The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair: A Novel Page 10

  With these words Gahalowood got up from his chair.

  “Are you leaving already, Sergeant? But our investigation has hardly even begun.”

  “Our investigation? Mine, you mean.”

  “When will we meet again?”

  “Never, writer. Never.”

  And he left without further ado.

  • • •

  While Gahalowood did not take me seriously, the opposite was true for Travis Dawn, whom I went to see soon afterward at the police station in Somerset, to give him the anonymous message I had found the evening before.

  “‘Go home, Goldman’? When did you find this?”

  “Last night. I went for a walk on the beach. When I came back, this message was jammed in the front door.”

  “And I suppose you didn’t see anything . . .”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is this the first time?”

  “Yes. Then again, I’ve been here only two days . . .”

  “I’m going to register a complaint in order to open a file. We have to be careful, Marcus.”

  “At first I thought it might be my mother’s doing.”

  “No, this is serious. Don’t underestimate the emotional impact of this case. Can I keep this letter?”

  “It’s all yours.”

  “Thank you. Can I do anything else for you? I assume you didn’t come to see me just to tell me about this piece of paper.”

  “I’d like you to come with me to Side Creek, if you have time. I want to see the place where it all happened.”

  Not only did Travis agree to take me to Side Creek, he even took me back thirty-three years. In his patrol car we retraced his steps when he responded to Deborah Cooper’s first call. From Somerset we headed toward Maine along Shore Road, which hugs the coastline. We passed Goose Cove and then, a few miles on, arrived where the intersection meets the edge of Side Creek forest. Deborah Cooper had lived at the end of this path. Travis turned off here, and we parked in front of the house, a pretty wooden structure facing the ocean and surrounded on three sides by woods. It was a beautiful but isolated place.

  “It hasn’t changed,” Travis told me, while we walked around the house. “It’s been repainted—the blue is a little lighter than before—but everything else is the way it was then.”

  “Who lives here now?”

  “A couple from Boston who come for the summer. They don’t arrive until July and they leave at the end of August. The rest of the time it’s empty.” He showed me the back door, which led directly to the kitchen, and said: “The last time I saw Deborah Cooper alive, she was standing in front of this door. Chief Pratt had just arrived. He told her to stay where she was and not to worry, and we left to search the woods. Who could imagine that twenty minutes later she’d be killed by a bullet to the chest?”

  As he was speaking, Travis was walking toward the woods. I realized that he was taking the path he’d walked with Chief Pratt thirty-three years earlier.

  “What ever happened to Chief Pratt?” I asked, following him.

  “He’s retired. He still lives in Somerset, on Mountain Drive. You’ve seen him around, I’m sure. A burly guy who always wears golf pants.”

  We entered the rows of trees. Through dense vegetation we could see the beach, slightly below. After we had walked for a good fifteen minutes, Travis stopped dead in front of three very straight pine trees.

  “It was here,” he told me.

  “What was here?”

  “Where we found all that blood, tufts of blond hair, and a scrap of red fabric. It was horrible. I’ll never forget this place. There’s more moss on the rocks and the trees have grown taller, but for me, nothing has changed.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “We realized something serious must have happened, but we didn’t have time to hang around any longer because we heard that gunshot. It’s crazy—we didn’t see anything on our way here. I mean, the girl or her murderer must have passed us at some point. I don’t know how we could have missed them. I think they must have been hidden by the undergrowth, and that he must have been preventing her from making noise. The woods are huge; it’s not difficult to go unseen. I imagine she must have escaped while her attacker was distracted for a moment, and that she must have run to the house to seek help. He came to find her in the house and took care of Mrs. Cooper.”

  “So as soon as you heard the gunshot, you went back to the house . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  We walked back along the path and returned to the house.

  “It all happened in the kitchen,” Travis told me. “Nola came out of the forest, calling for help; Mrs. Cooper let her in, then went to the living room to call the police and tell them that the girl was with her. I know that the telephone was in the living room because I had used it myself to call Chief Pratt half an hour before. While she was on the phone, the attacker entered the kitchen to grab Nola, but at that moment Mrs. Cooper reappeared and he shot her. Then he took Nola to his car.”

  “Where was this car?”

  “By the side of Shore Road, where it passes this goddamn forest. Come with me—I’ll show you.”

  From the house, Travis led me back into the woods, but in a different direction this time, guiding me confidently through the trees. We came out soon onto Shore Road.

  “The black Chevy was here. At the time, the edges of the road weren’t so well cleared, and it was concealed by the bushes.”

  “How do we know this is the path he took?”

  “There were traces of blood going from the house to here.”

  “And the car?”

  “Vanished. Like I told you, a deputy sheriff who was coming in as support happened to see it. There was a chase, and there were roadblocks all over the area, but he lost us.”

  “How did the murderer manage to escape through the holes in the dragnet?”

  “I would love to know that, and I have to say that there are many things about this case that I’m still wondering about after thirty-three years. You know, there’s not a day that passes without me getting in my police car and thinking how things might have been different if we’d caught that goddamn Chevy. Maybe we could have saved the girl . . .”

  “You think she was in the car, then?”

  “Now that we’ve found her body two miles from here, I’d say it’s certain.”

  “And you also think it was Harry who was driving that black Chevy, huh?”

  He shrugged.

  “Let’s just say that, given recent events, I don’t see who else it could have been.”

  • • •

  The former police chief, Gareth Pratt, whom I went to speak with that same day, seemed to share his former deputy’s opinion regarding Harry’s guilt. He received me on his porch, wearing golf pants. His wife, Amy, served us drinks and then pretended to tend the potted plants on their porch so she could eavesdrop on our conversation—a fact she did not attempt to conceal, commenting on what her husband said.

  “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” Pratt said.

  “Yes, I often come to Somerset.”

  “It’s that nice young man who wrote that book,” his wife said.

  “You’re not that guy who wrote a book?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” I replied. “One of those guys.”

  “Gareth, I just told you that,” Amy cut in.

  “Darling, please don’t interrupt us. I’m the one he’s come to see. So, Mr. Goldman, how can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to find out a few things about the murder of Nola Kellergan. I spoke to Travis Dawn, who told me that you already had suspicions about Harry at the time.”

  “That’s true.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Several things tipped us off. Particularly the way the car chase went: It suggested that the m
urderer was somebody local. He had to have known the area perfectly in order to disappear like that with every police car in the county on his tail. And then there was that black Monte Carlo. As you probably guessed, we made a list of all the people in the area owning that particular model. The only one not to have an alibi was Quebert.”

  “And yet, in the end, you didn’t follow up your suspicions . . .”

  “No, because apart from the description of the car, we had no real evidence against him. We very quickly removed him from our list of suspects. The discovery of that poor girl’s body in his yard proves that we were wrong. It’s crazy—I always thought he seemed like such a nice guy. Maybe, deep down, that skewed my judgment. He was always so charming, friendly . . . I mean, what about you, Mr. Goldman? If I’ve understood correctly, he was a friend of yours. Now that you know about the girl in his yard, haven’t you thought of anything he might once have said or done that could have aroused your suspicions?”

  “No, Chief. Nothing comes to mind.”

  As I returned to Goose Cove, I noticed, beyond the police tape, the hydrangea bushes dying by the side of the trench, their roots exposed. I went to the garage and found a spade. Then, entering the forbidden zone, I dug a hole in a square of soft ground overlooking the ocean, and I planted the bushes.

  August 30, 2002

  “Harry?”

  It was six in the morning. He was standing on the deck, holding a cup of coffee. He turned around.

  “Marcus? You’re sweating . . . don’t tell me you’ve already been running?”

  “Yeah. I’ve done my eight miles.”

  “What time did you get up?”

  “Early. You remember, two years ago, when you forced me to get up at dawn? That became a habit. I get up early so that the world belongs to me. What about you—what are you doing outside?”

  “I’m observing, Marcus.”

  “What are you observing?”

  “You see that little grassy area between the pines, overlooking the beach? I’ve been meaning to do something with that for a long time. It’s the only part of the property flat enough to be used as a garden. I would like to create a pretty niche for myself, with two benches, an iron table, and hydrangeas growing all around. Lots of hydrangeas.”

  “Why hydrangeas?”

  “I knew someone who liked them. I would like to have flower beds filled with hydrangeas so that I can always remember her.”

  “Was she someone you loved?”

  “Yes.”

  “You look sad, Harry.”

  “Pay no attention.”

  “Why don’t you ever talk about your love life?”

  “Because there’s nothing to say. Just look—look carefully. Or, better yet, close your eyes! Yes, close your eyes tightly so that no light penetrates your eyelids. Can you see? There is that paved path going from the deck to the hydrangeas. And there are those two little benches, from which you can see both the ocean and the beautiful flowers. What could be better than seeing the ocean and the hydrangeas? There’s even a little pool, with a fountain in the form of a statue in the middle. And if the pool is big enough, I’ll put multicolored Japanese carp in it.”

  “Fish? They wouldn’t last an hour. The seagulls would gobble them up.”

  He smiled.

  “The seagulls can do what they like here, Marcus. But you’re right: I won’t put carp in the pool. Go take a hot shower. Before you catch a cold or something else that will make your parents think I’m not looking after you. I’m going to make breakfast . . . Marcus—”

  “Yes, Harry?”

  “If I’d had a son—”

  “I know, Harry. I know.”

  On the morning of Thursday, June 19, 2008, I went to the Sea Side Motel. It was very easy to find: from Side Creek Lane, you continued north straight along Shore Road for four miles, and you could not miss the huge wooden sign announcing:

  SEA SIDE MOTEL & RESTAURANT

  Since 1960

  The place where Harry had waited for Nola was still there; I had undoubtedly passed it hundreds of times, never paying it the slightest attention. But then, why would I have, until now? It was a red-roofed wooden building surrounded by a rose garden; just behind it was the forest. All the first-floor rooms opened onto the parking lot; to reach the upstairs rooms, you took an outdoor staircase.

  According to the front-desk clerk, the motel had barely changed since it was built. The rooms had been modernized and a restaurant had been added next to the main building, but that was all. He showed me the motel’s fortieth-anniversary commemorative book, containing photographs that bore out what he said.

  “Why are you so interested in this place?” he finally asked.

  “Because I’m looking for some important information.”

  “Go on.”

  “I would like to know if someone slept here, in room eight, on the night of Saturday, August 30, 1975.”

  He laughed. “Nineteen seventy-five? Are you serious? Since we went digital, the farthest back we can go is two years. I could tell you who slept here on August 30, 2006, if you like. Well, theoretically I could. Obviously I don’t have the right to reveal that kind of information.”

  “So there’s no way of knowing?”

  “Apart from the register, the only things we keep are e-mail addresses and our newsletter. Would you be interested in receiving our newsletter?”

  “No, thank you. But I would like to see room eight if possible.”

  “I can’t show it to you. But it’s vacant. Would you like to rent it for the night? It’s a hundred dollars.”

  “Your sign says all the rooms are sixty-five dollars. You know what? I’m going to slip you twenty dollars, you’re going to show me the room, and everyone will be happy.”

  “You drive a hard bargain. But okay.”

  Room 8 was on the second floor. It was an ordinary motel room, with a bed, a minibar, a television, a small desk, and a bathroom.

  “Why are you so interested in this room?” the clerk wanted to know.

  “It’s a long story. A friend told me he spent the night here, in 1975. If that’s true, it means he’s innocent.”

  “Innocent of what?”

  I did not reply but asked another question of my own. “Why do you call this place the Sea Side Motel? There isn’t even a sea view.”

  “No, but a path goes through the forest to the beach. It’s in the brochure. Our customers couldn’t care less, though; the people who stop here don’t go to the beach.”

  “So are you saying that you could, for example, walk along the beach from Somerset, come through the forest, and arrive here?”

  “It’s possible, yes.”

  • • •

  I spent the rest of my day at the library, going through the archives and attempting to reconstruct the past. Ernie Pinkas was a big help to me in this regard; he was very generous with his time.

  According to newspaper articles from the time, nobody noticed anything strange on the day of the disappearance: neither a fleeing Nola nor a prowler near the house. Everyone regarded the disappearance as a total mystery, with Deborah Cooper’s murder only compounding the puzzlement. Nevertheless, certain witnesses, mostly neighbors, reported hearing noises and shouts coming from the Kellergan house that day, while others stated that the noises were actually music, played at high volume by the Reverend David Kellergan, as was his wont. The Somerset Star’s investigations indicated that Mr. Kellergan was doing odd jobs in his garage, and that he always listened to the same music when he was working. He turned up the volume high enough to cover up the sounds of his tools, believing that good music, even when played too loud, was always preferable to the sound of hammering. But if his daughter had called out for help, he would not have heard her. According to Pinkas, Mr. Kellergan always blamed himself for having played his music too loud
: afterward, he never left the family home on Terrace Avenue, living there as a hermit, playing the same record over and over again, loud enough to deafen himself, as a form of punishment. He was the only one of Nola’s parents still alive. Nola’s mother, Louisa, had died a long time before. Apparently, on the night Nola was identified, journalists assailed David Kellergan in his home. “It was such a sad scene,” Pinkas told me. “He said something like, ‘So she’s dead . . . I’ve been saving up all this time so I could send her to college.’ And guess what—the next day five fake Nolas appeared at his door. After the money. The poor guy was completely disoriented. What is the world coming to, Marcus? Some people have shit for hearts—that’s what I think.”

  “And the father often did that, blasted music?”

  “Yes, all the time. Actually, about Harry . . . I saw Mrs. Quinn yesterday, in town . . .”

  “Mrs. Quinn?”

  “Yeah, she’s the former owner of Clark’s. She’s telling anyone who’ll listen that she always knew Harry had designs on Nola. She says she had irrefutable proof at the time.”

  “What kind of proof?” I asked.

  “No idea. Have you heard from Harry?”

  “I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

  “Say hello for me.”

  “Go and see him, if you want . . . he’d like that.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  Pinkas was seventy-five years old and used to work at a textile factory in Concord; he had never gone to college and regretted not having been able to find any outlet for his love of books beyond volunteering as a librarian. I knew he owed an eternal debt of gratitude to Harry, who had allowed him to take literature classes at Burrows College for free. So I had always considered him one of Harry’s most faithful supporters. But now even he preferred to keep his distance.

  “You know,” he said, “Nola was such a special girl—unfailingly gentle and kind. Everyone here loved her! She was like a daughter to all of us. So how could Harry have . . . I mean, even if he didn’t kill her, he wrote that book about her! I mean, shit—she was fifteen years old! She was a kid! And he loved her so much he wrote a book about her? A love story! I’ve been married for fifty years, and I’ve never felt the need to write a book about my wife.”