Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Two - Part Two

2

 SAN FRANCISCO – USA

 

Murder.  

Molly Butler stared into and through her PC monitor, looking at some vague distant point on the wall behind. Her mind had blanked, cancelling out conscious thought of the half paragraph she’d typed. There was a French to English dictionary turned upside down on her lap and an open manuscript on the desk beside the keyboard filled with slanting black French longhand.

The last word she had punched onto the screen had jerked her out of her flow, soliciting a series of flash card images, some of them her own memories, some the product of descriptions she’d heard or imagined about what had happened: a cliff-side road lit only by moonlight; the sneering face of her brother Ruben; her father’s car tearing along at dangerous speeds; white water waves crashing on black rocks; her father’s screaming eyes and mouth.

Murder: the word she had typed, translating from the manuscript; six letters evoking a ribbon of guilt, tying her to her father’s death, damning up the flow of the concentration she needed to go on working.

She blinked, coming back to reality. Her study was quiet; the conversation and laughter she’d expected to hear from the party downstairs was absent. High noon sunlight was slanting in through the blinds onto the polished floor. The connecting door to her bedroom was ajar. She looked back at the screen and wished she hadn’t; the fragment she’d been typing when she zoned out was still there.

After the third murder…

She pressed the button that switched the monitor off and swivelled round to put her back to it. That was enough translation for today. Gaston’s book, his semi-fictional biography of a travelling serial killer, would have to wait until tomorrow. She had promised her mother she would make at least an appearance and time was getting on.

She didn’t bother to shut down the computer. Perhaps she would come up and give the translation another try after she’d got a bite to eat. It would give her an excuse to break away from the movie crowd that would be mingling downstairs.

Her brother was sitting near the foot of the wide spiralling staircase, his shoes off, attacking a plate overfilled with delicate hors d’oeuvres. He gave her a quick glance as she descended then went back to eating. Despite being well into his twenties, as she was, he managed to maintain the same sullen slouch he always had. The hallway was empty; the double doors leading to the lounge were closed.

“Don’t go in there,” said Ruben. “If you do you’ll regret it.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see if you go in, but don’t complain that I didn’t give you a heads-up.”

Molly stopped short of the door and turned to face her brother, arms folded. “I see you got dressed up for the occasion.”

“I changed my socks,” said Ruben. “What more do you expect?”

“From you?”

“Being the black sheep of the family takes effort you know.”

“You do it so well.” She turned back to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

“Molly?”

“Yeah?”

“If you get the chance… Ask her about Jack Catholic.”

She hesitated. “Who? Is he somebody our father was—”

“Ask her. She’ll tell you. Jack. Catholic.” He said the name in two segments in the solemn pace he might have used to count down the seconds to the end of the world. Two. One. Boom. Then he pointed his face down at his plate, ignoring her.