Page 22

From the middle of the auditorium there came a rapid series of explosions.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Gamache flinched but recovered almost immediately. Running to the center of the stage, he pointed into the crowd. “Lacoste!”

“On it.”

He saw her leap off the riser and head toward the smoke rising from the middle of the hall. Saw the line of Sûreté officers brace.

Saw the crowd ducking down as it reacted to the explosions. Heard the screams. Saw the beginning of a panicked surge for the doors.

Holding up his arms, he shouted, “Arrêtez! Stop. They’re firecrackers. Stop.”

He knew they weren’t shots. He’d heard too many of those to be fooled. But the fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives squeezed together in the hot gym had not.

It sounded to them like automatic weapons fire. Rat-ta-ta-ta-tat. And they did what any reasonable person would do.

They ducked, then turned toward the exits, in the natural instinct to get out.

“Stop,” he shouted. “There’s no danger.”

No one was listening. No one heard.

He pushed Professor Robinson aside and grabbed the microphone off the podium.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Those are firecrackers. Stop where you are. Now.”

He repeated it quickly, in French and English. In a clear, authoritative voice, until slowly, slowly the panic eased. The surge ebbed, stopping just sort of a crush.

Isabelle Lacoste found the string of firecrackers, black and smoldering, and held it up.

The room began to settle. There was even some nervous laughter as foes a moment earlier smiled at each other in relief.

And then there was another loud bang and the wood of the podium beside Gamache splintered.

This was no firecracker.

Gamache knocked Professor Robinson to the floor as another shot hit the stage inches from them.

He covered Robinson’s body with his own, squeezing his eyes shut, and waited for the next shot.

He’d had to do this once before, when there’d been an attempt on the Premier’s life. They’d been out for dinner together at the bistro Leméac in Montréal and were walking along rue Laurier one summer’s evening. The Sûreté du Québec security detail was just ahead and just behind the leader of the province as Armand strolled beside him, the two deep in conversation when the shots were fired.

Fortunately, the would-be assassin was a terrible shot and the Chief Inspector was quick to react, knocking the Premier to the ground and covering him.

When it was over and they were safe, the Premier, who was openly gay, joked that that would be the photo on social media within minutes. The Premier and the head of homicide frolicking together on the grass.

“You could do worse, mon ami,” said Gamache.

“As could you.”

Still, neither man would forget the look on the other’s face in those split seconds, as they hit the ground and the bullets struck around them. As each waited for the sharp shock, as one found its mark.

Now Gamache covered Abigail Robinson with his body. To die for the Premier was one thing, but for her?

“Got him,” came Lacoste’s crisp voice in his earphone. “We’ve got the shooter. Chief, are you all right?”

“Oui.” He got quickly to his feet and saw that Lacoste and two others had wrestled a man to the floor.