A/N: A thousand thanks to DreamUpAReality who has agreed to beta this story for me. Hurray!

Introduction

It was a hot July day in 1931 when I met Caledon Hockley for the first and—like I had believed back then—last time of my life. I still remember that the barometric column in our house had almost risen to 100° Fahrenheit by the time I left in the morning, anxious not to be late for my appointment or my "interview with the devil" as my girlfriend used to call it ironically. She was kind enough to accompany me. "No use to try and talk you out of it, right?"

I shook my head and she smiled despite herself. "You're the craziest person I've ever known," she concluded and bid me goodbye with a kiss on the cheek.

I felt chilly when I entered the cool basement where he was already waiting. Cal — for some reason I always thought of him "Cal" never as "Caledon" or "Mr. Hockley", even before I got to know him — sat opposite of me in a bare room that was empty besides his chair, my wheelchair and the low table between us. There were no windows. All light came from a single electric bulb dangling from the ceiling. It flickered a little, but the light was strong enough to read a newspaper or a book.

Cal's forearms rested on the table, hands firmly clasped. His sharp face looked hardened, almost indifferent. It was hard to tell any true emotional reaction from it. At first glance, he seemed rather arrogant and blasé as he sat there at the other side of the table. His black eyes studied me ceaselessly and coolly."Why did you come here?" he asked.

"To hear your side of the story."

"Pfft. I'm sure they've already told you more than enough about me." No need to ask who he meant by that.

"Oh, they did," came my answer. Was my mind playing tricks on me or did he actually look pleased at this? Was he happy that he was still a subject of conversation in the Dawson household, no matter if they talked well of him or not? "I know what they say about you, but I've never been one to just adopt other people's views. Sorry, that's just the way I am."

I watched his expressions as carefully as he watched mine. More vexed than soothed by my inquisitive nature, he raised his eyebrows with contempt. I could tell he didn't think much of my claim of neutrality. But when he did speak again, it was in a very different vain: "Do they know you're here?"How many mixed emotions one little pronoun could convey! There lay much annoyance and disdainfulness in his "they", but I was positive I detected a weird sort of appreciation and even a strange desire of belongingness. At least that's what I thought. I knew I could have been wrong.

I considered this for a moment and then gave a plain and truthful reply. "They do."

"And they didn't warn you?"

"Sure they did. They told me to stay away from you as far as possible."

"But here you are."

"Here I am."

Cal leaned back, forcing a squeak from the ramshackle chair he was sitting on. His eyes, for the first time today, ended the scrupulous inspection of my traits and set on the chalky white wall behind me. If he was pondering what to reply or pondering whether or not he cared enough to reply at all was impossible to tell.

Finally, he bent forward on his seat—to resume our conversation, I suspected. However, he didn't say anything before he had looked about the room to check if we were in fact unwatched and unheard.

What a strange kind of watchfulness! I wondered if he hadn't yet realized he'd been forever relieved from the burden of a good reputation, after everything that had happened! I had no time to be perplexed though, because shortly afterwards, Cal began to talk.

"You said you came here to hear my side of the story. To be perfectly honest with you, I don't think there is any use in talking you." He made a pause for effect. "The only reason I will comply with your request is that I, alas, don't have anything better to do. But keep one thing in mind. I don't like being interrupted. Or asked questions. I'll tolerate you in the same room with me if you talk as little as possible. Come to think of it, I'd prefer it if you said nothing at all until you heard me to the end."

He paused again, this time to take a sip of water from a glass.

"So, where do I begin? I'm sure you ask yourself how I came to Santa Monica, of all places. I know you must believe that I had a precise idea of what I was looking for. After all, why would a man like me travel hundreds of miles at random? But the goal of my journey was not to reach the far shores of Troy to reclaim what I thought was mine. No idea of fortune or glory, however doubtful, fueled my walk. It was its start, rather than its end, that defined the course of my journey! I knew that a storm was gathering and all I had in mind was to escape before all hell breaks loose. The moment I realized where I had ended up I was just as stupefied as you are now when I tell you that I came her by chance."

As a matter of fact, I didn't believe any of this. I did, however, consider it smarter not to show it. He probably would have continued anyway, regardless of whether or not I had let on about my incredulity. Then I remembered my earlier statement about me making my own judgments, and felt frustration and embarrassment rise in me when I realized that this wouldn't—couldn't—work out quite as planned. Looking at Caledon Hockley with the eye of a neutral observer? Impossible!

He stopped talking and shot me a superior glance as if he wanted to say, 'I see through my flimsy pretense.' I did my best to return his gaze unflinchingly. The silent intermission lasted only a brief moment and when it was over, he continued his speech as if he had never interrupted it.

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