Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

The doctor examines Rick’s arms, face and neck with a magnifying glass. They are looking for evidence of a struggle. They have searched his clothes for an object, a mark, a stain, anything he might possess.

Inspector Bradley says, “Let’s start from the beginning, Rick. Where did you go once you got to the intersection? Try to remember.”

“Asseye de ti rappeli.” He remembers metal beds. Women with hard voices and white shoes, taking him along by the arm. Murky linoleum with white streaks, the smell of beans cooking, the smell of pee.

“What did you say to get the little girl to go with you?”

“En pchit fee ,” says Rick.

“Cut that out,” says the cop from his chair.

“We’ve got all night, Rick,” says Bradley. “Try to remember, son.”

He remembers the curious feeling of recollecting from time to time that he had a sister. It was as though the word “sister” had come to mean something that you used to have. Sisters were not things you hung onto. They didn’t die, they just quite naturally disappeared. When brother and sister saw one another again, it was as if Rick had awoken from a spell. He swore he would never fall asleep away from anybody of his, ever again.

When he and Colleen turn twenty-one it will be up to them whether they go back to it their real last name — their first one — Pellegrim. His father played Cajun music and sang. Rick doesn’t know where he was from, he never said, nor would he say whether he was Canadian or American, but he claimed Indian blood. He had fought in the Pacific. He had no passport, yet they were always crossing the border in the car — there were places then. Back roads across the Medicine Line. Rick’s mother had long black hair, her features round and sweet. Her eyes dark and twinkly like Rick’s. Genevieve.

They followed the rodeos. His father wore a cowboy hat and a fringed buckskin jacket with an eagle embroidered on the back in beads, the work of their mother’s hands. She was from the Red River Valley, and one day Rick will go back and see if anyone is left. This is what he possesses. It fits into a very small bundle that you could hang on a stick if you had to up and leave. Ousque ji rest? Chu en woyaugeur, ji rest partou .

“Speak English,” says the cop.

They are alone. The inspector and the doctor have left. Another noise in the hall — Rick recognizes his mother’s voice. He turns and simultaneously doubles over in pain. The cop has kicked him in the nuts with his thick knee, still bent, blue fabric straining. The door opens and Inspector Bradley comes in before the officer can use his boot. The inspector places Rick under arrest for the rape and murder of Claire McCarroll and advises him of his rights under the law. Then Rick’s parents come in. Rick is grateful that he is fully clothed when he sees his mother.

She takes one look at him and screams at Inspector Bradley, “What’ve you bastards done to him!” But the uniformed officer has left the room, and it’s no good how loudly his mother insists she is taking him home, the arguments of his father, the professorial outrage in his voice, none of it makes any difference.

In his office, Inspector Bradley writes a memo to his chief, requesting that the officer who struck Richard Froelich be transferred to another unit. Bradley is not the “beating with a rubber hose” type. His job is to serve the justice system. This is a delicate case. Richard Froelich is a juvenile but he has committed an adult crime. He should be tried as one. Allegations of police brutality against a “defenceless child” will not help.

Jack crosses the street for home, following his kids, who are racing each other to the TV.

“Dad, can we watch ‘The Flintstones’?” asks his daughter.

“Sure.”

The small picture is worse. But Simon has control over the big picture. Jack will have to phone him from home this time, and tell him to talk to someone right away.

“Dad, can we have orange pop?” his son asks.

“Go ahead,” says Jack and picks up the phone. Once Simon has adjusted the big picture, the small picture will come back into focus.

He goes to dial, then recalls that he will have to use the night number. It’s in his wallet. Along with the key to the Ford Galaxy. He meant to toss the key into the scrapyard. He unfolds the slip of paper from his wallet, dials the number and listens to the ringing at the other end. When Simon answers, he speaks quietly. It’s just as well the television is blaring in the next room.

“My neighbour’s son has been arrested for the murder of McCarroll’s daughter.”

“Good Lord.”

“Yeah. The police were never interested in Fried, it was the boy they were after.”

“That’s the boy you were mentioning,” says Simon. “The one you saw from the car?”

“That’s right.”

“How appalling. Well, they’ve got him now, I suppose that’s a relief.”

“What? No, Simon, the boy is innocent. I’m his alibi.”

The briefest pause, then “Oh.”

From the living room, Madeleine sees her father facing away and leaning against the fridge. His head is bowed and his free hand grips the back of his neck.

Jack speaks with his mouth close to the phone. “The police ought to be out finding this pervert, not wasting time with—”

“Quite.”

In the living room, the kids are squabbling. Jack moves farther into the kitchen, as far as the phone cord will allow. “The OPP need to know that I can vouch for the boy. We need to clear this whole thing up, discreetly, right away, Si. You’ll have to have a word with someone.”

“With whom?”

Jack feels faintly ridiculous. He licks his lips. “External Affairs; RCMP Security Service, whoever’s got a back channel to the police here.”

“The fact is, old friend, there is no one.”

“… What do you mean?”

“Just that,” says Simon, almost breezy. “I’ve closed the loop on this one. The Soviets think Fried is dead. I’ve had to keep the points of entry to a minimum. You’re the only Canadian directly involved. I told you that.”

You’re the only one who knows . He had meant it literally. “What about — well, how did you—?” Jack shakes his head. “How in God’s name did you manage to get Fried a Canadian passport? How can you be operating here without Canadian authority?”

“Did you get rid of the car?”

“It’s scrap by now. Simon, I asked you a question.”

“We’re not doing anything that contradicts our obligations under NATO.”

“Bullshit. What’s going on?” He has sworn like a cadet, right in his own kitchen. He glances over his shoulder but his kids are fixated, blue shadows dancing on their faces, bathed in undifferentiated racket.

“It’s the truth,” Simon is saying. “Politicians may prefer either not to know, or not to be seen to know, the details, but their policies implicitly authorize this sort of work, and they expect it to be done, otherwise we’d be part of the U.S.S.R. by now.”

Is it legal? The job he’s doing for Simon? What does Jack really know about Oskar Fried?

“Who are you working for, Simon?”

“It’s time I bought you that drink.”

Oskar Fried is a Soviet citizen, for pity’s sake. And Jack has embraced him on the word of an old friend. A man he has seen once in twenty years. “You told me it was an American — Canadian — British operation.”

“I never specified. I can tell you it ain’t Soviet.”

“You know there’s a killer on the loose here, buddy?”

Jack’s knuckles are white around the receiver. But Simon’s voice, when he answers, is quiet. “Not a very happy place right now, eh? Centralia? I’m not keen on seeing an innocent boy punished, Jack. I’m not keen on child-killers going free.”