Tail Spin

him! And none of it would have happened if Dr. MacLean had kept quiet, as a doctor is supposed to do.
    “Let me tell you, doctors in France are discreet, they do not preach. They do not make threats or issue ultimatums! But here? Obviously nothing is sacred here. The ethics of your American doctors, well, they have none, their behavior is inexcusable.”

THIRTY-SIX
    Someone found out that Timothy had spoken to his friend Arthur Dolan, and Dolan conveniently died. A coincidence? Savich didn’t believe in coincidence. But how could the Barbeaus have found out about it?
    He said, “You are right that Dr. MacLean spoke to several people about your son. Are either of you interested in knowing why Dr. MacLean betrayed your confidence?” Savich studied their faces as he spoke. Estelle’s face was frozen in rage; Pierre looked like he didn’t care, only wanted the earth to open up beneath his feet so he could slip away.
    Estelle said, “We are not interested in any paltry excuses. The man is an abomination. We want you to leave now. We have nothing more to say.” She jumped to her feet. Her husband, however, remained seated, rolling the Diet Coke can between his hands.
    Savich said, “The last attempt on Dr. MacLean’s life was a bomb placed on board a plane. He survived, barely.”
    Estelle shrugged. “What is this? A bomb? We know nothing of any bomb. We do not care what happens to him.” She picked up a framed photo from a side table and waved it in front of their faces. “This is our son. This is Jean David. An elegant, brilliant boy, good, so very good. Look at him! He will never grow older, he will never have a wife and children.”
    He was indeed a handsome man, Sherlock thought, studying the photo. Dark hair, deeply tanned, his smile beguiling and utterly charming, his father’s dark eyes shining out of his face. Such a waste, she thought, such a waste.
    Savich decided not to tell them about MacLean’s disease. He knew it wouldn’t matter. It would mean less than nothing to them. He said, knowing it was a very risky roll of the dice, “Mr. Barbeau, I have read your statement to the authorities about the day your son drowned after saving you. After some dithering, it was determined to be a tragic accident. However”—he paused for effect— “however, I know that is not the truth. Please tell me what really happened that day.”
    Pierre grew very still, and Savich thought, Bingo! He’d known to his gut that something else was going on here. He waited, silent, patient.
    When Estelle would have spoken, Pierre raised his hand to quiet her, shrugged, and said, “Why does it matter now? I say it no longer matters at all, nothing matters now that he is dead. Why not? I will tell you all of it.”
    Estelle stared at her husband. “What are you planning? No. Pierre?”
    “I’m sorry, Estelle, but I knew it would come out eventually. And now, I’m tired, very tired, you see.” He held up his hand to his wife once again and repeated, “It does not matter, Estelle. Agent Savich, Jean David did not die an accidental death.”
    Savich said, his heart racing at a fine clip, “Tell us what happened, sir.”
    Pierre raised his head, his face leached of color, but surprisingly, his voice was strong and steady. “My son came to me, told me what he’d done, asked me to help him. He knew, you see, knew his superiors would figure out soon enough he was the one responsible. I could not believe it. He gave me the details, convinced me. I told him I had to think about it.
    “Two days after he asked me for help, I told him I’d spoken to Timothy, and I told him what he advised us to do, then I told Jean David of his threats. My son looked at me for a very long time, silent, and it broke my heart. He told me that he, just as I, must think about it. He left me. I feared he would try to escape but he did not. I am not lying to you. He did not.
    “Two days later, on Friday, he asked me if I would like to go fishing, even though the weather was getting worse.
    “And so we fished for striped bass in the Potomac, something we’d done many times, a ritual, a special time for us, to be together. But that day we really weren’t fishing, we were silent for the most part, both of us in misery. I was afraid, Timothy’s ultimatum rang in my mind. I finally broke the silence, told him I didn’t know what to do. I loved him, but what he had done—I had to tell him I couldn’t imagine his getting fooled so completely