* * *
Breakfast the next morning.
“You have to eat something.”
I look up from my empty plate while Madame Duguay hovers over me, eggs in a pan and a spatula at the ready.
“I can’t.”
“Just...” Madame Duguay sounds desperate. “Just a piece of toast. Just one piece of toast. With some jam or honey.”
I shake my head as she gazes hopefully at me. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not hungry!? Girl, you’ve hardly eaten!”
“Madame Duguay is right, Sarah. You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say through gritted teeth, glaring at my uncle.
Uncle Marty shrugs and gives Madame Duguay a look that says “Sarah’s hopeless.”
“I’ll eat when I’m ready...” I mutter softly.
Mrs. Duguay sighs and moves on to Troy who, despite the grief he exhibited yesterday, seems to still have an appetite.
“Thanks, Madame Duguay,” he says as the woman slides the remaining egg onto his plate.
“Don’t mention it. You need your strength in these tough times.”
Troy nods and murmurs his agreement, taking a second to glance at me. “Sarah? Would you like some tea?” He cradles the pot on the table and pushes it in my direction.
I shake my head. “No.” I turn to Uncle Marty. “So did those agents catch Mika and Ludwig then?”
Uncle Marty shakes his head softly. “Agent Langley called this morning. No luck so far, but they’re still searching. They want to talk to you. I told them tomorrow.”
“They want to talk to me? What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Tell them what happened. Tell them what they look like. What they said.”
“They murdered my brother.” I slam my fist on the table. “They murdered Josh!”
An uncomfortable silence hangs in the room as tears fill my eyes yet again.
“Oh, you poor thing,” says Madame Duguay, clicking her tongue as she gets up from the table and goes to get me the Kleenex box from on top of the fridge. “Here, take a handful.”
I do and I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. When I’m done, Madame Duguay takes my dirty Kleenex and puts them in the garbage under the sink.
“Agent Langley did tell me something else,” says Uncle Marty slowly.
I look at him. “What?”
“Well, remember I told you about the man who came to visit me at my hotel the day I was leaving London?”
I nod.
“Well, INTERPOL believes he employs Mika and Ludwig.”
“He employs them? You mean, they work for him?”
“That’s right.”
“And let me guess, they haven’t caught him either.”
“Actually,” says Uncle Marty, his expression brightening, “they did hold him for questioning.”
“They held him for questioning?”
“They held him for questioning. Unfortunately that’s about all they were able to do as there was no substantial evidence to link him to Mika and Ludwig, though they do have him under surveillance and when he slips up, they’ll arrest him.”
“What if he doesn’t slip up? Then what? They all just get to walk free?”
“I’m not sure - ”
“They’re murderers! And they should pay!”
“And they will,” says Uncle Marty.
“When? Fifty years from now? I swear I’ll kill Mika and Ludwig if I ever see them again.”
It felt good to say that.
“You’ll do no such thing!” cries Uncle Marty, seemingly offended.
I gape at him. “Uh, yeah, I will. I’ll freaking kill them if I ever see them again. So they’d better hope I never see them again.”
“Sarah. You don’t solve violence with violence.”
“Well I do, Uncle Marty.”
Uncle Marty looks at me in seeming disbelief. “Then I certainly hope you never see them again. Personally, I think if someone’s murdered someone, it’s crime enough without all the anger and the court room drama. People need to realize that there are consequences for wanting eye for eye justice. In this case, my hope is that they are caught and sent to prison. For a very long time.”
“But they’d still be alive...and Josh is dead. I say, if they took his life, why should they get to have theirs?”
Uncle Marty sighs and stirs a teaspoon of milk into his coffee. “I don’t know what to say, Sarah. I don’t believe that killing solves anything. In fact, in my experience, it simply makes things worse.”
Madame Duguay nods and murmurs her agreement. “Yes, your uncle is right.”
“Well...whatever. If I ever see those two again...” I say softly, returning my gaze to my plate.
“How’s your injury doing?” asks Uncle Marty in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
“It’s still sore,” I answer, massaging my ribcage.
“Should we take you to a doctor?”
Madame Duguay nods as she puts down her egg fork. “You must. Perhaps it’s broken.”
“It’s...I don’t know...” I adjust my posture to see if sitting differently makes it feel any better. It doesn’t.
Uncle Marty clears his throat as he finishes chewing and wipes the toast crumbs from his chin. “I think we should take you to a doctor.”
“I don’t - ”
“Doctor Aubry not far from here,” says Madame Duguay.
My uncle stares blankly at her. “Doctor Aubry?”
“Doctor Aubry,” Madame Duguay repeats, nodding and pointing out the window. “His office is right in town. It’s the little white and blue building across from the cemetery.”
Uncle Marty nods. “Alright.” He looks at me. “I think we should take you. And the sooner the better.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Is he open today?” my uncle asks, ignoring my “no” as he returns his attention to Madame Duguay.
“I don’t know...we could call. Perhaps it’s best if we call,” she says, rising from the table and making for the phone.
“Oh, Madame Duguay, there’s no need right this instant. I’m still waiting for a reply from my brother. I suspect they’ll try and call...I gave them your number...I hope that’s alright?”
“Of course, of course. Whatever you need.”
Uncle Marty nods with appreciation. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for everything you’ve done...”
Madame Duguay waves a hand. “It’s no trouble. Really.”
Uncle Marty sighs and returns to his tea.
“Would anyone like anything more to eat?” asks Madame Duguay, casting a hopeful eye at Troy.
Troy shakes his head politely. “No, thank you. This was an excellent breakfast, Madame Duguay. You feed us so well.”
Madame Duguay returns Troy’s smile. “When in France...”
Troy tips his coffee mug in appreciation and offers a small smile.
“Anyway,” says Madame Duguay, rising from the table and beginning to gather up the dishes, “let me know if you’d like anything more. Otherwise I’ll start putting things away...”
Uncle Marty drains the rest of his coffee and wipes his mouth with his napkin as he sets his mug down on the table. “I think we’ll be fine. I’d like to drive Sarah over to that doctor’s office right now.” He looks at me. “Alright?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“If something’s broken, you should know,” says Troy, shifting his gaze to where I’m clutching my ribcage with both hands.
“I just...I don’t get the point. Besides, isn’t the dive team looking for...” I can’t say my brother’s name.
Uncle Marty rests his head in his hands, his eyes on the table. “They are looking for your brother as we speak, yes.”
An uncomfortable silence follows, though only for half a minute, while Madame Duguay gathers up the rest of the dishes and carries them to the sink.
“I want to be there,” I say as Madame Duguay bus
ies herself in the kitchen.
“Where?”
“At the cave.”
Uncle Marty’s expression is severe. “Sarah...I really don’t think that’s - ”
“Uncle Marty. I want to be there. I need to be there.”
He purses his lips. “Sarah. I just...I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Uncle Marty! He’s my brother! My bro - ther. I have a right to see my brother.”
“Of course you do...but...” his tone is desperate now, almost pleading, “I don’t think you should be there when...you know...”
“Uncle Marty. I’m going whether you take me there or not.”
I look defiantly at Madame Duguay who has since stopped bustling in the kitchen and turned to watch me.
“Sarah...it’s just...”
“Uncle Marty, I’m going. I’m going.”
I fold my arms across my chest and take to staring him down now.
He lets out a long sigh and exchanges a look with Troy.
“Alright...” he says at last.
“Really?”
I’m taken completely off guard by his response. I thought for sure that he’d say no and that I’d be stuck hitchhiking there (as the bikes are still at the cave).
He nods, watching me carefully, his expression concerned. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Uncle Marty lets out one more heavy sigh. “Alright.” He glances up at the clock on the wall. “I guess we’d better get going...”