Page 127
To Dr. Gilbert, looking at the vista behind his companion, it was like something out of a storybook. Peaceful, calm.
But Gamache was looking in the opposite direction, and had a very different view. He saw the Sûreté agents, and the tent in the woods, and the crime scene tape.
To him it looked like something out of Grimms’ Fairy Tales, or one of the darker fables of La Fontaine.
How closely the two perspectives existed, coexisted, he thought. Side by side. The border between Heaven and Hell a sliver. Murder and mercy. Kindness and cruelty. And how very difficult it was, sometimes, to tell them apart. Or to know on which side of the border you stood.
“They brush them with garlic butter, then grill them over coals,” said Dr. Gilbert, taking the menu from the young man and grunting what might have been thanks.
“What a coincidence,” said Armand, scanning the menu. “Exactly what I plan to do with you.”
Gilbert laughed. “I doubt I’ll be as tasty, or as tender. Any progress on the murder last night?”
“Some.” Armand waited until they’d ordered and the young server poured Vincent a glass of Chablis. “But before I get into that I have a question about the other attack, the one at the auditorium.”
“Oui?”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were there?”
Vincent had reached for one of the rolls, still warm from the oven, and was tearing it in half, when he paused. Then continued, though now, as he twisted the roll, it looked like he was wringing a neck.
“Admit I was there when both attacks happened? Do I look that stupid?”
“It’s a matter of how you act, not how you look. You’re smart enough to know that.”
Vincent Gilbert, who was fairly sure he was smart enough to know nearly everything, smiled thinly.
“I was curious. I’d read her paper and knew the Royal Commission had refused to hear her. An extraordinary decision, given the study was commissioned by the federal government. I wanted to see just how crazy she and her followers are.”
“You could’ve watched one of the online videos. You didn’t have to go to the rally.”
“It’s not the same as being there. You’re smart enough to know that.”
Armand grinned. No one collected, and, when necessary, manufactured, resentments quite as efficiently as the Asshole Saint. But few, Armand knew, were kinder.
Kindness and cruelty, side by side. In the same person. The Asshole Saint.
“And?”
“And they’re pretty squirrelly.”
“What was it like, to be in the middle of the crowd?” Armand asked, after the waiter put down his bowl of cider-and-onion soup and Vincent’s grilled langoustines. “I was off to the side of the stage, so my experience was different.”
“Yes, I saw your experience.”
He squished a piece of bread into the garlic butter and considered.
“It was frightening. All those people chanting. Supporting her. Supporting killing others so they could be safe. How did it come to this? Were people like this before the pandemic, or did that bring it on? A long-Covid of fear? I don’t know, Armand. It made me sick. And sad. And glad I live far—”
“From the madding crowd?”
Vincent Gilbert smiled and nodded. “Yes. I peek out every now and then, then scuttle back to my little cabin, where I hope so-called civilization won’t find me.”
“Has it, though, Vincent? Found you?”
Armand’s companion was silent, dropping his eyes to his plate.
He slowly looked back up and sighed. “It’s hard, Armand. When you care, but try not to. Pretend not to. As long as I didn’t hear about anything, see anything, I was okay. I lived through the pandemic in my own little bubble. Safe from the world. But then Colette sent me the research paper, the statistics on what happened, and . . .”
