“We can arrange an early breakfast if you’d like.”
“No, really Thanks all the same.” He smiled again, said, “See you around,” to her son, and left, Susan asking Jack something else about school as they tailed out of JJ’s earshot.
He went to his room then and studied the map, looking at the route down to New Haven. Holden almost certainly wasn’t there either, not alive, but at least he’d be doing something, trying in some way to recapture the sense of momentum he’d had, the force that had carried him through Geneva and London, taking the bullet to them, letting Berg know that he was coming for them.
Of course, when it had come to the body count in London he hadn’t achieved anything with that momentum, only a recognition of how little he could do on his own. Maybe he’d spooked them too, but that was only worthwhile if he could keep getting closer to them, and at the moment he couldn’t even get to Holden.
But he had to do something, anything to move things on, realizing somewhere in that day’s fabric that he had the wrong constitution for disappearing. Because that was what disappearing would mean, the life of a permanent tourist, soulless, drowning in small talk.
He couldn’t die by degrees in a life like that, didn’t think he could do it even for a few days, a revulsion that probably sprang from the same part of his character as the violence he’d come to live by. And maybe it wasn’t much of a life but at least it was lived with eyes open, fixed on the common destination they all shared no matter what they did.
10
He spent a while walking around the university, relaxing after the long drive, soaking up the campus atmosphere. It was already hotter than the previous day and here and there people were sitting around on the grass, as many visitors as students by the look of it, the term probably not yet started.
He could understand why people like Holden were attracted to it, the academic life, another enclosed world, one step removed from reality and not quite as lethal either. Clearly though Holden hadn’t been able to leave his old life behind completely; like Tom had said, he’d remained active, not finding enough to distract him in the stillness of art history.
When JJ saw a girl carrying a portfolio case he stopped her and asked directions to Holden’s department, then made his way over there. His office was locked so JJ backtracked and found a secretary, asking her where he might find Holden.
“He’s not in at all this week,” she said, offering, “you could try his house.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. Do you have his address?”
“Well, yes, I do,” she replied, suddenly cautious. “Could I ask why you want him?”
“Of course, though I don’t need to see him for anything particular. He and my uncle are friends. My uncle said I should call in if I was down this way, which clearly I am, but I lost the piece of paper with the address and the only thing I could remember was that he taught history of art. Hopeless, I know.”
“I see.” She was already weakening, won over by his attempt at the affably inarticulate Englishman.
“But you’re right you shouldn’t give it. I shouldn’t have asked in fact. Sorry. I’ll check in the phone book.”
“Oh you won’t find it in there.” She was smiling, writing down the address. She gave him the piece of paper then and said, “Now tell me where you’re parked and I’ll point you in the right direction.”
The house was in an affluent suburb, leafy, wide open lawns. JJ pulled up outside the neighbor’s house, went up, and rang the bell. After a couple of minutes a woman came to the door, probably only his own age but looking older, beginning to run to fat a little, her hair and clothes and whole demeanor lost in a comfortably premature middle age.
“Hello, is this Professor Holden’s house?” She smiled like it was a mistake she was familiar with and pointed to the right. “Oh, I am sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, adding then, “But Ed isn’t there at the moment.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Do you know where he is?”
She shook her head with an expression of deep thought before she said, “But he must be away for some time because he has a house sitter.”
“Oh,” he said again, curious this time.
“European we think, but he doesn’t speak much.” Suddenly she glanced over his shoulder and said. “There he is now. ” JJ turned and saw a swarthy guy with cropped hair, in running shorts and a T-shirt, already breaking into a run as he reached the road. “It’s the only time we see him. He runs every day, sometimes twice.” JJ was still looking at him, lean but heavily built, not the kind of runner who’d be out pounding the road for hours.