LeFleur and his staff had spent many hours combing and recombing the other north-shore beaches for signs of anything else from the Galaxy—Sprague’s idea, strictly for show. What did they think? Because a raft miraculously made its way across the Atlantic, the rest of the boat would follow?
Of course, one thing had made it to the island that no one knew about. The notebook. LeFleur had hidden it in an old briefcase at home. It was too risky to bring to work. Each night, he would wait until after he and Patrice had finished dinner and got ready for bed. Once she was asleep, he would sneak downstairs and continue the story.
His knotted stomach confirmed that he was breaking the rules—the strict ones of police protocol, and the unwritten ones of a trusting marriage. But the notebook had narcotized him. He fell into a spell when he read it, and he needed to know how it ended. The pages were delicate, and deciphering the handwriting was tedious. Doing it after midnight made it that much more fatiguing. He had started taking notes, keeping charts for the actions of each of the eleven people on that raft. He searched old news articles about the Galaxy’s passengers, trying to match the names to the account and ensure that this wasn’t some crackpot fantasy that a delirious passenger had made up.
He justified that as the reason to keep it secret. The whole thing could be a hoax, and, if so, what would revealing it accomplish? Only confusion and heartache. This was the story he told himself, and the stories we tell ourselves long enough become our truths.
That night, LeFleur asked Katrina if she could drive him home. He wanted to get a drink, and the police jeep drew too much attention.
“OK,” she said, rising. “You coming?”
“Drive your car around back.”
As he waited for her to pull around, he glanced at the photo on his desk: Patrice and Jarty swinging Lilly above a beach towel. Each parent held a hand as Lilly lifted her feet in the air, her face pure joy. Patrice loved that picture. LeFleur had, too. But every time he looked at it now, he felt further away from his daughter, as if a rope had been cut and she was drifting off in space. Four years? She’d been gone from this world as long as she’d been in it.
Katrina dropped him at a rum shop not far from his house. This way he could walk home. He took a chair and ordered a beer and glanced around at the locals, some of whom were playing dominoes. He recognized a few, and nodded their way. It was a relief to be away from the foreign media people. LeFleur’s mind drifted to the notebook story and the man writing it. Benji. Benjamin. A deckhand. Not one of the famous passengers. None of the reporters was asking about him.
Suddenly, the door swung open and a man walked in. LeFleur knew immediately he wasn’t local. The way he dressed, black jeans and boots. The way he looked around. They made brief eye contact. The man sat by the window. LeFleur hoped he wasn’t another journalist trying to blend in with the locals so he could wander over and ask “innocent” questions.
LeFleur sipped his beer. Twice he caught the man looking at him. That was enough. He laid a few bills on the table and walked out, catching a good look at the stranger as he did. Fair complexion. Long stringy hair, slightly gray. A lined face that suggested years of hard living.
LeFleur’s house was six blocks away. He knew Patrice would be waiting. He walked slowly, breathing in the warm night air. His phone sounded, a text message. He pulled it from his pocket to read:
Any luck finding that guy? —Len
LeFleur exhaled deeply. As he walked, he thought he heard a second set of footsteps. He stopped. He turned. The street was empty. He continued walking. There it was again. He spun around. Nobody.
He was two blocks from home now, so he quickened his pace. Again, he heard the footsteps, but resisted looking. Let whoever it was get closer first, so he could identify them. As he came around the corner, his yellow house was just ahead. LeFleur felt his muscles tighten. He was bracing for a confrontation when he heard a man’s voice say, “Excuse me?”
He turned. It was the guy from the rum shop.
“Excuse me? … Inspector, right?”
He had a slight accent that LeFleur couldn’t place.
“Listen,” LeFleur said, “I told the other reporters everything I know. If you want more information—”
“I’m not a reporter.”
LeFleur looked the man up and down. He was panting, as if the six-block walk had tired him out.
“I knew someone. On the Galaxy. He was my cousin.”
The man exhaled deeply.
“My name is Dobby.”
Nine