Twelve

Land

The ride back was mostly silent. As the sun fell, the exclusion zone took on an eerie grayness. LeFleur never liked being here late. It was ghostly enough during daylight hours.

“You understand I’ll have to hold you in custody,” he said. “Until I can check your alibi.”

Dobby looked out the window. “Yeah. I get it.”

“I’ll have to charge you with something.”

“Whatever.”

“What should I charge you with?”

Dobby turned. “You serious?”

LeFleur shrugged.

“How about drunk and disorderly?” Dobby said, looking away. “I can do that if you’re buying.”

“Fine.”

LeFleur was so tired, he had to blink his eyes open as they drove. The adrenaline rush of the afternoon had evaporated, and his body felt like it had been hollowed out. His hands shook on the wheel.

At this point, he didn’t know what to believe. Dobby had an answer for everything, but he’d heard the whole notebook before having to explain himself. Was he that clever? That quick with a lie? Or was it Benji, the author, who was delusional? And perhaps responsible for the Galaxy’s destruction?

Dobby had mentioned Annabelle, but after saying that she’d died from a rare blood disease and that Benji had struggled to find money for her treatment, he offered no more details. His patience for gunpoint had expired. “I’m not saying any more until you swear I’m not a suspect. I can prove I wasn’t on that yacht. Just get me back and let me make some calls.”

LeFleur reluctantly agreed. What choice did he have? Deep down, he hoped Dobby was telling the truth. He didn’t care to be this close to a man who could lie that well.

“You never told me how you found that raft,” Dobby said.

“I didn’t find it.”

“Who did?”

“A guy. A drifter.”

“Where is he?”

“That’s what everyone wants to know.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Rom Rosh.”

Dobby turned. “Rom Rosh?”

“What?” LeFleur said.

Dobby shook his head. “Strange name.”

“Yeah.”

Through the windshield, LeFleur saw the large sign that read “Now Leaving Volcano Hazard Zone.” He felt a pang of relief. They were back on the island’s north side. Back to the living.

“Another twenty minutes,” he said.

“Can I get something to eat?” Dobby asked. “Before you lock me up?”

* * *

Two hours later, after dropping Dobby at the island’s only jail, LeFleur returned to his office and flicked on the lights. He was bone-tired. He took the notebook from his briefcase and placed it in on his desk. Then he leaned his forehead into his hands, shut his eyes, and rubbed hard, as if to shake loose an answer from his brain.

Nothing came. He was back to where he’d begun. A sunken yacht. A discovered raft. An unbelievable story. An accused with an excuse.