The Alaska Sanders Affair

by Joel Dicker

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; International Crime & Mystery; Mystery

Synopsis

The thrilling new whodunit from Joël Dicker, master of the plot twist and the author of The Truth about the Harry Quebert Affair and The Enigma of Room 622.

April 1999. The body of Alaska Sanders is found on the shore of a lake near the quiet town of Mount Pleasant, New Hampshire. The young woman’s death rocks the small community, but the murder is quickly solved. Within days, a suspect is identified and soon convicted. Case closed. Or so it seemed. . . .

Eleven years later, Marcus Goldman, celebrity author and amateur sleuth, picks up a thread that will unravel not only the “open and shut” case of Alaska Sanders, but the very fabric of his best friend,–Sergeant Perry Gahalowood–’s life. Gahalowood, who led the original Alaska Sanders investigation, is hell-bent on finding the truth and setting the record straight. Teaming up with Marcus, he hopes to find redemption by solving the most intricate and trying case of his career.

Set both before and after the events of  his phenomenal worldwide bestseller The Truth about the Harry Quebert Affair, Dicker’s latest delivers the last word in slow-burn police procedurals. Clue by clue, witness by witness, question by question, his characters painstakingly piece together an unguessable puzzle that could only have been set by this acclaimed master of the plot twist. And as they uncover who Alaska Sanders truly was, other ghosts from the past emerge . . .

Translated from the French by Robert Bononno

Release date: September 17, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 560

Sample

The Day Before the Murder

Friday, April 2, 1999

The last person to see her alive was Lewis Jacob, the owner of a gas station on Route 21. It was seven thirty in the evening, when Jacob was getting ready to leave the small convenience store near the gas pumps. He was planning to take his wife out to dinner to celebrate their anniversary.

“You sure you don’t mind closing up?” he asked the young woman behind the cash register.

“No problem, Mr. Jacob.”

“Thanks, Alaska.”

Jacob watched her for a moment as he was getting ready to leave. She was beautiful and kind and had been a ray of sunshine in his life. In the six months she had been working there, she had changed him.

“And you?” he asked. “You have plans for tonight?”

“I have a date,” she said, smiling broadly.

“From the looks of things, it sounds like it’s more than just a date.”

“A romantic dinner,” she confided.

“Walter’s a lucky guy,” Jacob said. “So things are better between you two, then?”

Alaska shrugged. Jacob adjusted his tie while checking his reflection in the window.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Perfect. Go on now, don’t be late.”

“Have a good weekend, Alaska. See you Monday.”

“You too, Mr. Jacob, have a good weekend.”

She smiled again. He would never forget that smile.

 

The following morning, at seven, Lewis Jacob returned to the gas station to open up. When he arrived, he locked the door to the store behind him so he could get ready to receive the first customers. Suddenly, he heard frantic knocking on the glass. He turned and saw a jogger, her face twisted with terror. She was screaming. He ran to open the door. The young woman threw herself at him, shouting, “Call the police! Call the police!”

 

That morning, the future of a small New Hampshire town was about to change.

Prologue
Concerning the Events of 2010

The years 2006 to 2010, in spite of the triumph and the glory, are burned into my memory as trying times. They were, unquestionably, a period of great upheaval.

So, before I embark on the story of Alaska Sanders, found dead on April 3, 1999, in Mount Pleasant, New Hampshire, and explain how, in the summer of 2010, I became involved in an eleven-year-old criminal investigation, I must briefly return to my personal life at the time, especially my burgeoning career as a writer.

This had taken off with a bang in 2006, when my first novel sold millions of copies. Barely twenty-six at the time, I became part of the very small club of rich and famous authors and was propelled to the summit of American letters.

But I was soon to discover that glory was not without its consequences. Those who have been following me since my early career know how the immense success of my first novel would destabilize me, leading to a breakdown and writer’s block—the crisis of the blank page. Failure.

Then there was the Harry Quebert affair, which you have certainly heard about. On June 12, 2008, the body of Nola Kellergan, who had disappeared in 1975 at the age of fifteen, was exhumed from the garden of Harry Quebert, a titan of American letters. The case affected me deeply. Harry was my former college professor, but, most important, my closest friend at the time. I found it hard to accept his guilt. Alone against the world, I crisscrossed New Hampshire to conduct my own investigation. And although I was finally able to prove Harry innocent, the secrets I uncovered destroyed our friendship.

Based on that investigation, I wrote my second book: The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair, which was published in the autumn of 2009 and whose runaway popularity firmly established me as a writer of national importance. It was the confirmation my readers and critics had been waiting for, ever since my first novel, to finally anoint me as a writer. No longer was I considered a one-hit wonder, a shooting star swallowed up by the night, a trail of burnt gunpowder. I was a writer recognized by the public and accepted by his fellow authors. This came as a tremendous relief. As if I had found myself after three years of wandering in the desert of fading success.

This explains why, during those final weeks of 2009, I was overcome by a feeling of serenity. That December 31, I celebrated the arrival of the new year in Times Square, surrounded by a joyous crowd. The last time I had done that was in 2006, after the appearance of my first book. That night, lost in the anonymous crowd, I felt at ease. My gaze met that of an unknown woman, to whom I was immediately drawn. She was drinking champagne. She offered me the bottle, smiling.

When I reflect on the events of the months that followed, I remember that scene and how it gave me the illusion of having finally found peace.

The events of 2010 would prove me wrong.

 

The Day of the Murder

April 3, 1999

It was seven in the morning. She was running alone down Route 21, past verdant fields. Music played in her ears. Her pace was steady, fast, her breathing under control; in two weeks she would be at the starting line of the Boston marathon. She was ready.

It was a perfect day for a run. The rising sun shone over the fields of wildflowers, beyond which rose the expanse of the White Mountain National Forest.

She soon reached Lewis Jacob’s gas station, exactly four miles from her home. She hadn’t planned to go farther than this but decided to push herself a bit. Passing the station and continuing to the intersection at Grey Beach, she turned onto a dirt road. It led to a parking lot, and from there a footpath wound its way through the forest to the long, stony beach that ran along the shore of Lake Skotam. As she crossed the parking lot, she saw, without paying too much attention, a blue convertible with Massachusetts plates. She turned down the path and headed for the beach.

When she reached the edge of the tree line, she noticed, there near the shore, a silhouette that caused her to stop. It took her a few moments before she understood what was going on, and then she became petrified with fear. Luckily, he hadn’t seen her. Don’t make a sound, don’t show yourself. If he sees you, he’ll be after you as well. She hid behind a tree.

Adrenaline gave her the strength to quietly head back up the path, and when she felt she was out of danger, she ran as fast as she could—like she had never run before. She had left her phone at home, intentionally, and she was angry with herself now that she needed it.

She made it back to Route 21, hoping a car would pass. She felt alone in the world. Breaking into a sprint, she headed back to the gas station. Surely, she’d find help there. When she arrived, breathing hard, the door was closed. Seeing someone inside, she banged on the glass until it opened. She threw herself at him, yelling, “Call the police! Call the police!” 

 

Excerpt from the Police Report Interview with Peter Philipps

Excerpt from the Police Report Interview with Peter Philipps

[Peter Philipps had been with the Mount Pleasant, New Hampshire, police for fifteen years. He was the first officer to reach the scene. His report was recorded on April 3, 1999, in Mount Pleasant.]

When I got the call from the operator about Grey Beach, I thought I had misunderstood. I asked her to repeat herself. At the time, I was near Stove Farm, which isn’t far from Grey Beach.

Did you go there directly?

No, I stopped at the gas station on Route 21 first, where the witness had called for help. Considering the situation, I thought it was important to talk to her before doing anything else. I wanted to know what to expect at the beach. The witness in question was a terrified young woman. She described what she had seen. In fifteen years of police work, I’d never been faced with anything like this.

And then?

I went directly to the scene.

Alone?

I had no other choice. There wasn’t a moment to lose. I had to find him before he escaped.

What happened next?

I drove like a madman from the gas station to the parking lot at Grey Beach. When I got there, I noticed a blue convertible with Massachusetts plates. I grabbed my pump-action and headed down the path to the lake.

And . . . ?

When I reached the beach, he was still there, going at that poor girl. I screamed at him, hoping he would stop. He just lifted his head and stared at me. Then he began to move slowly in my direction. I understood that it was going to be him or me. Fifteen years of service and I had never fired a shot. Until that morning.

Part One
The Consequences of Success

Chapter 1
After the Harry Quebert Affair

Montreal, Quebec

April 5, 2010

A springtime snowfall was settling on the cavernous warehouses along the St. Lawrence, where the film studios were located. For several months now, they had been shooting a film adaptation of my first novel, G, Like Goldstein.

Thanks to a quirk in scheduling, the start of filming happened to coincide with the publication of The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair. Carried along by my triumph in the bookstores, the film had already garnered considerable attention, and the initial footage had caused a bit of a stir in Hollywood.

While the snow whirled in the cold wind outside, it felt like summer inside the studio. On the set of a busy street, almost shockingly realistic, the actors and extras, lit by powerful spots, looked as if they were caught in bright sunlight. It was one of my favorite scenes from the book. On the terrace of a coffee shop, looking out over a crowd of passersby, the two protagonists, Mark and Alicia, had found one another again after being separated for years. There was no need for words—a single glance was enough to make up for the time they had spent apart.

Seated behind the control screens, I followed the shot.

“Cut!” the director cried, breaking that quiet moment. “It’s good.” Next to him, the first assistant repeated his command on the radio: “It’s good. Let’s wrap it up.”

The set erupted into a hive of activity. Technicians gathered their equipment, while the lead actors returned to their dressing rooms under the disappointed gaze of the extras, who would have enjoyed a brief exchange, a picture, or an autograph.

I wandered around the set. The street, the sidewalks, the lampposts, the store windows, it all looked real. I entered the coffee shop, filled with admiration for the attention to detail. I had the feeling I was walking around in my novel. I slid in behind the counter, laden with sandwiches and pastries—everything that might appear on screen had to look real.

My reverie was short-lived. A voice tore me from my thoughts.

“Are you serving, Goldman?” It was Roy Barnaski, the unpredictable CEO of Schmid & Hanson, my publisher. He had flown in from New York that very morning, without warning.

“Coffee, Roy?” I offered, grabbing an empty cup.

“I’d rather have one of those sandwiches—I’m dying of hunger.”

I didn’t know whether the food was edible but, without hesitating, I offered Roy a turkey and cheese.

“You know, Goldman,” he said after biting greedily into the sandwich, “this film is going to be big! We’re preparing a special edition of G, Like Goldstein; it’ll be sensational!”

Those of you who have read The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair will be familiar with my ambivalent relationship with Roy Barnaski. For the rest of you, all you need to know is that his affection for his authors was proportional to the money he made from them. Two years earlier, he had criticized me publicly because I hadn’t delivered on time, but the record sales of Harry Quebert now gave me pride of place in his stable of cash cows.

“You should be floating on air, Goldman,” he continued, not appearing to realize that he was annoying me. “The success of the book and

now this film. Remember, two years ago, how I worked my ass off to get Cassandra Pollock to play the role of Alicia and you did nothing but complain about it—repeatedly. But it was worth the effort, wasn’t it? Everyone agrees she’s sensational!”

“I’m not about to forget, Roy. You convinced everyone she and I were having an affair.”

“And here’s the result! I always have a sixth sense for these things, Goldman. That’s why I’m the boss! But I didn’t come all the way up here just to shoot the breeze. There’s something important we have to discuss, very important.”

As soon as I had caught sight of him arriving on set that morning, I knew he hadn’t come to Montreal just to say hello.

“So what’s it about?”

“You’re going to be very pleased with the news, Goldman. I wanted to tell you myself, in person.”

Barnaski was trying to be tactful. It wasn’t a good sign.

“Get to the point, Roy.”

“We’re about to sign a contract with MGM for a screen adaptation of The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair. It’s going to be huge! They want to sign a preliminary agreement as soon as possible.”

“I don’t think I want to turn it into a film,” I replied dryly.

“Wait till you see the contract, Goldman. All you have to do is sign and you get two million dollars up front. Just scribble your name at the bottom of the page and boom! Two million right into your bank account. Not to mention the income from royalties and all the rest.”

I had no desire to argue. “Talk to my agent or my lawyer,” I said, to cut short the conversation, which greatly annoyed Barnaski.

“If I wanted advice from your shitty agent, Goldman, I wouldn’t have come all the way up here.”

“It couldn’t have waited until I got back to New York?”

“Back to New York? You’re worse than the wind, Goldman, you never stay put.”

“Harry wouldn’t want a film,” I said, frowning.

“Harry?” Barnaski gasped. “Harry Quebert?”

“Yes, Harry Quebert! The discussion is over. I don’t want a film, because I don’t want to go back to that time. I want to forget about it. Turn the page.”

“Will you look at this crybaby!” Barnaski snarled, unable to put up with being contradicted. “You offer him a spoonful of caviar and Baby Goldman makes a fuss and refuses to open his mouth.”

I had heard enough. Barnaski regretted his outburst and tried to make up for it. In his gentlest voice, he said, “Let me explain my project, my dear Marcus. You’ll see, you’ll change your mind.”

“I’m going to start by getting some fresh air.”

“Let’s have dinner together this evening. I’ve made a reservation at a restaurant in Old Montreal. Shall we say, eight o’clock?”

“I have a date tonight, Roy. We’ll talk about it in New York.”

I left him there, with his ersatz sandwich in his hand, and walked off the set, heading for the main entrance to the studio. There was a food stand just before the large swinging doors. Every day, after shooting was over, I would stop there for a coffee. It was always the same waitress. She offered me a paper cup filled with coffee before I said a single word. I smiled in thanks. She smiled back. People often smile at me. But I no longer know if they’re smiling at me, the human being standing before them, or the writer whose books they’ve read. And just then, the young woman picked up a copy of my book from the counter.

“I finished it last night. What a book, I couldn’t put it down! Would you mind signing it for me?”

“With pleasure. What’s your name?”

“Deborah.”

Deborah, of course. She had told me ten times already. I took a pen from my pocket and wrote, on the title page, the ritual sentence that I used for all my dedications:

For Deborah, who now knows the entire truth about the Harry Quebert affair.

Marcus Goldman

“Have a good day, Deborah,” I said, returning her copy.

“Good day, Marcus. See you tomorrow!”

“I’m going back to New York for ten days.”

“See you soon, then.”

As I was about to leave, she asked, “Did you ever see him again?”

“Who?”

“Harry Quebert.”

“No, I never heard from him again.”

I passed through the doors of the studio and climbed into the waiting car. Did you ever see Harry Quebert again? Since the release of the book, people have been asking me that. And every time, I force myself to reply, pretending the question didn’t upset me. As if I didn’t think about it every day. Where was Harry? And what had become of him?

After driving along the St. Lawrence, the car headed for downtown Montreal. I could already see the skyscrapers outlined before me. I loved that city. I felt good there. Maybe because someone was waiting for me there. Maybe because there was finally a woman in my life.

 

In Montreal I stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, always in the same suite on the top floor. I had just entered the hotel when the receptionist stopped me to tell me I was expected at the bar. I smiled. She had arrived.

I found her sitting at a quiet table next to the fireplace, sipping a Moscow

Mule, still wearing her pilot’s uniform. When she saw me, her face lit up. She kissed me and I threw my arms around her. The more I saw of her, the more I liked her.

Raegan was thirty years old, like me. She was a pilot for Air Canada. We had been seeing one another for three months. When I was with her, my life felt bigger, more fulfilled. The feeling was even more intense because it had been so hard to meet someone I really liked.

My last serious relationship had been five years ago—with a girl by the name of Emma Mathews—and it lasted no more than a few months. When I finished writing The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair, I had promised myself I would focus on my love life. So I had several affairs, but without much success. Maybe I had put too much pressure on myself. My dates felt more like job interviews: observing the woman who spoke to me, for no more than a few minutes, I would wonder whether she would make a good partner and a good mother for my children. And the next moment, my mother, rising up in my mind, would intrude upon our evening. She would grab an empty chair, sit down next to the unfortunate woman, and start pointing out her many defects. My mother—or, rather, her specter—became the umpire of our date. Using a hackneyed expression she was especially fond of, she’d whisper to me, “Markie, do you think she’s the one?” As if we were going to be together for life, when we didn’t even know whether we were going to make it through the evening. And since my mother saw a great future before me, she would add, “Really, Markie, do you see yourself in the White House, receiving the Medal of Freedom with this girl on your arm?” This last sentence was pronounced in a tone of disdain, urging me to reject the unfortunate candidate. And so I would. And in this way, my poor mother, without her knowing, merely prolonged my celibacy. Until, through her, as it happened, I met Raegan.

*  *  *

Three months earlier, December 31, 2009

As I had done every New Year’s Eve, I had traveled to Montclair, New Jersey, to visit my parents. As we were having coffee in the living room, my mother uttered the following idiotic question, one she asked periodically and which annoyed me greatly: “What do you want for the new year, dear? You already have everything.”

“To get in touch with a friend I’ve lost,” I replied angrily.

“Are they dead?” my mother asked, who had never understood the allusion.

“I’m talking about Harry. I’d like to see him again. Find out what’s become of him.”

“Oh, to hell with Harry Quebert! He’s been nothing but trouble for you. 

Real friends don’t cause problems.”

“He’s the reason I became a writer. I owe him everything.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything, except your mother, and you owe her your life! Markie, you don’t need friends, you need a girlfriend. Why don’t you have a girlfriend? Don’t you want to give me grandchildren?”

“It’s hard to meet people, Mother.”

She forced herself to adopt a more understanding tone. “Markie dear, I don’t think you’re making much of an effort. You don’t go out enough. I know you sometimes spend hours looking at a photo album of you and this Harry Quebert.”

“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.

“Your cleaning lady told me.”

“Since when do you talk to my cleaning lady?”

“Since you stopped telling me anything about yourself.”

At that moment, my gaze fell upon a framed photograph. It pictured my uncle Saul, my aunt Anita, and my cousins Hillel and Woody, in Florida.

“You know, if your uncle Saul . . .” she murmured.

“Don’t talk about that, Mother. Please!”

“I only want you to be happy, Markie. You have no reason not to be.”

I had to get out of there. I stood up and grabbed my jacket.

“What are you doing tonight, Markie?” she asked.

“Going out with some friends,” I lied, to reassure her.

I kissed her and my father, and left.

My mother was right. I did keep an album that I pored over whenever I was feeling nostalgic. When I got back to New York, that’s exactly what I did. I poured myself a glass of Scotch and leafed through it. The last time I had seen Harry was exactly one year earlier, a December evening in 2008, when he had shown up at my place for a last get-together. Since then, there had been no sign of him. By trying to prove he was innocent of the murder he had been accused of and clear his name, I had lost him. I missed him terribly.

Obviously, I had tried to find him, but my efforts proved futile. I returned regularly to Somerset, New Hampshire, where he had lived for the previous thirty years. I had walked up and down the streets of that small town for hours on end. In all weather, at all times of day. To find him. Maybe to fix things. But Harry never showed up.

As I was absorbed in my album, recalling the memories of what we had been, the phone began to ring. For a second, I thought it was him. I ran to pick it up. It was my mother.

“Why did you answer, Markie?” she reprimanded me.

“Because the phone rang, Mother.”

“Markie, it’s New Year’s Eve! You told me you were with friends. Don’t tell me you’re alone at home looking at those damn photos again! I’m going to ask your cleaning lady to burn them.” 

“I’m going to fire her, Mother. Because of you, a hard-working woman is going to lose her job. Are you satisfied?”

“Get out of the house, Markie. I remember when you were still in high school, you went to Times Square for New Year’s Eve. Call your friends and go out! That’s an order. You can’t disobey your mother.”

That’s how I ended up in Times Square, alone, because in reality there was no one to call in New York. When I got there, the area was filled with thousands of people. I felt good. Relieved. I let myself be carried along by the human tide. It was then that I caught sight of a woman drinking from a bottle of champagne. She smiled at me. I liked her at once.

At the stroke of midnight, I kissed her. And that’s how Raegan entered my life.

*  *  *

After we met, Raegan came to see me in New York several times, and we got together in Montreal whenever I went up there to visit the set. But after three months, we still barely knew one another. We would arrange our meetings around flights and days of shooting. But on that April evening, at the Ritz bar in Montreal, I felt something immeasurably more powerful. And as we spoke—I’m not sure about what—I realized she had easily passed my mother’s test. I could imagine her by my side through all the various stages of my life.

Raegan was scheduled to pilot a flight to New York–JFK at seven the following morning. When I offered to take her out for dinner, she suggested that we stay at the hotel.

“The restaurant is pretty good,” I admitted.

“Your room is even better.” She smiled.

We stayed in my suite all evening. For what seemed like hours, we relaxed in the oversize bathtub, admiring, through the bay window and from the shelter of our hot, foamy bath, the snow that continued to fall on Montreal. We ordered room service. It all seemed so easy; there was a kind of chemistry between us. My only regret was not being able to spend more time with her—we lived so far apart. I was in New York and she lived in a small town an hour south of Montreal, which I had still not visited. But most of all, she was limited by her schedule as a pilot. Our encounter that evening was no exception, and once again, the night was short. At five in the morning, while the hotel still slept, Raegan and I finished getting ready. I watched her from the bathroom door as she stood in her pilot’s trousers and a bra, putting on her makeup while drinking a cup of coffee. We both left for

New York, but separately. She flew and I took the highway, having come to Montreal by car. I drove her to Trudeau Airport. As I pulled up in front of the terminal, she asked, “Why didn’t you fly here, Marcus?”

I hesitated for a moment. I couldn’t honestly tell her why I’d chosen not to. “I like the road between New York and Montreal.”

She didn’t entirely believe my lie. “You’re not afraid of flying, are you?”

“Of course not.”

She kissed me and said, “I’d love you all the same.”

“When will I see you again?”

“When are you back in Montreal?”

“April twelfth.”

She looked at her schedule. “I’ll be in Chicago that night and then I have a week of rotation in Toronto.”

She saw the disappointment on my face.

“And then I have a week off. I promise we’ll have time to see each other then. We’ll lock ourselves in your hotel room and won’t budge.”

“And what if we took off for a few days? Not New York. Not Montreal. Just you and me somewhere.”

She nodded and smiled. “I’d like that a lot,” she whispered, as if it were a secret that couldn’t be acknowledged openly.

She kissed me for a long time, then got out of the car, leaving me, now hopeful, to contemplate what we might become together. As I watched her disappear into the airport terminal, I decided to take the initiative and organize a romantic getaway to a hotel in the Bahamas that had been highly recommended: Harbour Island Resort. I checked the hotel’s website on my phone. Hidden away on a private island, it looked like paradise. We would spend the week on a beach of fine sand on the shore of a turquoise sea. I made the reservation at once, then set out for New York.

I drove east until I reached Magog, where I stopped for a cup of coffee, then headed for the small town of Stanstead, along the US border, which you may have heard of because it’s home to the only library in the world that straddles two countries.

As I crossed the border, the US customs agent who examined my passport asked me, routinely, where I was coming from and where I was going. When I answered that I was traveling from Montreal to Manhattan, he said, “That’s not the most direct route to New York.” Assuming I had gotten lost, he told me how to get back to Interstate 87. I listened politely

without the least intention of following his directions.

I knew exactly where I was going.

I was going to Somerset, New Hampshire, where Harry had spent half his life before disappearing without a trace. 

 

The Day of the Murder

April 3, 1999

An unmarked Chevy Impala, lights flashing and siren blaring, sped along Route 21, which connects the small town of Mount Pleasant to the rest of New Hampshire. A black streak, it tore through a landscape of alpine wildflowers and crystalline lakes, beyond which stretched the immense White Mountain National Forest.

Sergeant Perry Gahalowood was behind the wheel. Next to him sat his partner Matt Vance, his eyes glued to a map of the area.

“It’s just ahead on your right,” Vance pointed out, as they passed a gas station. “You should see a small road that breaks off through the forest.”

“The local police should have someone there to direct us.”

The two detectives had no idea of the welcoming committee that awaited them—after their final turn onto the local road, a traffic jam slowed them to a crawl. Gahalowood bypassed it, driving down the opposite lane, not so much because there was no traffic heading the other way, but to avoid the dozens of onlookers wandering along the shoulder of the road.

“What the hell is going on?” Gahalowood asked.

“The usual circus whenever something big happens in a small town. Everyone wants a front-row seat.”

After a short while, they reached a police checkpoint where the road forked for the Grey Beach parking area. Through the open window, Gahalowood flashed his badge. “Crime squad, homicide.”

“Follow the dirt track, straight ahead,” one of the officers told him, waving away a group of officers blocking access to the road.

A few hundred feet down the track, the Chevy Impala reached the edge of the forest, marked by a large, flat stretch of grass. A local cop was pacing back and forth.

“State police, crime squad,” Gahalowood called out through the open window.

The policeman looked completely dazed by the day’s events. “You better park over here. It must be one helluva mess down there.”

The two detectives got out of the car and continued on foot.

“Why do these things always happen on the weekends we’re on duty?” Vance asked as he walked along the dirt path. “You remember Greg Bonnet? That was a Saturday as well.”

“Before I became your partner, my weekends were always nice and quiet,” Gahalowood joked. “You must be bad luck, old man. Helen’s not going to be happy. I promised to help her unpack the boxes tonight. But now, with this homicide on our hands . . .”

“Well, we don’t know it was a murder yet. It wouldn’t be the first time they sent us out to investigate a hiking accident.”

They soon reached the Grey Beach parking area, which was filled with emergency vehicles. There was a frenzy of activity. Francis Mitchell, chief of police for Mount Pleasant, came up to greet them. His first words were a warning. “It’s not pretty.”

“What happened, exactly?” Gahalowood asked. “We were told a woman was murdered.”

“It’s better you see for yourself.”

They followed Chief Mitchell down the path leading to the lake.

Both Gahalowood

and Vance had been around crime scenes for years, and both had seen dead bodies. But when they got to the beach, they just stood there. They had never seen anything like it. A woman’s body lay there, her head pressed into the loose soil, and alongside her was . . . a dead bear.

“A jogger called it in,” the chief explained. “She surprised the bear as it was devouring the body.”

“What do you mean, devouring?”

“Well, it was eating her!”

Judging by the way the woman was lying on the ground, you would have thought she was sleeping. The gentle sounds of the lake and the springtime birdsong lent the place a peaceful air. Only the presence of the bear, stretched out in a pool of blood that glistened on its black fur, marked the struggle that had occurred.

Vance turned to Mitchell and asked, “A shame about this poor woman, but I’d really like someone to explain to me why you called the crime squad for a bear attack?”

“There are plenty of black bears in these parts,” Mitchell replied. “Believe me, it’s something we have experience handling. We’ve had a number of incidents, and when they attack a human, it’s to defend their territory, not to eat them.”

“What are you getting at?”

“If this bear was eating the woman, then it was feeding on carrion. Because she was already dead when he found her.”

Gahalowood and Vance cautiously approached the woman’s body. From up close, she looked anything but peaceful. Her torn clothing revealed deep bite marks. Her hair was covered with dried blood.

“What do you think, Perry?” Vance asked.

Gahalowood looked at the victim; she was wearing leather slacks and fashionable boots. “She’s dressed as if she was going out somewhere. I’m thinking she was probably killed during the night. But the wounds from the bear appear to be recent.”

“In other words, she was dead when the bear found her,” Vance concluded. “Probably around daybreak.”

Gahalowood nodded. “This doesn’t make a lot of sense. We need to call in the cavalry.”

Vance took out his phone to alert the rest of the team and notify forensics. Gahalowood was still bent over the corpse. He then noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the back pocket of her slacks. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he retrieved what turned out to be a single sheet folded in four. He opened it and found a brief printed message:

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

 

Chapter 2
Memories

New Hampshire

April 6, 2010

It was nearly midday when I arrived in Somerset. The small town, like the rest of New England, was covered in a fine layer of snow that was melting in the bright sunshine. My decision to come here and relive the memories that tied me to Harry Quebert felt right.

To be perfectly honest, I had initially thought that writing, then publishing, The Truth About the Harry Quebert Affair would allow me to turn the page on our abruptly broken friendship. But the general enthusiasm for the book only reminded me of the extent to which I had remained marked by the affair. Not so much because of the investigation, which has since been closed, or its conclusions, but by the questions that still remain unanswered: Where did Harry go? What happened to him? And why did he decide to disappear from my life?

I’ve written at length in that book about how Harry and I had met. There’s no point in going over all that here; I simply want to note that Harry had enough faith in my future as a writer to invite me to his home to work on my manuscript. The first time I visited Somerset was in January 2000. I discovered both his extraordinary home in Goose Cove—a writer’s home, sheltered from the world, situated next to the ocean—and his solitude, which came as a complete surprise. The famous Harry Quebert, a charismatic and highly regarded character, was in reality an astonishingly lonely man, without a wife, without children, without anyone, really. I have very clear memories of that day: his fridge was desperately empty. When I pointed it out to him, he explained that he wasn’t accustomed to receiving guests. He then took me to eat at Clark’s, the diner on the town’s main street. That’s how I discovered the place that had become an integral part of Harry’s legend. It’s where I met Jenny Quinn, the owner, who had had a thing for Harry for twenty-five years. He had his own table, number 17, to which Jenny Quinn had attached a plaque that read:

It was at this table, in the summer of 1975, that Harry Quebert wrote his famous novel, The Origin of Evil.

The Origin of Evil, which came out in 1976, was the book that had won Harry fame and glory. In response to my admiring questions, Harry made a face. “I’m a one-hit author,” he said. “My reputation rests on this one book.”

“But what a book! It’s a masterpiece.”

Jenny had come over to take our order. Harry said to her, “Jenny, if this young man learns to write like he boxes, he’ll be a great writer.”

When she had left, I asked Harry to explain what he meant.

“Everyone always expects a great writer to resemble those who came before him, without realizing that if he really is great, it’s precisely because he doesn’t resemble them at all.”

When I looked at him doubtfully, he added, “You know, Marcus, at home earlier, I noticed how intently you examined the classics in my library. You stared at those books wondering whether people would look at yours in the same way in fifty years. Start by writing a book—that’s already an accomplishment. And stop pestering everyone about posterity.”

“I want to be 

 like you, Harry.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I intend to do everything I can to ensure you don’t end up like me. That’s why you’re here.”

I hadn’t understood the meaning of what Harry was trying to tell me. I was just a young man who had found his mentor. How could I foresee, back then, blinded by naïveté, the events that would erupt in the summer of 2008 in that peaceful little town and The Origin of Evil, a novel considered to be a major work of American literature, being pulled from the shelves of bookstores and libraries from one day to the next?

On that day in April 2010, ten years after my first visit, I parked outside Clark’s. Marcus, once a dreamy student, was back, garlanded with success, but Harry was nowhere to be seen.

After the events of the summer of 2008, the restaurant was sold. I didn’t recognize anyone, which was fine with me—most of the town’s inhabitants had given me the cold shoulder ever since I had unearthed some of Somerset’s most intimate secrets during my investigation into the “affair.” But, aside from the owner, nothing much had changed. Not the décor, nor the menu. Harry’s table was free, so I sat down. For the regulars, it had become something to be avoided. Only tourists sat there now. The plaque was removed after the summer of 2008, leaving only the holes from the screws, like bullet wounds, the scars of an execution. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries; I looked out the window as I ate.

As I was finishing my meal, I was joined by Ernie Pinkas, the town librarian. Ernie was my last friend in Somerset. He was a man with a big heart, a true lover of books, his only companions since he’d been widowed. Ernie ran the Harry Quebert House for Writers, a program I had set up in connection with Burrows University, which had enabled us to transform Harry’s house in Goose Cove into a writers’ residence for promising young authors. The scandal in the summer of 2008 had tarnished Harry’s reputation, but his aura remained largely intact: candidates flocked to the house, drawn by its prestige and its comforts. Ernie Pinkas selected the writers in concert with the English faculty at Burrows, which financed the upkeep of the place. The house could accommodate six writers, who lived there together for three months. As a result of his new role, Ernie now had a small office at Burrows, an honor that filled him with pride.

He sat down facing me. “Marcus, what are you doing here?”

His surprise stemmed from the fact that we had seen each other just a week earlier, when I was on my way to Montreal. We met for a coffee at Goose Cove, and I was introduced to the new residents, who would be there until the summer.

“I was passing by and I decided to stop for lunch.”

“From Montreal?” 

His intonation made it clear that he wasn’t fooled by this. He knew I was there to look for Harry—or my own ghosts. “It seems you’re just wandering around aimlessly, Marcus.”

Ernie had put his finger right where it hurt the most.

“You know who used to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Hang around at Clark’s. Harry. I always wondered what he was up to, spending all those hours here, at this table, staring into space, like you’re doing. I thought he was looking for inspiration. But, in fact, he was waiting for Nola.”

I sighed deeply. “I just want some kind of sign, Ernie.”

“Harry’s not coming back to Somerset.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He’s turned the page. You should do the same.”

“What are you saying?”

“Thanks to you, he moved on, Marcus. Now that he knows what happened to Nola, there’s no point hanging around anymore. He finally got out. Somerset was his prison, and you freed him.”

“No, Ernie, Somerset was—”

“You know I’m right, Marcus,” Ernie interrupted. “You know Harry’s never coming back here. You can’t wait for your friends like you wait for a bus. Why do you keep coming back? Stop torturing yourself. You’re a nice guy, Marcus, it’s time to move on.”

Ernie was right. But when I had finished lunch, I couldn’t resist making a pilgrimage to Goose Cove. I walked along the beach down below Harry’s house for a while and sat on a large boulder to take in the view. I gazed at the imposing structure, filled with so many memories. The gulls were hopping around on the sand. Gradually, the sky filled with gray clouds and it began to drizzle. Then, within the curtain of haze, I saw a man approach, a man I considered a dear friend: Perry Gahalowood, sergeant with the crime squad of the New Hampshire State Police. He walked toward me with a bemused smile on his face and a cup of coffee in each hand.

Those who know me and have read my books know all about how Perry and I are connected. For those who haven’t, I had first met Perry two years earlier, during the Harry Quebert affair. He was in charge of the investigation. Together, we had shed light on the death of Nola Kellergan. Some will say that figuring out who killed Nola helped me write my second novel. In reality, she allowed the seeds of friendship between me and Perry to germinate. He was like some hardy desert fruit: thorny, protected by a thick skin that concealed sweet flesh and a tender heart. Rough, brusque, irascible, but loyal and fair. Sometimes a man can be judged by his family, and Perry’s—which I knew well—was the picture of happiness.

“Sergeant, what are you doing here?” (Since the day we met, I called him

“Sergeant” and he called me “Writer,” and we have maintained the tradition.)

He offered me one of the cups of coffee. “I should ask you the same question. Whenever you show up here, at least one person calls the police. You’ve left quite an impression on this town.”

“You’re worse than my mother, Sergeant.”

He burst out laughing. “So, what half-assed excuse brings you to Somerset, Writer?”

“I was returning from Montreal and thought I’d stop by.”

“That’s a two-hour detour,” Gahalowood remarked.

I pointed my chin in the direction of Goose Cove. “I loved that house,” I said. “I loved this town. And when we love, we love forever. There’s nothing we can do to change that.”

“If you think you love this town, you’re mistaken, Writer. You love the memories you have of this place. Nostalgia is your problem. We convince ourselves that our past was happy and that our choices must’ve been the right ones. Whenever we think about the past and say to ourselves, ‘It was good,’ it’s just our sick brain distilling that nostalgia in order to persuade us that our past wasn’t in vain, that we didn’t waste our time. Because when you waste your time, you waste your life.”

Listening to those words, I didn’t realize that Gahalowood, who was never afraid of making waves, was talking about himself. I assumed he was referring to me, so I replied, “All the same, it was good at Goose Cove.”

“Good for you? I’m not so sure. You’re the writer of the decade and you’re wandering around some New Hampshire backwater. The last time I saw you here was in October. You remember?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you’d come to say your goodbyes to that house. We had a beer, more or less right here, and you mumbled something about heading off in search of love. So much for that! You still with your pilot?”

No one was better informed than Gahalowood when it came to my love life. I called him whenever I met someone new. When I started seeing Raegan, he was the first person I told.

“I think it’s getting serious between us.”

“Well, good news for once. Try not to bring her here for your vacation if you want it to last.”

“I’m taking her to the Bahamas.”

“Now you’re annoying me, Writer.”

“A private island, an amazing place. Want to see some pictures?”

“I want to say no, but I feel you’re going to show me all the same.”

Seated on our boulder, indifferent to the rain falling on us, we talked about nothing in particular, a banal exchange between friends, which is to say that I didn’t gather much about Gahalowood’s life at the time. I asked him about his wife, Helen, and his

daughters, Malia and Lisa, but I didn’t ask how he was doing. I didn’t give him the chance to open up, and we parted without me ever suspecting what was going on.

When we had finished our coffee, Gahalowood stood up.

“Time to get back to fighting crime?” I asked.

“No, I have to meet Helen. It’s Lisa’s birthday; we have some shopping to do. She’s eleven today.”

“How does it make you feel? Like an old man?”

Gahalowood’s face grew sad and I began to worry.

“Everything okay, Sarge? You don’t look very happy.”

“Unfortunately, it reminds me of something. Something painful. Exactly eleven years ago, April sixth, 1999, the day my life was turned upside down.”

“What happened?”

As he always did when it came to talking about himself, Gahalowood changed the subject. “Doesn’t matter. Tonight we’re making dinner at home for Lisa, the whole family. Join us. Six o’clock.”

“I’d love to. I can even come earlier if you like.”

“No, no, no! You are absolutely forbidden to show your face before six.”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant!”

He walked a few steps, then turned to me and said, in his usual, provocative tone, “Don’t go thinking I consider you a member of the family. But Helen would kill me if I didn’t invite you.”

“I don’t think anything at all,” I said, smiling.

He walked away. I stayed a moment longer on the beach, wondering what could have happened in Perry’s life eleven years earlier. At the time, I had no inkling of what had been haunting him all those years—that is, until the events I’m about to relate here began to unfold.

The Day of the Murder

April 3, 1999

The little town of Mount Pleasant was in a state of agitation it had never known before. ...