I wonder what brand Wiseman smoked. Did the cops ever question him? They say he didn’t factor in until later. But if Laura was having an affair? If there was a man outside the night her husband was killed?
It makes so much sense it gives me chills. It feels like I’m on the verge of solving a criminal case the investigators got wrong. If I can just convince the people who need convincing, this whole thing will be over.
*
The shower feels good and helps me straighten out my priorities. Joni is a grown woman, and I can’t go chasing after her. And whether Michael has been in touch with his mother this whole time — I can’t control any of that. What I can do is talk to the state police professional standards bureau and give them everything I’ve got, but after I do one thing first.
I’m going to visit my son. Spend some time with him. Be with him in the present, in the now, just like Sarah said. I’ll even read to him.
The rest of it all can wait a few hours. Sean needs me.
I dress casually but comfortably. Denim shorts. My good sandals. A blouse from one of my aunts — white with a charming pattern, like beaded necklaces surrounding the wide neck. It’s a fine temperature in the house, warm outside, but the hospital can get cool, I’m guessing. I haven’t spent much time in one. I’m lucky. Besides my two pregnancies, the only lengthy stay at a hospital was when my father had his heart attack. At any rate, I grab a sweatshirt to bring and stuff it in a tote bag.
I seek out a book to bring, something to read to Sean. And I should bring my husband something to eat, I suppose.
I’ll make him a sandwich. And I’ll bring it to him at the hospital where he watches over our injured son.
This is my life.
Do I resent it? Or is it what I deserve?
I’m about to answer myself that question when a fast shape on the lake catches my eye.
The boat is cruising along, a nice motorboat, the kind you see water skiers behind, and it’s headed into our cove.
As I watch, it steers toward the dock, then slows, splitting the water in frothy waves.
There’s a lone man behind the wheel.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I almost don’t venture down. I nearly hurry to the rental car and leave. Because one more thing and I might have a nervous breakdown.
But I can't help but think this is quite likely the tourist who helped Sean and Michael. I can see it in his face, in the pity and concern beaming at me over the distance.
Once I wave, and he waves, his worried look transforms into a smile of relief. He’s bearded, in his late forties or early fifties. Fit for his age. I see diving equipment on the boat as he putters up to the dock.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Hello — so sorry to just stop by like this.” He speaks with a heavy French-Canadian accent.
“It’s okay. Toss me your line.”
He throws me a thick short rope attached to his bow, and I give it a couple of wraps around the dock cleat. But I’ll have to make this short — Sean is waiting.
The man hops onto the dock and ties off the back end in the same way. He’s wearing beige shorts and brown sandals. His white T-shirt is well worn, the neck wide, gray chest hairs curling out. I can smell the suntan lotion. “I’m Luca,” he says. “Luca Marceau. You must be Mrs. Lindman.”
“I am. Are you the, um . . . ?” It’s hard to finish the question.
I don’t have to. Luca Marceau gets a somber look and nods his head. He rubs his calloused hands together, as if nervous. “Yes. I was the one to take your son and his friend to the boat launch.”
“Thank you for what you did. Mr. Marceau. I am just so grateful . . .”
“How is he . . . is the boy who . . . ?”
“He’s hanging in there. Right now, he’s still unconscious.”
The sorrow in Marceau’s eyes threatens to spill over. Seeing this stranger about to burst into tears on my dock is almost too much to bear. He covers his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just . . . I can’t tell you how appreciative I am for what you did.”
“Anyone would have. I was just there.”
“My husband and I would like to properly thank you. Are you going to be around the area for long?”
“Only until tomorrow. Then we return. We are from Quebec.” His fluency in English seems to waver with his emotion.
I nod and sort of shake my head in disbelief at the same time. “We’re so grateful, Mr. Marceau. I was going to try and track you down. Did you bring the sailboat back as well?”
He’s nodding. “Yes. I hope this is okay.”
“It’s very okay.” I bite my lip, running my next questions past my internal censor. But I have to know. “Mr. Marceau . . .”
“Luca.”
“Luca. Can I ask you what you saw?”
He regards me silently for a moment with his dark eyes. Then, “I didn’t see. My family was in the boat. My daughter, she pointed — she said, ‘Daddy, there’s two men in the water.’”
“Okay.”
“They were several meters from the boat. The sailboat. I look and I see, clearly, the men are struggling.”
He must see the question in my eyes because he clarifies.
“One man is swimming, holding the other. Pulling him through the water, like this.” Marceau demonstrates holding someone around the chest.
I nod some more. It’s hard to continue this line of questioning — we’re all programmed for social cohesion — but I have to know. “And your daughter, did she see what caused the two men to go into the water?”
“No, I don’t think she did. We’re divers. We like to scuba. The lake here is deep, one of the deepest. I take them; I show them where the Lady in the Lake was found.”
The Lady in the Lake. The murdered woman sunk in the water and discovered decades later. Preserved by the frigid temperature of its depths. A bizarre and macabre activity for a family, but to each his own.
Marceau continues, “We had just surfaced. We were heading back, everyone talking, laughing, you know. Having some snacks. And my daughter, she look over—”
“Who else was with you?”
He seems surprised by my interruption. Or, perhaps more accurately, he is starting to wonder at my questions. If I suspect something.
“My wife, too,” he begins slowly. “Our son. He’s eleven. And our son’s friend, who we brought for the trip.”
“So the five of you.”
“Oui. Yes.”
I give it just a few beats, but if anyone saw anything untoward — and as a family, they surely would have discussed it — Luca isn’t offering. I thank him again and ask him to please leave me his number.
“You don’t have to do this for me. Dinner and so on.”
I don’t have anything to write on, but I have my phone. “Please,” I say.
“Okay.” Marceau gives me the number and I input it into my phone. When I finish, we stand there a moment and then he gets moving, untying the lines.
“Luca?”
He’s been waiting for my question. “Yes?”
“How did he seem? The young man who was helping my son.”
Marceau blinks several times. Then he asks, “Your son was swimming with the boy in the water, yes?”
“Well, my son was sailing. They weren’t swimming, they were sailing.”
“Yes, sailing . . .”