Free Learning to Swim by Sara J Henry Page B

throat tightened. Here was Paul’s childhood, boxed away, carefully moved into a new room. Waiting for the boy who had spent the last five months alone in a tiny room.
    As quickly as he’d started, Dumond was finished. Back down the hallway, up a short flight of stairs to what seemed to be a loft area. I sat on the stairs to wait. He reappeared a few minutes later with a packed leather bag.
    “Let’s go,” he said, and we strode in silence across the shiny hallway, our heels clicking on the marble, and climbed into the Mercedes.

D OES HE SPEAK ENGLISH ?”
    “What?” I asked, startled. We’d traveled in silence the first half hour. He had no idea if I was telling him the truth. If he was innocent, he wouldn’t want to get his hopes up that he was about to see his son. If guilty, he was probably working out how best to get rid of me. I was working hard not to consider the second option.
    I felt as if I’d suddenly stepped into a movie without having seen the script. Had he been involved? I hoped the hell not. Was I doing the right thing taking him to Paul? I hoped the hell yes. Was I in danger? I had no idea. The Ottawa police knew he was with me, and knew where we were headed. But either way, this man was going to take one small boy out of my life forever.
    He grimaced. “This boy you say is Paul.”
    “No. At least not much. Did your son … ?”
    “He speaks a little, but we spoke French at home.” I knew that most Québec schools didn’t let kids study English until third grade or so. Which seems to me a tad exclusionary, especially in a country that’s officially bilingual.
    Silence for a few moments.
    “Is he healthy?” he asked.
    “He seems fine. I had a friend who’s a nurse look him over.”
    More miles in silence. We zoomed past an exit, and I could see McDonald’s arches in the distance. My stomach rumbled. I had a packet of peanut butter crackers in my bag, but I couldn’t picturemyself pulling them out and crunching them down in this car with its spotless leather seats.
    He drove well, checking rearview mirrors regularly and changing lanes smoothly. It was at least a quarter hour before he spoke again.
    “How did you find me?” When he wasn’t angry, his English had no trace of an accent. It’s not uncommon for Canadians to be flawlessly bilingual, especially Québécois who move in both anglophone and francophone worlds. Although some never learn English, and others have a heavy accent.
    “Paul told me your names, and I searched on the internet until I found your company and its address. I mean, I assumed it was you.”
    “You live in Lake Placid.”
    “Yes,” I said. And then, because talking, however inanely, seemed better than sitting in silence for the rest of this three-hour drive, I told him where I’d grown up, where I went to school, about working for the newspaper, and what work I did now. I’m not usually a rambler, but something had to fill this silence. He asked no questions. Neither did I.
    Suddenly I thought of Baker—I needed to let her know we were on our way. I didn’t want to be left sitting tensely with Dumond in their driveway waiting for them if they had gone out. And I owed her some warning:
Hey, Bake, I’m about to arrive at your house with Paul’s father, who I’m hoping like hell didn’t have anything to do with the kidnapping
.
    I pulled out my cell phone and gestured with it. “I should tell Baker that we’re coming.”
    “Baker?”
    “My friend that Paul’s with.”
    He thought a moment and then nodded, pulling a cell phone out of a cradle I hadn’t noticed. “Use this one.”
    Fine by me. He’d have a record of the call, but since I was taking him to Baker’s, it hardly mattered. I punched in the numbers. Baker answered.
    “Bake, it’s me. How’s Paul?”
    “He’s fine,” she said mildly. “The boys are home from school and teaching him all kinds of naughty slang. Did you talk to his father?”
    “Yep. I’m in his car. We’ve