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Authors: Sara J. Henry
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clock, and at Elise, carefully busy with something she’d taken from the fridge. “Even if we left now we’d have trouble making it by five. We can wait until morning.”
The state police investigator, when I called, was none too happy, and I felt more than a trifle guilty. I hoped I hadn’t made things worse for Jessamyn by whisking her out of town. I told him we were visiting in Ottawa, I’d just gotten the messages, and we’d come straight to the state police headquarters in Ray Brook in the morning. I gave him my cell phone number, and put Jessamyn on the phone to confirm what I’d said. He didn’t push it—it wasn’t as if they were going to extradite Jessamyn to interview her half a day earlier.
I called Jameson, who agreed that someone could be exerting pressure to bump this up a notch. “Or it’s possible that all non-conventional deaths there are referred to your state police,” he said. “I’d remind Jessamyn not to say anything that’s not a fact, and if she gets uncomfortable, to ask to leave. Or consider getting an attorney before she goes in. And if you need me, call me.”
If you need me, call me
. For Jameson, this qualified as almost intimate.
Again I went looking for Jessamyn, and this time I found her sitting in her room, on the bed, neatly made. My eyes went to herduffel bag on the floor. It was plump, full. Packed. “You’re thinking about taking off,” I said, and I realized there was nothing stopping her. She could hop a bus or stick out her thumb and leave Lake Placid and her tiny room and her few possessions behind. Just as she’d left somewhere else to come to the Adirondacks. Her eyes darted around the room. Finally she looked at me.
“I don’t want to talk to the police, Troy.” Her voice was thin, tight.
“But you did once, and it wasn’t so bad.”
“Yes, but this is the state police—that’s a bigger deal. That means they think someone did something to Tobin, that he didn’t just drown.”
I’d hoped she hadn’t thought of this. I sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s possible,” I said carefully. “Or the Saranac Lake police could be uncomfortable handling it because of things stirred up by the newspaper article, or the missing truck. Or pressure from Tobin’s parents.”
“Or it could mean Tobin’s death
wasn’t an accident
.”
The words hung in the air. I looked at her full on. “It could. What do you think?”
Her eyes shifted. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
I spoke rapidly. “Jessamyn, if someone did something to Tobin, it needs to be found out. If you think anyone could have hurt him, you have to face this, you have to tell the police. You don’t want to run from this.”
She looked miserable, but she nodded.
“Do you want to talk to an attorney before you go?”
She shook her head, and on this she was adamant. In the North Country, she said, showing up with a lawyer would make everyone assume she was guilty of something. She was right about that.
I thought of more I could say, but in the end I just left her there.
That evening we had an even better dinner, lasagna with homemade noodles, an exquisite salad, fresh-baked bread. Jessamynwas more animated than I’d ever seen her, as if wringing every bit she could from one last happy evening with this family. We played a rousing game of Pictionary, roping Elise in, me coaching Paul, until it was time for Paul to go to bed. I got to tuck him in, freshly bathed in his flannel pajamas, and I read him
Where the Wild Things Are
. Paul loved this book, and the little boy Max.
“Max was
très vilain
—very naughty,” he told me solemnly. “But I shouldn’t like to be sent to bed without dinner.”
“He was a little naughty,” I agreed. “But I don’t think you ever have to worry about going to bed without dinner.” I thought of the months Paul had been held captive, with the closest thing to a real dinner an occasional McDonald’s meal put in his room. Maybe he thought of
The state police investigator, when I called, was none too happy, and I felt more than a trifle guilty. I hoped I hadn’t made things worse for Jessamyn by whisking her out of town. I told him we were visiting in Ottawa, I’d just gotten the messages, and we’d come straight to the state police headquarters in Ray Brook in the morning. I gave him my cell phone number, and put Jessamyn on the phone to confirm what I’d said. He didn’t push it—it wasn’t as if they were going to extradite Jessamyn to interview her half a day earlier.
I called Jameson, who agreed that someone could be exerting pressure to bump this up a notch. “Or it’s possible that all non-conventional deaths there are referred to your state police,” he said. “I’d remind Jessamyn not to say anything that’s not a fact, and if she gets uncomfortable, to ask to leave. Or consider getting an attorney before she goes in. And if you need me, call me.”
If you need me, call me
. For Jameson, this qualified as almost intimate.
Again I went looking for Jessamyn, and this time I found her sitting in her room, on the bed, neatly made. My eyes went to herduffel bag on the floor. It was plump, full. Packed. “You’re thinking about taking off,” I said, and I realized there was nothing stopping her. She could hop a bus or stick out her thumb and leave Lake Placid and her tiny room and her few possessions behind. Just as she’d left somewhere else to come to the Adirondacks. Her eyes darted around the room. Finally she looked at me.
“I don’t want to talk to the police, Troy.” Her voice was thin, tight.
“But you did once, and it wasn’t so bad.”
“Yes, but this is the state police—that’s a bigger deal. That means they think someone did something to Tobin, that he didn’t just drown.”
I’d hoped she hadn’t thought of this. I sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s possible,” I said carefully. “Or the Saranac Lake police could be uncomfortable handling it because of things stirred up by the newspaper article, or the missing truck. Or pressure from Tobin’s parents.”
“Or it could mean Tobin’s death
wasn’t an accident
.”
The words hung in the air. I looked at her full on. “It could. What do you think?”
Her eyes shifted. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
I spoke rapidly. “Jessamyn, if someone did something to Tobin, it needs to be found out. If you think anyone could have hurt him, you have to face this, you have to tell the police. You don’t want to run from this.”
She looked miserable, but she nodded.
“Do you want to talk to an attorney before you go?”
She shook her head, and on this she was adamant. In the North Country, she said, showing up with a lawyer would make everyone assume she was guilty of something. She was right about that.
I thought of more I could say, but in the end I just left her there.
That evening we had an even better dinner, lasagna with homemade noodles, an exquisite salad, fresh-baked bread. Jessamynwas more animated than I’d ever seen her, as if wringing every bit she could from one last happy evening with this family. We played a rousing game of Pictionary, roping Elise in, me coaching Paul, until it was time for Paul to go to bed. I got to tuck him in, freshly bathed in his flannel pajamas, and I read him
Where the Wild Things Are
. Paul loved this book, and the little boy Max.
“Max was
très vilain
—very naughty,” he told me solemnly. “But I shouldn’t like to be sent to bed without dinner.”
“He was a little naughty,” I agreed. “But I don’t think you ever have to worry about going to bed without dinner.” I thought of the months Paul had been held captive, with the closest thing to a real dinner an occasional McDonald’s meal put in his room. Maybe he thought of
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