Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Eight - Part Four

Molly jumped as he came into her field of vision. The muscles at the back of her arm tensed and her fingers closed into a half fist.

The man was overdressed for the beach in this kind of weather, in a black suit and dark grey overcoat. His hair was slicked back.

“Hi,” he said. “My name’s Matt Simpson. I’m with Time magazine. I’m sorry to disturb you here on the beach but it’s such a coincidence. I was coming to visit you later on at your house. I even called already and spoke to your brother Ruben.” He laughed. “I’m killing time down the beach until you return home and there you are, enjoying the water, just like me!”

He laughed again, a really gentle laugh that made her warm to him instantly, but there was something wrong with him. He was battered and bruised. There was an open cut on his forehead just above his eye. He looked worse than Jack had looked the night before. She felt her guard come up a little despite his charm.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Would you believe I got attacked by a gang last night. They really messed me up.” He touched the cut on his forehead and winced, then grinned. “They obviously didn’t realise I was a very important journalist.” He laughed and she found herself doing the same.

She didn’t even think to ask him for identification.

“Anyway,” he said. “Now I’ve found you, and in such glorious surroundings, maybe you wouldn’t mind if we talked. We’re doing a piece on your father, from the point of view of the people closest to him; and on the inheritor of his money: Jack Catholic.”

Molly frowned and stepped away. “I’m not sure.”

“I can offer you a respectable fee for the pleasure.”

Molly thought it through for a second; about the bitterness this subject had brought out in her in the past; of the sharp responses she had made to journalists because of it when the subject had been broached. A lot of ground had been covered since then. She didn’t want to be that person anymore. She wanted to make up for the nasty things she’d said in the past. So she shrugged. “Okay. Why not?”

The man grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Would you like to walk along as we talk?”

“All right.”

They started to follow the edge of the water to the left and the man began his questioning.

He asked her general questions first: how long it had been since her parents broke up; how much she saw of her brother; how much she’d seen her father over the intervening time. She thought it was odd he didn’t take notes but she didn’t ask him about it. After laying the groundwork he shifted track suddenly.

“Have you met Jack Catholic?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Yesterday afternoon at the house sale of my father’s property. He’s a very nice man. Have you interviewed him yet?”

The man tensed. “No, not yet. He’s currently staying in his uncle’s house, is that correct?”

Molly chewed her lower lip. “No; not anymore.”

The man stopped. Molly turned to face him and stopped too.

“Where is he now?” His voice was very brisk suddenly and a little hard.

Molly remembered Jack’s admonition about telling people his destination. It seemed silly now in the light of day... melodramatic.

“He’s left the country,” she said.

“What? Where?” The man’s voice was raised; forceful.

Molly’s guard rose higher. The sea came up onto their feet and washed over them. Molly’s feet were bare so it didn’t matter but the man was dressed in expensive-looking shoes. Nevetheless he didn’t react to the water in any way. He was glaring at her, clearly angry, his good humour gone; then he tilted his head and laughed. “Sorry about that. I’m still a little wiry from the old bang on the head; a little tense. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Molly frowned. “That’s okay.”

“So where has Mr Catholic gone?” he asked, voice very light and carefree.

“France,” she replied.

“Oh really? Whereabouts?”

“Nice.”

“Where exactly?” demanded the man, and he stepped forward, his demeanour dropping into anger again. Blood was trickling from the cut on his forehead. There were bruises down the side of his neck, as bad or worse than Jack’s. “Where!” said the man, his voice loud now and forceful.

Molly stared straight at his eyes. “Can I see some identification?”

He glared at her; then suddenly he laughed. “Well that was stolen along with my wallet by that gang.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

“You know Jack don’t you? You’re the reason he’s left San Francisco You’re not a journalist at all.”

The man glared at her again then he stepped up very closely to her, his face less than an inch away, his mouth level with her ear. He took hold of both her arms above the elbow, then he whispered, “Where is he?” His American accent was gone. He was English. There was force in his voice and anger. There was perhaps rage, beneath the surface.

Twenty or thirty yards away were people. They would hear if she screamed. He couldn’t do anything to her. It was broad daylight.

Molly withdrew her head until she could see his eyes. She didn’t flinch or try to pull away from his grip. Very calmly she said, “I don’t know where he is. No-one does. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He wanted some time to himself.”

The man’s eyes stared into hers.

“Now let me go,” she said, “if you aren’t going to kill me... and get out of my face.”

The man’s grip faltered on her arms. Something was dying in his eyes. He released her and stepped away. Then without the slightest tremor, his face hardened as though it wasn’t even alive and he walked away.

Molly turned to face the sea, gasping in fear and relief that she had gotten away from him, but powerfully curious too… to know what it was that he had wanted.

From Jack.