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They were words she immediately regretted. She was gripping the edge of her desk and leaning toward him, and now she dropped her head. When she raised it, she looked him square in the face.
“I’m sorry. I was obviously wrong. You wanted this.” She handed him the booking slip.
“Your name isn’t on it. It says Tyler Vigen. Who’s he?”
“Nobody. I didn’t want to use a real name, so I made one up.”
He folded the paper, put it into his pocket, then studied her.
“Are you involved in this?” he asked quietly.
“The shooting?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. It’s a natural conclusion. You’d read her paper, you invited her here. You booked the auditorium and had access to it.”
“But you’ve arrested the gunman.”
“True, but he might’ve had help.”
“If he did, it wasn’t from me.” Then her eyes sharpened. “You think that’s how the gun got into the gym. Someone else put it there.”
“We think it’s a possibility, yes. And if that’s the case, the person’s still out there. Are you sure you want to take Professor Robinson and Madame Schneider into your home? With your grandchildren?”
Chancellor Roberge stared at him, her mind clearly working. Then she nodded.
“Thank you for telling me. We’ll be extra careful and make sure the alarms are set.”
Armand stared at her, waiting for more. When none came, he said, “And the children?”
“They’re staying until the weekend. They have ski passes.”
“You’re inviting a person who’s already had one attempt on her life into your home, with a possible second killer out there. Don’t you think the children at least should leave?”
She considered and gave a sigh. “You’re right. I was just so stuck on having them there. They’ll be disappointed.”
“But they’ll be alive. I’ll assign agents to guard your home. I’ll be by later this afternoon to speak to the professor.”
He put on his tuque, then stopped at the door. “You said Abigail Robinson was, is, brilliant.”
“She is. A genius in the field.”
“If she’s such a genius, how did she get the pandemic data and conclusions so wrong?”
“She didn’t.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve been over her research, her statistics. Even sent her preliminary study to a close friend whose opinion I value. He came to the same conclusion. She’s not wrong.”
“But you said she’d gone off the rails, that they’re—”
“Morally abhorrent, but factually correct.”
“Jesus, don’t you guys smell it?” asked Isabelle.
“Smell what?” asked Jean-Guy, and looked at Armand, who shook his head, apparently perplexed.
Gamache had walked over to the gym and joined them in the basement, where the Incident Room was being set up. It had been the boys’ locker room.
