The Madness of Crowds

“We’re in here,” said Colette as she led them through the house and to the kitchen.

It was a comfortable room, with open shelving displaying blue-and-white china. Tins lined up on the counter said Farine. Sucre. Café. Thé. And Biscuits.

The ceiling had whitewashed beams, and French doors at the far end opened onto a large garden, now buried in snow.

In the corner by the door, bathed in sunshine, was a card table with a child’s jigsaw puzzle. A remnant of the grandkids.

Two women stood by the fireplace and turned anxious faces to the newcomers. It was clear neither had slept much. They looked disheveled, exhausted.

“Has the gunman said why he did it?” asked Debbie Schneider, stepping forward.

“No,” said Isabelle. “He’s not saying anything. We’re not releasing his name or any details yet, but I can tell you that he’s not a professional. In fact, he has no prior record at all.”

“Just a local crazy,” said Madame Schneider.

“There’s no indication he’s that either,” said Lacoste, her voice cool.

Debbie Schneider opened her mouth to argue the point, but Abigail Robinson interrupted.

“Thank you again, Chief Inspector,” she said, offering her hand. “I watched the videos last night. I think I must’ve been in shock. It’s clear that if you hadn’t acted I probably wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, taking her hand.

Isabelle Lacoste considered the two women as they all took seats in front of the warm woodstove. She’d only seen Professor Robinson at a distance, onstage.

There she’d been calm, assured. There’d been a warmth about her that Lacoste had found disconcerting.

But this was a different woman.

She was tense. Haggard. It was a perfectly normal reaction to what had happened.

The other woman, Debbie Schneider, was new to Isabelle.

She and the professor must be about the same age, but there was about Madame Schneider the sense of harder roads. Steeper climbs. A life not longer in days, but longer in other ways.

“We have a photograph of the gunman,” said Isabelle. “I’d like to know if you’ve seen him before.”

As the women leaned in to look, Lacoste turned her attention to Chancellor Roberge. She was short and stout, elegantly dressed even mid-morning on New Year’s Eve.

Her eyes were clear blue like the winter sky and held an almost fierce intelligence.

Gamache was also observing Colette Roberge.

It had occurred to him that, in their conversation earlier that morning, the Chancellor hadn’t actually asked anything about the gunman. Neither had the President of the University, but then his curiosity ended with Cleopatra.

“He looks…,” said Abigail, studying the photograph and searching for the word.

“Normal?” asked Debbie Schneider.

“Nice,” said Abigail.

Armand was tempted to say that she did too, but of course, he did not.

“The people who were hurt?” said Abigail. “How are they?”

“Recovering. They’re keeping one in hospital to do more tests on his heart.”

“Can I send a card?” she asked.

“If you give them to me, I’ll make sure they’re delivered.”

“Debbie, can you…?”

While Debbie made a note, Professor Robinson said to Lacoste, “I imagine you’d much rather be with your family than figuring out why some nice man took a potshot at someone you probably think deserved it.”

“Abby!” said Debbie.

It was such an extraordinary thing to say that Lacoste was momentarily at a loss.

Extraordinary because it was partly true.

“I’m very glad he didn’t hit his target, Professor.”

Abigail smiled. “Thank you for that.”

Her smile wasn’t a beam. It was much more intimate than that. It was gentle and warm. Understanding and inviting. Isabelle Lacoste was being invited in from the cold. Into the world of Abby Robinson, where all would be well.

While Isabelle was far from taken in, she was very much taken by this effect the professor had on her. Abigail Robinson had discovered, within moments of their meeting, a crack in her well-fortified wall. One she herself didn’t even know was there.

Isabelle Lacoste, second-in-command in homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, also yearned for all to be well.

Who didn’t?

She knew then that the professor was dangerous not simply because of her views, but also because she was so very compelling. So very attractive. And, most dangerous of all, so very normal.

This was no charismatic maniac. This was the woman next door who you trusted with your dog when you went away. If she said something was true, you believed her.

“You’ve known each other long?” Isabelle asked, trying to recover her equilibrium. Trying to paper over the cracks.

“All our lives, it seems,” said Debbie Schneider. “Abby Maria and I lived next door to each other as kids. Grew up together.”

She looked at Abigail, who gave her a smile, though it seemed to Gamache, who was following this closely, that it was strained. That there was some warning in her eyes. One that brought blood to Debbie’s cheeks.

“And where was that?”

“Nanaimo,” said Abigail. “British Columbia.”