Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“Poor bastard.” Jack’s heart is pounding but his tone is even.

“Yeah,” says Blair, and sips his coffee. “So he doesn’t know who it was waved, but he knows it was an air force type ’cause of the hat.”

“Then they’ll find him.”

Blair shrugs. “I don’t know. All sounds a bit funny to me. Like they’re after frying bigger fish, what with looking for some damn war criminal. What would he want with a child?”

“They’re just doing their job, they got to follow up every lead. Every stranger in the area,” says Jack, reaching for his hat. He has a foul taste in his mouth.

Blair gets up to see him out. They walk to the front door.

“I don’t want to disturb Sharon. Would you say goodbye for me?” Blair nods. Jack puts on his hat, glancing, as he does so, at his watch. Twenty past ten.

“Jack, I want to thank you for everything.” Blair offers his hand; Jack shakes it. “You know, I was only supposed to be up here for a year.”

Jack nods. Waits.

“I can’t help thinking, if we’d never come here—” He breaks off, takes three or four quick gasps, but manages not to cry. He says instead, with a force and bitterness that shock Jack, “I hate this goddamn useless country.” He squints, his chin trembles and he smacks away tears first with one hand, then with the other, and gets hold of himself. “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean that.”

“Blair, I’m sorry. We all are.”

Jack walks quickly from the PMQs. It was Froelich. Jesus Christ. And why is he calling Fried a war criminal? A Nazi? Froelich was in a concentration camp — the number on his arm proves that; Fried was a scientist in a rocket factory; how is it possible they even crossed paths? And yet Froelich called out the name of the factory, Dora. He wants to put a rope about my neck . Jack recalls how Fried looked when he spoke those words: blanched.

The sun is glaring again today, its harsh light unmitigated by heat. Jack marches up Canada Avenue; he has five minutes. He’d assumed the police were asking for alibis today from all male personnel, but now he’s certain that what they’re really after is that bloody Ford Galaxy and Oskar Fried. He will phone Simon right after his interview and break the news. He’ll also ask Simon why a perfectly reliable man like Henry Froelich would identify Fried as a war criminal. Jack reminds himself that he is hardly in a position to demand explanations; this mess is his fault. If I hadn’t used that godforsaken car for my own convenience… . He knows what Simon will say: make it disappear.

He crosses the parade square, heading for the curling arena. Steve Ridelle is standing outside — Jack didn’t know he smoked. They exchange a brief, grim hello, and Jack recalls that Steve officially identified the body, assisted at the autopsy. He pushes through the big double doors, feels the chill off the ice and hurries up the steps to the recreation director’s office, but the door is closed. The police are running ten minutes late and there is a man waiting ahead of him: Nolan. They nod. Today Nolan’s silence does not seem out of place.

At recess there is not as much noise as usual and some girls are in little groups, crying. Madeleine leans against the crossbar of the teeter-totters and feels strange, as though she were looking at her friends from far away. Another space has opened up; only now is she aware that she is missing something — something Auriel and Lisa and the other crying girls take for granted. And she wonders if anyone else has noticed: the crying kids are normal, and she is not.

“Wing Commander McCarthy, how do you do, sir, I’m Inspector Bradley.” The inspector is seated behind the rec director’s desk. In a corner of the office, a uniformed police officer stands poised with a notebook. “Sir, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, can you give me an idea of your whereabouts last Wednesday afternoon?”

“Sure, I would have been right here at the station, in my office most likely.”

“Did you leave your office at any time, sir?”

“I think I stepped out to the PX at one point.”

“Did you leave the station at all?”

“I can’t say I did, no.”

From the corner of his eye, Jack can see the constable writing down his answers. Inspector Bradley says, “Have you been out driving in the area recently, sir?”

“I’ve been back and forth to London once or twice, and my wife has—”

“So you’ve been on Highway 4 in the past week?”

“Oh sure.”

“You see, we’re hoping that someone may have noticed something or someone unusual in the area. You understand that we’re looking for a killer.”

Jack nods.

“Do you have children, sir?”

“I sure do.”

“It’s vital that we hear from anyone who was anywhere in the environs of the station that afternoon. Sometimes people see something and they don’t realize its significance; that’s my job. Of course, I can’t do my job without the help of everyone here. Did you see anything, or anyone at all, when you were out on Number 4 last Wednesday?”

“No, I–I wish I could help you, inspector, but the fact is, I was right here all afternoon.”

“Thanks for your time, sir, and again, sorry to trouble you.”

“Not at all. Good luck.” Jack starts to go.

“Wing Commander McCarthy.” Jack turns, his hand on the door. “Please tell no one about the content of this interview.”

“You got it,” says Jack. And leaves.

He stops outside the phone booth next to the PX and takes a deep breath. Simon isn’t going to like this. He enters the booth and hesitates — what if someone sees him making a phone call immediately after his interview with the police? He glances over his shoulder to make certain there is no one to see him feeding the phone with enough dimes to cover a call to Washington.

“Major Newbolt here, give me First Secretary Crawford, please.”

Jack waits. People come and go from the PX; cadets enter the arena, skates slung over their shoulders — no one takes the slightest notice of him.

Simon’s voice startles him—“Jack, call you right back.” They hang up and Jack waits again, feeling conspicuous. He flips through the phone book — Exeter, Clinton, Crediton, Goderich, Lucan — looking for what, if anyone should ask?

A tap on the glass. It’s Vic Boucher. “Mind if I make a quick call, Jack?”

Jack vacates the booth too promptly. “Go right ahead, Vic, I was just looking up — looking for riding stables, for Madeleine.”

“Oh yeah?” says Vic, digging for a dime, stepping into the booth. “The wife said either cabbage or lettuce, and darned if I can remember which.”

Jack smiles, hands him a dime and says, “Lettuce. They never want cabbage.”

Vic dials and Jack checks his watch — Simon will get a busy signal and call back, that’s all. And there’s time; chances are, while the police are interviewing personnel, they’re not out looking for the car. He wonders if they have contacted the RCMP. Froelich must have given a description of Fried — will police sketches go up at post offices across southern Ontario? Christ.

While Vic speaks intently into the phone, Jack’s mind returns to Fried. What did you do, Oskar? Jack had asked. My job . How could that have included crimes against humanity? The Germans used forced labour in their factories during the war: Volkswagen, Zeppelin — Auschwitz itself was part munitions factory, Krupps etc…. It makes sense that there would have been forced labour at Dora too. Froelich could have gone from one to the other. Still, Fried’s “job” would have been entirely technical, and while some workers did die, the intention would have been to keep them alive and healthy enough to do their jobs.