SAN FRANCISCO
Jack
had the awful feeling he was marking time. He hadn’t been in America for even
twenty four hours but he couldn’t get away from the sense that he should be
moving on; that what he was looking for wasn’t here. He’d already spent a lot
of hours going over finances with David Eden and a local solicitor. That was
all proceeding nicely, he’d signed his name to various different things, but
this wasn’t what he was here for. The only thing stopping him leaving was the
secondary premonition that the clue he needed was in San Francisco, if not the
actual goal of his journey.
He
laughed at himself; at how quickly he’d started taking this quest for his
destiny seriously. His banal side told him he was only trying to distract
himself from the fact that he was a killer; that he was a liar; that his
travels were really an escape from the forces trying to track him down. But as
he was starting to do with increasing proficiency, he ignored it.
Robert
Catholic’s house in Beverly Hills was full.
There
were dozens of people; maybe a hundred or more; all of them invited to come and
view the estate of this great man it appeared that many had loved. Jack
wandered through the rooms anonymously. He let himself drift, glancing at the items
that were waiting to be auctioned: memorabilia from a long life shooting films
here in America and abroad. Jack had done a bit of research. His uncle’s films
had become synonymous with exotic locations, with cameras going far into
territory rarely trod by others. Jack had watched a couple of them in the
middle of the night when the jet lag had started to do strange things: a mix of
genres and moods but always that gritty look and long wide shots of open plains
and places that made him think of wildlife documentaries.
All
the mementos from that time, from old props he had kept to original typewritten
scripts, were going to be sold. The crowds were full of collectors and nameless
dealers, but there were many famous people there too, celebrities, working
their way past each item. It was more than a car boot sale... so much more.
These people – not all of them, but most it seemed – had really known Robert
Catholic, and here in his magnificent house, they were meeting not just to look
at the material reminders of everything he had done, but to celebrate what he
had meant to them. The air was filled with anecdotal tales about his
indiscretions and practical jokes as well as stories of his kindness and
gentility.
As
Jack wandered through the crowds – not one of them it seemed, knowing that it
was he now that owned all this grandeur – the sensations that came over him
created a painting of this man he had never met. Robert Catholic wasn’t a
perfect soul, but he was good and he was human, and he was loved... and that
humanity, with every imperfection in the tales Jack heard, became perfect
somehow in another way. It seemed, in those packed sunlit rooms that there was
hope for the way people really were; that the flaws in their characters didn’t
matter.
David
Eden had been standing near the door, greeting people as they entered and
sharing their experiences and their condolences. Everybody knew how close
Robert had been to him. Now he was standing up on the balcony of stairs that
rose from the centre of the huge lounge; just looking down on them all and
smiling. Jack was the only one who noticed him. Eden saw that Jack was watching
and winked. Once again he reminded Jack of Dominic and he felt a change in his
demeanour. Something shifted in his heart, closing him off from what was going
on. He smiled back at Eden before he turned away and made his way out onto the
veranda at the front of the house.
It
was nice outside; there was so much greenery. The climate here was very
different from that of England but it was still spring and the flowers were
blooming. He’d never seen so many. He wandered down the steps and toward the
front of the grounds.
Down
by the gates the upper class equivalent of bouncers were keeping sightseers
away as well as the majority of the press. There weren’t a lot of reporters
down there. Most of the buyers were inside now and a lot of them had already
drifted away.
Jack
got to the gates. He nodded at the tallest guard then slipped through and out
onto the pavement. It was more peaceful down there. At that precise moment
there weren’t any cars at all. He looked right, frowning. Someone was making a
commotion.
A
reporter was hassling a young woman in a summer dress and boots. She was
telling him to get lost and trying to push his camera away but he was pressing
her, shoving a hand-held recorder in her face. He wouldn’t let her get away
from him. It was horrible to watch.
Jack
started moving toward them.
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