“No, my son was the man who was drowning.”
We’re both quiet for a few seconds. Marceau’s eyes dart around. He scratches at his chin.
I start to feel a cold sensation. It forms in the pit of my stomach and spreads. “Luca, did the man who was swimming — did he tell you he was my son?”
“I must be confused . . .”
“Wait. Dark hair. Light blue eyes. That’s a young man named Michael, my daughter’s fiancé. My son, Sean Lindman, was the one in the water. I’ve been told the boom struck his head and he went in. Then Michael jumped in after him . . .”
Marceau is backing away. He steps wide into his boat. “Of course. Yes. That’s right.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. We’ve just . . . It’s been a difficult few days. Please just tell me if you assumed that Michael was my son, or he told you he was my son . . .”
Marceau meets my gaze. “It was all very fast.”
I grip the boat. I’m not letting go without an answer.
“I think I might assume. Because he say he live here. On the lake. And I take the boat back, and see the house, so . . .”
“But my husband arrived at the boat launch. Didn’t you talk to him? How did you know which house? I’m sorry. It sounds like I’m—”
My buzzing phone interrupts me. A quick glance at the screen reveals an unfamiliar number. I’m not even sure of the area code. It’s vaguely familiar, but I’ll wait for the voicemail.
Marceau, meanwhile, shakes his head. “Your husband? I did not meet him. Your son — or the young man — he describe the house. Back in the cove. Big gray house, the windows, the boathouse. Because he was going in the ambulance. He said if police came, or someone needed to know about the boat.”
“But you just turned around and brought it back.”
“Yes, I have the tow rope and the sailboat is small, so . . .” Marceau shrugs. He’s uncomfortable, trying to leave.
Somehow, Michael gave him the impression that he was my son. If Michael came right out and said that, Marceau can’t say with certainty.
I let go of the boat. With his tie lines aboard, I give the bow a little push as he ignites the engine. He putts backward into the gunmetal water, then changes gears. He waves and then forwards the throttle, pushing waves until the speed lifts the boat out of the water to plane the surface.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Sean is as I left him. The machine does his breathing. Paul is asleep in the chair. I don’t wake him, but instead spend some quiet time with my son. Already, he smells like the hospital — sterile and stale. I pet his blond hair, run my fingers against his cheek and jaw. “I love you.”
I begin to read. Eventually, Paul wakes up. He blinks at everything, getting his bearings, and sees me. For a moment, we only look each other. Then he lifts his eyebrows in question, asking silently about Joni.
I shake my head.
Paul asks, “Where do you think she went?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
He stands, stretches, grimacing as he tips from one side to the other, hands on his hips.
I apologize to him for the previous night. “There was a lot going on.”
He waves it off. “I understand.”
Looking at Sean again, whose serene face is the same, whose arms are down at his sides, the bedsheet taut across his chest, I’m reminded that he’s not going anywhere. I don’t want to miss it if he wakes up, but I can’t hold my breath. Paul and I need to talk.
* * *
We’re outside, behind the hospital where the parking lot extends, and I’m smoking a cigarette in the shadow of the building. “I can’t help it, Paul.” I’m on the verge of tears. “I keep thinking about one of my clients.”
“The one who died?”
I nod.
“When is the funeral?”
“It was today. But that’s not . . . I keep thinking about her situation. That she left her child. Gave him up when she was young. She would talk about him. She’d tell me about leaving him. About what it was like, how she felt empty. How she felt nothing.”
Suddenly I’m shivering. I step toward the sunlight. “Paul, I just . . . I feel like I’m coming apart. Did we abandon Joni when she needed us most? Sending her to prep schools? Signing her up to model for those stupid magazines? Did we rob her of a . . . ?” I can’t finish, and my body goes limp as I cry.
Did we rob her of a childhood?
Paul takes me in a hug. He rubs my back. “This is a hard time. This is so hard. Our son is in there. But he’s going to be okay. And Joni is tough.”
Pulling it together, I gaze into Paul’s eyes. “Yeah?”
He smiles faintly and nods. “You’ve just got to relax. Our daughter is forever a source of drama. We have to pace ourselves.”
I laugh a little through the tears. “Yeah.”
Then, after a few breaths into Paul’s chest, I lean back. “You don’t think we fucked her up?”
“No.”
I nod, trying to accept it. Part of me knows I’m focused on the wrong issue. But that’s how the mind works sometimes.
“Something else I need to tell you,” I say. “The man who brought Sean to the boat launch, his name is Luca Marceau. We need to thank him properly somehow.”
“How did you find out?”
“He came to the house. I was just leaving, but he rode up on his boat and we talked.”
“Weird, but okay.”
“Well, the whole thing was weird. He also met Michael. And he seems pretty sure Michael said he was our son.”
Paul is quiet.
I end up being the one coming to Michael’s defense. “It’s possible he was just being efficient. Michael is practically our son-in-law. And in a crisis, it’s best to keep things simple.”
I pull farther away from my husband to get a better look at his face. Paul stares off into the sea of parked cars, sun-spangled in the late August morning. I shield my eyes as I look there, too; it’s nearly blinding.
Paul says, “Are you going to tell me about the police?”
I take a deep drag of the cigarette, then let it out. “Okay.”
He looks at me, waiting.
“Maybe Michael didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Sean. I’m not sure. But he’s been in touch with her.”
“Her who?” Paul’s jaw is clenched, his eyes distant. “Laura?”
I nod. I explain about the police being notified of her last call. That it went to Michael.
Paul listens, his eyes drifting back to the parking lot. He holds out his hand, his first two fingers extended. I pass the cigarette to him and he drags on the cigarette. The smoke issues from his nostrils.
He hands it back to me, and I mash it out on the ground.
“I’m going back inside,” Paul says.
I nod, but stay put.
“Em, you coming?”
“In a minute.”
He squeezes my shoulder as he walks away. Watching Paul recede, I think about Doug Wiseman. I’m not sure Paul is going to be able to help me push forward in that department. At least, not right now. He’s too hurt, it seems, too offended by Michael’s apparent deceit.
As I’m contemplating it, my phone rings. It’s Michael, as if on cue.
“I was just thinking about you,” I say.
“I think I’m remembering more.” It sounds like he’s been crying.
“Michael? What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
“Dr. Lindman,” he says. “I think I’m remembering more. I think I’m remembering all of it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
I know it’s wrong.
I’m finally convinced that my daughter’s fiancé has been manipulating me. Not just to save face, but for much graver purposes. Revenge, most likely.
But I’m going to play along. I’m going to play along, because that’s all I can think to do. I have to know what Michael is going to say next. What the next move is, the next o
verturned stone.
Only when it’s all finished, all on the table, can I make the best decision about how to proceed.
Because at this point, whatever the truth is, there’s every chance it could ruin my career, my reputation, everything I’ve built. I have no idea what the police will accept, or — in this day and age — how the media will spin it. Even if coercion by police is the ultimate conclusion, I’ll still be the hapless therapist who let it happen. My name will get out there, I’m positive.
Unless, maybe, I can get out in front of it.
I step on the gas and skirt the edges of Saranac Lake, hoping to beat the little snarls of summer traffic, knowing that despite my plan, this is the very essence of human frailty. This is the classic dilemma everyone faces at some point in their lives — to bury a darker reality or let it come to the surface.
It’s a dilemma that hounds you, pursues you. It takes shape — it’s a big, hulking truck, and it’s bearing down on me as we speak.
I’m only able to glance at it in the mirror as I drive, but it looks familiar: a gray Ford Super Duty.
A moment later, a red light starts flashing from its dash.
I slow and pull over on a side street in front of a ramshackle home with a massive porch. The street is lined with them.
I know who it is before he even steps out of the truck, puts on his aviator sunglasses, and walks up alongside my car.
I buzz down the window.
“Emily Lindman,” Starzyk says, putting his hands on my door. He looks down at me through the glasses. “How we doing, Doc?”
Of all the emotions going through me, all the possible responses, my brain seems to select one for me: “Did I do something wrong?”
“Well, not answering my calls isn’t necessarily wrong, but it sure doesn’t feel right.”
I pick up my phone. “Sorry, I had your card, but didn’t have you in my phone, so I didn’t recognize the number. There’s just been a lot happening.”
“I hear you.” After glancing up and down the street, he marks me again. “So, where you going?”
“Detective Starzyk . . . can you tell me what this is about?”
“People always want to know what they did,” he says. A car vehicle is coming the other way, a van, and Starzyk watches it pass. He tips his head to the driver and continues talking. “You know, before I was an investigator, I was a trooper. Lotta guys out of BCI started that way. They like you to have some experience as a trooper. And I got some, I was able to do a few investigations on my own. But you got to put in your time running radar, too. Catching speeders. And it’s the same thing, whether you pull someone over for speeding or knock on their door — guilty faces. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ Everybody is guilty of something. Everybody’s got an unclean conscience. That’s what I’ve seen, my whole career.”
Not knowing where this is going, I seek to be assertive. “Detective, I have to get going.”
“You going to see Michael?” His tone makes it sound like we’re all the best of friends.
“Can you please tell me why you’ve pulled me over?”
Starzyk hesitates. Then he leans down and removes his shades. His dark eyes seem to quiver in their sockets. “Lots of questions being answered with questions. Here’s mine. Why do you think I’m here, Doc? For my fucking health?”
“All right,” I say. I look away from him. My heart is beating, my hands shaking. I put them on the wheel, 10 and 2. All I have to do is grab the shifter and put the car in gear. This is unlawful. Starzyk needs to be reported.
But I don’t move.
Starzyk asks, “Have you seen her?”
“Who?” I stay looking ahead, out the windshield. Lawn after lawn, porch after porch, house after house. Each the same, each with unique character. Tucked between maples and oaks, the homes are former cure cottages, holdovers from when city people like me sought refuge in the rural north.
“Come on now,” Starzyk says. “You know who.”
I finally look at him. “You’re asking me if I’ve had any contact with Laura Bishop? No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy with my family. My son is in the hospital.”
Using one finger, Starzyk pushes his glasses back in front of his eyes. “Terrible accident, I heard. Your boy out there on the water. Michael Rand right there with him.”
We’re starting to draw attention — someone in the window of a house two doors down. Farther up the street, a kid stands astride his bicycle, gawking.
Still shaking, I swallow. It’s now or never. “Detective, if there’s something you want to tell me, something about what happened with the David Bishop case . . . with Tom Bishop . . . maybe I’m not the person to talk to about it. Maybe you need to speak to your superiors. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
“But you’ll speak to Michael about it, won’t you?” Starzyk asks. The friendliness is gone from his voice. The words are cold. “Yeah. You’ll talk to your little buddy there. Bet he’s telling you some nice stories. Just like he did fifteen years ago.”
That gets me. I take my hand off the shifter and give Starzyk my full attention. “Whatever you think I’m doing, whatever you’re afraid of . . .”
But Starzyk leans in so close that I can smell pastrami on his breath. “You’re the one who needs to be afraid.”
I can barely move. Being talked to like this, and by a police officer — I’ve never experienced anything like it. The men and women I worked with over the years were always outstanding individuals. Starzyk is a different breed. He scares me in deep places. It’s all I can do not to scream and flee.
But he pulls his head back a little. He glances up and down the street one more time. He says, “You go ahead and run along. You have your little times with Michael. See what he has to say about the whole thing. Just know that I warned you.”
“What does that mean?” I manage. My voice is choked, my whole body trembling.
Starzyk doesn’t answer me as he walks away. I watch him in the side mirror as he gets back into his truck. I want so badly to drive away first, to be in control, but I’m shaken to the core. I feel the same way, almost, as when I hit the deer. It’s another impact.
Instead, I sit there as Starzyk pulls away from the curb and roars past in his truck. He doesn’t look at me as he goes — I just have this quick image of him in profile, sunglasses on.
How dare you, I think, as the truck heads down the road.
It’s like I’ve been violated. And that’s what this is: an abuse of power. Cops can’t just pull people over willy-nilly. This is obviously personal for him — he’s using his personal phone to call me. And his personal vehicle too — when I saw him in Bronxville, he was in an unmarked police car. Now he’s been following me around in his pickup truck.
I grab my phone, wondering if I should call 911, or if I can just google the number for BCI headquarters in Albany. The former seems a bit dramatic but might more readily connect me to the right people once I explain the situation. The latter, though, just seems more reasonable.
But I sit there, looking at my phone, not moving.
The person in the window is gone. The kid has mounted his bike and rides circles in the road, focused on childhood things once more.
Call.
But I don’t.
It’s still not a complete picture yet. Right now, all I’ve got is a cop acting weird. Maybe abusing his authority, sure. Getting pushy with his power. And it might be enough to get him in trouble, but what are we talking about? A reprimand, most likely, a slap on the wrist. I’m a respected doctor with a long history of working well with law enforcement, but Starzyk is also decorated. A call from me, no matter how earnest, would have far less impact on his life than he’s had on mine.
This isn’t about an eye for an eye. This is about justice. That’s how it’s got to be. I’ve got to be ready with everything — I need Michael’s whole story, need to know what and who he saw — and then I can make the move.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
&nbs
p; I follow the directions Michael gave me, because once I’ve gone off the main roads and am deep enough into the woods, there’s no more satellite guidance. First the LTE indicator blips off, then the tower signal strength fades down to one bar as I pilot the Toyota rental over a narrow, bumpy dirt road. Finally, the phone claims No Service.
It’s even more remote and rustic out here than at our home on the lake. The sunlight shines bars of light through a high canopy of trees. Douglas firs and red birches make up the lower scrub. Deer flies nose-dive at the car as I make my way in. Deeper and deeper.
Seven-tenths of a mile later, I’m looking at it. A yurt. But like Sean described, it’s well-built, wooden. A real house.
I see a small chicken coop and a vegetable garden. A grouping of solar panels. A decent-sized generator with a large can of gas beside it probably serves as their backup power. As I drove in, I went up in elevation, where there were fewer larger trees to form the canopy; the unfettered sun burns down onto the panels. Nearby, a sturdy shed most likely holds the batteries. The other small outbuilding looks like a bathhouse.
This is where Madison Tremont, a childhood friend of Joni’s, has made her home with her boyfriend, Hunter. While I commend them for their spirit of adventure and the effort toward renewable energy, as Paul pointed out, the dark gray Escalade parked next to the pine trees seems a bit antithetical.
But I’m not here to judge.
The door to the yurt opens, and Michael takes the two steps down to the ground and approaches as I exit my car.
His eyes are puffy and reddened, as if he’s been crying. As he gets closer, his lip trembles, and he throws his arms around me in a big hug. “Thank you for coming,” he says into my shoulder and hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left last night.”
“It’s okay.” I’ve gone rigid at his embrace but force myself to squeeze him back before pulling free. I glance around. “Where is everyone else?”
He wipes his eyes and sniffs. “They’re hiking. They wanted to give us some space.”
I step back and keep looking, seeking any signs of danger. I don’t know what. Maybe someone lurking at the property’s edge. But all I hear are the clucking chickens and the songbirds; all I see are the white butterflies dancing amid the bright green ferns.
HER PERFECT SECRET a totally gripping psychological thriller Page 22
