by Joël Dicker
Without anyone’s realizing it, Somerset was being closely watched: Hidden among the reporters who had descended from all over the region, federal agents observed the neighborhood around the Kellergan house and listened in on the Kellergans’ telephone calls. If this was an abduction, the kidnapper would soon show himself. He would call or, perhaps out of perversity, join the onlookers who thronged outside 245 Terrace Avenue to leave messages of support. And if this was not a case of someone’s seeking a ransom but—as many feared—the work of a psychopath, then the killer had to be identified as quickly as possible, before he struck again.
The people of Somerset stood shoulder to shoulder. The men spent hours sweeping fields and forests, searching the banks of rivers and streams. Robert Quinn took two days off work to help with the search. Ernie Pinkas, with the approval of his foreman, left the factory one hour early so he could join the search teams from late afternoon until sunset. In the kitchen at Clark’s, Tamara Quinn, Amy Pratt, and other volunteers prepared food for the searchers. The investigation was all they talked about:
“I have information!” Tamara Quinn repeated. “I have important information!”
“What? What? Tell us!” chorused the others, while buttering bread for sandwiches.
“I can’t tell you … it’s too serious.”
And everyone began gossiping. They’d suspected for a long time that something not quite right was going on at 245 Terrace Avenue, and it was no surprise that it was ending badly. Mrs Phillips, whose son had been in the same high school class as Nola, said that during one lunch period, one of the kids had lifted up Nola’s shirt as a joke, and everyone had seen that she had bruises on her body. Mrs Hattaway told how her daughter Nancy had been good friends with Nola and that, one week during the summer, Nola had seemingly disappeared and the Kellergans’ home had been closed to all visitors. “And that music!” Mrs Hattaway added. “Every day I heard that music blaring from the garage, and I wondered why on earth anyone would need to deafen the whole neighborhood. I should have complained, but I never dared. I thought, well, it is the pastor, after all.”
Monday, September 8, 1975
It was around noon.
Harry was waiting at Goose Cove. The same questions whirled constantly around his head: What had happened to Nola? Where could she be? How was it possible that the police had found no trace of her? He had been locked in his house, waiting, for a week now. He slept on the living room couch, listening for the faintest noise. He no longer ate. He felt as if he were going crazy. The more he thought about it, the more the idea came back to him: What if Nola had wanted to create a smokescreen? What if she had faked an attack? Ketchup on her face and screams to make people believe she was being abducted, and then, while the police searched for her around Somerset, she would have all the time in the world to disappear far away, to go deep into the heart of Canada. Maybe soon they would think she was dead and no-one would search for her anymore. Had Nola planned this whole charade so the two of them could live in peace forever afterward? But if that was true, then why hadn’t she met him at the motel? Had the police arrived too quickly? Had she been forced to hide in the woods? And what had happened at Deborah Cooper’s house? Was there a connection between the two incidents, or was it simply a coincidence? If Nola had not been kidnapped, then why didn’t she give him a sign that she was alive? Why hadn’t she come to take refuge here, at Goose Cove? He forced himself to think: Where could she be? Somewhere only they knew about. Martha’s Vineyard? It was too far. The tin box in the kitchen reminded him of their trip to Maine, at the start of their relationship. Was she hiding in Rockland? As soon as he had this thought, he grabbed his car keys and rushed outside. Opening the front door, he found himself face to face with Jenny, who was about to ring the doorbell. She had come to see if he was O.K.: It had been days since she had seen him, and she was worried. She thought his face looked dreadful. He had lost weight. He was wearing the same suit he had been wearing the last time she saw him, at Clark’s a week ago.
“Harry, what’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Nola.”
She didn’t understand. “Oh yes, it’s so awful!” she said. “Everyone in town is horrified. It’s been a week already and still not a single clue. Harry … you look unhappy. I’m worried about you. Have you eaten recently? I’m going to run you a bath and make you something to eat.”
He didn’t have time to deal with Jenny. He had to find out where Nola was hiding. Somewhat abruptly, he pushed her away, ran down the few wooden steps that led to the gravel driveway, and got in his car.
“I don’t want anything,” he said from his open window. “I’m very busy. I can’t be disturbed.”
“Busy doing what?” Jenny asked.
“Waiting.”
His car disappeared behind a row of pine trees. She sat on the porch steps and started to cry. The more she loved him, the more unhappy she felt.
*
At that same moment, Travis Dawn was entering Clark’s, holding roses. He hadn’t seen her in many days, not since Nola’s disappearance. He had spent the morning in the forest with the search teams, and then, getting back into his patrol car, he had seen the flowers under the seat. They were half dried up and strangely twisted, but he had felt a sudden desire to take them to Jenny, right then. As if life were too short. He took a break from work, long enough to find her at Clark’s, but she was not there.
He sat at the counter, and Tamara Quinn approached immediately, as she did whenever she saw a man in uniform.
“How’s the search going?” she asked, like a worried mother.
“We haven’t found anything, Mrs Quinn. Nothing at all.”
She sighed and contemplated the tired lines around the young policeman’s eyes.
“Have you eaten, son?”
“Uh … no, Mrs Quinn. In fact, I came to see Jenny.”
“She left for a bit.”
She poured him a glass of iced tea and put a paper placemat and silverware in front of him. She noticed the flowers. “Are they for her?”
“Yes. I wanted to make sure she was O.K. After everything that’s happened the last week or so …”
“She shouldn’t be long. I asked her to be back before the lunch hour rush, but obviously she’s late. She’s losing her head over that guy.”
“What guy?” asked Travis, feeling his heart contract.
“Harry Quebert.”
“Harry Quebert?”
“I’m sure she’s gone to his house. I don’t know why she insists on trying to win over that little bastard. Anyway, you don’t want to hear about that. The special today is cod with fried potatoes …”
“That’s perfect, Mrs Quinn. Thank you.”
She put a friendly hand on his shoulder.
“You’re a good boy, Travis. I would be very happy for my Jenny to be with someone like you.”
She went into the kitchen, and Travis glumly took a few swallows of iced tea.
Jenny arrived a few minutes later; she had hastily reapplied her makeup so it wouldn’t be obvious she had been crying. She went behind the counter, put on her apron, and then noticed Travis. He smiled at her and handed her the bouquet of wilted flowers.
“I’m afraid they’re past their prime,” he apologized, “but I’ve been meaning to give them to you for a while now. I figured it was the thought that counted.”
“Thank you, Travis.”
“They’re wild roses. I know a place near Montburry where there are hundreds of them. I’ll take you there, if you like. Are you O.K., Jenny? You don’t look too good …”
“I’m O.K.”
“This terrible business getting you down, huh? Are you afraid? Don’t worry—there’re policemen everywhere now. And I’m sure we’ll find Nola.”
“I’m not afraid. It’s something else.”
“What?”
“Nothing important.”
“Is i
t because of Harry Quebert? Your mother said you really like him.”
“Maybe. Never mind, Travis, it doesn’t matter. I … I have to go to the kitchen. I’m late, and Mom will be mad at me again.”
Jenny disappeared behind the swinging doors and found her mother preparing food.
“You’re late again, Jenny! You left me alone here to look after everyone!”
“Sorry, Mom.”
Tamara handed her a plate of cod and fried potatoes.
“Take this to Travis, will you?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“He’s a nice boy, you know.”
“I know …”
“Invite him to have lunch with us on Sunday.”
“Eat lunch with us? No, Mom—I don’t want to. He’s not my type at all. I’d just get his hopes up. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“I’m not going to argue about it! You weren’t so picky when you had no-one to take you to the gala and he came over to ask you. He likes you a lot—that’s obvious—and he could make you a very nice husband. Forget Quebert, for God’s sake! Nothing will ever happen with him—get that into your head! Quebert is not a nice man. You should be happy that a nice boy is courting you when you spend all day in an apron!”
“Mom!”
In a high-pitched voice, imitating a child’s moans, Tamara mocked: “Mom! Mom! Stop being such a crybaby. You’re almost twenty-five years old! Do you want to end up an old maid? All your school friends are married. What about you? You were the prom queen! What happened, for Christ’s sake? Oh, I’m so disappointed in you. We’ll have lunch with Travis on Sunday, and that’s that. You’re going to take that plate to him now, and you’re going to invite him. And after that, you’re going to wipe down the tables in the back because they’re filthy. That’ll teach you to be late all the time.”
Wednesday, September 10, 1975
“You see, Doctor, there’s this charming young policeman who’s been flirting with her. I told her to invite him to lunch on Sunday. She didn’t want to, but I forced her.”
“Why?”
Tamara shrugged and rested her head on the armrest of the couch. She thought about it for a moment.
“Because … because I don’t want her to end up alone.”
“So you’re afraid your daughter will be alone for the rest of her life?”
“Yes! Exactly! For the rest of her life!”
“What about you? Are you afraid of solitude?”
“Solitude is death.”
“Are you afraid of dying?”
“I’m terrified of death, Doctor.”
Sunday, September 14, 1975
At lunch with the Quinns, Travis was bombarded with questions. Tamara wanted to know everything about the investigation, which was not progressing. Robert had a few interesting things to say, but on the rare occasions that he tried to speak, his wife interrupted him, saying: “Don’t talk, Bobbo. It’s not good for your cancer.” Jenny looked miserable and barely touched her food. While serving the apple pie, Jenny finally dared ask, “So, Travis, do you have a list of suspects?”
“Not really. To be honest, we’re kind of floundering at the moment. It’s crazy—there’s not a single clue.”
“Is Harry Quebert a suspect?” Tamara demanded suddenly.
Jenny gasped. “Mom!”
“What? I have good reasons for mentioning his name: He’s a pervert, Travis. A pervert! It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he were involved in that poor girl’s disappearance.”
“That’s a serious accusation, Mrs Quinn,” Travis replied. “You can’t say that kind of thing without proof.”
“But I had proof!” she bellowed “I had it! I had a highly compromising note written by him locked in my safe at the restaurant! And I’m the only one with a key! And you know where I keep that key? Around my neck. I never take it off. Never! And when I went to get that piece of paper so I could hand it over to Chief Pratt, it had vanished! It wasn’t there! How is that possible? I have no idea. It must be witchcraft.”
“Maybe you just put it somewhere else,” Jenny suggested.
“Shut your mouth, my girl. Are you trying to imply that I’m crazy? Bobbo, am I crazy?”
Robert moved his head in a gesture that indicated neither yes nor no, which made his wife even more irritable.
“Bobbo, why don’t you answer when I ask you a question?”
“Because of my cancer,” he finally replied.
“Alright then, no pie for you. It was the doctor who said it: Desserts could kill you, just like that.”
“I never heard the doctor say that!” Robert protested.
“There you go—the cancer is making you deaf. Two months from now, you’ll be with the angels, my poor Bobbo.”
Travis attempted to ease the tension by going back to the original topic of conversation. “Well, I’m afraid if you don’t have any proof, it won’t stick. Police investigations have to be precise and scientific. And I know what I’m talking about: I finished first in my class at the police academy.”
The mere idea of having lost the piece of paper that could have caused Harry’s downfall sent Tamara into a frenzy. To calm herself, she grabbed the pie cutter and brutally chopped out a few slices of pie, while Bobbo sobbed because he really didn’t want to die.
Wednesday, September 17, 1975
Tamara Quinn was obsessed with the missing piece of paper. She had spent two days searching her house, her car, and even the garage, where she never went. She found nothing. That morning, after the early breakfast rush at Clark’s, she went into her office and emptied out the contents of her safe on the floor. No-one else had access to the safe; it was impossible that the paper had disappeared. It had to be there. She checked the contents again, but no luck. Vexed, she put her belongings back. Poking her head into the office, Jenny, found her mother reaching deep inside the huge steel box.
“Mom? What are you doing?”
“I’m busy.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still looking for that stupid piece of paper!”
“Mind your own business, my girl, if you wouldn’t mind! What time is it?”
Jenny looked at her watch. “Almost eight-thirty.”
“Goddamn it! I’m late.”
“For what?”
“I have a meeting.”
“But you have to be here to sign off on the beverage delivery. Last Wednesday you—”
“You’re a big girl, aren’t you?” her mother broke in coldly. “You have two arms. You know where the stock is kept. You don’t need a degree from Harvard to stack crates of Coca-Cola. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job. And don’t go making doe eyes at the deliveryman so he’ll do it for you!
Without another look at her daughter, Tamara picked up her car keys and left. Thirty minutes later, a large truck parked behind Clark’s. The deliveryman dumped a heavy pallet filled with crates of Coca-Cola in front of the service entrance.
“Need a hand?” he asked Jenny, after she signed for it.
“No, sir. My mother wants me to do it myself.”
“As you like, ma’am. Have a good day.”
The truck drove away, and Jenny began lifting the heavy crates one by one and carrying them into the stockroom. She felt like crying. Just then Travis drove past in his patrol car and spotted her. He immediately parked and got out of the car.
“Need some help?” he asked.
“I’m O.K. I’m sure you have better things to do,” she said, without pausing from her work.
He grabbed a crate and tried to make conversation.
“Apparently the recipe for Coca-Cola is a secret. They keep it in a safe in Atlanta.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He followed Jenny into the stockroom, and they stacked the crates. She didn’t say anything, so he kept talking.
“I also heard that Coke is good for the morale of our troops, so ever since World War Two the government has been sending crates of the stuff to American soldiers stationed abroad. I read t
hat in a book about Coke. But, I mean, I do read serious books too …”
They came out into the parking lot. She looked deep into his eyes.
“Travis …”
“Yes, Jenny?”
“Hold me. Take me in your arms and hold me tight! I feel so lonely! I feel so miserable! I feel cold to the depths of my soul.”
He took her in his arms and hugged her as tightly as he could.
*
“My daughter is starting to ask questions, Doctor. Just now she asked where I was going every Wednesday.”
“What did you say to her?”
“That it was none of her business! And that she could take care of the Coke delivery. I don’t see what it has to do with her, where I go.”
“I sense from your tone of voice that you’re angry.”
“Yes! Yes! Of course, I’m angry, Dr Ashcroft!”
“Angry with whom?”
“With … with myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I yelled at her again. You know, when you have children, you want them to be the happiest kids in the world. And then life gets in the way …”
“Tell me what you mean by that?”
“She always asks my advice, about everything! She’s always trailing after me, saying: ‘Mom, how do you do this? Mom, where does that go? Mom this and Mom that! Mom! Mom! Mom!’ But I won’t always be there for her. One day I won’t be there to look after her anymore. And when I think about that, I feel it here, in my belly. As if my whole stomach is tied up in knots. It’s physically painful, and it ruins my appetite.”
“Are you saying you suffer from anxiety, Mrs Quinn?”
“Yes! Yes! Anxiety. Terrible anxiety. We try to do everything right; we try to always do our best for our children. But what will our children do when we are no longer here? What will they do? How can we be sure they’ll be happy and that nothing will happen to them? It’s like with that poor girl, Dr Ashcroft. That poor Nola—what happened to her? Where could she be?”
