Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  In many ways it seemed like a pleasant evening with friends. But Simon’s policeman’s brain was hard at work, with some protective brother mixed in, and Philippe certainly was aware of it. With two less socially adroit people it could have been disastrous. Instead it ran just below the surface, like two movies showing simultaneously, one barely visible under the other.

  Then Philippe played his face card. “Paul’s psychologist told me that Troy makes Paul feel safe, because she rescued him, and said it would be a big help to him if she could stay a few weeks.” Philippe glanced at Simon and then at me, and I answered the question before he asked it.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Simon’s body language signaled nothing—one of the great things about my brother. Yes, staying here longer would disrupt my life and make it all the harder when it was time to leave. I knew it; Simon knew I knew it, and wouldn’t point it out. Having a brother like this almost makes up for the rest of the family.

  Philippe visibly relaxed. “That would be great. Whatever you need, I can set it up—a cell phone or anything else. You can use my computer, or I can get a desktop for your room.”

  “I can just add a Canadian calling plan to my cell phone. I can use your computer when you’re out, if that’s okay.” I had one magazine article started I could finish from here. I should be looking for new assignments, but I always kept some savings in reserve.

  “Of course,” Philippe agreed. “I’ll work from home whenever possible, but often I have to be in the office or meet with clients.”

  “Do you regret leaving Montreal?” Simon asked.

  The question seemed abrupt, but Philippe shook his head. “Too many memories. In a way it might have been good for Paul to be in his old neighborhood and school, but people would ask a lot of questions. Here we can skip all that and start fresh. School officials will know his mother died, and that he’s been away and missed school, but not much else. Eventually the news will come out, but it won’t hit as hard as it would have there.”

  It was odd to hear it in such bland terms: His mother died. He’s been away and missed school. But it fit with Madeleine seeming so absent from this house, with her almost never being mentioned.

  Simon asked, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about the kidnapping?”

  “Not at all.”

  I took this as my exit cue. Simon could ask more probing questions in my absence and Philippe could talk more freely, and I didn’t want to hear more grim details at this point. Simon would fill me in, probably just before he left tomorrow. I gathered our dishes, took a book from the shelves, and told them good night.

  After a leisurely breakfast Simon said his goodbyes, delighting Elise with a hug and shaking Paul’s and Philippe’s hands. We had left time to do some sightseeing downtown before his flight, and just as I was about to give up and go into an absurdly expensive pay lot, a parking slot on the street magically appeared.

  We strolled around looking at old buildings, then Simon spotted a poutine wagon and insisted on buying some. I passed—as tasty as it is, it can be a little like lead in your belly. Two days in a row is too much for me.

  We sat on a nearby bench. “So,” I said, swiping a fry from his carton. “What do you think?”

  Simon took a swig of his icy Pepsi. It was, he pointed out, the absolute perfect counterpoint to the greasiness of cheese and potatoes and the saltiness of the gravy. He thought before answering. “You have a good cop on the job here. Jameson’s a lot smarter than he lets on, and he’s going to keep digging on this.”

  “Okay. But what do you think? Like, what do you think of Philippe?”

  He gave me that grin that makes me want to smack him sometimes. “What do I think of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?”

  I punched his arm. “He can’t help any of that. So don’t hold it against him.”

  Simon ate a few more cheese-covered, gravy-soaked fries before continuing. “Here are the things that police are going to stick on. First, the misdelivered ransom demand seems like a ploy, like Philippe moved the letter to a neighbor’s mailbox so he could miss the deadline and not notify the police right away.”

  He held his hand up as I opened my mouth to speak. “It could be real. When John Paul Getty was kidnapped, one of the ransom demands was delayed for weeks because of a mail strike.” He went on, ticking off points on his fingers. “Second, why keep Paul so long? Kidnappers who are in it for money either usually kill the victim right away or release them when they get the ransom. The psychos or pedophiles keep the kids forever, or until they get too old. These guys asked for multiple ransoms, but then kept Paul more than a month longer before deciding to get rid of him.

  “Third, cops are well aware husbands take extreme measures to get rid of wives. Scott Peterson, Perry March from Nashville, and so on.” He paused a moment. “There is a brother, and I’m sure the police are taking a good look at him as well.”

  I was startled. “A brother?”

  Simon nodded. “Philippe told me last night—his wife had a brother she was close to, who still works for Philippe.”

  Paul had an uncle, living here? Working in the office I’d visited? I didn’t know which surprised me more: that this uncle hadn’t rushed to see his long-lost nephew or that Philippe hadn’t mentioned him.

  We sat in silence for a few moments before Simon continued. “Philippe seems a little guarded when he talks about the kidnapping. Maybe he’s just tired of talking about it, and maybe he’s well aware he’s a prime suspect. But my sense is he’s holding something back. Maybe he has an idea who was behind the whole thing. Maybe his lawyer has told him to be careful what he says. Maybe he just feels bad that he assumed Paul was dead.”

  He drew a deep breath. “Or maybe he instigated the whole thing, without meaning to. When he was angry or upset or drunk he could have said to the wrong person that he wanted to get rid of his wife—and someone carried through. Or he hired someone to snatch her to scare her, and they killed her and blackmailed him. It’s happened more than once.”

  “But Paul—”

  “Maybe Paul wasn’t supposed to be part of it. Maybe they weren’t supposed to take him, but they screwed up, or turned on Philippe. The thing is, bad guys are very unreliable, and very, very greedy.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  “In a way it doesn’t matter, Troy,” he said gently. “Paul is home, with his father. He can build a new life. Maybe that’s what’s important.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “But … but Madeleine?”

  “But someone killed her and someone has to pay for it?” Simon’s voice was calm. “Lots of murders are never solved, Troy. Lots of people get away with it, especially when no body is found. Maybe the kidnappers will be caught; maybe they won’t. Maybe Philippe will be cleared; maybe he won’t. This may be as good as it gets, and he may have to live with that.”

  The words he didn’t say rang in my head: But can you live with it? We sat in silence.

  “It’s a tough situation, kiddo,” he said at last. “I know you have to see it through. Just be careful, very careful.” He put his arm around my shoulders and rumpled my hair. “Keep me posted, and keep safe.”

  We drove in silence to the airport. I gave him a quick hard hug at the curb, and then he was gone.

  I’d expected Simon to give me an idea of what to do—or at least put things in black and white and reassure me that the bad guys would be caught. Instead, he seemed to be telling me this was one big gray mess with no clear answers, and I was on my own.

  I didn’t believe Philippe would have done anything to harm Paul. But could he have planned a fake kidnapping, plotted to have his son’s mother killed? It was true he seldom mentioned her and didn’t have photos of her or her possessions scattered about—but no two people mourn the same. Some keep their dead spouse’s coat hanging on the hall rack the rest of their lives; others pack up everything the next week and clean house like mad. People cope in diff
erent ways. I knew that.

  I got back to the house almost too soon. It seemed strange to use the garage door opener Philippe had given me and park next to his Mercedes as if I lived there. He was moving boxes around in the back of the garage, and waved me over. I looked down into a long box he had opened and saw a child’s bicycle, brand-new, shiny red and black. I could hear Paul’s voice telling me he’d been promised a vélo for Christmas but hadn’t gotten it.

  “Paul’s bike,” I said into the cavernous silence.

  Philippe nodded. “I got it for him for Christmas. Just in case.”

  We gazed down at the bike, me envisioning Philippe going out in the middle of Christmas season to buy a bicycle for a child he had no real hope of ever seeing again, Philippe probably seeing Paul locked away, missing Christmas.

  I broke the silence. “Are you going to give it to him now?”

  “I’d like to. But I don’t want to upset him.”

  I shook my head. “I think it’ll make him happy. You could ask the psychologist. But if it upsets him, you could just put it away.”

  Philippe could drive himself crazy the next few weeks, months, even years, wondering if something might remind Paul of the kidnapping. But maybe the bad memories shouldn’t be buried—maybe they should be allowed to surface and erode away, bit by bit.

  After a moment Philippe lifted the bike out. It was a top-of-the-line kid’s mountain bike with gears and caliper brakes, with handlebar dangling and front wheel, saddle, and pedals still in the box.

  “I can put it together,” I offered. “I used to build bikes at a bike shop.” He blinked, but I think he was learning not to be surprised by me. He found the metric open-end and Allen wrenches and tube of grease I asked for, and watched as I assembled the parts, connected the brakes, adjusted the gears, and tightened the headset. I did have him pump up the tires.

  When Paul got up from his nap, Philippe led him to the driveway, where we’d set the bike. Paul’s eyes widened and he ran his fingers over the bright red paint. At a nod from his father, he hopped on. My eyes were a little shiny, but I was snapping away with my camera, so no one noticed.

  The bike was almost too large, and Paul had to be shown how to use the hand brakes, but he clearly knew how to ride. So it wasn’t that magical moment when a kid first successfully balances on a bike, but it was still big. An array of emotions ran across Philippe’s face. Maybe he was thinking of Paul’s mother missing this moment.

  So maybe this whole recovery process was going to be trial and error. No one could predict how one particular child was going to react or adjust to a new life. But it seemed that a shiny new bicycle could help fill one hole in a small boy’s life.

  And I imagined we’d just erased Paul’s fear of napping forever.

  For dinner Elise made a stir-fry with lots of vegetables, probably a nutritional countermeasure to the poutine we’d had yesterday. After she went off to her apartment at the back of the house, the three of us watched Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. I thought it odd, but it must have been perfect for a six-year-old, because Paul loved it, watching cuddled in the curve of his father’s arm.

  Tomorrow I’d take the sketches to Jameson at the police station, and Philippe would take Paul to visit his new school, both of which made me vaguely uneasy. Here Paul was safe, and we could spend cozy evenings watching movies. Here I could stash away memories of feeling like part of a family.

  Tomorrow would be a return to real life. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  AT BREAKFAST PAUL WAS ALMOST TOO EXCITED ABOUT THE school visit to eat. Philippe wasn’t doing justice to Elise’s pancakes, so maybe he wasn’t as calm as he had seemed to be. Me, I thought too much was happening too soon for a small boy who had lost his mother and been confined for five months. But Philippe wanted Paul in a routine as soon as possible, and he was the parent, and I wasn’t. I wanted to take a quick run before heading to the police station, so I didn’t eat, just filled a plate and set it aside for later.

  It was a clear morning, and Tiger and I ran smoothly for about two miles. Running doesn’t calm me as much as biking, but life seems easier afterward. I ate my warmed-up pancakes and sausages in the kitchen. If Elise hadn’t been there, I would have eaten them cold, wrapping the pancakes around the sausages. She was whisking around like a happy wren in an apron, marinating something for dinner and preparing pastry to be filled with fruit.

  “Did Paul like school in Montreal?” I asked, wondering how he would do with new kids and new teachers, struggling to speak English.

  Elise nodded, rolling out pastry dough. “Yes, he liked it very much. He had good teachers and many friends.”

  “Did his school friends come over a lot?”

  “No. No, Madame Dumond did not like so much to have the children over. Too much noise and fuss. But I would often take him to the park, where other children played, or to a friend’s house.”

  I blinked. This was a surprise. Me, I’d want my kids’ friends over as much as possible, so my kid wasn’t watching R-rated movies, breathing secondhand smoke, or wolfing down Pop-Tarts or Pizza Pockets at someone else’s house. But some people don’t care for other people’s children, or are prone to noise-induced migraines. Or maybe Madeleine hadn’t quite been the involved, engaged parent I’d imagined. Which was an odd thought, but it could partly explain why Paul didn’t seem particularly to miss her.

  After a quick shower I scanned Simon’s sketches so we’d have copies. I clipped Simon’s card to the originals and stuffed them in an envelope, then checked the route on MapQuest.

  Walking into the police station was more than a little unnerving, especially since the same crisply put-together police officer was at the front counter. Sort of that Groundhog Day feeling again.

  “I need to drop this off for Detective Jameson,” I told her.

  “Your name, please?”

  “I don’t … it’s Troy Chance, but I don’t need to see him; I just need to leave this.”

  But she was already speaking into a phone, and Jameson was there before I could decide to drop the envelope and leave. He looked at me, brows raised.

  “It’s some drawings.” I gestured with the envelope. “My brother did some new ones based on the others. With Paul’s help.” Jameson took the envelope and waggled his head for me to follow. I opened my mouth to protest, but he was already disappearing down the hall.

  His office was smallish and astoundingly cluttered. He moved a box off a chair for me to sit, then sat behind the desk and opened the envelope. Without speaking, he spread the drawings out and studied them, first one and then the other. He pointed at the mole and looked up.

  I nodded. “Paul told him to put it there.”

  “Your brother didn’t suggest it?”

  “No, Paul did. He said the man had a thing on his face, and he told Simon how big to make it.”

  Jameson grunted and stuffed the drawings back in the envelope, and looked at the clock on the wall. “Let’s go to lunch,” he said abruptly. He scribbled something on a notepad, tore the page off and paper-clipped it to the envelope, and stood up.

  I opened my mouth to say, “No, I’ve got other plans” or “No, I need to leave,” but I wasn’t fast enough. He whirled around, touching my elbow lightly to lead me out. At the front desk he handed the envelope to the woman, and then we were outside. I blinked in the sunlight. “My car’s over here,” he said, gesturing.

  “I don’t …” I said, but he was opening the car door for me. I gave up and got in. We rode in silence and ended up at a restaurant in the ByWard Market, an area packed with galleries and cafés and outdoor vendors selling fruits and vegetables and crafts. It was a trendier restaurant than I’d expected; I’d pictured Jameson as the meat loaf and potatoes type. He pushed a menu at me and we ordered.

  I drank the water the waitress brought us. We sat. Damned if I was going to open my mouth first. Finally, he said, “Is your brother still here?”

  “No, he fl
ew home yesterday.”

  Dead silence. “Paul?”

  “He’s good. His father is taking him on a school visit.”

  “Are you working up here?”

  “I’m finishing up a magazine article,” I told him, wondering why he was asking. I couldn’t work in Canada without a visa, but freelancing to the States wouldn’t count.

  “What do you write for?”

  “Sports magazines mostly, some airline magazines, some newspapers.”

  “Pay well?”

  I shrugged. “It varies. Some magazines pay a lot more than others.”

  Our food arrived—a black bean burger for me, a regular one for him. I got most of mine down before he spoke again.

  “So you’ve known Dumond how long?”

  I had to think a moment. “Since Tuesday, so almost a week.”

  “And you’re comfortable staying there?”

  Was my room comfortable? Was I worried about staying with a man whose wife had been kidnapped and murdered? “Yes,” I said. “It’s quite comfortable.” The look he gave me said I’d answered the wrong question.

  “Hmm.” He speared some french fries, then spoke. “Did you know Dumond’s business is having financial trouble?”

  I set down what was left of my burger and wiped my hands carefully. Bean burgers tend to leak sauce and bits of bean, at least the good ones not made from preformed patties. “No, I didn’t. But that’s none of my concern.”

  He went on. “Did you know Dumond and his wife had been having marital problems?”

  I pushed back from the table. “No,” I said, trying not to show my anger. I had expected he would ask me questions, but I hadn’t expected this. “And that definitely is none of my business. Why are you telling me?”