“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.”
His voice caught when he added, “She never stopped hoping things would turn out all right.”
“What exactly was it that she burned, PJ?”
“Her diary,” he replied. “I guess you could call it that. Letters she’d been writing to herself. She said it was her therapy and that she didn’t want anyone to see them. They were very private, her most private thoughts. The day before she left, she burned all her letters except two.”
“The two I saw,” I almost whispered. “Why? Why didn’t she burn those two letters?”
“Because she wanted me and Walt to have them.”
“As a remembrance?”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching for his beer and roughly rubbing tears from his eyes. “A piece of herself, a record of thoughts she had while she was here. The day before she left, the day she burned the stuff, she went out and photocopied just those two. She kept the copies and gave us the originals, said it sort of made us indentured to each other–that was the word she used. The three of us would always be together in our thoughts as long as we had the letters.”
When he walked me out, I turned around, throwing my arms around him in a hug of thanks.
I headed back to my hotel as the sun settled, palms etched against a spreading band of fire. Throngs of people clambered noisily toward the bars along Duval, and the enchanted air was alive with music, laughter, and lights. I walked with a spring in my step, the army knapsack slung over my shoulder. For the first time in weeks I was happy, almost euphoric. I was completely unprepared for what awaited me in my room.