Learning to Swim

That evening Paul had a nightmare, screaming, “Non, non, non!” Philippe was doing some work in his office; I was reading in my room and reached Paul first. He was still screaming when I grabbed him into my arms.

“Baby, baby, it’s okay, everything’s all right,” I murmured, rubbing his back while his cries died away into a damp whimper against my neck. “C’est seulement un … nightmare … un cauchemar.”

“Maman,” he whispered brokenly. I felt a sharp pain. He wasn’t mistaking me for his mother—he was calling to the woman who would never hold him again. I’d been wrong to assume that he hadn’t been missing his mother.

“Paul, Paul, Paul,” I said, rocking him back and forth. By then Philippe had arrived, and I handed the limp, teary bundle to his father. I went off to read until I could numb my brain enough to go to sleep.





THE NEXT MORNING PAUL HAD DARK CIRCLES UNDER HIS eyes, but he was excited about starting school. I admired his book bag and his blue slacks, polo shirt, and blazer, and snapped away with my little camera. Because of course you have to have first-day-of-school pictures. If I were Philippe, I think I’d be fighting the compulsion to lurk in the back of the classroom for the next few days.



After they left, I wandered back to my room. I felt down, and wasn’t sure why. It was almost starting to seem that Madeleine haunted this house, and not just because of Claude’s visit. Madeleine somehow seemed more present than if the house still held her things: her clothes, her photos, her knickknacks, her magazines. Maybe her ghost couldn’t be vanquished until people stopped acting as if she’d never existed.

Or maybe it was just me, and those emails I’d downloaded.

I made myself read the printouts of them again, line by line. A few were confusing—probably personal jokes or idioms I didn’t get—but nothing gave any clues.

Dead end.

So I went upstairs to see what I could find out about Madeleine and her brother on the internet.

Usually you can learn amazing amounts about people online, even if they’ve never used sites like Facebook or MySpace. You can find public records, newspaper articles, group memberships, reviews posted on Amazon, comments on other sites.

With some simple Googling, I confirmed the spelling of Claude’s last name, Lemieux, and assumed Madeleine’s had been the same. I knew their approximate ages and where they’d been living the last decade. This should have been plenty. It wasn’t.

I did find a few mentions of Madeleine in society pages, and some references to business accounts Claude had represented. I found a brief wedding announcement, and learned that both sets of parents were deceased. With concentrated digging I found records of the marriage and of Paul’s birth, and simple math told me he had been born less than nine months after the marriage. But without accidents, many of us wouldn’t be here, me included.

I sat back. I’d never done so much research with so little result. No graduations, no previous jobs, no arrests. No photos, no comments, no book lists, no petitions signed, no donations given. It was as if Claude and Madeleine hadn’t existed before they met Philippe.

Claude hadn’t been what I’d imagined. I’d expected either austere, like the furniture in parts of this house, or openly grieving. Instead he was almost sly, as if he was secretly amused by something or knew things other people didn’t.

Of course I wondered if Claude could have planned the kidnapping. Dumond said he had been very close to his sister, but close relationships can go wrong. And from the tone and brevity of Elise’s comments, I’d gathered that brother and sister hadn’t always gotten along. Or Claude could have set up a fake kidnapping that had gone bad. But if he had been involved, would he have followed his brother-in-law to Ottawa?

And could Paul be in danger from him?

Maybe I was being paranoid, or going off on this tangent because I disliked Claude. Or maybe there was good reason to distrust him. But surely the police had checked him out.

I emailed Simon from my laptop, telling him I’d met the mysterious brother, who wasn’t precisely warm and friendly. I phrased the next line carefully. I couldn’t ask Simon to check out Claude, but if I let him know my concern, his brain wouldn’t let it drop. I wrote: What if Claude planned the kidnapping and he knows the kidnappers can link him to it—where does that leave Paul?

With that done, I opened Outlook Express and reread the last dozen incoming emails in Madeleine’s account. All offered some variation on Where are you and why haven’t I heard from you?

None of these people had heard of Madeleine’s kidnapping or death: Philippe had let everyone think she was wintering in Florida. When he moved here, they would have assumed she’d moved, too, or stayed on in Florida. No one had notified these people of her death, and this seemed horrible.

If they think she’s alive, I could send them emails from Madeleine’s account.

I couldn’t let the thought go. How would someone involved in her kidnapping or death react to an email apparently from Madeleine? Not well, that was for sure. But they would react.

I composed a generic email: I’ve been away, and lots has happened! What’s up with you? I copied it to each of her most recent correspondents, and clicked Send for each one. I had just sent the last one when a ding told me a reply had come in.

I took a deep breath and clicked on it.

Hey, girl, where have you been? It’s been for-evv-ee-rr. How are things shaping up? Did you go to Florida? Fill me in! Gina T

This was no help, and it was abominably cruel to let this woman think her friend was alive. I’d jumped into this without thoroughly considering it, and now the damage was done. To buy time, I hit the Reply button and typed: Too much to tell now—more soon. How R U?

What had I been thinking? I had stepped over a line, and there would be no stuffing this genie back in the bottle.

My face burning with shame, I closed the program, shut down the computer, and took myself off to the library to pick up the books I’d requested about recovered kidnapped children: I Know My First Name is Steven, I Choose to Live, and Invisible Chains. So it didn’t look quite so strange, I picked up Ruth Rendell and Michael Robotham novels as well. Which, on second thought, probably didn’t help.

On the way back I stopped at a chip wagon and ate poutine while driving, miraculously managing to avoid dribbling gravy down my front.

As I took the books to my room, I heard Paul and Philippe come in. I joined them in the kitchen, where Paul was digging into a snack Elise had prepared, and discovered that school was great, the kids were fun, teachers nice, and lunch not so great—and that Philippe had, in fact, spent the whole day at school.

He gave a little shrug. “It’s his first day.”

So Dad had stayed in the back of the room for the entire school day. Which I thought was perfect for his son’s first day back. It made me realize that Philippe wasn’t confident about any of what he was doing—which I think was a strange place for him to be. Like the rest of us, he was just forging ahead as best he could.

After Paul went off for his rest Philippe went upstairs to do some work, but was back in a few minutes.

“I can’t find a file I’ve been working on,” he said. “It’s driving me nuts—do you think you could take a look?”

I followed him up to his office. He was using the remote access program I’d told him about, which let his work computer’s desktop appear on the screen in front of him. I did a quick search. Nothing. “Was it a new file, or one you’d just resaved?” I asked.

“It came in an email today,” he said.

“You opened it directly from the email?”

He nodded.

Now I knew where it was—in a temporary folder where the Search function doesn’t penetrate. “You need to save files attached to emails before you start working on them,” I said. “Just show me the email it came with.” He pulled up the email. I clicked on the attached file, found the temporary folder it would have been saved in and the missing file, and showed Philippe how to save it to a new location.

“Ahhh,” he said. “You make it look so easy.” Which it is, but I’d lost plenty of files myself before I figured it out.

“Wait,” he said, as I started to leave. “Could you show me how to set this up so it shows the file extensions?”

The default Windows setting hides doc, exe, pdf, jpg, and other file extensions, which I think is insane. So I showed him how to set folder options so you can see the file type at a glance.

“Back up a minute,” Philippe said, looking over my shoulder. “That has to be a mistake. That says the date on that file is today.”

“That would be the date you last saved it, not the date you wrote it.”

“But that’s the point. That’s today’s date and I haven’t used it today—and no one should be using these files but me.”

“Maybe your work computer somehow got set to the wrong date,” I said. I ran the cursor over the file name and idly double-clicked, and a message popped up: This file is currently being used by another user. Do you want to make a copy? “Hmmm,” I said. I tried a different file, which promptly opened. I closed it and went back to the first one. Still not available. “Houston, we’ve got a problem,” I muttered under my breath.

“What is it?”

“This file won’t open. Which means either it’s been corrupted, or it’s in use.” I closed the file manager and reopened it. The file now showed a different time. I clicked on it, and now it opened. I turned to look at Philippe. “Someone’s accessing your files. Would your secretary be looking at these?”

“No. Not my secretary and not anyone. I left my computer on, so I could use the remote program, but no one should be using it.” He glanced at his watch. “Excuse me while I call the office.” He pulled out his cell phone as he stepped out of the room, and I could hear a low murmur. When he returned he told me his receptionist had been away from her desk, and he had asked her to lock his office.

“Your files aren’t password protected?”

He shook his head.

I made a face. “You need to install a boot protection program, Philippe, so no one can get into your files—and you should check to make sure no one has installed a keyboard capture or remote access program.”

He looked at me the way Paul does when he wants something. “Could you … ?”

Of course I could, but his was a professional office that needed an office-wide daily backup system and professional-level security on each computer. “You don’t have a computer person to do this stuff?”

He shook his head. “I should, but I don’t. Could you do it? I’ll pay you, of course.”

It amazes me that people entrust their entire businesses to computers with no one on-site who really understands them. A friend who does computer installations told me about a big organization whose computers were set to back up at midnight every day—but when everyone went home at six, they all turned their computers off. So when a virus struck, months of files were lost.

I told him I’d come to his office tomorrow and do a basic security check and cleanup on his computer, if he would start looking for a pro to do company-wide security and backup. I wouldn’t let him pay me, but he could take me to lunch.





THE NEXT MORNING PAUL WENT OFF CHEERFULLY TO school. Today Philippe would stay for only the first half hour, which Paul thought was fine. Apparently the routine of school and being around other kids appealed to him. Philippe had made a good decision enrolling Paul in school.

No reply yet from Simon, but I knew he was thinking on it. He might even call Jameson, although he wouldn’t tell me about it.



I opened Outlook Express and found one reply in Madeleine’s account, chat about what so-and-so was doing. It had been a dramatic notion to have sent out emails supposedly from Madeleine, but not, I realized, a particularly useful one. It would have been far smarter—and less nerve-wracking—to have pretended to be a mutual friend. Then I could have asked if anyone knew what had happened to her or who she had been hanging out with her last week or so, or if she had mentioned being followed or seeing someone suspicious.

It would seem too coincidental to suddenly get in touch with all the people the fake Madeleine had just emailed, especially if any of them communicated with each other. But I’d try it with a few. I signed up for an anonymous email address and sent emails to the three women who seemed to be her chattiest friends: Hi, I’m a friend of Madeleine’s—haven’t heard from her and I’m wondering what’s up—do you have any idea?

Then I headed off to Philippe’s office to do the work I’d promised to do on his computer. I wondered if Philippe’s receptionist would remember me and my odd story about the misdelivered FedEx envelope, but if she did, she was too well trained to show it. A few other employees walked past as she buzzed Philippe and waved me back to his office.

He set me up at his desk, and went off elsewhere while I got to work. I checked for keyboard capture programs or remote access programs other than the one he’d installed, but didn’t find any. Either what we’d seen had been an obscure blip, or someone had been using his computer.

I updated and ran his internet security program, ran Advanced System Care, defragged the hard drive, and installed a boot protection program. If he left his computer running, the screen would go blank, and couldn’t be accessed until the password was typed in. Then I set up his small backup drive to do automatic document backups near the end of every workday. Most people don’t seem to realize that it’s not a question of if your hard drive will fail, but when. A better system would back up the entire hard drive regularly, but this would do for now.

I realized I was starving, and glanced at the clock—it was nearly noon. I’d been here more than two hours. Computers can be a huge time sink. As I stood, the door opened.

It was Claude, and the look on his face wasn’t what you would call welcoming. “What are you doing here?”

“Just helping Philippe out.”

“What do you mean?” His vehemence was startling.

“You can ask Philippe.” I thought for a moment he was going to grab my arm. But he let me pass, and followed me out of the room. Philippe was speaking to the receptionist and by the time he turned to us, belligerent Claude was gone and suave businessman Claude was in his place—a Jekyll and Hyde moment so perfect I couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Are you ready?” Philippe asked. I nodded, and we headed for the elevator. At a nearby bistro we had soup-and-sandwich combos—when you’re eating Elise’s dinners, you need a light lunch—and I briefed him on what I’d done on his computer. I didn’t mention how annoyed Claude had seemed. I assumed he just didn’t like me on his home turf.

I glanced at the time. I needed to get home in time to let Tiger out before going to pick Paul up from school.

Yes, I was starting to think of it as home.



At the school, cars were lined up to pick up children. Security guards checked license plates against a list before letting you through the gates, and if they didn’t know you on sight, you had to show ID. It was laborious, but not so bad when weighed against the risks of having your child kidnapped.

Until this became routine, Paul would be waiting inside the classroom with his teacher. He was quiet when I retrieved him, in stark contrast to the bounciness of the other children. “How was it?” I asked after he had climbed into the booster seat we’d strapped into my backseat.

He sighed. “It is difficult to speak the English all day.”

“Ah, sweetie, it will get easier very fast. Ça deviendra vite plus facile.” I knew he would pick up English quickly, and soon the summer term would start and classes would be smaller. If nothing else, this would give him an idea of what to expect of regular classes in the fall, so it wouldn’t be new and scary, and would let him meet most of the children who would be in his fall class.



In the kitchen Elise gave him yogurt and fruit, and he chattered about his day in French. Philippe wanted him to speak English at home until he became fluent, but I thought we’d agree that all day at school was enough for one small boy. Especially his first few days.

When I took him off to change his clothes he pointed to his hamper. “Look, I put the clothes in my … my … mon panier à linge,” he said with pride.

“Laundry hamper,” I told him. “That’s good—it will make Elise very happy. Then when she has enough dirty clothes, she can run the washing machine.”

He nodded, happy with this.



Philippe seemed more relaxed that evening, maybe because Paul was in school and handling it well. Over after-dinner coffee—I’d decided to take it easy on desserts until I started biking more—I told him about Jameson bringing me my bag from the ferry, and asked if he had heard of any progress.

He shook his head. “They told me they sent someone to Burlington, but that’s all they told me.”

It was hard to fathom that no one had noticed that two men were keeping a child prisoner, but the news is filled with stories of people kept prisoner in basements, in backyards, in secret rooms that no one finds. And Paul could have been kept anywhere within driving distance of that ferry.

Philippe saw me glance at the piles of paperwork in front of him. “Just going over some things from work,” he said. “Some cost overruns I didn’t expect.”

At my concerned look, he shook his head. “Nothing major. You’re always going to have overruns or estimates that are too low, but it averages out.” I thought about Jameson’s comment about his company’s financial problems, but saw no point in mentioning it.

“Did you find out who was accessing your files?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, but that’s part of the reason I’m going over all these, to look for discrepancies. But I wanted to ask you about this.” He pulled a thick envelope from his briefcase and handed it to me.

“What is it?” I turned it over, curious.

“One of my clients is having a thing Saturday evening to celebrate his company’s twenty-five-year anniversary. Open it.”

It was a heavy cream-colored card, like the ones extravagant people send out for weddings. It was an invitation to a party at the Château Laurier near the Parliament buildings, a hotel that resembled a castle. “Sounds pretty fancy,” I said.

“Yes, these people never do anything in an ordinary fashion. Do you want to go? I know it’s very late notice, but it slipped my mind until now.”

I blinked. “Go? Me?” I asked, almost in horror.

Philippe laughed. “Yes, you. The invitation’s for two, and most people bring someone. It’s good for business for me to get out and about, and if I go alone I’ll have to fend off too many people. It helps to have someone along.”

Troy, the human buffer. Maybe having me there would keep people from asking him about his home life. I assumed his office staff knew he was a widower, but maybe not everyone did. I picked up the invitation again. “What would you wear to a party like this?”

“I’d wear a suit. You’d wear a cocktail dress.” At my blank look, he smiled. “I can assume that you don’t have one with you?”

“I don’t have one with me or anywhere.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Would you like to go? You can find a dress here.”

I almost said an emphatic no. But that’s what old Troy would have done. I wavered, then took the plunge. “Okay. But I’m going to need help with shopping—a lot of help.”

He agreed, and at that moment I loved him for not laughing at me. The next morning we took Paul along as we trekked into women’s shops.

Philippe was good; I have to hand it to him. He found the right shops and the right clerks to steer us to the right clothes on the marked-down racks, knowing I was on a budget and knowing better than to offer to pay for it. He looked through them and indicated ones to try on, which Paul thought great fun. At the third dress at the second shop, a place on Sparks Street, he stopped me.

“This is it,” he said.

It wasn’t anything I would ever have considered. It was long-sleeved and off the shoulder, and I thought I’d look ridiculous in it. But I tried it on, and when I looked in the mirror a different person looked out at me. For a moment I didn’t breathe.

I stepped out, tentatively, and from Philippe’s expression I knew I’d been right. This was a Troy I’d had no idea existed. It was an odd feeling, like having a whole other self you’ve never happened to catch a glimpse of. Paul clapped his hands. I twisted around to look at the price tag, and winced. I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Looking good, even at a discount, doesn’t come cheap.



We postponed shoe shopping until the next morning, and left Paul with Elise. I hoped she didn’t think Philippe was buying me clothes; I hoped she knew this dinner thing was entirely platonic.

This was not fun. I think most women’s shoes are apparatuses of torture, designed to deform—the modern-day equivalent of old Chinese foot binding. I flat-out refused to wear spike heels or pointed-toe shoes. But finally we found a pair I could wear, more or less comfortably.

After lunch I ventured on my own to a department store. I’d called Kate, who knew about makeup, and she’d told me what to buy and what to do with the stuff.

I ended up giving the list to a saleswoman and buying what she handed me. Then I stopped at an ATM and got more Canadian money. I could charge most things, but for some things you need cash: a candy bar, a bag of chips, poutine.



I had reservations about leaving Paul at home—we’d never left him with just Elise, except for this morning, but evening seemed more ominous. But of course the house was secure; of course Philippe would check with Elise throughout the evening. Nothing would happen.

Paul was more excited than I about the party. He kept popping into my room when I was getting ready, and by the time I emerged he was jumping up and down. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done this with his mother, if it was a routine they’d had when she’d gone to functions.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” he declared.

I’d pulled back the sides of my hair loosely and secured them with combs Kate had told me to get. My hair springs into long curls if I don’t tie it back, and even I knew it looked good. The eyeliner made my eyes stand out, and I began to understand why women used this stuff. I rummaged through my toiletry bag for the one piece of jewelry I owned, a birthstone necklace my parents had given me when I had turned sixteen.

When I came out Philippe smiled. “You look wonderful,” he said.

To say that I was nervous would be a vast understatement. Cinderella didn’t go to the ball every day of the week. But when I stepped out of the car at the Château Laurier, I made a conscious decision not to let my nervousness rule the evening. We chatted with people Philippe knew, nibbled hors d’oeuvres, and drank dry wine. And danced. “Philippe, I don’t know how,” I hissed as he moved us toward the dance floor.

“Don’t you go dancing in Lake Placid?”

“Yes, but not real dancing. Not party dancing. Not steps or anything.”

“It’s easy. I’ll show you.” And he did, urging me onto the dance floor and leading me until I was moving without conscious thought.

“See? I knew you could do it.” He smiled at me, and I swear I felt my heart move. Clichés exist for a reason.

On the way home, I relaxed into the leather seat of his car. “Thank you,” I said.

“For what?”

“For taking me tonight. For a fun evening.” I waved my hand. For treating me like a girl. For showing me I can do this.

He smiled but didn’t speak, and I fell asleep before we reached the house. I woke up to tiptoe in to give a sleeping Paul a good-night kiss, hang up my beautiful dress, pull on a T-shirt and shorts, wash my face, and fall into bed.

At breakfast Elise showed me an Ottawa Citizen, folded to the society section. “Look,” she said happily. “A picture of you and Monsieur Dumond.” There we were, caught as we were entering the Château Laurier. Philippe looked handsome and natural, and for a moment I didn’t recognize myself. I couldn’t help but remember the photo of Madeleine from the Montreal magazine I’d seen an eon ago. You are no Madeleine, that unpleasant little voice said to me.

Which of course I knew. But neither was I the Troy I had been.

After everyone was done with the newspaper, I cut out the photo and tucked it away.





MONDAY MORNING WE BEGAN THE NEW WEEKLY ROUTINE, and I was living the most regimented existence I had since high school.

After a cheerful breakfast, Paul drove Philippe to school and went on to his office. I worked, read, ran or took a bike ride, and visited with Elise. Then I would pick up Paul, and after he had his snack, take him out to play with Tiger, Philippe and I having agreed that it seemed safe for Paul to be out with me and a large German shepherd–looking dog. Then he rested or played until his father got home, and after Happy Family Dinner came a quiet evening with homework or a game until his bedtime. Claude came for dinner regularly, and I got used to parrying his ripostes. I began to think of conversations with him as a game where I tried to turn the tables on him. Occasionally I succeeded.

I didn’t do any cooking or cleaning or even grocery shopping, except once in a while when I was going out and Elise asked me to pick something up or when I had a hankering for something she didn’t normally get. I tried to do my own laundry, although Elise had become adept at finding it either just before or after I did it, and ironing all the things she thought needed ironing. So I was looking significantly tidier than usual.

If this were really my life—if not for uncaught kidnappers and suspicious policemen, and if I wasn’t going to bed alone every night—it would have been wonderful.

But I was aware of the fine line I walked. I was part of their life, but not quite. Paul had his father, and he had Elise. He was going to school five days a week, and after another week or two, it would be time for me to head back to Lake Placid and a life that seemed no longer my own.

The thing was, I had plenty of spare time to spend on the internet.

Crimes have been solved by people being recognized from a Facebook account, so I decided to put up the equivalent of a personal ad on Craigslist. I resized the jpgs of the two men, and under the Vermont Personals, I wrote: Looking for two French-Canadian men, who may be from the Montreal area and likely lived in or near Burlington recently and were fluent in French—any info appreciated, and uploaded the drawings. I used the anonymous email address Craigslist provides, and didn’t list my name anywhere.

When I checked emails I saw that one to my fake identity had arrived from Gina: Yeah, I’ve been wondering, too. Just got an email from her but that’s all.

Okay, go for broke. Mouth dry, I wrote back: Want to meet for coffee or lunch and chat?

Gina must have been sitting at a computer, because I had an answer within a minute. I’m free tomorrow at 11:30, how about you?

I took a deep breath and emailed back: Sure, where would you like to meet? She suggested a café on this side of Montreal; I pulled up MapQuest and saw it was about two hours away. Yes, I could do this. I emailed a confirmation.

I couldn’t even pretend I was doing this just to try to find the kidnappers. Yes, I wanted clues, but I also desperately wanted to know more about Madeleine, to meet someone who knew her and would talk about her.



Claude came for dinner that evening. I honestly wasn’t sure why he came, unless he thought he was supposed to—or just wanted to torment me. Or maybe for Elise’s cooking. Tonight he made only token attempts to engage Paul, and when Philippe left the room briefly, Claude nodded toward Elise, who was just leaving the room after refilling the coffee cups.

“Elise is very good,” he said.

“Yes, she is,” I said brightly.

“And devoted to Paul.”

“Yes, she’s fond of Paul.”

His tone matched mine in blandness. “Perhaps a trifle too fond.”

He knew I had to react to this. What was he implying? Or did he just want to rile me? “How would you know that?” I asked.

This wasn’t quite the reaction he wanted. Something flashed in his eyes. “My sister told me.”

I didn’t have to respond, because we could hear Philippe returning. Later that evening I brought up Claude, asking Philippe how long Claude had been working for him.

Philippe thought for a moment. “Nearly six years now. He wasn’t living in Montreal then, but he wanted to be closer to his sister, so I suggested that he come to work for me, and it’s turned out quite well.”

I couldn’t quite hide my look of surprise.

“Oh, Claude is very good—he’s phenomenal at closing deals. But I know he likes to tweak people. For a while he was giving Colette, the receptionist, a hard time, until she learned to ignore him. But that ability that lets him see how to tweak people makes him a superb salesman.”

I suppose if you know how to annoy people, you probably also know how to please them. “I guess moving here was a big adjustment,” I said. Surely Claude had had friends in Montreal; surely he had had a life there besides his sister.

“I think he wanted a change,” Philippe said. “He’d been starting to see someone, and apparently it ended suddenly and badly. Starting up the business again here was a challenge, and it kept him busy. But I think since he’s spending more time managing the office and not working as directly with clients he’s getting a little bored.”

A bored employee, I thought, is a dangerous one. But I didn’t say so. This was Philippe’s brother-in-law, and would be a part of his life forever. For better or for worse.



The next morning two responses had come in to my Craigslist ad, one an ad for a dating service and the other from someone who had interpreted my ad as a come-on. I decided it was time to try something more specific. I posted a message on Twitter: Anyone know these guys? May have been involved in abduction of a 6-year-old boy last December, with a link to the Craigslist posting. This would go out to my hundreds of followers. Some would repeat it so all their followers would get it, and so on—like a virtual, endless chain letter. You never knew who might see it.

Then I checked Madeleine’s email account. There was one new one, from a sender called Gaius: Julia o Julia, what game are you playing?

I reread it. This was the first person who had used the name Julia, which implied a certain intimacy. Maybe this was someone Madeleine had been involved with—and perhaps was irate because he hadn’t heard from her. This was tough; I didn’t know how to respond. But if this person knew Madeleine well, maybe I could ferret out something. I typed, What do you mean? and hit the Send button before I could think better of it.



Now I had to leave to meet Gina.

If I cut things close, I always get lost, but if I leave plenty of time I’m fine. I arrived at the café in Montreal fifteen minutes early, and in fumbling French ordered iced tea.

I’d dressed in black—jeans, stretchy T-shirt, and blazer, with my recorder in the pocket. Gina had said she would be wearing red. I had no trouble spotting her when she arrived, ten minutes late. She had long fluffy hair and more eye makeup than I’d seen outside Nashville. I’d had plenty of time to practice my pitch: I hadn’t heard from Madeleine for months; I was worried, I happened to find your email address in an old email.

It turned out I didn’t have to talk much. In fact, it was so easy I might have felt guilty if it hadn’t taken all my energy to keep up with Gina’s discourse. All I had to do was introduce a topic, and she was off and running. Where could Madeleine possibly be? Probably in Florida or on a cruise, she does like to travel, you know, and I wish I could but I just never can get away, but she said she would take me sometime and of course she’d pay for everything, I’d just have to buy my airfare. Could she have gone off with someone? Well, that husband of hers is at work all the time, but sometimes her brother went with her and who knows, maybe she had a boyfriend, but she never talked about it and I never saw her with anyone except her brother. She did meet some woman, I can’t remember her name, she brought her into the salon to have her nails and hair done and even paid for it, but of course she always had plenty of money. What about her son? Yep, he’s a real cutie, but awfully quiet and spent most of his time with that old woman, the nanny.

Oddly, I found myself liking her.

Somewhere in all this she squeezed in talk about her job as a hairstylist—which was how she’d met Madeleine—and ate a hearty sandwich and drained two glasses of white wine. And then I took a chance on our sudden camaraderie and leaned close and said, “I’m not so sure that Madeleine really wanted children, you know.”

This started her off: Yes, if you want to know the truth of course you know the boy was sort of an accident but like on purpose to help Philippe along with the idea of getting married because some men you know just will never take that step unless they have to and it’s no wonder really that Maddie doesn’t care for kids because she was surrounded by them you know and some really awful ones sometimes growing up in all those foster homes and I’m pretty much sure that in some of those homes the dads took liberties you know because of some things Maddie said, in fact she got pregnant really young but the baby was born dead, and you know she was really gorgeous even when she was really really young, I’ve seen pictures.

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 ambulance, 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.

“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.

I thought about the car that had almost hit me. I thought about someone calling the school about picking up Paul. I thought about Philippe and the strange limbo he lived in. I wondered if Claude had been different when Madeleine was alive, and when he’d been dating someone. I wondered if Jameson was finding out anything from the emails. I wondered if I had turned them over sooner, whether my accident and the threat against Paul would have occurred at all.

Had I somehow led the kidnappers back here? Had they seen me, followed me to Lake Placid? Or had my emails or my postings about the kidnappers somehow alerted them? I couldn’t figure out how.

Or maybe my crash was an accident and someone had simply played a cruel prank on Philippe and the school.

I was moving slowly, so it took the better part of two mornings to clean the bike and true the wheel as well as I could without a truing stand. I’d emailed Simon, and he called. He was worried, but didn’t try to talk me into leaving. He asked if I minded if he talked to Jameson, and I didn’t. I didn’t confess all the snooping I’d done, but Jameson could tell him if he chose. “Be very careful, Troy,” my brother said, and I agreed. I couldn’t do much else.

A response to my Craigslist ad came in: these look a lot like 2 guys I met in a bar in burlington near the university, they had funny accents & said they were from montreal. one was named jock i think.

I took a deep breath. I looked up Jameson’s email address at the Ottawa Police Service and forwarded it to him.