“Tall, like me … married a nice woman, a … a history teacher … I believe …”
He voice grew thinner. He rolled his eyes away from me.
“Keep going, Nevin. What do you want me to write?”
“I missed their wedding,” he rasped. “Business meeting …”
He looked back at me as if pleading.
“My youngest child … I … told him … it couldn’t be helped …” His right hand fell limply across his chest. “It could have been helped.”
I asked again what he wanted me to write, even though I already knew. He blinked his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Land
LeFleur entered his house quietly. The sun had already set. He had the notebook tucked into a briefcase.
“Jarty? Where have you been?”
Patrice appeared out of the kitchen. She wore jeans and a lime-green T-shirt that draped loosely on her thin frame. Her feet were bare.
“Sorry.”
“You left this morning, you didn’t call all day.”
“You’re right.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Some junk floated up on the north shore. I had to drive up and check it out.”
“You still could have called.”
“You’re right.”
She paused, looking at him. She scratched her elbow. “So? Anything interesting?”
“Not really.”
“I have dinner.”
“I’m tired.”
“I made all this food.”
“OK, OK.”
An hour later, having finished the meal, LeFleur said he wanted to watch the soccer game. Patrice rolled her eyes. He knew she would. He remembered a time when their communication was kinder, their exchanges tinged with the gentility of love. They had lost that in the wreckage of Lilly’s death.
“I’m going upstairs then,” Patrice said.
“I won’t be long.”
“Are you all right, Jarty?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. If the game’s boring, I won’t watch the whole thing.”
She turned without response and climbed the steps. LeFleur went into the back room, flicked on the television, then carefully removed the notebook from his briefcase. He knew everything he was doing was wrong. Taking this notebook from the raft. Failing to inform the higher authorities. Lying to Patrice. It was as if he had tumbled into a rabbit hole and couldn’t stop himself from falling in deeper. Part of him kept pushing to go on, take the next step, learn the secrets of this unexpected entry into his life.
He reread the message on the notebook’s inside cover:
To whoever finds this—
There is no one left. Forgive me my sins.
I love you, Annabelle DeChapl—
Who was Annabelle? Did the writer believe this notebook would find its way to her? And how much time did these pages represent? Did someone last days before succumbing to the sea? Or was it longer? Weeks? Months?
Suddenly, the phone rang, and LeFleur jumped like a caught thief.
He checked his watch. Nine-thirty on a Sunday night?
“Hello?” he said tentatively.
“Is this Inspector LeFleur?”
“Who’s this?”
“My name is Arthur Kirsh. I’m with the Miami Herald, just checking up on something.”
LeFleur took a moment to respond.
“What is it?”
“Can you confirm that a life raft from the Galaxy yacht has been found on Montserrat? Did you find such a raft, sir?”
LeFleur swallowed hard. He stared at the notebook in his lap.
He hung up.
Sea
Nevin is dead.
Yesterday, he turned ghostly pale and slipped in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t eat a thing. At times he moaned so loudly, some of us covered our ears.
“Something got in that wound,” Geri whispered. “Some metal, or whatever he gashed himself on. The infection can’t clear. If sepsis has set in …”
“What?” I said, hesitantly.
“He’s going to die?” Jean Philippe asked.
Geri looked down. We knew that meant yes.
Little Alice was the first to discover him. Just after sunrise, she tugged at my T-shirt. I thought Nevin was sleeping. But she lifted his hand and it dropped limply. Poor Alice. No child should have to bear witness to what she has seen on this raft. No wonder she doesn’t speak.
We had a small ceremony. Nina said a prayer. We sat quietly, trying to collectively cobble together a eulogy. Finally Lambert said, “He was a hell of a programmer.”