The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 32

When Gloria stopped in front of the bistro, Haniya and Isabelle got out.

The village children crowded around, and while some wanted to get into the sleigh, others were far more interested in Gloria. Reaching up as she bent down, they rubbed her huge silky nose.

“Just a moment,” said Billy, laughing, as kids pushed and shoved to climb onto the sleigh. “Everyone’ll get a turn. I promise.”

It was, perhaps, not completely surprising that children understood every word Billy Williams said, while adults struggled.

Gloria started off, pausing to let the car pass as it came slowly down the hill into Three Pines. Billy touched his tuque, in a salute to them. But mostly to Myrna, who also understood him.

Then, with a cheerful jingle, they set off again.

“Papa,” Florence, Zora, and Honoré shouted a minute later as they passed their grandfather. He was walking from the Auberge back into the village and had stopped to wave to them. Then he continued, his hands behind his back, his head down. Thinking.

Haniya Daoud stared at the door that connected the bookstore to the bistro. A door she’d been through a few times. Then she looked at the long, beamed room with its wide-plank floors cut from trees that grew within sight of the building.

At the huge stone hearths at either end, made of rocks pulled from nearby fields.

At the men and women sitting there, including the demented poet and her fucking duck. Sons and daughters of Québec, whether born there or not.

Haniya Daoud, the Hero of the Sudan, had listened as Isabelle Lacoste told her what had happened. There. In this quiet place, in this quiet village.

Shhhhhh.

The gun placed at the base of her skull. The push through the bookstore door. Catching Gamache’s eye as he sat in the bistro, and that instant of mutual recognition. Of what she was about to do. Of what he had to let her do.

She was about to die. So that others in the bistro—including Armand and Jean-Guy, including Ruth and Gabri and Olivier—might have a chance.

Shhhhh. But Isabelle continued.

She told Haniya about that moment, frozen in time, as she held Armand’s eyes, and thought of her children. Then Isabelle braced and shoved with all her might, so that her body slammed into the gunman behind her. Throwing him, for one precious moment, off guard.

The last thing she saw, the last thing Isabelle believed she’d ever see, was Gamache lunging forward, toward the other gunmen.

She hoped he’d survived. Hoped Jean-Guy had. And the others.

Because she knew, as she felt the explosion, that she had not.

And then she described things she didn’t know, but had herself been told. How Ruth had, in the midst of the bedlam, crawled across the floor of the bistro, to hold her hand. So that she would not die alone.

How her husband, her colleagues, her friends, had taken turns at the hospital, holding her hand and reading to her.

Haniya listened, and wondered if someone, anyone, would hold her hand when her time came.

“Things are strongest where they’re broken,” she said, and wondered where that had come from.

“Yes.”

Neither woman had described their long, long journey back. But both recognized it had led them there. To that moment. In this quiet place, in this peaceful village.

Shhhhh.

The Hero of the Sudan looked around the bistro, at the villagers. At the friends and families. There were small cracks between them. She knew that because she could see the light.

Armand met Reine-Marie, Myrna, and Jean-Guy outside the bistro.

“How did it go?” he asked.

But he could tell by their expressions that it hadn’t gone well. Or, perhaps, “well” was not the word.

“Let’s go inside and talk,” he said. Putting his hand on Reine-Marie’s arm, he searched her eyes. “You okay?”

She nodded, but without conviction. “Actually, I’d like to go home. I want to go through that last box. With the kids on the sleigh ride it’ll be quiet.”

The truth was, she was a coward. Vincent Gilbert might be in the bistro, and she was terrified of what she might say, what she might do, if she met him. Home was the only safe place.

“Do you want company?” Armand asked.

“Non, merci, mon coeur. You need to hear what they have to say.”

He looked at Jean-Guy and Myrna, grim-faced. He probably did need to hear it, though he doubted he wanted to hear it.

While she went home, the rest headed into the bistro. Isabelle was sitting by the fire with Haniya, Ruth, and Clara. They got to their feet when the others arrived. Except Ruth, who took the opportunity to switch her empty scotch glass for Clara’s almost full one.

“Looks like you have things to talk about,” said Clara. It didn’t take a portrait painter to understand their expressions. “Why don’t we go back to my place?”

“What? We have the best seats in the house, right in front of the fireplace,” said Ruth. “Why would I leave to walk through a blizzard to your shack?”

Rosa, in her arms, nodded agreement and gave Clara the stink eye.

Clara glanced outside at the softly falling flurries. Hardly a maelstrom. “Well, I have a bottle of single malt.”

“So does Olivier.”

“I have chocolate cake.”

Ruth used Rosa to gesture toward the cake stand on the long bar.

“I’ll let you critique my latest work,” said Clara.

Ruth became more interested. Finding fault was just about her favorite thing to do.

As they left, Ruth paused in front of Armand. “Did you speak with her?”

“All sorted. Professor Robinson will stop using the quote and donate whatever they’ve raised to LaPorte.”

“Thank you, Armand,” she whispered.

At the door, Clara and Ruth looked back. Haniya was standing in the middle of the room, between the groups.

“Well?” demanded Ruth. “Do you need the king of Sweden to invite you? Dumb shit.”

Haniya paused, then walked across the bistro to join them. She was not totally sure, but she suspected being called “dumb shit” by Ruth Zardo was almost as good as winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Though it was possible the old poet was calling the king of Sweden a dumb shit.

As they trudged through the snow toward Clara’s pretty little cottage, Ruth lost her footing. Haniya grabbed her before she fell. She held Ruth’s hand for the rest of the way, and wondered if maybe the key was not in being held, but in holding.

Gabri put down a pot of tea. “It’s already steeped, just as you like it.” Then he threw a birch log onto the fire, and stirred it, before leaving them.

The white bark caught and curled as embers popped and chased each other up the chimney.

Armand poured the tea while Isabelle talked.

Within minutes, Jean-Guy, Myrna, Isabelle, and Armand had left the cheery bistro and were in the Sudan. Looking down, helpless, at the women, girls, staked to the dirt.

Armand clamped his jaw so tight he thought his molars might shatter. But if he didn’t, he was sure he’d vomit.

And still, Isabelle talked.

Jean-Guy saw his sisters, his mother. Annie. Staked there. And thought he might pass out.

And still, Isabelle talked.

Myrna felt the rawhide straps cutting into her wrists and ankles, the flesh now growing around the bindings. She saw the men approaching. Drunk. Angry. She saw them draw their machetes. And she looked up at Armand. At Jean-Guy. At Isabelle. Watching. And she pleaded with them. Begged them for help.

The world had been watching. And had done nothing.

And when Isabelle got to the part where Haniya escaped and killed her attacker, Armand unclenched his jaw.

When Isabelle got to the part where Haniya freed the other women and girls, Jean-Guy wanted to leap up and cheer.

When Isabelle got to the part where they approached the barbed-wire fence, to freedom, Myrna wanted to sob with relief.

When Isabelle got to the part where Haniya confronted the child soldier, she stopped.

“What is it?” Armand asked. “What happened?

“Brown brown,” said Isabelle.

And she told them what happened, when Haniya had a choice to make. And made it.

There was a long silence as their breathing mingled with the smoke and crackling fire and the images that had invaded the peaceful bistro.

Haniya was right, of course, thought Isabelle. No place was safe.

“Isabelle?” Armand finally said.

She looked at him. Not even the amber glow from the fire could disguise his pallor.

She knew what he was asking.

“Yes. I have no doubt she would kill again, if it meant saving lives. I’m not sure if it’s heroic or psychotic, but Haniya Daoud seems to see every innocent man, woman, and infant in the world as her children. She’s driven to save them. Obsessed even.”

A few years ago, Jean-Guy might not have understood that. Now he could. Every parent, he was sure, became slightly insane the moment their children were born.

Armand nodded. He too understood.

He’d assumed Haniya Daoud had survived, where so many had given up and died, out of hatred. An all-consuming need for revenge. But something even stronger had kept her going.

Love. The love of her children. The need to save, not the need to destroy, had kept her going. And still fueled every step Haniya Daoud took.

But to have to kill one child to save others? What did that do to a person? What had that done to Haniya? And did it make every other killing so much easier?

Would Haniya Daoud murder Abigail Robinson to save men, women, and children?

In a heartbeat.

Reine-Marie poured herself a red wine, dragged the box from the small study into the living room, lit the fire in the hearth, and turned on the Christmas tree lights.

Stephen and Gracie, who she now thought might be a guinea pig, were having a nap in his bedroom. Daniel and Roslyn were at the sales in Sherbrooke, and Annie had taken Idola to visit friends in the next village over.

Henri and Fred were curled at her feet.

She had the place to herself.

Before dipping into the last box, she sat back on the sofa, put her feet up, and quietly sipped her drink, staring into the fireplace, the lit tree in the background.

They’d take it down, along with the other decorations, on January 5th. The eve of the Twelfth Night.

Neither she nor Armand were particularly religious, though both had a steadfast and private belief in God. But they loved tradition, and taking down the Christmas tree every year on that day was one they’d both grown up with.

Besides being the night before Epiphany, when the Three Wise Men recognized the Christ Child, it also saved their Hoover from needing to pick up too many dried pine needles. And burning out. Again.

In the meantime, Reine-Marie relished the tree, the decorations, the quiet.

She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. But her peace was invaded by Ewen Cameron. His kindly face looked down at her, assuring her all would be well, ça va bien aller, even as he tied her wrists to the posts.

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up so quickly wine slopped from her glass onto Henri, asleep by the fire. He didn’t stir. With Ruth such a constant visitor, he was used to it.

Reine-Marie put down her glass and got to work, while over in the bistro Jean-Guy sat in front of the fire and told his horror story.

“Ewen Cameron?” Armand’s eyes moved from Jean-Guy to Myrna, then back again. “Vincent worked with Cameron?”

“Who?” asked Isabelle. Like Jean-Guy, she was too young to know the name. But it was about to become one she would never forget.

They told her, while Armand sat back, his hand to his face, listening, thinking.

When they’d finished, Isabelle had quizzed Jean-Guy and Myrna, unwilling to accept that this had actually happened. In Québec. In Montréal. At McGill. Within living memory. And no one had stopped it. Stopped him.

“And Vincent Gilbert was part of it?” she asked.

“There’s no actual proof of that,” said Jean-Guy. “We know he looked after the lab animals. If he’d been part of the experiments, wouldn’t there be papers in his file?”

“Evaluations of Gilbert by Cameron or others,” said Myrna. “You’d think.”

“Still,” said Armand, sitting forward. “It’s hard to believe Dr. Gilbert wouldn’t have at least known what was going on. By then Cameron had been at it for almost a decade.”

The Asshole Saint had gone, they noticed, from “Vincent” to “Dr. Gilbert,” as Gamache put distance between them.

He turned to Myrna, but before he could ask her to leave, she got up.

“I’m off. Work to do in the store.”

When she’d gone, Jean-Guy said, “Didn’t Cameron’s name come up last night? You mentioned it to Gilbert when we interviewed him.”

“Yes,” said Gamache. “I’ve been trying to remember the exact words Robinson used. She didn’t make a direct accusation. It was more subtle than that. She’d been talking about monsters and mentioned Cameron. And then she’d intimated that Gilbert was no better than him. That’s why I wanted to know what was in Dr. Gilbert’s files at McGill. But I never thought…”

Who would?

“But if she knew something definite,” said Beauvoir, “wouldn’t she come right out and say it? Why just hint?”

“She could’ve been toying with him,” said Isabelle. “Like a cat with a wounded bird.”

Armand could not see the Asshole Saint as a wounded bird. He was more likely the cat. Still, it was a good point. And a possible motive.

“You found nothing definite?”

“No, nothing,” said Beauvoir.

“They’d still be alive,” said Isabelle.

“Who?” asked Beauvoir.

“Cameron’s victims. Gilbert’s victims. Most must’ve been from Québec. Maybe even from around here.”

“They’d be quite old by now,” said Beauvoir. “This was years ago.”

Armand looked toward Clara’s home. Where Ruth had gone.

Ruth?

Did they have their answer?

“When I had lunch with Dr. Gilbert,” said Gamache, “he admitted he’d been at Abigail Robinson’s talk in the gym.”

“Could hardly deny it,” said Beauvoir.

“True. He also admitted that he saw the gun in Tardif’s hand. He says he froze.”

“But?” said Isabelle.

“When pressed, he all but admitted he wanted it to happen, wanted her to be killed,” said Gamache. “It was a split-second choice. He hadn’t done anything to protect people in the pandemic. He saw his chance to make up for it.”

“Not just in the pandemic,” said Isabelle. “He didn’t do anything to protect people from Cameron. Seems like a pattern in his life.”

Gamache was nodding. Had Gilbert finally decided to act?

Like a battlefield surgeon, had he, last night, decided to amputate the leg in order to save the body? Kill Abigail Robinson in order to save thousands?

Or was the motive, as it often was with Gilbert, far more complex, more selfish? Was it to protect himself? To stop Abigail Robinson from revealing his one great secret. His great shame.

“Of course,” said Beauvoir, “it’s possible he didn’t stop Tardif from shooting because they were working together.”

“I have news on that,” Isabelle said to Jean-Guy. “While you were in Montréal, we found the accomplice. Not Gilbert, not the brother. The son.”

She brought Jean-Guy quickly up to speed about Simon Tardif.

Beauvoir immediately understood the important detail. “He also worked the party. Kids were going in and out of those woods all night long. One more wouldn’t be noticed. Simon Tardif could’ve tried to finish the job his father started.”

“The thing is, I’m not convinced,” said Lacoste. “I don’t think he’d have the nerve.”

“Neither do I,” said Gamache. “But I’ve been surprised before.”