by Joël Dicker
When the hole had been filled in, Travis took the black Chevrolet and drove down Shore Road with Luther’s corpse in the trunk. He entered Massachusetts. On the way he had to pass through two police roadblocks.
“Can I see your papers please, sir?” the cops said each time, nervously eyeing the car.
And each time Travis showed them his badge.
“Somerset police, guys. I’m trying to find our man too.”
The policemen respectfully waved their colleague through, wishing him good luck.
He drove until he reached a small coastal town that he knew well. Sagamore. He took the ocean road, the one that runs back north toward Ellisville Harbor. The parking area was empty. The view from here was beautiful in the daytime; he had often thought of bringing Jenny to Sagamore for a romantic vacation. He stopped the car, put Luther’s body in the driver’s seat, and poured alcohol down his throat. Then he put the car in neutral and pushed it. It rolled slowly down the little grassy slope before hurtling over the edge and disappearing into the void amid a crash of metal.
He walked back down the road a few hundred yards. A car was waiting on the shoulder. He got in the passenger seat. He was sweating and covered in blood.
“It’s done,” he told Pratt, who sat behind the wheel.
The chief started the car.
“We must never talk about what happened, Travis. And when they find the car, I’ll just keep it quiet. The only way we can be sure to get away with this is to never find anyone guilty. You understand?”
Travis nodded. He slid his hand into his pocket and fingered the necklace he had secretly taken from around Nola’s neck before they buried her. A pretty gold necklace with the name NOLA engraved on it.
Harry had sat back down on the couch.
“So they killed Nola, Luther, and Mrs. Cooper.”
“Yes. And they arranged it so that the investigation would never lead anywhere. So, Harry, you knew that Nola had psychotic episodes, didn’t you? You talked about it with David Kellergan . . .”
“I didn’t know about the fire. But I discovered that Nola was mentally fragile when I went to the Kellergans’ house to confront them about the physical abuse. I had promised Nola I would not go to see her parents, but I felt I couldn’t just let it continue. That was when I realized that Nola’s father was the only parent still alive, that he had been a widower for six years, and that the situation was way beyond him. He refused to face facts. I had to take Nola far from Somerset so she could receive the treatment she needed.”
“So that was why you were running away? To get Nola help?”
“That had become the reason, for me. I would have taken her to a good doctor, and she would have been treated. She was an amazing girl, Marcus. She would have helped me become a great writer, and I would have helped her be happy and sane. She was my guide and my inspiration. She has guided me throughout my life. You know that, don’t you? You know that better than anyone.”
“Yes, Harry. But why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to. I would have, if it hadn’t been for those leaks from your book. I thought you had betrayed my trust. I was angry with you. I think I wanted your book to be a failure; I knew that no one would take you seriously if you made a mistake like that about Nola’s mother. Yes, that’s what it was: I wanted your second book to be a failure. As mine was.”
We were silent for a moment.
“I regret it,” Harry finally added. “I regret everything. You must be so disappointed in me.”
“No.”
“I know you are. You put so much faith in me. And I built my life on a lie!”
“I’ve always admired you for who you are, Harry. It doesn’t really matter to me whether you wrote that book or not. It was you—the man you are—who taught me so much about life. And no one can take that away.”
“No—you’ll never see me the same way anymore. And you know it. I’m just a fraud. An impostor! That was why I said we could no longer be friends. It’s all over. You’re becoming a great writer, and I’m no longer anything at all. You’re a real writer; I have never been one. You struggled to write your book, you struggled to rediscover inspiration, you overcame all the hurdles. And when I was in the same situation as you, I cheated.”
“Harry, I—”
“That’s life, Marcus. And you know I’m right. You could never look me in the eyes anymore. And I could never look at you without feeling an overwhelming, destructive jealousy—because you succeeded where I failed.”
He held me close to him.
“Harry,” I whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You’ll be fine without me. You’ve become a great man, a great writer. You’ll be absolutely fine—I know you will. Our paths are taking different directions now. We have different destinies. It was never my destiny to become a great writer. I tried to change my destiny—I stole a book, I lied for thirty-three years. But destiny is invincible: it always triumphs in the end.”
“Harry—”
“Your destiny was always to be a writer, Marcus. I knew that from the beginning. And I also knew that this moment would arrive.”
“You’ll always be my friend.”
“Finish your book. The book about me—you have to finish it. You know the truth, and now you need to tell it to the world. The truth will set us all free. Write the truth about the Harry Quebert affair. Free me from the evil that has plagued me for thirty-three years. This is the last thing I’ll ask of you.”
“But how? I can’t erase the past.”
“No, but you can change the present. That’s a writer’s power. Writer’s heaven, remember? I know you’ll find a way to do it.”
“Harry, I owe you everything! You made me the man I am now.”
“That’s just an illusion. I didn’t do anything. You did it on your own.”
“No, that’s not true! I followed your advice. I followed your thirty-one rules. That’s how I wrote my first book. And the next one. And it’s how I’ll write all the others that will come after. Your thirty-one rules, Harry—don’t you remember?”
He smiled sadly. “Of course I remember.”
Burrows, Christmas 1999
“Happy holidays, Marcus!”
“You got me a gift? Thank you, Harry. What is it?”
“Open it. It’s a minidisc recorder. The latest technological gizmo, apparently. You spend all your time taking notes on what I say, but then you lose the notes and I have to repeat it all. I figured, with this you can just record everything.”
“That’s a great idea. Let’s do it.”
“Do what?”
“Give me your first piece of advice. I’m going to record all your advice.”
“Oh, okay. What kind of advice?”
“I don’t know . . . Rules for writers. And for boxers. And for human beings.”
“Ha-ha. All right. How many do you want?”
“At least a hundred!”
“A hundred? I’m going to give you thirty-one rules. But I’ll give them to you over the years, not all at the same time.”
“Why thirty-one?”
“Because thirty-one is an important age. Your teenage years mold you as an adolescent. Your twenties mold you as an adult. Your thirties will make you a man, or not. And when you reach thirty-one, you begin that phase. How do you imagine yourself at thirty-one?”
“Like you.”
“Don’t be silly. Turn on your recorder. I’m going to give you the rules in descending order. Rule number thirty-one: This one will be advice about books. So, rule thirty-one: The first chapter, Marcus, is essential. If the readers don’t like it, they won’t read the rest of your book. How do you plan to begin yours?”
“I don’t know, Harry. Do you think I’ll ever be able to do it?”
“Do what?”
&nb
sp; “Write a book.”
“I’m certain you will.”
He looked at me steadily and smiled.
“You’re not even thirty, Marcus. And you’ve done it already: You’ve become a magnificent man. Being Marcus the Magnificent was an achievement of sorts, but becoming a magnificent man is the crowning glory of a long and wonderful battle with yourself. I’m very proud of you.”
He put his coat back on and wound his scarf around his neck.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“I have to leave now.”
“Don’t leave! Stay!”
“I can’t . . .”
“Stay, Harry! Stay a little longer.”
“I can’t. Good-bye, Marcus. I’m so glad you came into my life.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to wait for Nola somewhere.”
He embraced me.
“Find love, Marcus. Love gives life its meaning. You’re stronger when you love. You’re bigger. You go further.”
“Harry! Please don’t leave!”
“Good-bye, Marcus.”
He left. He did not close the door behind him, and I left it open for a long time afterward. That was the last time I saw my master and my friend, Harry Quebert.
May 2002, finals of the university boxing championship
“Marcus, are you ready? You go in the ring in three minutes.”
“I’m scared, Harry.”
“I’m sure you are. But that’s good: You can’t win unless you’re scared. Don’t forget: boxing is like writing a book. You remember? Chapter one, chapter two . . .”
“Yes. Jab in the first, hook in the second . . .”
“Exactly, champ. Are you ready? You’re in the finals, Marcus! The finals! Not so long ago you were still fighting against heavy bags, and now you’re in the finals. Can you hear the loudspeaker? ‘Marcus Goldman and his coach, Harry Quebert, from Burrows College.’ That’s us! Let’s go!”
“Wait, Harry . . .”
“What?”
“I have a gift for you.”
“A gift? Now?”
“Absolutely. I want you to have it before the match. It’s in my bag. Take it. I can’t give it to you with these gloves on.”
“It’s a CD?”
“Yes, a compilation. Your thirty-one most important statements. About boxing, about life, about books.”
“Thank you, Marcus. I’m touched. Now, are you ready to fight?”
“I sure am.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Hang on—there’s still one thing I’m wondering . . .”
“Marcus, they’re waiting for us!”
“But this is important. I’ve listened to all our recordings, and you never answered me about one thing.”
“All right. What is it?”
“How do you know when a book is finished?”
“Books are like life, Marcus. They never really end.”
EPILOGUE
OCTOBER 2009
(One Year After the Book’s Publication)
“A GOOD BOOK, MARCUS, is judged not by its last words but by the cumulative effect of all the words that have preceded them. About half a second after finishing your book, after reading the very last word, the reader should be overwhelmed by a particular feeling. For a moment he should think only of what he has just read; he should look at the jacket and smile a little sadly because he is already missing all the characters. A good book, Marcus, is a book you are sorry has ended.”
The beach at Goose Cove, October 17, 2009
“Rumor has it you have a new book, writer.”
“That’s true.”
I was sitting next to Gahalowood, facing the ocean. We were drinking beer. The sun was going down.
“To the latest success of the talented Marcus Goldman!” Gahalowood declared. “What’s it about?”
“I’m sure you’ll read it. You’re in it, after all.”
“Really? Can I take a look now?”
“No chance, Sergeant.”
“Well, if it’s bad I’ll expect a refund.”
“Goldman doesn’t offer refunds anymore, Sergeant.”
He laughed.
“Tell me, writer, what gave you the idea of rebuilding this house and turning it into a retreat for young writers?”
“I don’t know. It just came to me.”
“The Harry Quebert House for Writers. It’s got a nice ring to it. You writers have a great life, you know. Coming here to look at the ocean and write books . . . I’d like a job like that. Have you seen today’s New York Times?”
“No.”
He took a newspaper clipping from his pocket and unfolded it, then read out loud: “The Seagulls of Somerset is a must-read new novel. Luther Caleb, wrongly accused of murdering Nola Kellergan, was a brilliant writer whose talent was never discovered during his lifetime. Schmid and Hanson honor his memory by publishing a posthumous edition of the scintillating novel he wrote about the relationship between Nola Kellergan and Harry Quebert. This wonderful novel tells how Harry Quebert was inspired by his love for Nola Kellergan to write The Origin of Evil.”
He stopped reading and laughed.
“What’s funny, Sergeant?” I asked.
“Nothing. You’re just brilliant, Goldman. Brilliant!”
“The police are not the only ones who can dispense justice, Sergeant.”
We finished our beers.
“I’m going back to New York tomorrow,” I said.
He nodded. “Drop by from time to time. Just to say hi. It would make my wife happy.”
“I’d love to.”
“Oh, you never told me—what’s the title of your new book?”
“The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair.”
He looked thoughtful. We walked back to our cars. A flock of seagulls crossed the sky; we watched them for a moment. Then Gahalowood asked: “So what are you going to do now, writer?”
“One day Harry said to me: ‘You must give meaning to your life. Two things can make life meaningful: books and love.’ Thanks to Harry I already have books. Now I am setting off in search of love.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to Ernie Pinkas of Somerset, New Hampshire, for the valuable help he gave me.
Also to Sergeant Perry Gahalowood (New Hampshire State Police) and Officer Philip Thomas (Alabama Department of Public Safety).
Last, special thanks to my assistant, Denise, without whom I would not have been able to finish this book.