Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  “So how does it help to find the van?” I asked. I took a bite of the sandwich, which was stuffed with green and red pepper, roast beef, cheese, and other things I couldn’t identify. It was incredible.

  “Forensics,” she said, pushing a bit of escaping salami into her mouth. “You’d be surprised what clues they can find from an empty van. Maybe not enough to locate the guys, but things that will help convict them when they’re found.”

  I tried to imagine it: kidnappers found, Paul safe. My own guilt dissipated. To celebrate, we had slices of rich chocolate cake.

  Alyssa was going cruising for information the next evening, and I agreed to go along. Bar crawling isn’t my forte, but I figured I’d follow her lead.

  We met near one of the bars, and she seemed to have morphed into another persona altogether. She had made only a few alterations in her appearance, wearing her hair loose and extra makeup, with jeans and a top that seemed to have shrunk slightly. But she seemed a different person, more sensual and slightly trashy.

  And it got results—fast. Men lit up as soon as we walked in the door. Like clockwork, a minute or two later, two men ambled over and said, as if in a bad movie, “Can we buy you ladies a drink?”

  Like my conversation with Gina, it was almost too easy. They sipped beer and I sipped Diet Coke, and Alyssa adroitly brought up the mysterious French-Canadian men, one possibly named Jacques. This was my cue to pull out the poster and show it. Eager to please, they took us around the room to talk to their friends and show the pictures. No one had seen or heard of the men, and after a few drinks and a few games of pool, we said goodbye to our increasingly inebriated new friends. On to bar number two, and an almost identical scenario. I discovered I wasn’t bad at pool.

  At bar number three, where I switched from Coke to wine so I’d have a chance of getting to sleep tonight, a friend of one of the men who had just bought us drinks squinted critically at the picture.

  “I think I’ve seen this one guy,” she said. “Yeah, he looks like the guy my friend Tammi went out with a couple of times.”

  Alyssa and I exchanged looks.

  “So do you think we could talk to her?” I asked.

  The woman shook her head. “Tammi moved away and I don’t know how to get ahold of her. She didn’t have her own place even then, just stayed with friends.”

  “What was the guy’s name?”

  Again she shook her head. “I don’t know that she ever said. I just saw them together here a few times; didn’t really talk to them.”

  Alyssa asked a few more questions, and had the woman write down Tammi’s name and the names of some of her friends. By the time we left the bar to walk back to our cars, my head was spinning from the smoke, the Coke, and the wine. Not a great combination.

  “Damn, girl,” I said. “This is rough work.”

  Alyssa laughed. “Yeah, and you never know if any of it is going to turn into anything. I’ll call some of these people and see if any of them knows anything about Tammi or this guy, and I’ll pass on the info to the police.”

  When I let myself into Thomas’s apartment, Tiger sniffed me disapprovingly. I’d promised to call Jameson if I found out anything, but this didn’t seem to qualify, so I just emailed him. I stood under the shower a long time. At last it seemed I was getting somewhere.

  The weekend slid past. Alyssa hadn’t turned up anything, and apparently the police hadn’t either. I kept doggedly searching for the second apartment, putting up my little posters, and updating my Craigslist posting. I went to another French club function, without Thomas this time. No leads, but it was good to get out. Marguerite was there, but not Vince, who had had to attend a faculty meeting. She was congenial and convivial, managing to greet every person who entered the room, while still chatting with me. She had a talent for noticing or remembering something about each person and working it into the conversation.

  I did have to turn aside a clumsy pass from a graduate student, one I didn’t see coming until almost too late. Just what I didn’t need, although maybe it was good for my ego. I emailed Alyssa, weaving it into an amusing tale, but ending on a disgruntled note: I know this is probably just a letdown after feeling like we were starting to get somewhere. But this is really frustrating.

  She must have been at her computer—or else she had a smartphone—because her reply arrived moments later: Don’t despair! Remember, the lull comes before the storm. Genius is one-tenth inspiration and nine-tenths perspiration. And all those other clichés. Hang in there!

  She was right, but this was getting tedious. I’d been poking around—and imposing on Thomas’s hospitality—for what seemed like forever. Thomas had been great about it, but he needed to get on with his life. While he seemed to have adjusted to us not dating, having an ex-girlfriend staying with him couldn’t be the best thing for his social life: Who’s that at your apartment? Oh, some woman I used to date who’s living with me for a while. Maybe I’d ask Alyssa about bunking with her, if she didn’t think that would infringe on her journalistic integrity.

  That evening while I was out walking Tiger, Philippe called my cell phone. The audit was nearing completion, and it seemed evident the culprit was Claude. I couldn’t pretend to be shocked, although it seemed unlike Claude to do something so clumsy. Maybe he had assumed Philippe was too busy or too grief-stricken to realize someone was cooking the books. As he almost had been.

  “Be careful,” he said, just before he hung up. Careful careful careful. I’d been careful my entire life. It had never gotten me anywhere.

  Suddenly I desperately wished I could unburden myself, talk about my fear that none of this was actually going to resolve anything, tell someone that I had no idea what to do next. I thought about calling Baker, but I wasn’t going to dump this on her. I wished I could talk to Simon, but I couldn’t, not this time.

  And I couldn’t face Thomas’s bland politeness. I couldn’t pretend to be interested in a PBS special; I couldn’t make polite, meaningless conversation. So I kept walking. The only movie within walking distance was a Kenneth Branagh flick, and that I couldn’t handle either. I tried calling Alyssa, but she wasn’t home.

  I pulled the card Jameson had given me out of my wallet and turned it over, where he’d written his home number in bold black letters. Without letting myself think about it, I punched his number in my cell phone. It rang once, twice, and then he answered, a gruff “Hello.” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. A long second, and I hung up. I turned my phone off so he couldn’t call back.

  Tiger and I walked for what seemed like hours more, until I found a bench and sat with her beside me, my face buried in her fur. It wasn’t the contact I longed for, but it was better than nothing.

  I didn’t go back until I knew Thomas would be asleep.

  MARGUERITE HAD ASKED ME TO MEET HER FOR COFFEE, so the next afternoon we met at a little pastry and coffee shop, where we had brownies with our cappuccinos. A triple hit: chocolate, sugar, and caffeine. She was wearing a crimson dress that shouldn’t have worked with her hair color, but somehow it did. We chatted about the university and my work, and I found myself relaxing and telling her more about myself than I had intended. I could see why Thomas was drawn to her: she had a talent for focusing on you, and seeming genuinely interested in what you were saying.

  “So have you found those people you were looking for?” she asked.

  “No, but it’s looking up. I think things will wrap up soon.”

  “And then you’ll head back to—where was it, Lake Placid?”

  I nodded.

  “The four of us should get together before you leave,” she said. “I’ll check with Vincent tonight, but let’s plan on doing something this weekend.”

  I made noncommittal noises. I wasn’t going to commit Thomas to anything, and it seemed that doing something with just the four of us, as if we were two couples, might be awkward. I knew Thomas wouldn’t misunderstand, but the idea made me uneasy.

  On the way back
, I stopped to check my mail at the post office. My mailbox held two envelopes. One was junk mail, but the other was a handwritten note I read twice before its significance sunk in. It said:

  One of these guys looks like a guy I was with a couple of months ago. He was cute but a real asshole and didn’t speak English very good. He lived near Pearl St, but I’m not sure where because I never went there. My phone won’t be hooked back up til Monday, but you can call me then 555-4636.

  Shawna

  Bingo. The apartment where Paul had been kept had been one street away from Pearl Street. Maybe this woman would have enough information to help lead the police to these guys, or at least this one.

  Back at the apartment I scanned the note from Shawna, emailed a copy to Jameson and one to Alyssa, then left her a phone message. I printed a copy of the note with Concerning the people who kidnapped Paul Dumond typed on top to mail to the Burlington police.

  Between the van and this woman, surely the police would be able to track those guys down. Kidnappers would be caught, ghosts laid to rest. I’d be able to move on.

  By that evening we had an invitation to spend Saturday on the lake on the Thibaults’ sailboat, a forty-two-footer. We would spend the night on the boat and return in the morning. Thomas was as enthusiastic as I’d ever seen him.

  “Yikes, that sounds pretty fancy,” I said, none too sure about this. I wasn’t eager for this much socializing, especially this close up, and overnight.

  Thomas clearly wanted to go. “It’ll be fun. You’d be amazed how much room there is on board—they’ll have their own separate room, and there’ll be bunks for us.”

  This would be more than a little awkward, I thought. But I owed him, and I knew he wouldn’t go on his own. I was sure Alyssa would take Tiger for the night. If nothing else, this would be something to tell her and Baker about—another new experience.

  I tried the phone number the woman Shawna had sent, just in case. As she’d said, it wasn’t hooked up yet. I’d call Monday.

  Saturday dawned bright and clear, and my spirits began to lift as we headed to the marina. For the first time since this had started, I had the feeling it would all be over soon: kidnappers behind bars, murder solved, Philippe cleared, Paul safe. Chapter closed. Time to start the next chapter, whatever it would be.

  It turned out to be one of those unexpectedly magical days. The weather was perfect: sky clear and sunny, the air with that crisp feel that makes it seem that something wonderful is just around the corner. Vince and Marguerite were experienced sailors and Thomas had done some sailing as well. For me it was brand new, and I loved it. I loved the sound of the sails crackling, the feel of the wind, and the warmth of the sun on my skin.

  We docked at a small marina at Malletts Bay, poked around in a few shops, and stopped for lunch in a small restaurant and had mouthwatering fresh trout. The meal was relaxed and easy, the conversation witty and light, and Vince smoothly picked up the bill. Back on the boat, I sat at the bow, basking in the sun and feeling one with the boat as it moved through the water. We anchored before dusk in an open area. The wind had died down before we could reach the bay where we’d planned to anchor, but Vince said we’d be fine, even this far out, as this was a little-traveled area.

  Dinner was a picnic the Thibaults had brought along, unlike any I’d ever had: delectable little sandwiches whose contents I could only guess at, fruit salads, and a variety of individual baked desserts. We ate until we could eat no more, and packed away the rest. We watched the sun set, and went below to sip wine and chat.

  Vince and Thomas began playing gin rummy, with Marguerite watching and hanging onto Vince’s arm, Thomas chuckling at her witticisms. She shook her hair back in a way that seemed familiar. Something about her reminded me of someone, maybe an actress I’d seen on a TV show. She must have felt me looking at her, because she glanced up.

  Suddenly my meal seemed heavy in my stomach. I’d eaten too much, I thought. I set my wine down, murmuring that I wanted some air, and slipped away to go topside.

  It had been good for me to get away from town, to be out on the water and away from everything. The day had provided a bookend for my time in Burlington. I’d done what I could to catch the kidnappers, to make up for my mistakes, to work through my guilt, and I’d given Philippe space to start working through his.

  Things would work out. Life would go on. I would head back to Lake Placid and take up my life again. I’d figure out if it still worked for me, and change it if it didn’t. Philippe and Paul, I knew, would always be a part of my life, some way or another. Some people you can erase as if they were characters on a canceled TV show, but others are with you forever.

  The boat was rocking gently, and I leaned against a stanchion as I stared up at the sky. It was a rich dark blue, the stars brilliant slits of light, the moon luminous. I breathed in the cool night air. This is the same sky Philippe looks at, the same one Paul sees at night. I could imagine them here with me, standing beside me.

  I’d been up there probably a quarter of an hour when I heard a faint noise. I turned to see Marguerite approaching, quiet in her deck shoes.

  “Oh, hi,” I said brightly, to cover my annoyance at being interrupted. “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely,” she agreed. “Did you enjoy the day?”

  “It was great,” I said, and meant it. “You were wonderful to ask us.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  Silence. “You got tired of watching the card game?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile, “I got tired of watching.” She tossed her hair back in that curiously familiar gesture, giving me an odd look.

  “Do you take the boat out often?” I asked, because it seemed rude not to make conversation.

  “We’ve tried to get out every nice weekend this summer, and we’ll keep it up until it gets too cold. We do love the water.” She turned and looked directly at me. Her eyes, I saw, were brown, a little too dark for her auburn hair.

  I blinked. She again shook her hair back, with a smile that seemed almost taunting. Her posture and the way she held her head had changed subtly, making her seem somehow quite different.

  My heart skipped a beat. Suddenly I realized what that movement reminded me of: the way Paul shook his hair back when it fell into his face. I looked at her and suddenly I was looking into Paul’s eyes.

  IT WAS LIKE LOOKING AT A MOVIE RIGHT AFTER THE FOCUS has been adjusted. The hair wasn’t long or blond and the nose was more rounded and upturned than in the photos I’d seen. But it was her, or her doppelgänger. The things that had seemed hauntingly familiar, the toss of the head, the shape of the eyes, were Paul’s. The face I was looking at was the one that had stared across the room at me from the photo on Philippe’s desk: Madeleine.

  Or her twin sister, I thought. I blinked. It was like the old TV show Sliders, where the characters kept sliding into parallel universes and running into their doubles, with different hair and a different life, but the same face. Just like now. This was Madeleine, but somehow not her.

  She smiled, a graceful Mona Lisa smile. “Madeleine?” I whispered.

  “I thought you figured it out downstairs.” She sounded amused, as if I’d made a joke.

  My mind was reeling. Had she escaped the kidnappers and taken a new identity? Had she had amnesia? “You’re not dead,” I said stupidly.

  “Of course not.” She laughed, and it was so like Paul’s happy trill I couldn’t keep from shuddering.

  “But you’re married to Vince—you have the twins.” I’d seen the portrait on the wall of their home: the beautiful shiny-haired boy and girl, off at school in Connecticut.

  “Oh, we’re married all right. It’s been more than six months now.” Her tone was pleasant, what you might use chatting to a friend at a party. “But the twins aren’t mine; they belong to Vince and his dearly departed first wife.”

  This was a bad dream come to life, one of those where bizarre thing
s happen that couldn’t possibly be happening.

  “But your body was found. In your car. The dental records matched.” Even to me my voice sounded flat.

  She smiled at me indulgently, like you’d smile at someone who’s a bit slow. “Troy, getting the name changed on dental records was simple—men are easy to manipulate. Of course the body wasn’t me; she was just someone who was getting in the way of things, and needed to disappear. She looked like me, so it worked out wonderfully.” She said it as if it all made perfect sense, and in a way it did.

  And that was the moment when I realized—while standing on this gently rocking sailboat on a lovely moonlit night—that I was talking to a psychopath. Who had been married to Philippe, who was still married to Philippe, who had given birth to Paul. Who had adroitly and convincingly pretended to be dead for the last six months, and who seemed to be telling me she had killed a woman in her place.

  Suddenly I was calm. My breathing evened out and my brain clicked into survival mode. As I was forming my next sentence I was analyzing the distance between us, how composed she was, what her next move might be, what options I had. This woman was placidly telling me about killing her double or having her killed; I doubted she intended for me to leave this boat alive.

  “So you were never kidnapped.” I kept my voice steady.

  “Of course not.” Her hair was perfect, the strands falling evenly. Her outfit and makeup were immaculate.

  Somehow I knew I needed to keep her talking. “If you wanted out, why didn’t you just leave?”

  She laughed. “The prenup I’d signed would have meant I would have hardly gotten a dime. This way I ended up with quite a stash, more than enough so that Vince didn’t think I was after his money.” She seemed proud of a game well played.

  “You convinced everyone—even Claude.” I watched to see her reaction.

  Her eyes flickered. “So Claude believed it was my body?”

  “Yes, I think so. He was very upset.”