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He was within twenty feet of the agents lined up in front of the stage. If there was a rush, they’d be the first to get it.

He looked at their faces. Mostly young. Strong. Determined. Eyes forward. He saw the officer in charge of that section say something, and they, as one, stepped their right legs back. A subtle move to brace themselves, while not threatening the men and women facing them.

None of his agents had a gun. It was far too easy, in an unpredictable and potentially violent crowd, to have someone take the weapon off them in the mêlée. And use it. He’d seen it happen, with tragic results.

So Gamache had ordered their firearms be left in the detachment. But they did have truncheons.

Before the doors had been opened to admit the spectators, he’d briefed the agents on the worst-case scenario. And he made it clear that the worst case was when the cops, there to restore order and protect people, escalated the violence.

“This”—he held up the bat-like truncheon—“is a tool, not a weapon. Understood?”

“Oui, patron,” they said. Many were still annoyed at having to leave their guns behind.

As Gamache gave them a quick refresher course, Monsieur Viau, the caretaker, watched, gripping the handle of his mop as though it were a club.

“These are your neighbors, your friends,” said Gamache. “Think of them as your mother and father, your brothers and sisters. These are not bad people. They’re not your enemy. Do not hit them except as a very last resort.”

He’d looked into their eyes, drilling home his point. They nodded.

Then the Chief Inspector demonstrated how to use the club defensively, to pry people apart if they were fighting. To restrain, while using restraint.

He could see by their faces that they really had no idea what they’d be facing. Many were feigning boredom, implying experience they did not actually have. Because those who’d been in a riot were paying close attention. Mostly the senior officers. Lacoste, Beauvoir, and a few others.

They knew what could happen. How ugly it could get, and how quickly.

When this event was first assigned to him, two days earlier, Chief Inspector Gamache had asked that a single local agent, already on duty, be loaned to him. Just for the hour.

Then, as he’d learned more about the professor, his contingent had grown to fifteen agents, brought in from regions nearby. He’d placed the calls himself, asking junior agents and senior commanders if they’d be willing to join him that one day.

None had refused.

And now there were thirty-five Sûreté agents watching, as he went over, quickly, expertly, how to drop their grandmothers to the floor. If necessary.

Abigail Robinson had reached the podium. She bent the microphone closer to her and spoke her first words.

“Hello? Bonjour? Can you hear me?” Her voice was calm, cheerful, almost matter-of-fact.

It was not what Gamache had expected, nor was it what the crowd had expected.

The surge stopped. The stomping petered out. The crowd grew still, and quiet, except for a few random shouts.

And Gamache immediately saw the genius of it.

Instead of launching into her talk, she’d greeted them in the most polite, most familiar fashion. And since these were, for the most part, good, decent people, they responded. In the most polite fashion.

Gamache wasn’t fooled. This disarming start hadn’t miraculously eased all the emotions. It was a respite that allowed Professor Robinson to begin, to be heard.

Yes, it was brilliant. And calculated.

She smiled. “Oh, good. I’m always afraid when I make what feels like such an endless walk from way over there”—she pointed to the wings—“to here, that once I arrive, the microphone won’t work. Can you imagine?”

Now her shoulders rose and she chortled. There was no other word for it. A cross between a laugh and a giggle. It was charming, self-deprecating. And, once again, calculated.

The place grew even quieter. A few laughs could be heard.

The friends and neighbors, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers were listening. Drawn in. Far from the frothing maniac the protesters had expected, what they saw was their sister, their aunt, the woman next door. Standing alone on the gym stage, smiling.

She wished them a merry Christmas, a joyeux Noël. A happy new year and a bonne année.