Endworlds - Nicholas Read [18]
Pohnpei, Porto Velho, Osaka, Taupo—they were only a handful of the many locales where Eisman had pursued any hint of his daughter’s presence, alive or otherwise, his mania no longer confined to the route Ansett flight 888 had taken. Asked to account for such random searching, Eisman had sent tongues wagging anew when he cryptically gave one interviewer the sound bite: “The clouds; they move!” At considerable financial cost and still greater cost to his personal reputation, he had spent years crisscrossing the planet in search of any hint of Paige’s existence long past the point of reason.
When hard facts had failed to supply any kind of succor he had doggedly turned to less conventional methods. Psychics, conspiracy nuts, UFOlogists—no matter how outré the source, no proposal escaped his attention. If tarot readers were good enough for American Presidents, they were acceptable to him.
His pursuit was driven by love, the media correctly pointed out. The love of a widowed father for his only child. They praised him even as they mocked him as mad.
Eisman knew he had done nothing earlier this evening to diffuse that allegation. It was all the fault of the reporters. Freelance scum, soulless paparazzi, they had waylaid him outside his London home. He had taken unbridled pleasure in beating the crap out of the both of them.
But as he sped his sedan along the riverfront road he knew he could expect to see unvarnished images of himself in at least one of tomorrow’s tabloids.
“Boffo Billionaire Bonkers?” one headline would scream. “Eisman Erupts!” would cry another. Below would be pictures of him clad in tux and tie flailing at the microphone-wielding journo while the photographer sidekick frantically fired off shot after shot. Since he was no longer hot news, the pictures would probably sell in the low thousands. Then the two paparazzi would sue him for assault.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Now he was late for the concert. Hills would be disappointed. It had taken his assistant more than a month to line up an invitation for his boss to attend the post-premiere reception.
Eisman had progressively become persona non grata among London’s social set, for whom he had years ago generated so much wealth. His attendance at the after-party was intended to return him to the spotlight as an elegant and sane public figure, a patron of the arts and its charity de jour.
Not that he really cared one whit about what people thought of him, but there were to be some people in that circle who might, if suitably inveigled, be able to aid him in his continuing search.
How was he supposed to show himself to them now, with his expensive shoes scuffed and his formalwear torn and mottled with dirt?
Even if an express drycleaner or suit retailer could be found at this hour on the A3 into London, he simply didn’t have the time to stop, already horrendously late for a social set that prized punctuality so much they had built the world’s tallest clock tower in the very center of their capital. He had brushed and wiped at his dress ensemble as best he could, but the figure he presented had plainly spent some time on the ground in less than salubrious circumstances. Despite his strenuous efforts to clean up, his appearance was sure to occasion sideways glances and murmured asides.
Raef Eisman? Oh yes, poor fellow. One who lies down with dogs, you know.
He gritted his teeth as his fingers tightened on the wheel of the Jaguar. It was his regular driver’s day off. He should have listened to Hills and hired a chauffeur. At the least, a driver could have run interference with the paparazzi and he would not now be speeding through the rain a little too fast.
Either the wipers on the Jaguar needed replacing or this midsummer storm had begun raining much harder than the bureau had predicted. Water clung to the glass as the twin blades scooped back and forth like a pair of road workers with shovels, the one on the left throwing water onto the section of windshield just cleared by the other, an ongoing exercise