by Joël Dicker
She pressed herself against him. Harry suggested they go down to the beach—that always cheered her up. He picked up the box with SOUVENIR OF ROCKLAND, MAINE written on it, and they went to feed the seagulls. Then they sat on the sand and contemplated the horizon.
“I want to leave, Harry!” Nola exclaimed. “I want you to take me far away from here.”
“Leave?”
“You and me, far from here. You said we would leave one day. I want to get away. Wouldn’t you like to go with me? Please, I’m begging you, let’s leave. Let’s leave at the end of this horrible month. Let’s say the thirtieth—that would give us two weeks to get ready.”
“The thirtieth? Are you crazy?”
“No! What’s crazy is continuing to live in this miserable town! What’s crazy is loving each other the way we do and not being allowed to show it! What’s crazy is having to hide, as if we were some weird animals! I can’t take it anymore, Harry! I’m going to leave. The night of August 30. I can’t stay here any longer. So please, come with me. Don’t let me go on my own.”
“What if they arrest us?”
“Who’ll arrest us? We could be in Canada in three hours. And why would they arrest us? It’s not a crime to leave. To leave is to be free, and who can stop us from being free? This is the land of the free, isn’t it? Freedom is written into the Constitution. I’m going to leave—that’s all there is to it. In two weeks, on the night of August 30, I’m leaving this horrible town. Will you come with me?”
Without thinking he said: “Yes! Of course! I can’t imagine life without you, Nola. On August 30, we’ll leave together.”
“Oh, darling Harry, I’m so happy! What about your book?”
“It’s almost finished.”
“That’s wonderful! You’ve made such quick progress.”
“The book doesn’t matter anymore. If I run away with you, I don’t think I’ll be able to be a writer. But who cares? All that matters is you. All that matters is us. All that matters is being happy.”
“Of course you’ll still be a writer! We’ll send the manuscript to New York. I love your new novel, and I believe in you. So the thirtieth? In two weeks’ time. Two weeks from now we’ll go away. In three hours, we’ll be in Canada. We’ll be so happy—you’ll see, Harry.
August 18, 1975
Sitting behind the wheel of his patrol car, he stared through the window of Clark’s. They had hardly spoken since the gala; she was distancing herself from him, and that made him sad. She’d seemed especially unhappy for some time now. He wondered if this had something to do with him, and then he remembered that time he had found her in tears on the porch of her house and how she had said that someone was hurting her. What had she meant by hurting? Was she in some kind of trouble? Was someone physically harming her? Who? He decided to bite the bullet and go talk to her. As always, he waited for the diner to empty out a little before he dared go in. When he did finally enter, Jenny was busy clearing a table.
“Hi, Jenny,” he said, his heart pounding.
“Hi, Travis.”
“We haven’t had much chance to talk since the gala,” he said.
“I’ve been really busy here.”
“I wanted to say how happy I was to go out with you that night.”
“Thank you.”
She seemed preoccupied.
“Jenny, you’ve seemed distant lately.”
“No, Travis, it has nothing to do with you.”
She was thinking about Harry. She thought about him day and night. Why was he rejecting her? Several days earlier he had come here with Elijah Stern, and he had barely even spoken to her. She had even seen the two men sniggering about her.
“Jenny, if you’re upset about something, you know you can tell me anything.”
“You’re so good to me, Travis. But I have to finish clearing up now.”
She headed toward the kitchen.
“Wait,” Travis said.
He took her wrist to hold her back. He barely touched her, but Jenny cried out and dropped the plates, which shattered on the floor. He had accidentally pressed on the bruise covering her right wrist, where Luther had grabbed her, and which, despite the heat, she attempted to hide by wearing long sleeves.
“I’m really sorry,” Travis said, kneeling to pick up the broken pieces.
“It’s not you.”
He went with her into the kitchen and got a broom to clean up the mess. When he brought the broom back into the kitchen she was washing her hands, and because she had rolled up her sleeves, he was able to see the bluish marks on her wrist.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I banged it on the swinging doors the other day.”
“Banged it? Don’t lie to me!” Travis said. “Who did this to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters! Tell me, Jenny. I’m not leaving here until I know his name.”
“It was … it was Luther Caleb. Stern’s chauffeur. It happened the other day. He was angry. He grabbed my wrist. But he didn’t mean to hurt me. He doesn’t know his own strength.”
“This is serious, Jenny! This is very serious. I want you to let me know immediately if he ever comes back here.”
August 20, 1975
She sang as she walked down the path to Goose Cove. A feeling of joy swept over her. In ten days they would leave together. In ten days she would finally start living. She spotted the house at the end of the driveway and began walking faster. She did not notice the figure hidden in the bushes. She entered the house through the front door, without ringing the doorbell, as she always did now.
“Harry, darling!” she called out.
There was no reply. The house seemed empty. She called out again. Silence. She went through the dining room and the living room, but didn’t find him. He wasn’t in his office or out on the deck. She went down the stairs to the beach and called his name. Maybe he’d gone swimming? He did that sometimes when he’d been working too hard. But there was no-one on the beach. She began to panic: Where could he be? She went back to the house, called his name again. Nothing. She checked all the rooms on the first floor again, then went upstairs. Opening the door to his bedroom, she found him sitting on his bed, reading a stack of papers.
“Harry? Were you here all along? I’ve spent the last ten minutes looking all over for you.”
Her voice had startled him.
“Sorry, Nola, I was reading. I didn’t hear you.”
He got up, shuffled the papers in his hands, and put them in his bureau.
She smiled. “So what was so fascinating that you didn’t hear me yelling your name all over the house?”
“Nothing important.”
“Is it the next part of your novel? Show me!”
“No, it’s nothing important. I’ll show you some other time.”
She looked at him curiously. “Are you sure everything’s O.K., Harry?”
He laughed. “Everything’s fine, Nola.”
They went out to the beach. She wanted to see the seagulls. She opened her arms wide as if they were wings, and ran in wide circles on the sand.
“I’d love to be able to fly, Harry! Only ten days! In ten days we’ll fly away together! We’ll leave this miserable town forever!”
Neither Harry nor Nola had any idea that Luther Caleb was watching them from the forest above the rocks. He waited until they had gone back into the house before emerging from his hiding place. Then he ran along the path from Goose Cove until he reached his Mustang. He drove to Somerset and left his car in front of Clark’s. He rushed inside; he needed to speak to Jenny. Someone had to know. He had a bad feeling about this. But Jenny didn’t want to see him.
“Luther? You shouldn’t be here,” she said, when he appeared at the counter.
“Jenny, I’m forry for ve other morning. I wav wrong to grab your arm ve way I did.”
“I have a bruise.”
“I’m forry.”
“You have to leave now.”
“No, wait …”
“I’ve filed a complaint against you, Luther. Travis says that if you come back to town, I should call him—and you’ll have to deal with the police. You really ought to leave before he sees you here.”
He looked upset. “You filed a complaint againft me?”
“Yes. You really scared me the other day.”
“But I have to fpeak to you about fomefing important.”
“Nothing is important, Luther. Please go away.”
“It’f about Harry Quebert.”
“Harry?”
“Yef. Tell me what you fink about Harry Quebert.”
“Why are you asking me about him?”
“Do you truft him?”
“Trust him? Yes, of course. Why are you asking me that?”
“I have to tell you fomefing …”
“Tell me something? What?”
Just as Luther was about to reply, a police car appeared outside Clark’s.
“It’s Travis!” Jenny said. “Run, Luther, run! I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
Caleb was gone like a shot. Jenny saw him get back in his car and speed off. A few moments later, Travis Dawn rushed inside.
“Did I just see Luther Caleb?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Jenny replied. “But he wasn’t bothering me. He’s a nice guy. I wish I hadn’t filed that complaint against him.”
“I told you to let me know. Nobody has the right to raise a hand to you! Nobody!”
Travis headed back to his car. Jenny rushed after him and stopped him on the sidewalk.
“Please, Travis, I’m begging you—don’t make a big deal out of this! I think he’s got the message now.”
Travis looked at her and suddenly realized what it was he had been failing to understand. So that was why she had been so distant with him lately.
“No, Jenny, don’t tell me you—”
“What?”
“Do you have a crush on that nutcase?”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Jesus Christ! How could I have been so stupid?”
“No, Travis, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He was no longer listening. He got in his car and set off, siren blaring and blue light flashing.
*
On Shore Road, just before Side Creek Lane, Luther saw the police car in his rearview mirror, and he pulled over. Travis got out of his car. He was furious. How could Jenny be attracted to this monster? How could she prefer Luther to him? He did everything for her, he’d even stayed in Somerset to be close to her, and now he’d been supplanted by this creep. He ordered Luther to get out of his vehicle, then looked him up and down.
“You goddamn retard, what have you been doing to Jenny?”
“Nofing, Travif. I fwear, it’f not what you fink.”
“I saw the bruises on her wrist.”
“I never meant to hurt her, I fwear. I regret it finferely. I don’t want any trouble wiv ve polife.”
“Don’t want any trouble? But you’re the one causing trouble! Are you fucking her?”
“What?”
“You and Jenny, do you fuck?”
“No! No!”
“I do everything I can to make her happy and you’re the one who fucks her? For God’s sake, what is wrong with this world?”
“Travif … it’f not what you fink at all.”
“Shut your mouth!” Travis shouted, grabbing Luther by the collar, then throwing him to the ground.
He did not know what he should do. He thought of Jenny’s rejection of him, and he felt humiliated and miserable. But he felt angry too. He’d had enough of being trampled on; it was time he started to act like a man. So he unsheathed his nightstick, held it high in the air, and began savagely beating Luther.
15
Before the Storm
“What do you think?”
“It’s not bad. But I think you’re placing too much importance on the words.”
“On the words? But they’re kind of important when you’re writing, aren’t they?”
“Yes and no. The meaning of the word is more important than the word itself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, words are words and everyone can use them. All you need to do is open a dictionary and choose one. It is at this moment that it becomes interesting: Will you be capable of giving a particular meaning to that word?”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Take a word, and use it in one of your books at every opportunity. Choose a word randomly: seagull, for example. People will start to say of you: ‘You know Marcus Goldman? He’s the one who writes about seagulls.’ And then a time will come when those same people, when they see a seagull, will think only of you. They’ll watch those screeching birds and they’ll think: ‘I wonder what Goldman would make of them?’ Then soon they’ll start associating the words ‘seagull’ and ‘Goldman.’ And each time they see seagulls, they will think about your book, about all of your books. They will no longer see those seagulls in the same way. It is at this point that you know you are writing something. Words are for everybody, until you prove that you are capable of appropriating them. That’s what defines a writer. You see, Marcus, some people would like you to believe that a book consists of relationships between words, but that’s not true: It is in fact about relationships between people.”
Monday, July 7, 2008, Boston, Massachusetts
Four days after the arrest of Chief Pratt, I met Barnaski in his suite at the Park Plaza in Boston to sign a two-million-dollar contract for my book on the Harry Quebert case. Douglas was there too; he was clearly relieved.
“What a turnaround!” Barnaski said. “The great Goldman is finally back to work, to everyone’s delight.”
I said nothing in reply, but simply took a stack of papers from my satchel and handed them to him. He grinned.
“So these are your opening fifty pages …”
“Yes.”
“Can I take a minute to look at them?”
“Of course.”
Douglas and I left the room so that Barnaski could read in peace, and we went down to the hotel bar, where we ordered dark draft beers.
“How are things, Marc?”
“O.K. The last four days have been crazy …”
He nodded. “This whole story is unbelievable! You have no idea how huge your book is going to be. Barnaski knows—that’s why he offered you so much money. Two million bucks is nothing compared with what he might make from it. In New York, this case is all anyone talks about. The Hollywood studios are already talking about making it into a movie; all the other publishers want to bring out books on Quebert. But everyone knows that the only person who can really write about it is you. You’re the only one who knows Harry, the only one who can write about Somerset from the inside. Barnaski says that if they are the first ones to bring out a book on this, Nola Kellergan could become a registered trademark for them.”
“And what do you think?” I asked.
“That it’s an exciting adventure for a writer. And a good way of countering all the disgraceful things that have been said about Quebert. The reason you went to Somerset in the first place was to defend him, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, then glanced up above us, toward the building’s upper floors, where Barnaski was reading the beginning of my story, expanded considerably in the light of recent events.
July 3, 2008, four days before the signing of the contract
A few hours had elapsed since Chief Pratt’s arrest. I went back to Goose Cove from the state prison, where Harry had lost his head and I had come close to being smashed in the face by a flying chair. I parked in front of the house and, as I got out of the car, my eye was immediately caught by the piece of paper jammed in the front doorway: yet another letter. And this time, the message had changed:
Last warning, Goldman
First warning, last warning … what differenc
e did it make? I threw the letter in the kitchen trash can and turned on the television. Chief Pratt’s arrest was all over the news. Some commentators were calling into question the investigation he had led at the time, speculating that perhaps he had been deliberately negligent.
The sun was setting, and it promised to be a warm, dry night, the kind of summer evening that ought to be spent with friends, barbecuing huge steaks and drinking beer. I did not have any friends, but I thought I had steaks and beer. The fridge was empty, though; I had forgotten to buy groceries. I had forgotten myself. I realized that my fridge was like Harry’s: a single man’s fridge. I ordered a pizza and ate it on the deck. At least I had the deck and the ocean. All I was missing was a barbecue, some friends, and a girlfriend to make this the perfect evening. It was at that moment that I received a telephone call from one of my few friends, someone I hadn’t heard from in quite some time: Douglas.
“Hey, Marc, what’s up?”
“What’s up? It’s been weeks since I’ve heard from you. Where were you? You’re supposed to be my agent, for Christ’s sake!”
“I know—I’m sorry. We’ve been through a difficult time. You and me, I mean. But if you still want me as your agent, I would be honored to continue our collaboration.”
“Of course I still want you. On one condition: that you continue coming to my apartment to watch baseball.”
He laughed.
“Fine with me. You take care of the beer, I’ll get the nachos.”
“Barnaski offered me a contract,” I said.
“I know. He told me. Are you going to sign it?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Barnaski wants to see you as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“To sign the contract.”
“Already?”
“Yes. I think he wants to make sure you’ve actually started work on the book. The deadline is short—you’ll have to write quickly. He’s totally obsessed by the presidential campaign. Are you ready?”
“Yes—I’ve already started writing again. But I don’t know what I ought to be writing, exactly. Should I tell everything I know? Should I say that Harry had intended to elope with the girl? This story is insane, Doug. I don’t think you even realize.”
