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Gamache took a breath and chose not to pursue that again.
“Still, some good has come of it,” said Debbie.
“And what’s that?” asked Gamache.
“We had a call this morning. Haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, Colette.”
“From?” said the Chancellor.
“The Premier of Québec,” said Debbie. “He saw the news reports. I guess he realized there’s growing support. He wants to meet to discuss Abigail’s findings. You might have to enforce a whole new law.”
What had been political suicide two days earlier had suddenly become viable.
Gamache didn’t react except to grow even more still. While beside him, Isabelle Lacoste imagined forcing the elderly and sick to accept a lethal injection.
Gamache glanced at the Chancellor and said, softly, “I wonder if that was predictable.”
But she was paying no attention. Colette was looking out the window at her husband walking hand in hand with one of the grandchildren.
“They’re still here?” Gamache asked. “The children?”
“Leaving after lunch,” said Colette.
“We’ve also had calls from most of the major news organizations. I’ve lined up interviews for Abby all afternoon,” said Debbie. “In fact, we have a live one with CNN in a few minutes, then the BBC after that. We’ve already done the Canadian shows. Our followers on social media have doubled since last night.”
Gamache knew this. He’d been tracking the surge since the shooting.
“May I have a word?” Gamache asked Chancellor Roberge, who nodded and rose.
Chapter 15
They left the warm kitchen and walked through the living room and into a small study. It was crammed with memorabilia. Photographs. Awards. Degrees. The Chancellor’s Order of Canada and Ordre National du Québec.
And books, books, and more books.
She turned. “What can I do for you, Armand?”
“I’d like to see any emails between you and either Professor Robinson or Madame Schneider.”
“You don’t believe her?” At a look from him she smiled. “Or me.”
“Let’s just say I too am thorough.”
She sat at her desk, just as a distant door burst open. Gamache turned quickly toward the sudden bang, but relaxed when he saw a gang of kids pour into the mudroom down the hall. Their cheeks were rosy, their hair askew from tuques. They’d obviously spent the morning on the slopes and were arguing over skiing versus snowboarding.
The Chancellor, glasses on, looked at him. “They’re leaving. I promise.”
From the kitchen, where he’d left Lacoste, he heard Debbie try to quiet the kids, explaining that an interview was about to begin.
“There they are, Armand,” said Colette, pushing back from the desk. “Not many. Would you like me to print them out?”
“Yes, please.”
“Old school,” she smiled, and hitting a key, she walked over to the printer.
“Just old.” He pulled his chair up in front of the screen, and brought out his reading glasses.
He could hear Professor Robinson from the kitchen, beginning the interview. Creating a split screen, he put CNN Live on one side, the emails on the other.
