The Tower

Chapter 32

" Has Marlow checked on the house yet?" Wotan asked. Smoke rose from the cigar in the ashtray on the side of his desk, curling like a white ribbon in the dim air.

"Yes, Wotan," Travers said. "He has some ideas about Atlasia, but he hasn't shared them with me. You want me to put pressure on him to reveal more?"

"I don't think that's a realistic option for you."

Travers blushed.

"He is not our enemy. He is in charge of this investigation and you will assist him, not interfere with his efforts." Wotan leaned forward slightly into the light, but the hollowness of his cheeks remained filled with shadow. The hole of his left eye was lost in darkness.

"We hired Jade Marlow for this case because he's an obsessive tracker. He has no hesitation about descending into the mind of the killer. Right now, his waking hours are spent thinking about Atlasia, and I am certain that when he sleeps, if he sleeps at all, he dreams of him. If you recall the Black Ribbon case, we almost lost him. That's a risk we run when we send someone into dangerous territory. But Marlow can go into the house of the enemy and not eat from his table."

Wotan plucked a bullet slug from the ashtray and raised it to his face. He blew the cigar ash from it, then dropped it back in the ashtray, where it landed with a loud clink. A small puff of ash clouded the air, then dissipated.

"You shall not impede him, Agent Travers, even if it is at considerable cost to your ego."

Travers nodded, biting her lip. "I was not implying anything like that, sir."

"Give him his space if he needs it."

Allander stepped off the Greyhound bus and regarded the dimly lit station. Two chubby little boys ran after a shrieking girl in a yellow dress while their parents stood by and smiled.

Woodside had seemed like the most arbitrary place within the Bay Area that the buses stopped. Allander needed to put a safe amount of distance between himself and San Francisco, at least until the manhunt slowed down, but he also didn't want to stray too far away. Not while there was more work to be done.

He checked the crudely drawn map on the wall, which displayed the public buildings in the area. Two churches, a library, a small residential school, town hall. Quite a cultural hub, he thought, sneering inwardly.

The bus ride had gone well. It was a direct route, so although there were stops, he hadn't had to transfer. He had passed the journey in a back seat, his body pressed against the cushion so that his face remained in shadow.

FOOD, DRINK, TICKETS: Allander read the words on the large sign outside the station. All the necessities of a bare, forked animal. I am a man more sinned against than sinning, he thought. More sinned against than sinning.

He headed up a winding road that ran into the hills behind the bus stop. Turning off the road, he walked about a mile into a wooded area before curling up underneath a large tree. He lay on his side, breathing the crisp air. Finally, he dozed off. For the first time in years, he slept soundly.

Darby Atlasia sat quietly in the study, nursing a glass of red wine. The detective had stirred old memories, and now they swirled about, refusing to be laid to rest.

She thought about the days when her seven-year-old son was missing. They had feared the very worst, but even their grossest speculations couldn't match the reality. Death would have been preferable. She slid the glass back into the indentation it had made on her Pottery Barn catalog.

There are so many things you wish for as a parent, so many dreams and aspirations, she thought. You want your child to grow up to be a doctor, or a senator, or a judge. You hope, you plan. And then a sick man steps in and tinkers with your son's mind. Damages it irreparably.

True, Allander's behavior had indicated some problems even before the incident. He had not been right, had not been normal. And then his natural predisposition had been encouraged and further corrupted by "environmental factors." That was what his first psychologist had called it. "Environmental factors." Like being raped by a thirty-three-year-old man at the age of seven, Doctor? she'd wanted to yell. Is that an "environmental factor?"

The guilt at that memory still gnawed at her from time to time. What could I have done differently? she would ask herself defensively. Did I do all I could to protect my boy, to treat him normally afterward? Did my feelings of disgust filter through the mask I wore at home? Did Allander feel my anger, my irrational fury that he had brought all of this to our lives?

After the boy had… after the incident between her and Allander, Darby had known that Thomas considered his son dead to him. In fact, he had felt that Allander was no longer his son. After that, Thomas had told her, he felt that Allander drew his inspiration from some source beyond Thomas's comprehension.

"Hon, are you all right?" Thomas's soft voice at the door startled her, and she knocked over her glass of wine. She watched as the liquid darkened the papers on the desk-the bank statements, the mortgage papers, the letters and magazines. She made no effort to stop the flow, but watched it as the keen smell of alcohol rose to her nostrils and permeated the room.

Thomas walked over and leaned on the desk beside her. He cradled her head to his chest as the tears came, and they cried together softly. Finally, Darby leaned back and looked at him, then wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. She spread her hands and used her fingers to erase the tears beneath her own eyes.

"Well, hon," she said. "I guess we're just one big dysfunctional family, aren't we?" They laughed together for a while. Gradually, their laughter fell back into tears.