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But he also saw a terrible sight. Bodies everywhere. Hundreds of people sprawled on the floor. He knew, in his rational mind, that they were not hurt. That the only bullets fired had come in his direction.

But still, he felt a wave of horror.

And then they stirred.

Mere seconds had passed since the first shot. He knew this was the gap, the gasp, before shock turned to real panic. It was that moment of grace when a riot might be avoided.

He found the microphone among the debris of the podium and, grabbing it, he called for calm.

Keeping his voice steady, standing visible and reassuring on the stage, apparently unperturbed, Gamache repeated over and over, in French and English, that they were safe.

He almost said, “Ça va bien aller.” All will be well. But stopped himself.

The problem was, Gamache had no idea if there was another shooter still out there. Or even a bomb.

They needed to evacuate the place as quickly as possible. And he saw his agents doing exactly that. Monsieur Viau, the caretaker, was also guiding people to the exits. Using his mop to push them along.

“Abby!” Debbie Schneider ran across the stage to where Professor Robinson was sitting up.

He turned briefly, saw she was unhurt, and told them to get off the stage.

As he directed the operations, as the place emptied out, as Lacoste contained the gunman, Inspector Beauvoir appeared.

“Patron—” he began, but was cut off.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Gamache snapped. “Go outside. Help the injured.”

He could see through the open doors the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. In another act most had considered a vast overreaction, Gamache had asked that two ambulances and a team of first responders be at the ready.

“We’ve secured the gunman,” said Lacoste.

“Search the building,” he commanded. “Block the roads into and out of the University. Search every person and go over every vehicle.”

The auditorium was almost empty now. The place littered with boots and tuques and mittens. Buttons and papers. A few handbags and knapsacks and phones were on the floor. But no people. No bodies, Gamache saw with relief.

The officers not searching the building were outside, along with the paramedics, tending to the shocked and frightened people. Checking for injuries. Checking IDs. Checking for weapons, in case a second attacker had slipped out with the crowd.

The gunman, head down and cuffed, was being led out the back way.

Monsieur Viau stood at the far end, by the big doors, gripping the long handle of his mop. A warrior-king surveying his land after a battle.

Through the open door, through the darkness, Gamache could see the outline of men and women moving in front of the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.

People were sitting in snowbanks, while others knelt to help. All animosity forgotten. For now.

Monsieur Viau lifted his mop in acknowledgment, as Gamache lifted his hand. In thanks. Then the caretaker left, and Gamache was alone.

He looked at the room and thanked God and his lucky stars that no one, as far as he knew, had been killed. Though the shock, the psychic damage, would be with each person for a long time to come.

“Could’ve been worse,” came the voice behind him.

Gamache didn’t turn. Couldn’t turn. Could not stand to look at her. “Please leave.”

“You saved my life,” said Professor Robinson. “Thank you.”

He continued to stare straight ahead until he heard her footsteps recede and the place again fell into silence.

He closed his eyes, and in that silence Chief Inspector Gamache again heard the shots. The shouts and screams. The wails of the children.