The Tower

Chapter 41

Allander placed his toe in the hole of the faucet as he settled back among the bubbles in the steaming bath. He whistled a lighthearted tune, filling it with baroque trills, his notes resonating off the bathroom walls.

It was astounding how easy it had been. He had hot-wired an old truck he'd found in a neighboring barn and had sped off before anyone had even noticed the chiming bells, let alone phoned the police so they could set up roadblocks. It was doubtful that anyone would notice that the old truck was gone before tomorrow, and even more doubtful that it would be noticed and reported before then. The owners would probably consider it a blessing that the decrepit thing had been removed from their property.

As he had driven slowly through the streets of Palo Alto, Allander had noticed a Land Rover with suitcases and surfboards on the roof, and inside a smiling family. He watched as the car pulled out of the driveway of a somewhat secluded, colonial-style home.

After circling the block, Allander returned. He was about to break a window to get into the garage when he noticed a thermometer on the wall. Even though night was drawing near, it still showed eighty-seven degrees. He tapped it, holding a hand underneath; a plastic hatch opened on the bottom and a spare key fell out.

It fit the garage door, so Allander opened it and moved the truck inside, parking it next to a beautiful red Jeep. Getting into the main house was not a problem given that he had access to a full set of tools in the garage, and he smashed the alarm unit out of the wall and clipped the appropriate wires before it fully activated. The things you learn growing up in and out of prison, Allander thought. A practical education.

The large calendar on the refrigerator indicated that the family was gone for the week. He would steal nothing and leave everything precisely as he had found it, ditching the old truck when he got a chance. The only thing he couldn't fix was the alarm unit down-stairs, but he doubted that would attract much police attention if everything else was in order. It pleased him immensely to realize he was brilliant and uncatchable, daringly irresponsible and wildly imaginative. And he was relaxing in a warm bath.

He pulled himself out of the tub and walked around the upstairs without toweling off. Glancing at the cut in his fingertip, he noticed that it was healing well. He stopped in the hallway underneath a ceiling fan. The coolness of the air on his moist skin felt wonderful. He walked into the study, admiring the dark wood bookcases and the shelves of hardbacked books.

On an antique wooden chest in the corner sat two matching cell phones. How cute, Allander thought. His and hers. He walked over and checked the numbers, written neatly in the slots on the back. They were different. He picked up one phone in each hand, bouncing them lightly to feel their weight. They might come in handy.

Crossing the room to lean over the imposing oak desk, Allander turned on the computer. An Internet icon came up on the desktop, and he double-clicked it. He bit his lip and concentrated, casting his mind back to the computer magazines he'd read in prison. It made him sad to realize how much of the world he had missed during his years locked in a cell. There was so much he'd never seen.

The Internet screen came up, complete with a search box. Allander carefully moved the cursor to the box, then typed in a name. Jade Marlow.

After searching through a few dead ends, Allander came upon several entries from the San Francisco Daily. He was not surprised to see his own picture in the most recent newspaper article featuring Jade. The headline, "Marlow in Hot Pursuit of Serial Killer," stretched above an extremely unflattering photograph of Allander taken at one of his many court appearances. Allander read the caption aloud in a deep, booming voice, then chuckled. "Serial killer," he repeated disdainfully. "Don't these people have a sense of humor?"

He clicked through the rest of the newspaper headlines. "Black Ribbon Strangler Identified." "Michael Trapp Dead in Shoot-out." "Missing Girl Found."

Quite an American hero, this Jade Marlow, Allander thought. He did everything but rescue cats from trees. He was about to shut down the computer when he saw one entry dated several years prior to the rest. January 2, 1973. A painfully familiar year.

He opened it. It was a small story, buried on the sixteenth page. "Retarded Boy Bullied to Death," the headline read. The picture showed a mother embracing a boy around the chest as a father rested a hand lovingly on her shoulder. The boy had light brown hair, and the drooping features of a developmentally delayed child. It was the same boy he had seen in the picture he had moved from Jade's bedroom.

Also in the picture, but in the background, stood another boy by himself, a baseball cap backward on his head. He faced sideways, unaware of the camera. Although the picture was blurry, Allander recognized him right away.

Jade slammed the door behind him and headed straight to the boxing bag in the garage. He attacked it relentlessly, driving lefts and rights, not at the bag, but straight through it. His form was perfect, his rhythm exact. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Travers had seen Alex at the hospital, her interview mediated, of course, by Ms. Perkins. After leaving Alex's house, Jade had waited for Travers by her car in the hospital parking lot. She'd filled him in briefly and they had decided to break for the night.

At the first house, Allander had been able to perform his act from beginning to end. In Allander's view, it was a finished work. But at Alex's house, Allander had been interrupted. It was a shame almost, Jade thought. It didn't leave him as much to go on. How would Allander have fulfilled this crime?

The wedding business Alex had described reminded Jade of what Dr. Yung had said about a marriage of the different sides of the personality. Allander seemed to be trying to combine his brutal experience with the child's innocence, a sort of return to a lost past. Maybe that was why he'd told Alex he was going to kill him. Since Allander wanted to absorb him metaphorically, the boy couldn't exist afterward as his own physical entity. If you find someone threatening, make him your own. It was like psychological cannibalism.

Jade had to admit that the second "S N E" had thrown him a little bit, since "hear no evil" was supposed to be next in line after "see no evil." At first, he'd thought that Allander might be saving "H N E" for his parents, but then he realized that Allander was committing his crimes in the order in which he felt he had been betrayed-first by his parents, then by his educators, then by the courts and the police. The self-consciousness inherent in such meticulous planning showed that Allander wasn't truly a serial killer; it was more as if he were poking fun at the very notion of serial killers.

Jade pictured Allander's face on the speed bag as he snapped it back repeatedly to the suspended platform. His shoulders were burning and his wrists were getting sore.

Allander was unbelievably slippery. Though he hated to admit it, Jade was having a hard time pinning him down, locking him in. One moment he'd feel he was right there inside Allander's head, but then he'd turn a corner and be lost again. Jade had always believed that killers' actions were illustrations of their thoughts. But when it came to Allander, it wasn't that simple.

Just as Jade was struggling to figure out Allander, Allander was working on him. He knew what Jade looked for and what he wanted, and that made it difficult to interpret the crime scenes he created. Usually, Allander was deadly serious. But sometimes, Jade had learned, he was only playing.

He had called Allander by his first name again twice today at the crime scene. Publicly. Both times it had drawn funny looks, which he didn't care about, but it showed he was getting too close.

Leah had said that Allander raved about parents, teachers, and the law. So far, he had killed four parents, two of whom were teachers. Who would he find next? Who to him represented the law? Lawyers? Too easy a target. Given his overblown ego, Allander would probably go for the biggest challenge and kill a cop or maybe a famous judge. To match the pattern, it would have to be somebody with a family. Unfortunately, that ruled Jade out.

Jade had already ordered protection for all parties involved with Allander's criminal trial. The judge had passed away, which was too bad, because he was known widely as a "family man." He would have been a perfect lure.

The prosecutor and defense attorney had both wanted protection for their families. Jade had put two cars at the defense attorney's house, since criminals usually go after their own lawyers rather than their prosecutors. They figure a prosecutor is just doing his job; if their case goes poorly, they often hold their own lawyers responsible.

Jade also wanted coverage for all policemen and guards involved with Allander over the years, going back as far as the bust on Vincent Grubbs, Allander's molester. In fielding his request, McGuire had been his usual cantankerous self, pointing out that the FBI had already overextended itself on the case. Initially he had said he couldn't come up with the manpower, but Jade had pushed him on it. He didn't want anything left open, no matter how unlikely a target it was.

Despite the pain in his arms and shoulders, Jade continued to hammer at the bag. Something in the regularity of its sound and motion soothed him. Jab jab jab. Jab jab jab.

He couldn't get the images out of his head. Walking past the red skid on the entranceway floor. The woman's body sprawled out, maroon covering her chin and throat. The sixteen-year-old taped to a chair, his tongue also cut out. Allander had struck the boy on the head first to stun him so he'd be unable to bite.

The forensic pathologist concluded that his tongue had been removed before he received the terminal slit across the windpipe. Jade wondered what that had felt like. To feel someone's fingers prying into your mouth, removing some part of yourself and holding the bloody pulp before your eyes.

Allander's rage was flowering, bringing with it a new flush of sadism. He had started dismembering the sixteen-year-old before death. Up until now, he had mutilated his victims only after he'd killed them.

Jade switched to the power cross and hammered as hard as he could. Jab jab cross. The platform shook and he felt sweat streaming down the sides of his face.

Jade didn't care about the victims, exactly. He cared about them inexactly. They were grains of sand in an hourglass, scars to be tallied like points against him. Sometimes, he even hated them. They were glaring symbols of his imperfection. And right now, he couldn't shake them out of his head. He turned them over in his mind obsessively.

The ache in his shoulders brought Jade back to the speed bag. It was a blur of motion, but he seized it quickly between his hands. He lowered it slowly to a resting position.

Jade had a plan, but he didn't want to set it in motion until he was sure the time was right. Once he started that ball rolling, there would be no stopping it. However, with the way things were going, he wasn't sure how much longer he could wait. Most of all, he couldn't stand the waiting. And now that he'd made the promise to Darby, he felt restricted, almost muzzled.

He had taken preemptive measures to try to protect Allander's next potential victims. As far as the lawmakers were concerned, he had covered all the bases. What he had to do now was come up with a situation so compelling that Allander would not be able to resist it, even if it meant he had to alter his plans. Jade's options were fairly limited. There was only one thing that could tempt Allander like that. When it came down to it, there had always been only one thing.

After showering for a half hour, Jade moved into his living room and gazed at the pictures and files that lay scattered on the floor. The TV droned on in the background.

Not a fucking trace. Not one. Allander had just disappeared into the countryside. There were enough woods and mountains to hide an intelligent convict for weeks, and this time they were dealing with a genius. He also had a whole network of roads and old farms to work with.

The cops and the feds had gotten there too late; no one had even responded to the ringing school bells for thirty-five minutes, and then it had taken them another twenty to get the experts in. Fifty-five minutes. No way. Maybe if they'd gotten there within twenty minutes, but even that would have been tough given the rough landscape. There were also enough streams and rivers to greatly reduce the effectiveness of the dogs.

Jade was pacing when a news story on TV caught his interest. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

A photograph of Royce Tedlow flashed on the screen as the news anchor's soothing voice reported, "Forty-seven-year-old Royce Tedlow confessed to the murder of his wife, Frieda, early this afternoon. He cited her wearing of short skirts out in public as his reason for killing her. According to inside sources, he confessed in the face of overwhelming evidence."

Jade chuckled and shook his head. "Must've found the other glove," he mumbled. He turned back to the crime-scene photos of Allander's latest killings, only half-listening as the report continued. When he recognized Alissa Anvers's voice, he looked up again.

She stood before the front arch of a cemetery, the words "Midland Hills" curved in gold letters on top of the gate.

"— Henry and Janice Weiter, the first victims of Allander Atlasia's latest killing spree, were laid to rest today as their children looked on."

The camera cut to a shot of Leah and Robbie standing side by side, holding hands. Robbie was wearing an ill-fitting black suit and Leah a dark dress. Jade saw the wetness of the girl's cheeks beneath the broad-brimmed hat she wore. Some nondescript adults stood behind them, hands on their shoulders.

Jade's breathing quickened. The victims kept piling up like a weight pressing on his chest. The first ones hadn't been his fault, he told himself. He hadn't even been on the case yet. But now the father, the mother, the boy. He shook off the thought. That's not what he was here for. It wasn't in the job description.

Just points to be tallied, he reminded himself. Points to be tallied.