different tack. She was heading straight for Annie and Jean-Guy.

Surely the professor could see she was sailing into a storm. But maybe, after that confrontation with Gilbert, that’s what she wanted, thought Armand. Needing to blow off steam and spoiling for a fight, she’d chosen the people most likely to give her one.

“You two were really going at it,” he said to Vincent. “What did she mean just now when she said she knows. What does she know?”

“Nothing. She’s a sociopath.”

Armand continued to watch Abigail Robinson. They all did, it seemed. Everyone in the room was riveted on her. While the Hero of the Sudan had all but disappeared.

It was twenty minutes to midnight.

“And what about Helen Keller?” said Annie, a few minutes later. “You can’t tell me she was a burden to society.”

“That’s a good point. A valid point,” said Abigail. She saw Debbie and Colette in their coats, standing by the front door, giving her the high sign. It was time to leave.

Abigail put up her hand in the “five minutes” signal, then turned back to the group.

“Yeah,” said Debbie. “There’s no way she’s leaving in five minutes. Now what? I’m getting hot.”

“Let’s get some fresh air,” said Colette.

“I’ll text to let her know we’re outside.” Debbie put Abigail’s coat down on the chair by reception, sent the text, then left with Chancellor Roberge.

Abigail refocused her attention, but her heart wasn’t really in these arguments anymore. She had other things on her mind.

Abby Maria. It was the last straw. Gilbert had repeated the name as though vomiting the words up.

Abby Maria. Full of grace.

She just wanted this to be over.

Pray for us sinners.

Abigail realized they were waiting for her to say something. To defend herself. She sighed.

“What I’m saying is that resources are limited. That’s just a fact. We need to save those who can be saved, and give the rest a dignified, merciful, and, yes, swift end.”

She noticed the child in the young woman’s arms.

“Oooh, a baby.” Abigail leaned forward. “May I?”

Across the room, Ruth and Stephen had joined the Asshole Saint and Armand.

The gathering had returned to a party atmosphere. The play, and the happy children leaping off the “stage” to wild applause, had helped. And now there was the thrum of pleasant conversation, outbursts of laughter, and anticipation as the clock counted down the final minutes of a year both trying and triumphant.

The teenagers in the group were getting a little rowdy, and Armand knew why. If they were anything like he was at that age, and Daniel and Annie for that matter, they’d stashed some beer or cider in the woods, and were enjoying their first drunk.

Tomorrow morning, he also knew from experience, would be a lot less enjoyable.

“Is Reine-Marie still finding monkeys?” asked Ruth.

“Oui,” said Armand. He’d been glancing over to see how his family was coping with Abigail Robinson.

Judging by Jean-Guy’s face, not well.

“Monkeys?” asked Vincent Gilbert. “Have I missed something?”

“It’s what Reine-Marie does now,” said Ruth.

“Looks for monkeys? And she finds them? Here?”

“No, you idiot,” said Ruth. “They’re not real monkeys.”

“She’s finding imaginary ones?” Dr. Gilbert turned to Armand. “That can’t be good.”

“A family has asked Reine-Marie to go through their mother’s things,” Armand explained. “The woman died a few months ago, and in cleaning out the house, they’ve come across boxes in the attic filled with letters, documents—”

“And monkeys,” said Stephen.

“How many so far?” Ruth asked.

“Eighty-six at last count,” said Armand.

“Monkeys?” repeated the Asshole Saint.

“Not real ones,” snapped Ruth. “And not imaginary.”

Now Vincent Gilbert was genuinely interested. “Then what are they?”

“Drawings mostly,” said Stephen. “Poor one must’ve lost her mind.”

“A lot of that going around,” said Gilbert, glancing over at Abigail Robinson.

Armand gave a small hum. In his experience there was almost always a reason for what people did. And often a rational one, if they could just find it.

“I wonder if there’ll be a hundred monkeys,” said Gilbert. “That would be interesting.”

“And eighty-six isn’t?” asked Ruth.

Jean-Guy moved to step between Abigail and Idola. But Annie put a hand on his arm and whispered, “Ça va bien aller.”

It’ll be okay.

He held her gaze, then stepped aside.

“Why do you say a hundred monkeys would be interesting?” Stephen asked.

Seeing Abigail Robinson reach out to move the blanket around Idola, Ruth started forward, clutching her cane and her duck. Rosa was looking very determined. A battle duck.

But Armand put out his hand. “Non. Let them.”

“Idola—” Ruth began.

“Is safe.” Though he didn’t take his eyes off them. He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of. He knew Abigail Robinson wasn’t going to harm his granddaughter. Not there. Not then.

They watched Robinson lean in. They watched her straighten up. They watched as she said something to Annie and Jean-Guy. And Annie responded.

Armand saw Reine-Marie smile. Only then did he return his attention to Gilbert.

“The hundredth monkey theory?” Vincent Gilbert was saying. “Never heard of it?”

“Should we have?” Stephen asked.

Gilbert laughed. “I guess not. Living on my own gives me time to read obscure articles. This one’s on human nature and crowd mentality.”

“Wait a minute,” said Stephen. “Is it the study from those anthropologists in Japan?”

“Yes. I’m not even sure it was a real study,” said Dr. Gilbert. “It seems like bullshit, and yet…”

“Maybe not.” Stephen turned to the others with enthusiasm. “It was passed around in the investment community years ago. It’s pretty odd, but some think it explains why certain stocks, certain industries or products, like bitcoins, suddenly get hot. Why some ideas take hold, no matter how crazy, while other, even better ideas, just die.”

“Like Betamax,” said Ruth. It was her answer to everything that should have succeeded but didn’t. That and the Avro Arrow.

“What is this study?” Armand asked. Anything to do with human nature interested him.

“Back in the nineteen fifties, I think it was,” said Gilbert, “sweet potatoes were dropped on a Japanese island for the monkeys that lived there. The monkeys liked the taste but hated the sand that covered the food. Anthropologists studying the monkeys noticed that one day a young female washed a sweet potato in the ocean. A few others eventually did it too, but most just watched and continued to eat the sandy potatoes. Have I got that right?”

“That’s what I remember,” said Stephen.

“Not much of a story,” said Ruth. “Have I ever told you about the Avro Arrow?”

“She’s a friend of yours?” Gilbert asked Stephen.

“Not her. It’s the duck who’s the friend.”

“Down syndrome?” asked Abigail.

“Idola,” said Annie.

Reine-Marie looked over to Armand, who would be, she knew, watching. And smiled.

Then she turned back to Abigail. “I’d like to show you something.”

The others followed as Reine-Marie led her across to the window and pointed to a pane. “There are others at different windows at the Inn and Spa. In fact, every home and business in Three Pines—”

“Probably Québec,” said Gabri.

“—has one.”

Taped to the windowpane was a child’s drawing of a rainbow, and beneath it the words Ça va bien aller.

“Yes. I’ve seen one at Colette’s home,” said Abigail. But she didn’t seem to be looking at the drawing, but beyond it, to the bonfire.

“It’s the French translation of the Julian of Norwich quote,” said Myrna. “One I believe you know. All will be well.”

“Children drew rainbows,” said Clara, “as I think they did around the world. But here they also wrote that phrase. They gave them away during the first wave.”

Within weeks of the lockdown every home and shuttered business in Three Pines had one in their window.

Ça va bien aller became not just a comfort, but a battle cry. A call for calm and reason. A call for resistance to despair. To panic. To loneliness. To denial and even idiocy.

It had given the villagers hope that they’d one day return to Myrna’s bookshop and sit by her woodstove. That they’d meet in the bistro for drinks. That they’d be invited to each other’s homes for a meal.

That they’d once again hug. And kiss. Or just touch.

Ça va bien aller.

One day.

There was no overstating the importance, the power, of that phrase.

And now this academic, this professor, had co-opted it. She was using it to attack the very people it was meant to hearten.

“This one was done by our granddaughter Florence,” said Reine-Marie. She recognized the slapdash nature of it. Though perhaps “exuberant” was a better, if less accurate, word.

Daniel, Annie, and the grandchildren had joined them in Three Pines before the travel ban was put in place. Before the bubble closed around them.

But Armand hadn’t made it in, and neither had Jean-Guy. Their absence was felt every moment of every day. And night.

Reine-Marie remembered the day the bistro closed. Then the bookstore. The bakery. Monsieur Béliveau had stayed open, and had quickly run out of toilet paper. And yeast.

The grocer had run himself ragged, and to the brink of bankruptcy, helping others. As had Sarah the baker. As had Olivier and Gabri, making meals for the elderly, for families who’d been thrown out of work. For children whose school food program was no longer an option.

Myrna left books on doorsteps, of friends and strangers, practically emptying her store.

Donning masks and slathering on disinfectant, villagers had delivered meals and medicine. Books and puzzles.

Standing outside, often in the bitter cold, they’d talked to frightened and lonely elderly men and women, through closed windows. Trying to reassure them. And themselves.

All would be well.

They returned home each evening. Exhausted. Bewildered by the speed at which all they’d known was crumbling. And not knowing how bad it would get.

So fragile was life that they could be killed by a cough.

And they were among the lucky ones.

Armand and Jean-Guy were not.

They, along with all those on the front lines, were working sixteen-hour days, coming into contact every hour with people who were desperately sick and needed help.

At the end of their days, Armand and Jean-Guy couldn’t even go home to their families. They had to isolate in Montréal, for fear of spreading the virus.

Every morning Reine-Marie would send Armand her favorite short video. Of the bells in Banff. The clapping in London. The singing in Italy. The retrievers Olive and Mabel. The funny. The profane. The moving and inspirational. And the just plain silly. So that he’d go back into the day with a smile.

And every night, often well past midnight, Armand would place the video call. She could see, in the window behind him, the cheerful posters Florence and Zora and Honoré had made for their grandfather.

As the days and weeks and months went on, he looked increasingly haggard. As did she, she suspected.

And then came that night. He’d called later than usual. And he looked like hell. He looked like death.

“Are you sick?” she’d asked, her voice rising. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

He shook his head but couldn’t yet answer. He’d looked at her, pleading for something. For help?

“What can I do? What’s happened?” She reached out, but instead of his warm, familiar face, her hand touched the cold screen.

As she watched, he lowered his head and, covering his face with his hands, he sobbed. Finally, he raised his head and lowered his hands and told her.

About getting the call to go to a nursing home. When he’d arrived, he found the daughter of a resident standing in snow that had drifted across what should have been a shoveled path to the front door. But it hadn’t been cleared in days.

Her eyes were wide in shock. He put her in his warm car, then called for help.

On the windows he could see the signs of what had happened inside. Not happy hopeful rainbows, but something else smeared on the glass.

Putting on personal protective equipment, he’d gone inside alone.

As he opened the door to the building, he recognized the smell even through his mask.

He didn’t describe to Reine-Marie in detail what he’d found. But he’d told her enough, and she’d seen the subsequent news reports to know that all had been as far from well as it was possible to get.

The most vulnerable. The weak. The infirm. Those who could not care for themselves had been abandoned. Left to die. And die they had.

Armand had been the first in and last out. Staying with each man and woman, each body, until all had been removed.

He’d immediately sent teams to other nursing homes, until all of them had been checked. And all the horrors uncovered.

It was a shame he’d carry all his life. Not that he himself had abandoned these people, but that Québec had. Quebeckers had. And he, as a senior police officer, hadn’t realized sooner that this could happen in a pandemic. That this could ever happen. Here. Here.

Not given to conspiracy theories, Armand had, nonetheless, formed and harbored a suspicion that while authorities hadn’t actively hastened the deaths, hadn’t intentionally turned their backs, neither had they chosen to look in that direction. No one had been in a hurry to use precious and increasingly rare resources on those who would die soon anyway.

Reine-Marie knew that Armand had started a private file, investigating those responsible.

It might take months, years, but he would ferret out the hidden sin.

And now, to hear the phrase All shall be well used to justify ending the lives of the frail and most vulnerable appalled her.

Yes, she thought, looking at Abigail Robinson, they were sick of the plague. And here, among them, was the new carrier.

“The numbers of monkeys washing the potatoes slowly crept up over a period of months—”

“Oh, God,” said Ruth. “Are we still talking about monkeys? Let’s just agree that Peter Tork was the best and move on.”

“Then,” Gilbert continued, “one morning the hundredth monkey, by the scientists’ count, picked up a sweet potato and washed it. And that did it. Something broke. By nightfall all the monkeys on the island were washing their potatoes.”

“Are we sure that’s not a euphemism?” asked Ruth. “They are monkeys after all.”

“Why?” asked Armand, ignoring her, but unable to suppress a smile. “Was that monkey an alpha? A leader?”

“No, nothing special at all about her,” said Gilbert. “Interesting, isn’t it? Why it should suddenly take off like that. What difference that one monkey, the hundredth, made. What’s even more interesting is that they then discovered monkeys on other islands doing the same thing. None of them had washed their sweet potatoes before, but now they all were.”

“Oh, come on,” said Ruth. “That’s not possible. Are you saying the monkeys had ESP? They communicated by, what? Brain waves?”

Rosa snorted.

“I’m not saying it,” said Gilbert. “The anthropologists just reported it. They were as baffled as anyone else. It’s become known as the hundredth monkey effect. Whether it was a hundred monkeys or not, the point was that when a tipping point is reached, when a certain number of monkeys—”

“—or people,” said Stephen.

“—start doing the same thing—”

“—or believing the same thing,” said Stephen.

“Exactly,” said Vincent. “The idea explodes.”

“It takes on a life of its own,” said Armand, glancing at Abigail.

He wondered if, thanks to the event at the gym and the errant gunshots, that hundredth monkey had been reached. He also wondered if that had been the purpose of the shots.

He was deep in thought when Honoré, still wearing his bunny ears and dragging his toboggan, came up to him.

“Papa—” he began, but that was as far as he got.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Explosions filled the room.

Armand pulled Honoré to him, swiftly turning his back on the shots, bending over and enveloping the boy with his body.

Across the room, Jean-Guy grabbed Annie and Idola while Haniya Daoud dropped to her knees, bending over, covering her head with her hands. Making herself as small as possible.

Seconds later the shots stopped and, keeping Honoré behind him, Armand swung round. His sharp eyes scanned the room. Body tense, prepared to act, even as his mind said—

“They’re firecrackers, Armand.” Stephen was looking with concern at his godson. Reaching out a bony hand, he placed it on Armand’s chest. “It’s all right.”

Honoré was looking at his grandfather in shock. His bunny ears askew. His lower lip trembling.

“Oh, no.” Armand dropped to his knee, to be at eye level with the child. “No, no. It’s all right. I just…” Just what?

Just thought it was gunfire. But he didn’t say that.

The day before, at the event, he’d immediately recognized the firecrackers, but then he’d been alert and prepared for something to happen. Here, now, he’d been taken by surprise.

He held out his arms, and Honoré walked into them.

Across the room, he saw Jean-Guy looking shaken. Then his gaze went to Haniya Daoud being helped to her feet by Roslyn and Clara, and shaking off their hands.

No one else had reacted to the noise. Just them. Everyone else heard firecrackers. While they’d heard gunshots.

As he held his grandson, Armand Gamache wondered how deep their wounds really went. How much damage had been done.

And if they’d ever really heal.