Read Online Learning to Swim by Sara J Henry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara J Henry
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out of me.
He let go and whirled away, took two steps to his desk and propped himself on it, his back to me, breathing heavily. I leaned against the wall and rubbed my throat and breathed deeply. Air, as much as I wanted—stuff you take for granted until you suddenly can’t get enough of it. My ears were ringing. It was curiously like how I felt when I’d surfaced in Lake Champlain with Paul.
When he turned back around he was once again the cool businessman, in perfect control, hair back in place. “If you have harmed my son, I will kill you,” he said, almost pleasantly. “If this is a hoax, I will probably also kill you.”
We stared at each other a long moment. If this was innocence, it wasn’t what I expected. If it was guilt, it was terrifying.
“May I have some water?” I asked, my voice catching. He made a small violent movement, but restrained himself. He gestured toward a fancy watercooler in the corner. I walked to it on unsteady legs, ran water into a mug that sat nearby and drank, for once not concerned about germs. I carefully set the mug down and turned back to him. He was watching me unblinkingly.
I realized my entire plan had been absurdly naïve. I’d been insane to think I had the ability to face down either raw evil or deepanguish. Dumond either was responsible for his own wife’s death and his son’s near-death, or had suffered a life-shattering tragedy. And I had no idea which.
Time ticked by. I forced myself to breathe steadily. “Okay,” I said. “I’ve found a boy who may be your son.”
“Let me guess,” he interrupted, lip curling, French accent slipping through. “You need a cash deposit to remember where my son is. For this I get perhaps a small clue, but to remember exactly where he is you will need more cash, eh?” He nearly trembled with rage.
“No, no, no,” I said. “You don’t understand,” and God help me, my voice cracked again. I go years without crying—in public, anyway—and then I’m about to turn on the spigot for the third time in two days.
It stopped him for a moment, halted a tirade that I sensed had barely started. He abruptly gestured at a chair, and in that moment I thought I saw something besides rage: a flicker of despair, a deep sadness.
I sat, warily, on the edge of one of the leather chairs. I thought of a small boy, waiting for me, trusting me. Needing a parent who loved him.
“I’ve found a boy I think is your son,” I said. “But before I tell you where he is”—I held up my hand as he moved involuntarily—“I need to know what happened.”
He stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“How it happened. How Paul disappeared.” My voice rose. “Why there was no newspaper coverage. And why you’re here instead of in Montreal.”
He eyed me, gauging the advantages and disadvantages of humoring me, of telling his story. At last he did, flatly and with little expression, leaning up against the edge of his desk.
He’d come home from work one afternoon to find his wife and child gone, along with her car, and a scribbled note saying she was going on a holiday. She had taken breaks before, especially during the winter, but had never before taken Paul. But the nanny had had the day off, and he assumed it had been spur of the moment. Someclothing and jewelry and her laptop were gone. He’d called their condo in Florida and then her friends. Nothing.
A few days later a neighbor wandered over with a misdelivered envelope that had sat in their mailbox while they had been out of town. It was a ransom demand with a deadline that had passed, threatening to kill both mother and child if he went to the police or failed to pay.
Paralyzed, he waited. Next a packet arrived at work. He’d obviously not cared about his wife, the note said, and she was dead, but he had another chance to get his son back. It included a Polaroid of a frightened Paul, perched on a chair in a room he didn’t recognize.
He’d followed directions, leaving a bag
He let go and whirled away, took two steps to his desk and propped himself on it, his back to me, breathing heavily. I leaned against the wall and rubbed my throat and breathed deeply. Air, as much as I wanted—stuff you take for granted until you suddenly can’t get enough of it. My ears were ringing. It was curiously like how I felt when I’d surfaced in Lake Champlain with Paul.
When he turned back around he was once again the cool businessman, in perfect control, hair back in place. “If you have harmed my son, I will kill you,” he said, almost pleasantly. “If this is a hoax, I will probably also kill you.”
We stared at each other a long moment. If this was innocence, it wasn’t what I expected. If it was guilt, it was terrifying.
“May I have some water?” I asked, my voice catching. He made a small violent movement, but restrained himself. He gestured toward a fancy watercooler in the corner. I walked to it on unsteady legs, ran water into a mug that sat nearby and drank, for once not concerned about germs. I carefully set the mug down and turned back to him. He was watching me unblinkingly.
I realized my entire plan had been absurdly naïve. I’d been insane to think I had the ability to face down either raw evil or deepanguish. Dumond either was responsible for his own wife’s death and his son’s near-death, or had suffered a life-shattering tragedy. And I had no idea which.
Time ticked by. I forced myself to breathe steadily. “Okay,” I said. “I’ve found a boy who may be your son.”
“Let me guess,” he interrupted, lip curling, French accent slipping through. “You need a cash deposit to remember where my son is. For this I get perhaps a small clue, but to remember exactly where he is you will need more cash, eh?” He nearly trembled with rage.
“No, no, no,” I said. “You don’t understand,” and God help me, my voice cracked again. I go years without crying—in public, anyway—and then I’m about to turn on the spigot for the third time in two days.
It stopped him for a moment, halted a tirade that I sensed had barely started. He abruptly gestured at a chair, and in that moment I thought I saw something besides rage: a flicker of despair, a deep sadness.
I sat, warily, on the edge of one of the leather chairs. I thought of a small boy, waiting for me, trusting me. Needing a parent who loved him.
“I’ve found a boy I think is your son,” I said. “But before I tell you where he is”—I held up my hand as he moved involuntarily—“I need to know what happened.”
He stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“How it happened. How Paul disappeared.” My voice rose. “Why there was no newspaper coverage. And why you’re here instead of in Montreal.”
He eyed me, gauging the advantages and disadvantages of humoring me, of telling his story. At last he did, flatly and with little expression, leaning up against the edge of his desk.
He’d come home from work one afternoon to find his wife and child gone, along with her car, and a scribbled note saying she was going on a holiday. She had taken breaks before, especially during the winter, but had never before taken Paul. But the nanny had had the day off, and he assumed it had been spur of the moment. Someclothing and jewelry and her laptop were gone. He’d called their condo in Florida and then her friends. Nothing.
A few days later a neighbor wandered over with a misdelivered envelope that had sat in their mailbox while they had been out of town. It was a ransom demand with a deadline that had passed, threatening to kill both mother and child if he went to the police or failed to pay.
Paralyzed, he waited. Next a packet arrived at work. He’d obviously not cared about his wife, the note said, and she was dead, but he had another chance to get his son back. It included a Polaroid of a frightened Paul, perched on a chair in a room he didn’t recognize.
He’d followed directions, leaving a bag
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