Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

IT TOOK THE JURY all of two and a half hours to find him guilty, “with a plea for mercy.”

The judge said, “Richard Plymouth Froelich, the sentence of this court upon you is that you be taken from here to the place from whence you came and there be kept in close confinement until Monday, the second day of September, 1963, and upon that day and date you be taken to the place of execution, and that you there be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

Jack has no memory of leaving the courtroom. Henry Froelich was mobbed by reporters the moment the verdict came down, Jack couldn’t get near him. Nor did he seek out the inspector, the judge, the Crown attorney…. He needed to tell Simon first. He drove the staff car back to Centralia. He parked it at the ME and walked, out of habit, toward the phone booth at the edge of the parade square — but there was no need. His wife and children had left him three days ago, no one would be home to overhear his conversation, so he passed the phone booth and continued toward the PMQs as the evening sun sank behind him.

There was a moving van in the Froelichs’ driveway — a new family arriving. A man and woman waved at him but Jack didn’t wave back. It was as though he were seeing them from behind a transparent barrier thick as ice; it didn’t even occur to him to wave back. He entered his empty house. His empty kitchen.

Now he picks up his phone and dials the night number but there is no answer.

He is alone. It is dusk. He reaches to the cupboard above the fridge and takes down a fresh bottle of Scotch. He will keep trying the night number. Failing that, he will wait until morning, call Simon at the embassy and ask how long his people in the Soviet Union will need to get themselves out of harm’s way, if they haven’t done so already. Then he will tell Henry Froelich the truth; he will put on his uniform and go to the police. He considers heading over to the airfield now, to see if he can find the key to the Ford Galaxy in the tall grass, but thinks better of it and pours himself a drink. The police will have plenty of time to get out there with metal detectors in the next few days.

He tries the night number every half-hour.

At three A.M. he opens the drawers of Mimi’s dresser, then her vanity, to find only winter things remaining. He buries his face in her sweaters but it’s no good, they have been dry-cleaned. He kneels at her side of the bed, not to pray but to smell the sheets. It’s useless, she changed them before she left. He returns to the kitchen and rifles it until finally, in the drawer beside the phone book, he finds something useful. Her recipe box. He opens it and up wafts vanilla, butter — he takes out a card covered in her indecipherable hand, the ink brighter in places where grease has stained it. He stares — a recipe for bran muffins, as far as he can make out — and begins to weep.

He fell asleep at some point, on the couch. When he opens his eyes, the morning sun is blaring through the living-room window. He sees with relief that the bottle of Scotch on the coffee table is only half empty — it’s safe to stand up, so long as he does so slowly.

He doesn’t open the door to get the paper off the front step — he knows what the headline will be. He waits until nine o’clock, when the British Embassy in Washington is open for business, and reaches for the phone, but it rings, startling him.

Karen Froelich’s voice asks, “Jack, has Henry been out to see you?” Henry drove off in their car last night with a reporter.

“Henry called a reporter?”

No, the reporter was present throughout the trial. After the verdict, he helped them to their car, escorting them through the crowd of other reporters and photographers. He got in and drove to the trailer park with them. He said he had heard through his police sources that Henry had spotted a war criminal, and he wanted to know why it hadn’t been brought up at the trial. When Henry told him, the reporter said he believed Rick had fallen victim to a grave miscarriage of justice. He said the investigation might have been tainted by anti-Semitism.

“Our lawyer said not to say anything before the appeal,” says Karen, “but Henry was so relieved that someone finally—”

“Where’s he from, The Globe?”

“No,” says Karen. “The Washington Post.”

“The Post , that’s great.”

So it will all be coming out soon. Jack will have only to fill in the missing piece of the puzzle, and this thing will be all over the American and Canadian papers in a matter of twenty-four hours. He’s relieved.

“Don’t worry, Karen, it’s going to work out, I guarantee your boy will—”

“Jack, he isn’t home yet.”

“No, but he’ll win on appeal—”

“No, Jack. Henry. He hasn’t come home. I told you. Last night. He hasn’t called, I’m—” He hears her voice catch, but she sounds calm again when she continues. “I called the police but they told me they can’t consider him missing until—”

“Karen, don’t worry. He probably stayed out all night with this reporter — you know Henry, once he gets talking….” He can almost hear her smile, eager to believe him. “This is great news about The Washington Post . Did he tell you where they were—?”

“No, I figured they’d go into Goderich for dinner, but—”

“Have you been to—?”

“I don’t have the—”

“Right, Henry’s got the car. Listen, don’t worry. I’ll drive up to Goderich right now, if you like, and—”

“No, you don’t have to—”

“I’ll come out to the trailer park—”

“No, Jack. Don’t come out.”

He pauses. She’s right, he shouldn’t go out there. “Karen, keep me posted, okay? Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And if Hank turns up across the street, three sheets to the wind and looking to get into your old house again, I’ll drive him straight home to you.”

“Thanks, Jack.” Her voice already sounds far away, as though she is diminishing, like the picture on a television screen, toward a vanishing point.

He calls Washington.

“British Embassy, good morning.”

The same pleasant female voice — she’ll put him straight through when she hears who’s calling. “Major Newbolt here for First Secretary Crawford.”

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no Crawford here.”

“This is the British Embassy.”

“Yes sir, but—”

“Then give me Crawford, this is urgent.”

“Sir, I’m afraid you have the wrong—”

“Like hell, you tell him Jack is on the line.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir.”

And she hangs up. He calls back and gets a busy signal.

He stays by the phone all day in case Karen calls, in case Henry calls, in case Simon calls, in case Mimi calls. But it’s silent. He doesn’t sleep that night. He lies on the couch, attuned to every sound, every car headlight panning across the ceiling.

In the morning he picks up the newspapers from the front step; he throws yesterday’s away and unfolds today’s. In the bottom left-hand corner of the front page, just above “Your Morning Smile,” a reproduction of Henry Froelich’s school board photo and three inches of print. The father of convicted sex killer Richard Froelich is missing and feared dead. Henry Froelich’s station wagon was found parked on the U.S. side of the Peace Bridge yesterday morning by New York State troopers. No suicide note was found, but… .

Jack reads and rereads the brief article. There is, of course, no mention of a mysterious war criminal. No mention of a reporter from The Washington Post . He pictures the row of sweltering men at the back of the courtroom, in wrinkled suits, notebooks in hand. Reporters — except for one of them. And he was there from the beginning. When did Simon tell the CIA about Froelich? When Jack threatened to come forward with the alibi? Or earlier? When Jack first mentioned Froelich’s name? Is that what happened to Froelich? Is Jack next? The question doesn’t frighten him; it makes him weary.