Learning to Swim (29 page)

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
.

“This could have been an accident,” I insisted.

“But, Troy, you got hit and no one stopped.”

“I’ve had things like this happen. People don’t pay attention or just don’t care about someone on a bike—sometimes they don’t even notice. Or they try to run you off the road for the heck of it.”

He pursed his lips. It would have been a huge coincidence that I was nearly run over the same day someone tried to pick up Paul at school, and we both knew it.

“Does—”

“What—”

He gestured for me to go ahead.

“Is Paul safe?” I blurted.

“Safe?” Philippe waved his arm violently. “He’s safe here, at least as safe as I can make it without putting up bars. He’s safe at school, if someone doesn’t show up and gun down the guard and force his way in.” He was talking faster, sounding more French than I’d ever heard him. “I can’t protect him completely. Anytime he’s in the car, he’s at risk. A fender bender, something to force the car off the road. Boom, they could grab him. Anytime we take him out, someone could snatch him. But there’s nothing to do, unless I hire a bodyguard. And I’ve thought of that. But what kind of life would that be for Paul, to always be reminded that life isn’t safe, that someone is out there who could snatch him, that his own father can’t protect him?”

He stood, his breathing loud.

I’d forgotten the rage Philippe had shown when I first met him, and I hadn’t realized the amount of anger he was still carrying. He was coping, but barely.

I cleared my throat. “We can vary our routine, drive different ways to school. Limit the times you’re in public with him, make sure it’s never just one person out with him. Until these guys are caught.”

He looked up with a bitter half smile. “If they ever are.”

“We have to believe they will be.” My voice was sharp. “We have to.”

He nodded absently. “If you don’t mind, as soon as you can get around, I’d like you to always pick up Paul from school, not Elise. For now, I’ll take off work early and do it.”

“Sure,” I said, but Philippe seemed far away.

I was stiff the next morning, but I knew the following day would
be even worse. I might as well face Jameson now. I’d give him the recording I’d made of the conversation with Gina and also that first conversation with Paul. That, at least, had simply slipped my mind. And copies of the Craigslist ad and the replies I’d gotten.

Full disclosure—supposedly good for the soul.

At the police station I followed a uniformed policeman in, and no one tried to stop me. I tapped on Jameson’s half-opened door.

He looked up without expression. “Something I forgot to give you,” I said, holding up the tapes. “From when I talked to that friend of Madeleine’s in Montreal, and when Paul told me about the kidnapping. And a Craigslist ad I did. Madeleine’s password, if you need it, is her first name backward.” He made no move to take the tapes or the pages. I set them on a corner of his desk, atop a pile of papers.

“I read the emails,” he said.

I waited, but he said nothing else. “I’m sorry I didn’t give them to you sooner.” My voice almost cracked. “But I knew they would make you suspect Philippe, and I didn’t want him to know about them. I wanted to … I wanted to see if anyone knew anything, so I sent out some emails.”

Silence. “I know you think I’m stupid,” I said, and limped away. It wasn’t a dignified exit.

My bike frame, I discovered when I’d gathered the courage to look at it, was scratched but not bent, but the front wheel was pretzeled. I bought a new rim and spokes at a nearby bike shop, and began building a new front wheel.

I hummed softly as I threaded spokes into the rim, standing to stretch when I got too stiff. Every other spoke hole is offset a little, and once I’d carelessly laced an entire wheel with the spokes through the wrong holes. I began truing it, adjusting the spoke tension bit by bit, then pushing the wheel against the floor sideways to seat the spokes and nipples. It’s slow work, but I like it. Next I moved on to cleaning the derailleurs, brakes, and drive train. I love getting all the parts clean and working smoothly.