SAN FRANCISCO
The old man came warily down the last
of the stairs into the lounge.
The light slanting in from a high
diagonal window illuminated the left side and top of his head; the indigo wool
of his cardigan.
He paused as if listening, looked
round, then moved across the room toward the unit on the wall that housed the
burglar alarm control box and the video monitoring system. When he was still
six feet away it sparked and he froze.
Sam stepped into view behind him and
cleared his throat.
The old man spun round, fear and
panic coupled with his infirmity.
“What’s your name?” snapped Sam,
voice sharp and loud.
The old man tensed. He was at least
eight inches shorter than Sam; gaunt bare feet, white hair.
“I said what’s your name?”
“David Eden.”
“Where’s Jack Catholic?”
Eden withdrew a couple of steps. “Who
are you? What do you want?”
“Where’s Jack Catholic?”
“I don’t know.”
Sam stepped further into view,
letting the baseball bat swing down into view next to his side. His fingers
round the handle were very loose. “But I think you do.”
Eden withdrew further. Sam started
closing the distance.
“He’s left the country. Please; who
are you?”
Sam came on silently.
“Are you the man who called at the
gate yesterday?”
There was only fifteen feet between
them now.
“I know he’s in France,” said Sam. “Where
exactly?”
Eden shook his head. “I don’t know; please.”
Sam swung the bat up and caught the
end of it in his left hand. He had no intention of using it but the fear it
caused was already working perfectly.
Eight feet away now.
The old man was against the wall. His
hands and shoulders were shaking. He raised his palms in a defensive gesture.
He was pleading but Sam couldn’t hear the words. He raised the bat above his
shoulder, ready to strike. The old man crumpled, right hand up to ward off the
blow he thought was coming.
There was pressure in Sam’s brow. He
could see nothing in front of him but the old man’s terrified eyes.
“Where exactly?”
“I don’t know!”
He was lying. He knew where Jack was,
he had to, but he wasn’t going to say. Sam thought about Lucy. His lip curled.
“Where!”
He smashed the bat down onto the old
man’s shoulder.
“Where!”
He whipped it in from the right and up
under his chin.
“Where!”
He smashed the bat round against the
side of his face.
Eden hit the floor, crumpling down on
his left side.
Sam staggered back, staring down at
him, pressure cracking over and over again with his pulse.
The old man was breathing; coughing.
Sam let the bat hang down again in
his left hand. He looked down at the old man, his face completely passive.
He felt no emotion at all.
Except despair.
Medical attention was needed immediately.
Sam knew he should do something, but he couldn’t motivate his limbs to move. He
hadn’t planned to strike out. He wasn’t a killer; he had told that to Jack in
the bar the night before and it was true. Murder was the lowest crime. He
didn’t know why he had lost his temper; why it was happening so much lately.
Eden was struggling to breathe. He
gurgled with each inhalation. Sam walked over to the phone on the table near
the window. He picked it up, looked dumbly at the numbers on the keypad then dialled
911.
Voice a monotone, he asked for an
ambulance and gave them the address, then he dropped the phone and walked
through to the back of the house and the open door, leaving Eden where he was.
When he got there, he stopped and the despair swelled up again, catching him in
the doorway like a net.
He didn’t know where Jack was; nobody
did. There was nothing he could do. How could he ever hope to find him now? It
was impossible.
He’d beaten an old man with a
baseball bat. What was happening to him? Where was his self-control? He had set
a goal for himself that he could never give up on – he knew he would do
whatever was necessary to attain that – but the desperation was clouding his
thinking. There was something wrong with him. His mind felt broken.
And now his search for Jack was well
and truly hopeless.
Or was it?
The old man knew nothing. Sam was
convinced of that. The terror in his eyes had been real. But the girl on the
beach… Molly. There had been something in her eyes when he mentioned Jack’s
name. Suddenly he knew she had been lying.
She knew exactly where Jack was.
He had to find her and ask her again.
But this time he had to ask… less
politely.
He had crossed a line now with the
old man. It only made sense to take things to the same level, if necessary,
with her.
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