Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Twenty One

Molly entered the lounge.

At first, there was no sign of Jack at all, then she saw his foot, extending into view from the other side of a very high-backed chair. She circled round until she could see him.

“Jack? Are you okay?”

He looked up at her and she gasped. He was bruised and cut. His clothes were damp but clean. There were strands of medical tape holding the cut on his forehead closed. His hair was wet but brushed back.

“Is that all from the mugging?” she said, “You looked okay afterward. What happened?”

Jack leaned forward and grimaced from the movement. “I just got caught in another fight. David Eden patched me up.” He grinned. “I’m fine, really.”

“Why have you called so late? What’s wrong?”

Jack leaned back into the chair. He was dressed in a white sweater and tan slacks, dull brown shoes on his feet. He had a navy blue overcoat nearby, hanging over the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry I came in the middle of the night but I really wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Something’s come up. I have to. Things have changed and I need to get away to find something I’m looking for.”

“What?”

“An answer.”

“To what question?”

Jack got to his feet. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Molly frowned.

“I wanted to ask you a favour though,” he said.

“What is it?”

“The friend you told me about,” said Jack, “the Frenchman.”

“Gaston?”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you could give me his address in France. I’ve been thinking about what you told me about him. I’ve been thinking about lots of things. I’ve been walking for hours.”

She let him continue, closing her arms around her chest.

“I want to talk to him about his research. I think it could help me.”

“He researches killers,” she said. “How could talking to him help? Is it something to do with your paintings?”

She could tell he was lying when he said “Yes.”

“What’s going on Jack?”

He turned back to her. “I can’t tell you Molly.” He paused, clearly thinking things through. “A couple of days ago I started painting a self portrait. I didn’t get to finish it. A lot’s happened since then. My whole self-image has changed. I’m not sure I can draw it from memory anymore.”

“Jack…”

“I just need Gaston’s address and telephone number,” he said. “I’ll contact him. I need to leave the country and I need you not to tell anybody where I’ve gone.”

She stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “Okay. Wait here.”

She went through to the kitchen, into the quiet of the rest of the house. There was a pen and paper on the side. She copied down Gaston’s full name and where he lived in the southern Alps from her address book then she took the paper back through.

Jack had his coat back on. It was very long. His arms were folded. He took it from her without saying a word then he said, “I have to go. I’ve managed to get a seat on a late flight to Nice but I’m cutting it close.”

Molly looked at him, something dropping away in her stomach. “You’ll be back,” she said.

“Maybe,” he replied and then he looked sad too.  

She led him through to the front door. They paused on the threshold. He took her hand. She squeezed; then she put her fingers on his shoulder, gently guided his head down to hers – no misunderstanding this time at all – and put her lips to his.

Then he was gone.