I was glad I had my recorder—this was so fast I was barely following it. She paused and I murmured, “Sounds like she had a really tough time.”
She nodded. “Yep, and it was worse, you know, after what had happened to her parents, and she was the one who found them when she was just eleven.” She leaned close and spoke in a low voice: “One of them killed the other, you know, I’m not sure which.” I blinked.
Suddenly she looked at her watch and stood. “Say, you know, it was great to meet you, but I’ve got an appointment and parking is awful, so I’d better run.” She waggled her fingers at me and was gone before I realized that she had left me with the check.
Which I deserved. I’d encouraged this woman to talk about a friend she had no idea was dead, and had discovered details of a horribly sad past—dead parents, bad foster homes, lost baby. It didn’t help that I had two hours of driving to mull it all over.
I went straight to pick up Paul, calling Elise on my cell to ask her to let out Tiger. As I neared the school I was newly aware of every car around me. On the way home I checked the rearview mirrors so often I almost didn’t hear what Paul was telling me about his day.
When he was changing clothes, I checked Madeleine’s email. Gaius had replied: ten short words that gave me a chill. A game where you disappear, but the boy comes back.
My brain stuttered. This person didn’t know Madeleine had been kidnapped, but somehow knew Paul had returned. How could he know one of these things and not the other? I reread the initial email: Julia o Julia, what game are you playing?
I had to turn this over to the police, but I really didn’t want to give them all Madeleine’s emails, just in case the police hadn’t seen them. I also didn’t particularly want them to know what I’d been doing.
What a mess I’d gotten myself in. Simon would have told me this was why civilians should never dabble in these things.
But because I seemed so close to finding out something, I’d send one more message. I thought hard, and wrote back, What did you think had happened?
And then I began to research. This time I used Madeleine’s and Claude’s first names only, with the words Québec, parents, and murder. And I found the story.
They indeed had been nine and eleven when their parents had died in an apparent murder-suicide, and had been the ones who found them dead. They’d had a different last name then; perhaps they’d taken the name of one of their foster families. I wondered if Philippe knew all these grim details.
I clicked off the computer.
I felt thoroughly ashamed. I was ashamed for meeting Gina under false pretenses. I was ashamed I’d been so intolerant of Claude, who had had such a terrible childhood. And I was ashamed for having been foolish enough to think that I could succeed where the police had not.
I’d never realized how dangerous hubris could be.
IT DIDN’T HELP THAT TONIGHT PHILIPPE HAD ASKED ME TO an annual affair for local businesses, where his company had been nominated for an award—he had an extra ticket because Claude had canceled. Even I knew not to wear the same dress, and on my own I’d found a simple black dress that had been marked down. Fortunately I could use the shoes I’d gotten earlier.
This was your standard awards buffet dinner, with pompous speakers and jokes not as funny as the tellers intended. It was fancier and bigger than dinners I’d attended for my small newspaper, but not all that different. Philippe had graciously accepted his award and we were at the post-dinner socializing part. He had gone to get us wine when I heard someone speak beside me.
“Hello,” the voice said, and I jumped visibly. At first I didn’t recognize the man standing there. It was Detective Jameson, shirt neatly ironed, tie closed, hair tidy.
“Hello,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer. We could see Philippe across the room, in a three-way conversation with a shrill woman and a stout man, glasses of wine in his hands, gracefully trying to get away.
“So you’re dating now,” he said abruptly.
“No,” I said. “No, we’re not.”
“What about the boyfriend in Vermont?”
I turned to look at him, but his face showed nothing. “I just told you that I’m not dating Philippe. Just because I am at a function with him doesn’t mean we’re dating. Look, you’re here, I’m here, and we’re not dating.”
He shrugged. “How long have you been sleeping with him?”
For a moment I couldn’t believe I had heard correctly, and then I was suddenly so angry I could hardly speak. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“You haven’t answered.”
With an effort I controlled my temper. “My private life is none of your business.”
He shrugged again. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. When you have a puzzle to solve, it helps to have all the pieces.” He looked at me placidly. “It’s an easy question.”
I stared at him. “I am not involved with Philippe,” I said. “I am not dating Philippe. I am not sleeping with Philippe. But, one, this has nothing to do with anything you’re investigating, and, two, you have no idea if I’m telling the truth.”
The crowd jostled around us, and then he was behind me, and I could see Philippe detaching himself and beginning to move toward me. “One, I never ask anything without a reason,” Jameson said, almost in my ear. “And, two, whether you’re telling the truth or not, your answer tells me something.” Then he was gone.
Philippe had to go to work early the next morning, so I drove Paul to school. When I got back, I went up to check Madeleine’s email, feeling nervous and more than a little guilty. One reply from Gaius: That maybe someone has gotten even with you—someone you cut off, like me? I read the words once and then a second and third time. This sounded like something from a jilted lover. This had to go to the police, without a doubt.
I went off on my ride, and on the bike I worked out how to do it. I would print the incoming Gaius emails with the coding revealed to show IP addresses, and fax them to the police station anonymously from a Jiffy Print. The police could trace the sender. It would be out of my hands. I’d stop tinkering, now. No more emails. No more Craigslist ads. No more meeting friends of Philippe’s wife.
Decision made.
When you’ve ridden a bike as many miles as I have, you look for trouble on a subconscious level. Without realizing it you watch for a car door suddenly opening, a dog bolting, a driver about to heave a can or bottle. When something happens, you have to react, and react quickly.
What crept into my consciousness now was a car, a big dark one, coming toward me and suddenly turning left directly across my path. Whether the driver was blinded by the sun, had fallen asleep at the wheel, or had had a sudden homicidal impulse, I didn’t know and didn’t care. A couple of tons of metal were bearing down on me, and if I didn’t get out of the way I’d be dead. No time to reverse direction, and I knew I couldn’t accelerate enough to get out of its path. Without conscious thought, I jerked my front wheel hard right in an almost impossibly sharp turn.
The car just cleared my rear tire, nearly knocking me over from turbulence. Had there been nothing in my way, I could have ridden it out or just run into the curb. But there was a line of cars parked along the side of the road, and nowhere to go. I crunched hard into the bumper of a shiny red car, and while I was airborne had time to consider how much better it was to hit a static object than be hit by one coming at you. Not for nothing did I make As in physics.
That was the last thing I knew until I opened my eyes and saw people leaning over me. I could hear a siren keening in the distance. “She’s moving,” a voice said. But moving hurt, so I stopped. It can seem surprisingly restful to lie on hard pavement. The sun was bright overhead, and too many people were staring at me. I could feel a wetness on my knees and elbows. I closed my eyes again. I kept them closed, ignoring the buzz of voices. But I heard an ambulance arrive, and felt the jostle as I was placed on a backboard. I didn’t want to get in an ambul
ance, which wouldn’t be cheap, but neither did I have enough energy to protest. I felt a tear trail from beneath my closed eyelids.
As they lifted the stretcher, I called out, “My bike, where’s my bike?”
A murmured reply I didn’t catch.
“I’m not leaving without my bike,” I insisted, although in truth I wasn’t about to try to hop up.
More murmurs. “Someone will watch your bike,” a voice said near my face. “But we need to worry about you right now.” I thought about trying to sit up, but something seemed to be holding me down. I heard the ambulance doors close, and we started to move.
I DON’T RECALL MUCH OF THE RIDE TO THE HOSPITAL. I DO REMEMBER insisting I could walk when the ambulance doors opened, and they compromised on a wheelchair. I hurt all over, but by now I could tell that nothing was broken. I’d had plenty of bike wrecks in my teens, when I rode harder and faster than I should have. But I’d forgotten how much it could hurt.
A man standing at the front desk turned as we came in. He looked like Detective Jameson. I blinked. It was Jameson.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as I was wheeled past.
He surveyed me. “I could ask you the same question.”
By the time I saw him again, the nurse and doctor had prodded for possible breaks, checked for concussion, and cleaned and dressed my wounds, a not comfortable process. I’d catapulted over the car, tucked and rolled, then slid to a stop. When you slide on pavement, you leave behind bits of clothing and skin, and grind in dirt and germs that must be removed. My padded bike gloves were ruined, but they had saved my palms.
“What are you doing here?” I asked again, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Apparently you blacked out and couldn’t answer questions in the ambulance. You had my card in your wallet, and someone called me.” He thrust a plastic shopping bag at me.
“What’s this?” I opened the bag and saw a T-shirt from the hospital gift shop. My confusion must have showed.
“To wear home.” He gestured toward the hospital gown I had on.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering that my T-shirt had been shredded. I was taken aback that he had thought of this. “Thanks.” I couldn’t think what else to say.
Silence for a moment. “What happened?” he asked.
I shut my eyes, seeing it again. “Someone turned right toward me,” I said slowly. “A big car, making a left turn across traffic, and there was nowhere to go. I veered right, and I hit a parked car.” I opened my eyes. He was watching unblinkingly. “I was on Cumberland, going north, and he was going south—and then turned left in front of me.”
“You were lucky,” Jameson said, and held up my bike helmet, scarred and with a prominent crack.
I winced. I was going to need a new helmet, and good ones aren’t cheap.
“Do you know who it was?” he asked.
“Who what was?”
He looked at me as if I were an idiot. Maybe I was. “Who almost hit you.”
“No, I don’t know who it was. Why should I know who it was? It was some jerk who was half blind or who thought I was moving so slowly he’d clear me, I guess.” I was too annoyed to mince words.
“You said he. Was a man driving?”
“I don’t know, I just meant he, it, the driver.”
“You didn’t see the driver?”
“No. The windows were tinted. I couldn’t even see if it had a driver.” I knew my voice was testy.
“What kind of car was it?”
“It didn’t stop, did it?” I’d had this happen once before, with the driver continuing on after forcing me off the road.
He repeated, slowly, enunciating each word, as if to a not particularly bright child: “What—kind—of—car—was—it?”
“God, I don’t know.” My head hurt. “It was something big, with a big grille in front. A dark car, black or really dark green. All I saw was that grille, coming at me too damn fast.”
His lips quirked. “Plates?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t see ’em. I don’t even know if they were Canadian.”
“Do you have a routine, a certain time and place that you ride?”
I blinked. “Well, yeah, I do the same route just about every day, at roughly the same time.” Silence. “You think someone tried to run me down deliberately.” My voice was sharp.
He stood up. “The doctor says you can leave. Get dressed and I’ll drive you home.”
“You think someone tried to run me down, I mean, me in particular?”
Jameson didn’t answer, just looked at me.
Cripes, this man was frustrating. How about asking me, Gee, Troy, would you like a ride home? Or saying, I’m so sorry you were hurt; we’ll do the best we can to track this guy down. But he had bought me something to wear, and I did need a ride, so I got dressed while he waited outside the room. It hurt to move.
It was icky pulling on my sweaty torn bike shorts. But at least the new T-shirt covered the parts that were shredded. I tossed my torn shirt and gloves in the trash. I’d keep the helmet; sometimes companies let you trade in a broken one. I padded out of the room in my socks, with my cleated bike shoes and helmet in the plastic bag. The nurse pushed discharge papers and instructions at me, and handed me bandages and packets of Polysporin.
At Jameson’s car I stopped. “My bike. I need to get my bike.”
“It’s in my trunk. You were so worried about it that someone brought it to the hospital.”
Thank heaven for Good Samaritans. I didn’t ask to see it—I didn’t want to know what shape it was in. I leaned back in the car seat and kept my eyes closed all the way to the house.
Jameson insisted on walking me in. Elise was frantic when she saw us, and I wished I had thought to call ahead to warn her. “This looks lots worse than it is, Elise. I had a little bike accident; it’s just some scrapes.” I turned toward Jameson: “My bike …”
He nodded. “I’ll get it.”
“If you could put it in the garage that would be great. I’m going to get into the tub. Elise, you’ll need to pick up Paul. Tell him I’ve had a little accident but that I’m fine.” She nodded and trotted off. I must have swayed on my feet, because Jameson grasped my arm, adroitly avoiding the bandaged areas.
“You did hit your head, you know,” he said mildly. He walked me back to my room, and turned to go. As he reached the doorway, without conscious decision I said, “Wait.”
Maybe I should have thought about it more, but all my instincts were telling me to do this, now. I fumbled to the bottom of the dresser where I had hidden Madeleine’s emails. He stood, watching, eyes narrowed. I held out the sheaf of papers.
He read the first words on the top sheet, then looked up at me sharply.
“They’re hers,” I said. “Madeleine’s.” I didn’t like the look in his eyes. I went on, my voice thick. “I found her email program on Philippe’s computer and accidentally downloaded them. The ones on the bottom, those are ones … some that I sent out, from her email address.”
“You sent out emails pretending to be her.” His voice was flat.
“Yeah, and I met with one of her friends in Montreal, a woman named Gina. But Philippe doesn’t know any of this. Look, can we talk about it later?”
He nodded slowly, but sat down on my bed. I left him there and went into the bathroom. I ran hot water into the tub and eased myself in. I could hear Jameson turning pages. I closed my eyes and lay there until I could no longer hear him. Then I sat on the side of the tub and poured hydrogen peroxide from the medicine cabinet over the scrapes, watching it bubble. It’s pretty much the best way to prevent infections, a trick I’d learned from a kayaking friend.
I added smears of Polysporin before applying the bandages, the nonstick kind that doesn’t adhere to broken skin. I eased on loose shorts and T-shirt, ran cold water into the tub, and tossed the bloodstained towel in to soak. I popped some Advil and limped to the kitchen for a sandwich and orange juice.
Jameson was gone, but he had stayed until Elise returned with Paul. Somehow Philippe was there as well. Paul exclaimed over my bandages, seeming more impressed than dismayed. I had to explain that he wouldn’t be able to hug me for a week or so.
“You broke your vélo, your bike,” he said.
“Yes, but I can fix it. Or get it fixed.”
He put a tentative finger out and touched a bandage on my arm. “You put medicine on?”
“Yes, I put medicine on it, and it will get well very soon.”
He patted my cheek. If I could have hugged him, I’d have probably halfway crushed him. I settled for leaning over and kissing his forehead. I could tell from Philippe’s expression that he wanted to talk, and we left Paul in the kitchen with Elise.
“It’s no big deal—” I started to say, but I stopped at the look on his face. For a horrible moment I wondered if Jameson had told him about the emails.
“Someone tried to pick Paul up at school,” he said.
For a moment I couldn’t catch my breath. “You mean …”
He nodded. “Someone called the school and asked to have Paul released. They said I’d been in an accident and that a driver would be sent to pick Paul up.”
My eyes widened. The school had called Philippe immediately, and when he couldn’t reach Jameson, another detective had met him at the school. No one had actually shown up to try to get Paul.
My head was spinning. “So someone tried to hit me—it wasn’t an accident? And the same people threatened to snatch Paul?” My voice was rising. “But who? The kidnappers? And why? I never saw them; I can’t identify them.”
“Yes, but they may not know that. Maybe they think you were on the same ferry as them, and saw them get on or when Paul went overboard.” Like me, he couldn’t say the words. When they threw Paul in the lake. When they tried to drown Paul.
Learning to Swim Page 19
