Fortune's Deadly Descent (4 page)

“Celia,” Benicio says, his tone suggesting that I’m becoming a problem. “They can’t share every lead.”

I stare back, then recall the moment we locked eyes on the platform. His look of terror, the way we searched each other’s faces, unable to speak as the horror engulfed us. It was the moment our solid life began to unravel. And now, again, the two of us eye to eye, I feel another rip.

Oliver suddenly steps in and offers to go to France with me. I turn sharply. I haven’t considered this, but I see at once that it’s a great idea. He is, after all, a journalist, knowing how to ask the right questions, and, beyond that, there’s no way Benicio will agree to go with me, and I could use the company.

“There’s nothing to indicate Benny is
in
Saint-Corbenay now,” Isak says.

“Then what does it matter if I go there?” I say, wanting to blunt the impact of what he’s implied—that Benny could be
anywhere
.

Isak frowns. “We can’t have you compromising…”

I’ve stopped listening. I always imagined Interpol as a creature with far-reaching tendrils, capable of rescuing anyone, neutralizing anything in its path. The idea that my presence could foul up their entire investigation leaves me shaken, leaves me with an image of Interpol as nothing more than a troop of Keystone Kops. I know this is wrong. It’s ignorant of me to think such things, and yet I can’t help it, I can’t move past the feeling that Benny will never be found if I don’t look for him myself.

Energy jolts my legs when I stand. I picture a map of Europe, all the countries, cities, rivers, lakes, oceans, and seas. Benny is somewhere on that map, and sitting here isn’t going to bring him home. “You tell me you have leads,” I say, “but not what they are or whether they actually
amount
to anything.”

“I understand how you must feel,” Isak says.

“
Really
?” I say.

I see Benicio edging forward in his chair, getting ready to pacify me.

Isak rubs a hand across his face. “There’s nothing so terrible as this, a child taken,” he says.

“What’s your
success
rate in cases like this?”

He stares back in frustration. “It does no good to compare cases,” he says. “Each one—” Benicio stands and gently takes my arm. “Celia, it’s hard on everyone. This isn’t helping.”

I knock his hand away and turn to Isak. The wine brings a glassy smoothness to my gestures, a certainty to my voice. “You’re here to watch me, aren’t you?”

Until now, this thought was barely a wisp of a suspicion, but all at once, I know it’s true, and so does Benicio—again his face betrays him. Only Oliver appears confused.

I stop Isak before he has a chance to speak.

“Excuse me,” I say, “but fuck you, Isak.”

“
Mom
,” Oliver says.

“Please,” Isak says. “Please sit down so we can discuss this.”

Benicio is silent.

“There are certain aspects to this case, certain factors that may have influenced…” Isak goes on.

I glare at Benicio and know instinctively that these “factors” are what they were discussing behind my back this morning.

“Benicio told me about the novel you’re writing,” Isak says.

Heat pools in my stomach.

“What novel?” Oliver asks.

I glare at Benicio.

“Mom. What’s he talking about?”

“Celia,” Benicio says, his voice soft and familiar again, bringing a split second of relief to my gut. “Look. He asked me about the days leading up to the trip. What you were doing. What
I
was doing.”

“No one’s accusing you of anything,” Isak says. “I only want you to tell me who could’ve known you were writing such a book. Did you consult anyone?”

“
What
novel?” Oliver insists, standing.

I reach for his hand and cover my eyes with my other arm. I tell myself not to cry and after a moment I know I won’t. But when I open them, I see Benny’s red sneakers by the door—as shocking as a pool of blood—and have to catch myself on Oliver’s shoulder. He eases me back down to the sofa.

“I’m writing a story based loosely on what happened to you and me,” I say then. “But I made up the boy, he’s
imaginary
. It’s what I
do
, Oliver.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see a twitch in Benicio’s mouth. “Don’t you dare look at me like that, Benicio.” I’m now up on my feet again.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he says.

“I told no one about the novel but you,” I say.

Isak says, “Not your agent?”

“Why are you
asking
me this? Do you actually think someone learned I was writing a novel about a missing child then stole my son? Life imitating art? That’s crazy.”

“It’s not always clear what goes on in the minds of others.”

“Why don’t you just come out and say you think I’m involved.”

“Celia,” Benicio says. “Back off. We’re all upset. Isak just wants to—”

“Then why hasn’t he asked us the
right
questions, about your sister? Why hasn’t he asked you what you’ve told her?”

Benicio cuts his eyes at me.

“For the first time in seven years Isabel hasn’t called on the morning of Benny’s birthday,” I say. “Now why is that, Benicio? Did you tell her he’s not here? Why else would she not call?”

“I have no idea,” Benicio says, straight-faced. “I haven’t talked to her.”

“You’re
lying
,” I say, suddenly sure this is true. I turn to Isak. “He’s lying about something,” I say. “Go ahead, ask him about his
sister
.”

“My sister’s in prison. She had nothing to do with this!”

Isak puts his hand up like a stop sign. “Yes, this has been checked,” he says. “We’ve confirmed that she hasn’t been released.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Has anyone kept track of who she communicates with and how?”

Isak doesn’t answer.

In the silence that follows, I’m sure what I have to do. I already see the linden trees and arched stone windows, big enough for a person to crouch inside, the Dutch bikes with their worn wicker baskets, the ornate iron light fixtures looping above doorways, lit in the night fog where a child snatcher is on the loose. I feel my hands squeezing into icy fists.

Someone speaks but I’m no longer listening. I know exactly which clothes to pack, which shoes are best for walking on uneven cobbles. I’ll bring my old Thermos and fill it with water to stay hydrated in the heat. Sunglasses. A straw hat. Remember to wear a watch. Take notes. Ride that goddamn train as many times as it takes to figure out where to stash a child. “Celia!” Benicio’s voice cuts in. I come around with the woozy feel of having passed out. But I’m still on my feet. Everyone is still in place.

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“It’s the wine,” I say, waving him off.

When I lift my head again, I see tears in Oliver’s eyes.

I reach out toward him, but there’s the white platter with crumbs and a few crumbles of cheese and I think of Benny’s loose teeth again and wonder if they’ve fallen out, and whether he even has a pillow to put one under, and it’s this last thought that breaks me. I grip the platter by the handles, bring it down, and snap it over my knee, letting the two halves clunk to the rug.

“Oh god,” I say.

Everyone is staring at me now, including the agents from the kitchen.

After a long moment, Benicio kneels by me and picks up the china pieces and takes them away without a word.

And only after he has returned, handed me a tumbler of water, and dabbed at my pant leg with a damp cloth, does Oliver come and sit on the coffee table facing me. He takes one of my hands in both of his and flicks a quick look up at Isak. “Benicio says Interpol thinks there was a man on the train who might’ve taken an interest in Benny.”

I feel a low shudder in my heart. “It’s someone who works for Isabel, isn’t it?” I say.

“Please,” Benicio says. “Enough about Isabel.”

“Then what are you
saying
?”

“The man who helped you look for Benny on the train,” Isak says. “Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”

I look at him in total confusion.

“I’m asking if you’re sure you’ve never seen him. He’s not someone you know?”

“Someone I
know
?”

Isak glances at Benicio. Benicio looks at the floor and chews the inside of his lip.

“What’s going
on
here?” I say.

Isak opens the folder in his lap and hands me a grainy eight-by-ten photograph. “This is from the security camera at the Zurich Hauptbahnhof.”

How long has Isak been sitting on this? The folder he’s pulled it from appears to have been in his hand most of the day. Why show this to me
now
?

My breath comes in heaving gulps at the sight of Benny. I clutch my sweater to my throat and stare at the black-and-white
image of us boarding the train. My foot on the first step, my mouth open in laughter, head tossed slightly back as I hoist up our bag. My free hand is clasped in Benny’s behind me. He’s laughing too, dangling the picnic basket, his chunky backpack drooping from his shoulders. But his face is turned, tilted up toward the man behind him.
A man in a khaki shirt and jeans. Silver wristwatch with a black leather band
. A man without luggage. Empty hands.
Rough hands. Chewed or chipped nails. A stain of some sort beneath them
. The man who asked for a rundown of what Benny was wearing had already known. He’s sharing a laugh with my son. And, it appears, he’s sharing a laugh with me.

I have no explanation. All I have is the truth and it’s winning over no one. I wasn’t paying attention. It’s that simple. Benny was chattering on about a concoction of his, a combination of unlikely spices so silly it made him laugh.

“What distracted you?” Isak asks.

I flip the photograph onto the coffee table, unable to bear the sight of his joyful face. Things are looking worse than ever for me. The longer I take to respond, the more implicated I seem, yet my mouth refuses to open. Then it occurs to me that I don’t
have
to tell him the rest of the truth, don’t need to make myself look more pathetic by admitting that I was obsessing about my novel, the one he’d already suggested might’ve played some bizarre role in Benny’s disappearance. I’m not about to tell him how self-absorbed I was that morning, fearful that the wall I’d hit would prove to be a permanent barrier between the page and me. Nor do I intend to explain how, over the previous weeks, I’d grown increasingly annoyed with both the novel and all the attention Benny seemed to require of me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I spend a lot of time inside my own head. I can’t tell you what I was thinking that moment.”

Nothing I say will loosen his jaw.

Everyone waits.

“Do I need a
lawyer
?” I ask.

“Celia—” Benicio says.

I turn and run upstairs, where I lock my office door behind me and collapse at my desk. As far as I know, I’ve not been followed. I stare down at the Limmat River swirling a blue ribbon through the center of town. The sidewalks on either side pulse with people, surely in good spirits on this summer’s day, though, it occurs to me that any one of them could be behind Benny’s kidnapping.
Is that how it’s going to be now?
I think.
Having to question everything, taking nothing at face value?

I think of Benny’s hands steeped in dough, his green eyes intent on his task. “Black pepper,” he says to himself, as if repeating something whispered in his ear. He’s made ginger-snap ice cream sandwiches, and now his eyes blink at the spice on his tongue. Dabs of vanilla bean ice cream ooze from the corners of his mouth. “My other
mamá
says spicy food is my other
papá’s
favorite,” he says. Then I see him on our rooftop terrace, plucking chervil from the small greenhouse. Pigeons look on from the copper gutter. Benny holds up the lacy herb, gives it a shake. “Looks like carrot tops,” he says. A moment later, he gets an odd, serious look. “Which direction is the Gefängnis Zurich from here?” he asks, scanning the skyline to the east. I stand so quickly the pigeons flee.

I turn on the computer and, before my thoughts smother me, open the file of my novel-in-progress. Maybe Isak’s not so wrong about the book. It feels like a curse I’ve brought down on our home. I picture myself flinging its pages into the fireplace, watching them ignite and shrivel into scrolls of black ash. But all I can do in the real world is click delete.

The computer doesn’t trust me:
Are you sure? It cannot be retrieved
.

I click OK and the file is gone.

What Benny had wanted to know was where Jonathon was, which direction exactly. I’ve never told anyone, but twice I rode past the prison on the tram, then, a third time, I got off at Badernestrasse and went the rest of the way on foot. It was like a castle embedded in a city block, surrounded by bakeries, restaurants, an eye doctor, an
Apotheke
. The normalcy of it all hit me like a sucker punch to the throat. This ornate, academy-style prison with its turret and white-paned windows was deemed suitable punishment for a man who’d had me kidnapped and tortured, who’d shoved a knife between my ribs with his own hand. I’d stood outside in my long overcoat and scarf, just staring, my insides searing with rage. I imagined Jonathon peering out to people-watch. Jonathon with sun on his face. Jonathon’s heart touched by the first snowfall of the year. And, as if that weren’t enough, a gate on a side street let me see into the prison courtyard where a silver sculpture, spiked like a teepee of sticks for kindling, cast the sun upward to the barred windows. In between writing appeals, Jonathon could contemplate art.

After deleting the novel in my office, I somehow ended up in my bedroom in bed. An hour later I’m still there, whispering a prayer to the ceiling, waiting out the twilight of Benny’s birthday.

And then, Benicio’s standing over me, though it’s unclear for how long. Pinto leaps near my feet, circles, then draws her chin down and drapes her ears across my ankle. She drifts off, her eyebrows continuing to twitch. Through the half-closed curtains, the sky is plum colored; stringy clouds tear apart in the wind. The heat is coming to an end. I’ll wake to morning rain.