by Joël Dicker
“Fuck my guard! I want to know! Tell me what the hell you’re getting at with all these riddles.”
“They’re not riddles. The day you understand, you’ll have solved this whole case.”
I stopped dead.
“For God’s sake, what exactly are you trying to tell me? Are you hiding something from me? You haven’t told me the whole truth?”
“I’ve told you everything. The truth is in your hands.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. But when you do understand, everything will be different. You’re going through a crucial phase of your life.”
Pissed off, I sat down on the asphalt.
“Get up! Get up!” he shouted. “We’re practicing the noble art of boxing!”
But I’d had enough of his noble art of boxing.
“Boxing only means something to me because of you, Harry. You remember the boxing championship of 2002?”
“Of course I remember. How could I forget?”
“So why can’t we be friends anymore?”
“Because of books. Books brought us together, and now they’re driving us apart. It was written.”
“It was written? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s all in the books. I knew this moment would come the day I first saw you.”
“What moment?”
“It’s because of the book you’re writing now.”
“This book? But I’ll stop writing it if that’s what you want. Do you want me to give it up? All right then, I’ll give it up! No more book. No more nothing.”
“Unfortunately that would make no difference. If it’s not this one, it will be another.”
“What are you trying to tell me? I don’t understand.”
“You are going to write this book, Marcus, and it will be wonderful. I’m very happy about that; don’t get me wrong. But the time has come for us to separate. One writer leaves, and another is born. You’re going to carry the torch. You’re going to become a great writer. You’ve sold the rights to your manuscript for three million dollars! Three million! You’re going to become someone very important. I always knew it.”
“For God’s sake, what are you trying to say?”
“Marcus, the key is in the books. It’s right there in front of you. Look for it—look closely. Can you see where we are?”
“We’re in a motel parking lot!”
“No! No, Marcus. This is the origin of evil. I have been dreading this moment for more than thirty years.”
The boxing gym on the Burrows College campus, February 2002
“Your punches are badly placed, Marcus. You hit well, but the first phalanx of your middle finger sticks out too far, so it’s grazed on impact.”
“I don’t feel it when I wear gloves.”
“You should know how to box with bare hands. The gloves are only there so you don’t kill your opponent. You would know it if you hit anything other than this bag.”
“Harry . . . Why do you think I always box alone?”
“Ask yourself that question.”
“I think it’s because I’m afraid. I’m afraid of failing.”
“But when you went to that gym in Lowell, on my advice, and you got smashed to pieces by that big black guy, how did you feel?”
“Proud. After the fight I felt proud. The next day, when I looked at my bruises, I liked them. I had surpassed myself. I had shown balls. I had dared to fight.”
“So you felt like you’d won?”
“Yes, I did. Even if, technically, I lost the match, I felt as if I had won.”
“Well, there’s your answer: it doesn’t matter if you win or lose. What matters is how you fight between the first bell and the last one. The result of the match is just a piece of news for the public. Who can say you lost if you feel like you’ve won? Life is like a foot race, Marcus: There will always be people who are faster than you, and there will always be those who are slower than you. What matters, in the end, is how you ran your race.”
“Harry, I found this poster on a wall . . .”
“The university boxing championship?”
“Yes, all the best universities will be represented—Harvard, Yale—I . . . I want to take part.”
“Then I’ll help you.”
“Really?”
“Of course. You can always count on me, Marcus. Never forget that. We’re a team, you and I. For life.”
10
IN SEARCH OF A FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL
(Somerset, New Hampshire, September 1–18, 1975)
“HARRY, HOW CAN YOU communicate emotions that you have not felt yourself?”
“That’s your job as a writer. Writing means being able to feel things more strongly than other people do and to communicate those feelings. Writing means allowing your readers to see things they sometimes can’t see. If only orphans wrote books about orphans, we’d never get anywhere. That would mean you’d never be able to write about a mother, a father, a dog, an airplane pilot, or the Russian Revolution unless you happened to be a mother, a father, a dog, an airplane pilot, or a witness to the Russian Revolution. You are only Marcus Goldman. And if every writer had to limit his writing to his own experiences, literature would be impoverished and would lose all its meaning. We’re allowed to write about anything that affects us. And no one can judge us for that. We’re writers because we do one thing differently, one thing that everyone around us knows how to do: write. All the nuances reside there.”
AT ONE TIME OR ANOTHER, everyone thought he or she had seen Nola somewhere. In the general store of a neighboring town, at a bus stop, at the counter of a restaurant. One week after her disappearance, while the search continued, the police were having to deal with a vast array of erroneous witness statements. In Cheshire County, a movie was interrupted after one of the moviegoers thought she had recognized Nola Kellergan in the third row. Near Manchester, a father accompanying his (blond, fifteen-year-old) daughter to a carnival was taken to the police station so their identities could be verified.
The search was intense but in vain. People from all over the region had joined in, but still no traces of the girl were found. FBI specialists came to optimize the police work by pointing out the places that ought to be searched first, on the basis of experience and statistics: streams and rivers, the edges of forests near parking lots, garbage dumps where putrid waste rotted. The case seemed so complex that they even enlisted the aid of a medium, who had proved her abilities with two murder cases in Oregon, but she was unsuccessful this time.
The town of Somerset was in turmoil, invaded by onlookers and journalists. On the main street, the police station was a hive of activity. The search was being coordinated from there, and all information regarding the case was routed there to be sorted. The telephone lines were overloaded: The phone rang constantly, often for nothing, and each call required attention. Teams with dogs had been sent to Maine and Massachusetts, again without success. The press conference given twice daily by Chief Pratt and Captain Rodik in front of the police station came to seem increasingly like a confession of helplessness.
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’ phone 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 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 okay: 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 place mat and silverware in front of him. She noticed the flowers and asked, “Are they for her?”
“Yes. I wanted to make sure she was okay. 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 okay, Jenny? You don’t look too good . . .”
“I’m okay.”
“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 it 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.”
“Have 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.”