Learning to Swim (18 page)

I made introductions, and Philippe and Simon shook hands with that slightly formal air guys have when they’re sizing each other up.

So you’re the suspicious policeman brother of the woman who rescued my kidnapped son
.

So you’re the father of the kidnapped child whose wife was murdered and who my sister has known less than a week
.

It’s tough enough to have family meet your friends in normal situations. Apparently I like to load the deck.

“Paul,” Philippe said, putting his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I think Simon would like to see your room.”

“Maybe set up that racetrack in your closet,” I added, swinging Paul to the floor. “Simon likes those.”

“Sure,” Simon said, perfectly willing to pretend he adores toy racetracks. There’s a reason he can manage our family so well. Paul looked
at us uncertainly, but when we smiled encouragingly he led Simon down the hall.

“Paul didn’t do very well with the sketch artist,” Philippe said once they were out of earshot. “He kept saying he didn’t remember what the men looked like, although they came up with something eventually. They had to coax and coax to get him even to look at the computer screen. And finally he started crying and wouldn’t stop.”

“I guess he just wants to forget about them.” It was, I figured, a normal reaction for a six-year-old.

“I know, but it’s frustrating, and I hate to see him so upset.” He grimaced. “I’ll ask the psychologist about it at his appointment this afternoon. I have to make some phone calls for work. Are you okay for now?”

I nodded, and headed down the hall to Paul’s room. Simon was on the floor operating a car and making sound effects from deep in his throat, with Paul lying on his stomach watching. They offered me a turn, but I declined, and watched them play until Elise called us for lunch.

Elise had outdone herself: crisp green salads and tiny delectable homemade pot pies with flaky crusts. Simon had no trouble eating despite the bagel he’d polished off not long ago.

“Do you know anything about home security systems?” Philippe asked Simon as he finished his pot pie.

“Sure,” Simon replied affably.

“Would you mind taking a look at mine?”

Simon nodded. This, I figured, was guy code to go off to talk—fine by me.

Philippe ran his fingers through his son’s hair as he passed. I looked at Paul and patted my lap. “Why don’t you come sit here awhile?” I asked, and he climbed up and curled against me. “Did you want to go with your dad and Simon?
Veux-tu aller avec ton père et Simon?
”

He shook his head. I rubbed his back rhythmically. “You know you’re going to go talk to someone this afternoon?”

“Mmm.”

“It won’t be like talking to the policemen. This will be a nice
woman in a nice place, for no more than an hour, and you won’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” I translated into French.

Paul stirred. “
Pourquoi?
Why talk?”

“It might make you feel better. You might want to talk about things you don’t want to talk to us about. Maybe this person can help you not to worry about things—about the bad men.”

He said nothing. “You know you’re safe now,” I whispered in his ear. “Your papa won’t let anything bad happen to you.” He let out a long sigh and snuggled closer. I held tight, wishing I could make his world bright and clear again. Wishing the kidnappers would be caught and locked in a small room for a very long time.

After a few moments he squirmed around to look at me. “You go, too?”

“No, your father will take you.
Seulement ton père
. I’ll stay here with my brother, so he won’t get lonely. But you’ll be back soon. And maybe you could get your dad to get you an ice cream cone—
un cône de glace.
” His eyes brightened at the words.

When Philippe and Simon returned, Paul announced, “Papa, it is necessary that we buy ice cream,” and threw me a look that was almost smug. God, I loved this kid. I loved the spirit that had him working his dad for ice cream this soon after he got home.

Philippe laughed. “A conspiracy. Certainly, we can have ice cream when we go out, but Elise will be unhappy with me if you have no room for dinner.”

After they left I led Simon to the library, and he ran his fingers over the spines of the books, just as I had. “This is a nice place,” he said.

“Yeah, nice. More like stupendous. So what did you guys talk about?”

“Locks and things. He wants to make sure the house is safe, so I was telling him things to do, little changes to make.”

“So you just talked about locks?”

“Maybe not all. Maybe I asked him what his motives were toward my little sister.” I made a face. “Seriously, Sis, what’s going on?” His tone was somber.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m here because of Paul. I found him, he trusts me, and Philippe thinks it will help him to have me here.” He gave me a look. “Simon, the man’s just gotten confirmation that his wife is dead. He’s just gotten his kid back. And look around.” I waved my arm. “People like him date movie stars or beauty queens, not someone like me.”

I said it without rancor, but Simon had been there in high school. Guys had liked me just fine when they needed help with calculus or English papers, but for dating they headed for the pert girls who wore makeup and knew how to toss their hair. Things had improved somewhat since then, but men still had a tendency to steer, like lemmings, toward glamour and a certain something I didn’t possess. I’d been out with Kate and her friends enough to know that when I was with them I was invisible to male eyes.

“Mmm,” he said, wisely not commenting. “How long are you going to stay?”

“It depends on how long Paul needs me and what the psychologist says. Probably until Paul gets into school, gets into a routine.”

Simon looked at me. “You aren’t his mother, Troy. And you can’t fix everything.”

“I know.” My voice cracked. “But I can’t … I can’t leave him yet.”

Simon started to reply as the speakerphone at the gate buzzed, and we could hear Elise scurrying to answer it. She appeared moments later, looking worried.

“What is it, Elise?”

“It’s a policeman. At least, he says he’s a policeman. He says his name is Jameson and he wanted to see Monsieur Dumond. I wasn’t sure if I should let him in.” She was wringing her hands, the first time I’ve seen anyone actually doing this.

I followed her. In the viewing screen I could see a dark car outside the entrance and a man behind the wheel who looked like Jameson. I motioned to Elise to buzz him in. He got out of the car, as rumpled as yesterday and now seeming quite irritated. Probably not at all what Elise thought a policeman would look like.

I swung the door open.

Jameson’s mouth tightened at the sight of me. “Miss Chance,” he said, without expression.

“Detective,” I replied, equally tonelessly. I’d have preferred open suspicion to this deadpan demeanor. “Philippe and Paul are out right now. Did you want—”

He interrupted, waving a large brown envelope. “I brought these sketches by for him.” His gaze swung behind me, where I could sense Simon was standing.

I stepped back awkwardly. “This is my brother, Simon Chance, from Florida,” I said. “Simon, this is Detective Jameson of the Ottawa Police Service, whom you spoke to on the phone.”

More hand-shaking, more male taking-measure. Elise, flustered that she’d left a genuine police officer waiting, herded us toward the library and brought glasses of iced lemonade on a heavy lacquered tray.

“When did you arrive?” Jameson asked Simon.

“Just flew in a few hours ago. Can you tell me how the investigation is going?”

A small shrug. Jameson sipped lemonade slowly, deliberately, and set the glass on a coaster. “We’ve sent the sketches to the Vermont and New York police, and of course the Montreal police and the RCMP. The Vermont and New York police both considered Miss Chance’s phone call a prank, although they did report it to the ferry offices in Burlington.”

I worked hard at not squirming.

“I was curious,” Simon asked. “The McDonald’s meals Paul got—were the bags or boxes printed just in English or also in French?”

For a beat I thought Jameson wasn’t going to answer, but he did. “He says it was English.” Which meant that Paul had been kept in the States, most likely in Vermont.

“No leads from the original investigation?” Simon asked.

Another shrug, which could mean
No, nothing
or
Nothing I want to talk about
. Jameson asked Simon about his work, and they slid into general police talk. I’ve overdosed on this brand of conversation around Simon and his law enforcement pals, so I tuned out and was
thinking about Paul at the psychologist’s when Simon nudged my knee.

Jameson was speaking. “How long are you staying?” he asked me, almost exactly as Simon had.

“It depends on Paul,” I said automatically. “It depends on what the psychologist says.”

Something in my gaze must have satisfied him. He grunted slightly and stood. “Please give these to Monsieur Dumond.” He held out the envelope. “He can call me if he has questions.” He shook Simon’s hand, and then mine. His hand was unexpectedly rough, his grasp strong and brief. His eyes were pale, like wolf’s eyes. “You have my card.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded.

Simon looked at me after Jameson left. “What was that all about?”

“I think he thinks I’m going to have an epiphany and realize that I saw the kidnappers, or find out it was actually Philippe.”

He nodded at the envelope. “What’s that?”

“Sketches of the kidnappers.” Simon neatly lifted the envelope from my hands and was opening it before I could protest. “Simon, I don’t think—”

“Ahhh,” he said, smoothing the sketches out before him on the coffee table. “Your typical computer-generated sketches.”

I looked at them. My first thought was that they were of androids, because they didn’t look human. I’ve read that these sketches aren’t supposed to look like a specific person, but just remind you of someone enough so you’ll make the connection. But these looked especially strange, with dark brows, jutting jaws, thin mouths.

“Hmm,” Simon said, disappearing and returning with the sketch pad and soft pencils he carries in his briefcase. He drew quickly, with intense concentration, and I knew not to try to talk to him. Soon he had a collection of drawings of faces with softer jaws, longer noses, wavier hair, and other variations.

I got more lemonade and watched Simon, and finally he laid his pencil down. “There, we’ll see if Paul can tell us which ones are best.”

I looked at him.

“What?”
he protested. “You know no one will ever be able to identify anyone from those other sketches.”

“I know. I just … it’s hard on Paul to look at these faces, to remember them.”

We heard a noise at the door, and Simon scooped up the drawings and tucked them inside his sketch pad.

Paul ran and hugged me, and shook Simon’s hand when his father prompted him. Philippe gave me a discreet thumbs-up as Paul hugged Tiger, telling us in a mix of French and English about his ice cream cone, pink like the one he had in Lake Placid, a very small one, so he could eat dinner and keep Elise happy. I followed Philippe to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water.

“Paul was quite comfortable with the woman. We met together first, and then he met with her separately. Apparently he opened up quite a lot.”

“Philippe, I …”

As my voice trailed off he looked up sharply. I started again. “Detective Jameson brought by copies of the sketches for you. But Simon has drawn some others—if, that is, you think Paul can handle looking at them. To pick out the best ones.”

He thought about it. “I think he can. He told the psychologist about the men, and how he wants them to be put in jail. Let’s ask him.”

Paul surprised me by agreeing, and sat on my lap as Simon brought out the sketches, his only sign of agitation the tightness of his small fingers on my arm. He looked over the first set with great deliberation, one after the other, and then pointed at one.
“Comme ça,”
he said. “With a thing on the face.”

Simon whipped out his pencil. “A thing? Like this?” He penciled in a small dot.

“More,” Paul insisted, and when the dot grew to resemble a good-sized mole, Paul nodded. In the second set of drawings, he pointed decisively at the fourth one.
“Plus de cheveux,”
he said critically, and Simon smoothly penciled in longer hair.

“How about colors?” Simon asked, and I translated. Paul pointed to the hair:
“Noir. Et le nez, rouge.”

“Paul has colored pencils in his desk,” I murmured, and Philippe went to get them. Simon broke open the pack and began to add color, penciling in reddish veins on the nose, coloring the hair, and making changes as Paul directed, first on one picture and then the other. Philippe watched. At last Paul closed his eyes.

“Je suis fatigué,”
he said crossly.

“So you should be tired.” I hugged him. “You’ve done a lot of work today. And you’re probably hungry, too, because it’s nearly dinnertime.” I lifted him off my lap and took him off to wash for dinner.

After dinner Philippe put on a Jim Carrey movie about lost pets and jungle animals. To me it seemed painfully juvenile and not at all funny, but the guys found it hilarious, even my intelligent, discerning, artistic brother. I went off to bed, leaving the three of them chortling at the movie.

I had planned to read, but couldn’t keep my eyes open. I knew Simon would be soaking up everything there was to take in here, and wouldn’t talk to me about any of it until just before he left on Sunday. In some ways Simon is very predictable, which can be annoying, but also comforting.

It meant I could stop trying to second-guess everything and could switch off the part of my brain that kept nattering questions at me:
What is Jameson thinking? Why does Paul never mention his mother? Why does no one talk about Madeleine? Why did Philippe choose to move to Ottawa?

At least for now.