The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair

by Joël Dicker

  *

  Where could she be? She was not in Rockland. She was not on any of the beaches or in any of the restaurants or stores. He called the hotel on Martha’s Vineyard to find out whether anyone had seen a young blond girl, but the receptionist he spoke to thought he must be a madman. So he waited, every day and every night. He waited frantically and hopefully. She would come back, and they would go away together. They would be happy. She was the only person who had ever given any meaning to his life. Let all the books and houses burn, to hell with all music and all men—nothing mattered as long as she was with him. He loved her, and loving meant that, with her beside him, he didn’t fear death or adversity. So he waited for her. And when night fell, he swore to the stars that he would wait forever.

  *

  While Harry refused to lose hope, Captain Rodik could not help noticing the total failure of the police operations in spite of the scale of the resources deployed. During a meeting with the F.B.I. and Chief Pratt, Rodik remarked bitterly: “The dogs aren’t finding anything. The men aren’t finding anything. I don’t think we’re going to find her.”

  “I’m largely in agreement with you,” said the F.B.I. officer. “Generally, in cases like this, you either find the victim right away, dead or alive, or you receive a ransom demand. And if that doesn’t happen, then the case joins the ever-growing list of unresolved missing-persons cases. Last week, as it happens, the F.B.I. received five reports of missing children nationwide. We can’t deal with everything.”

  “But what could have happened to this kid?” asked Pratt, who could not face the idea of simply giving up. “Did she run away?”

  “No. If she ran away, then why was she seen covered in blood and screaming?”

  Rodik shrugged, and the F.B.I. man suggested they go for a beer.

  *

  At the final joint press conference the next day, the evening of September 18, Chief Pratt and Captain Rodik announced that the search for Nola Kellergan was being called off. In nearly three weeks they had found no evidence at all, not even the smallest clue.

  Volunteers, led by Chief Pratt, continued searching for several weeks after this, all the way out to the state borders. But she was never found. It was as if Nola Kellergan had flown away.

  9

  A Black Monte Carlo

  “The words are good, Marcus. But don’t write in order to be read; write in order to be heard.”

  My book was progressing. Little by little, the hours spent writing were producing results, and I began to feel once more the indescribable sensation that I had believed was lost forever. It was as if I had at last recovered a vital sense that, when it had failed, had made my entire being dysfunctional, as if someone had pressed a button in my brain, and suddenly it had started working again. It was as if I had come back to life. It was the feeling of being a writer.

  My days began before dawn: I went running from one end of Concord to the other, while listening to my minidisc recorder. Back in my hotel room, I ordered a pot of coffee and got to work. I was aided once again by Denise, whom I had taken back from Schmid & Hanson; she had agreed to start work again in my office near Central Park. I sent her my pages by e-mail as I wrote them, and she corrected them. When a chapter was finished, I sent it to Douglas to get his opinion. It was funny to see how completely he was throwing himself into this book; I know for a fact that he sat by his computer all day, waiting for my chapters. Nor did he fail to remind me of my rapidly approaching deadline, telling me over and over: “If we don’t get this done in time, we’re screwed!” He said “we,” though, theoretically, he was not at any risk himself. But he felt just as involved in the book as I did.

  I think Douglas was taking a lot of heat from Barnaski and trying to protect me from it: Barnaski feared I would not be able to meet my deadline without outside help. He had already called me several times to say this himself.

  “You have to use ghostwriters to get this done,” he told me. “I have teams of them ready to work for you. Just give them the gist, and they’ll write it for you.”

  “Never,” I replied. “It’s my responsibility to write this book. Nobody is going to do it for me.”

  “Oh, Goldman, I’m so sick of all your morals and lofty principles. Everybody gets their books written by other people these days. Untel, for example: He never refuses help from my teams.”

  “Untel doesn’t write his own books?”

  He gave his usual snigger. “Of course not! How the hell could he write that quickly? The readers don’t want to know how Untel writes his books, or even who writes them. All they want, each summer, is to have a new Untel to read on their vacation. So we give it to them. It’s called business.”

  “It’s called cheating the public,” I said.

  “‘Cheating the public’—Jesus, you’re such a drama queen!”

  I made him understand that it was out of the question that my book be written by anyone else but me. He had lost his patience.

  “Goldman, I paid you two million dollars for this fucking book, so it would be nice if you could be a little more cooperative. If I think you need help from my writers, just fucking use them!”

  “Calm down, Roy. You’ll have the book by the deadline. At least you will if you stop calling me all the time.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Goldman, I hope you’re aware that I have my balls on the goddamn chopping block. My balls! On the goddamn chopping block! I’ve invested a huge amount of money in this book, and the credibility of one of America’s biggest publishing companies is on the line. So if you fuck this up—if there’s no book because of you and your morals or God knows what other bullshit—and I have to walk the plank, you’d better know that you’ll be walking it with me. And I’ll make damn sure the sharks eat you first, you fucker!”

  “O.K., I think I’ve got that, Roy, thanks.”

  For all his failings as a human being, Barnaski had an innate talent for marketing: My book was already the biggest sensation of the year, despite the fact that its promotional campaign was only just beginning. Soon after the house at Goose Cove had burned down, he had made a solemn declaration. “There is, hidden somewhere in America,” he said, “a writer who is determined to tell the truth about what happened in Somerset in 1975. And because the truth sometimes hurts, there is somebody ready to do whatever it takes in order to keep him quiet.” The next day an article appeared in the New York Times under the headline: WHO WANTS MARCUS GOLDMAN DEAD? My mother read it, of course, and called me right away.

  “For the love of God, Markie, where are you?”

  “I’m in my hotel suite in Concord. Room number—”

  “Stop!” she yelled. “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know.”

  “But you asked—”

  “If you tell me, I won’t be able to resist telling the butcher, who will tell his assistant, who will tell his mother, who is none other than the cousin of the registrar at Felton High School and who will of course tell him, and that devil will tell the principal, who will talk about it in the teachers’ lounge, and soon all of Montclair will know exactly where my son is, and the guy who wants you dead will sneak up and strangle you in your sleep. Why are you staying in a suite, anyway? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you planning to get married?”

  She then called my father over. I heard her shouting: “Nelson, come and listen. Markie’s on the phone, and he’s going to get married!”

  “Mom, I’m not getting married. I’m on my own in the suite.”

  Gahalowood, who was in my room and had just eaten a very large breakfast on my tab, then amused himself by calling out: “Hey, what about me? I’m here!”

  “Who is that?” my mother demanded.

  “No-one.”

  “Don’t lie to your mother! I heard a man’s voice. Marcus, I’m going to ask you an extremely important medical question, and you have to be honest with the woman who carried you in her belly for nine months: Is there a homosexual man secretly hidden in your room?”

&n
bsp; “No, Mom. It’s just Sergeant Gahalowood. He’s a policeman. We’re investigating this case together, and he’s also trying to add a couple of zeroes to my hotel bill.”

  “Is he naked?”

  “What? Of course not! He’s a policeman, Mom. We’re working together.”

  “A policeman … I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I’ve seen that musical group, those men who sing together: a motorcyclist in leather, a plumber, an Indian, and a policeman …”

  “Mom, this is a real policeman.”

  “Markie, in the name of your ancestors who fled the pogroms and for the love of your sweet mother, chase that naked man out of your room.”

  “I’m not going to chase anyone.”

  “Oh, Markie, why call me at all if you just want to make me suffer?”

  “You called me, Mom.”

  “Yes, because your father and I are frightened about that criminal maniac who’s after you.”

  “No-one is after me. The media just exaggerates.”

  “I check the mailbox every morning and every evening.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why? He asks his mother why! For a bomb, of course!”

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to put a bomb in your mailbox, Mom.”

  “We’ll be killed by a bomb! And without ever having known the joy of being grandparents. Are you pleased with yourself? Just the other day, your father was followed by a big black car all the way home. Daddy ran inside, and the car parked in the street, right next to his.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Of course. Two cars turned up, sirens screaming.”

  “And?”

  “It was the neighbors. They’d gone and bought a new car! Without even telling us. A new car—can you imagine? When everyone is talking about how there’s going to be a huge financial crisis, they go buy a new car. Don’t you think that’s suspicious? I think the husband must be involved in drug dealing or something like that.”

  “Mom, please stop talking shit about the neighbors.”

  “I know what I’m talking about. And don’t talk like that to your poor mother, who might be killed at any moment by a bomb! How’s your book?”

  “It’s going very well. I should have it finished in time.”

  “And how will it end? Maybe the man who killed the girl is trying to kill you.”

  “That’s my only problem. I still don’t know how the book will end.”

  *

  On Monday afternoon, July 21, Gahalowood arrived at my suite as I was writing the chapter in which Nola and Harry decide to leave for Canada. He had news. He grabbed a himself bottle of beer from the minibar.

  “I was just at Elijah Stern’s house,” he said.

  “You went there without me?”

  “Let me remind you that Stern has filed an injunction against your book. Anyway, I came here to tell you about it …”

  Gahalowood explained that he had gone to see Stern unannounced in order to keep his visit unofficial, and that it was Stern’s lawyer, Bo Sylford, of Boston, who opened the door, drenched in sweat and wearing only sweatpants. “Give me five minutes, Sergeant,” Sylford told him. “I’m going to take a quick shower, and then I’ll be all yours.”

  “A shower?”

  “As I said, writer, this Sylford guy was walking around half-naked. I waited in a little room, then he came back, wearing a suit, accompanied by Stern, who said to me: ‘So, Sergeant, I see you have met my partner.’”

  “His partner?” I repeated. “Are you telling me Stern is—”

  “Gay. Which means it’s unlikely he ever felt remotely attracted to Nola Kellergan.”

  “So what was going on with him and Nola?”

  “That is the very question I asked him. He was fairly open about it.”

  Stern was apparently very annoyed by my book; in his opinion, I had no idea what I was talking about. So Gahalowood had seized the opportunity and asked him to clarify a few things relating to the case.

  “Mr Stern,” he said. “In light of what you have just told me about your … sexual orientation, could you please tell me what kind of relationship existed between yourself and Nola?”

  “I told you from the beginning,” Stern replied, without blinking. “A working relationship.”

  “A working relationship?”

  “It’s when someone does something for you and you pay her for it, Sergeant. In this case, she posed.”

  “So Nola Kellergan really did come here to pose for you?”

  “Yes, but not for me.”

  “For who, then? Luther Caleb?”

  “Yes, Luther. That’s how he got his kicks.”

  The scene that Stern went on to describe took place one evening in July 1975. Stern did not recall the exact date, but it was toward the end of the month. Through cross-checking, I was able to establish that it must have occurred just before Nola and Harry went to Martha’s Vineyard.

  Concord. Late July, 1975

  It was quite late already. Stern and Luther were alone in the house, playing chess on the terrace. The front doorbell rang, and the two men wondered who it could be at that hour. Luther went to open the door. He returned to the terrace accompanied by a beautiful young blond girl, her eyes reddened by tears. Nola.

  “Good evening, Mr Stern,” she said shyly. “I’m sorry to come here unannounced. My name is Nola Kellergan and I am the daughter of the pastor in Somerset.”

  “Somerset? You’ve come all the way from Somerset?” he asked. “How did you get here?”

  “I hitchhiked. I had to speak to you.”

  “Do we know each other?”

  “No, sir. But I have a very important request to make.”

  Stern contemplated this young lady, with her sparkling but sad eyes. He bade her sit down, and Caleb brought her a glass of lemonade and a plate of cookies.

  She drank her lemonade thirstily, and almost amused by the scene, Stern told her: “I’m listening. What is it you have to ask me that is so important?”

  “Once again, Mr Stern, please accept my apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour. But I had no choice. I have come to see you confidentially so that … I could ask you to hire me.”

  “Hire you? As what?”

  “As whatever you like, sir. I would do anything for you.”

  “Hire you?” Stern repeated, not understanding. “But why? Do you need money?”

  “In exchange, I would like you to allow Harry Quebert to stay at Goose Cove.”

  “Harry Quebert is leaving Goose Cove?”

  “He can’t afford to stay. He’s already contacted the rental agency. He can’t pay next month’s rent. But he has to stay! Because there is this book he has barely begun writing that I feel certain is going to be wonderful. If he has to leave, he’ll never finish it. His career will be over. What a waste that would be! And then … there’s me and Harry. I love him, Mr Stern. I love him as I have never loved anyone in my life. I know this will seem ridiculous to you, that you will say I’m only fifteen years old and know nothing about life. Well, maybe I do know nothing about life, Mr Stern, but I know my heart. Without Harry, I would be nothing.”

  She put her hands together as if praying, and Stern asked:

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I have no money. Which means I can’t pay the rent of the house. But you could hire me! I would be your employee, and I would work for you as long as it took to pay you back for a few extra months in the house.”

  “I have enough employees already.”

  “I can do anything you want. Anything! Or let me pay the rent in installments: I already have a hundred and twenty dollars.” She took some cash from her pocket. “This is all my savings. I work at Clark’s on Saturdays; I’ll keep working until I’ve paid you back.”

  “How much do you earn?”

  She replied proudly: “Two dollars an hour. Plus tips!”

  Stern smiled, touched by this request. He looked tenderly at Nola. He had
no need for the income from Goose Cove; he could easily let Quebert stay there for a few months longer. But it was at this point that Luther asked to speak to him privately. They went to the room next door.

  “Eli,” said Caleb. “Pleave, I would like to paint her. Could I, pleave?”

  “No, Luther. Not that. Not again …”

  “Oh, pleave, let me paint her! It’f been fo long!”

  “But why her?”

  “Becaufe she lookf like Eleanore.”

  “Eleanore again? No, that’s enough. You have to stop this now!”

  But Caleb kept insisting, and in the end Stern gave in. He went back to see Nola, who was nibbling a cookie.

  “Nola, I’ve given this some thought,” he said. “I’m prepared to let Harry Quebert stay in the house for as long as he wishes.”

  She jumped up and hugged him around the neck.

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mr Stern!”

  “But there’s one condition …”

  “Of course! Anything you want!”

  “You will act as a model. For a painting. Luther is going to paint you. You will be nude, and he will paint you.”

  “Nude?” she choked. “You want me to take all my clothes off?”

  “Yes. But only to act as a model. Nobody will touch you.”

  “But, sir, it’s so embarrassing, being naked … I mean …” She started to sob. “I thought I could work in your garden, maybe, or shelve books in your library. I didn’t think I would have to … I wasn’t thinking of that.”

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Stern looked at this sweet little girl whom he was forcing to pose nude. He wished he could take her in his arms to comfort her, but he knew he must not let his feelings get the better of him.

  “That’s my price,” he said coldly. “You pose nude, and Quebert keeps the house.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll do it, Mr Stern. I’ll do anything you want. I’m yours now.”