He took a swallow of beer, his eyes intense on me.
“Right now I suppose I’m running, too–for the same reason she was.”
“Man, you’re making my brain bleed,” he said, shaking his head. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you see the photograph on the front page of this morning’s Herald!”
I asked. “A photograph of a police car burning in Richmond.”
“Yeah,” he said, puzzled. “I sort of remember it.”
“That was in front of my house, PJ. The detective was inside my living room talking to me when his car was torched. It’s not the first thing that’s happened. You see, he’s after me, too.”
“Who is, for Christ’s sake?” he asked, even though I could tell he knew.
“The man who murdered Beryl,” I said with great difficulty. “The man who then butchered Beryl’s mentor, Gary Harper, whom you may have heard her mention.”
“Lots of times. Shit. I’m not believing this.”
“Please help me, PJ.”
“I don’t know how I can.” He became so upset he jumped out of the chair and started pacing. “Why would the pig come after you?”
“He suffers delusional jealousy. He’s obsessive. He’s a paranoid schizophrenic. He seems to hate anyone connected with Beryl. I don’t know why, PJ. But I have to find out who he is. I have to find him,” I said.
“I don’t know who the hell he is. Or where the hell he is. If I did, I’d find him and tear his fucking head off!”
“I need that manuscript, PJ,” I said.
“What the fuck does her manuscript have to do with it?” he protested.
So I told him. I told him about Gary Harper and his necklace. I told him about the phone calls and the fibers, and the autobiographical work Beryl was writing that I had been accused of stealing. I revealed everything I could think of about the cases while my soul withered in fear. I had never, not even once, discussed the details of a case with anyone other than the investigators or attorneys involved. When I was finished, PJ silently left the room. When he returned, he was carrying an army knapsack, which he placed in my lap.
“There,” he said.”
I swore to God I would never do this. I’m sorry, Beryl,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
Opening the canvas flap, I carefully pulled out what must have been close to a thousand typed pages scribbled with handwritten notes, and four computer diskettes, all of it bound in thick rubber bands.
“She told us never to let anybody have it should something happen to her. I promised.”
“Thank you, Peter. God bless you,” I said, and then I asked of him one last thing.
“Did Beryl ever mention anyone she referred to as ‘M’?”
He stood very still and stared at his beer.
“Do you know who this person is?” I asked.
“Myself,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
” ‘M’ for ‘Myself.’ She wrote letters to herself,” he said.
‘The two letters we found,” I said to him. “The ones we found on the floor of her bedroom after she was murdered, the ones that mentioned you and Walt, were addressed to ‘M.'”
“I know,” he said, shutting his eyes.
“How do you know?”
“I knew it when you mentioned Zulu and the cats. I knew you’d read those letters. That’s when I decided you were all right, that you were who you said you were.”
“Then you’ve read the letters, too?” I asked, stunned.
He nodded.
“We never found the originals,” I muttered. “The two we found are photocopies.”
“That’s because she burned everything,” he said, taking a deep breath, steadying himself.
“But she didn’t bum her book.”
“No. She told me she didn’t know where she’d go next or what she’d do if he was still there, still after her. That she’d call me later on and tell me where to mail the book. And if I didn’t hear from her, to hold on to it, never give it up to anyone. She never called, you know. She never fucking called.”
He wiped his eyes, averting his face from me. “The book was her hope, you know. Her hope of being alive.”