The Tower Part 4

"Any chance?" he cried, his breath catching in his chest. "Any chance it'll stop, that it'll level off? Come on, Spade, tell me. Tell me now. Oh, Jesus G.o.d."

The water reached his bed and continued to rise, claiming his calves, then his thighs. Again he leapt up and grabbed the ceiling bars. And again, Spade placed one of his size-fourteen feet over both hands. Cyprus whimpered like a puppy.

"None at all, white boy. None at all. Maybe by the time it hits Level Ten, or maybe not. But you got no hope. No hope at all for Level Nine." He smiled. "And I'll be right here watching you go."

He lifted his foot from Cyprus's hand, but this time Cyprus did not fall away. The water buoyed him until he was pressed against the ceiling. Spade sat clumsily on the floor, his legs spread so he could see Cyprus's face between them, and he watched as the water slowly covered Cyprus's frantic eyes. His blond hair flowed gracefully in the water, making him look like a distorted mermaid. He struggled against the bars, and as Spade's pants began to soak up water, Cyprus's breath left him in a bubbled cough. Sucking in painfully, he jerked about before drifting away from the ceiling.

Spade stood up and pulled off his shirt, throwing it into the corner. He sloshed over to his bed and sat, resting his chin on his fist, his black body sculpted and organic against the sterile steel bars. The water had slowed, but each wave pushed another gasp through the tenth-level vents into the Tower.

He looked at his hands. Opening and closing them, he flexed them before his face, his ma.s.sive fists like sledgehammers. He watched until liquid flowed over them and then he stood to face the water. It rose over his bulging pectorals, then over his deltoids and trapezoids. Little bubbles clung to him as he felt his feet leave the ground. He welcomed the cold water flowing over his body. It had been a long drought.

He rose, treading water though barely moving, until his head struck the ceiling and stopped his ascent. "Allander, my child," he whispered, his voice a deep rumble. "Allander, my child." Water rushed over the smile that had formed on his lips, and a small funnel of air pushed into the water as he breathed from his nose. His gla.s.sy eyes did not blink as they went under.

By then, Allander was already off in the transport speedboat that had been loosely moored to the side of the Tower. As the water rose to Level Eleven, he used a pair of wire cutters to make a hole in the fence large enough to guide the speedboat through.

Breaking from the reflection of the Tower that rippled in the day's last light, Allander steered into open water. He buzzed toward the bleak glow at the horizon, nibbling from a cup of yogurt. The high tide rose to its peak, and sat defiantly around and throughout the Tower.

10.

A L L A N D E R stood in the rocking speedboat about a mile offsh.o.r.e and nosed it around until the bow faced open water. He wedged an iron rod into place between the floor and the wheel, turned the motor over, and started the boat again. It was getting low on gas. He tried to ease the throttle a bit higher, but the boat jerked forward and he fell over the side, banging his shoulder as it sped off.

The cold choked the air out of him and for a moment he thought he might sink. But then he felt his arms fight through the numbness, and he began to tread water. He floated for a minute holding his shoulder, moving with the waves. At least I disposed of the boat, he thought as he started the long swim to sh.o.r.e.

The throbbing in his shoulder intensified with every stroke and Allander realized he had underestimated his injury. He began to thrash, fighting with the rise of the waves to pull his body nearer to land.

The water splashed over his face, forcing itself into his eyes and nose and stinging horribly. His throat became raw from taking in water in little gulps. The cut on his finger throbbed as the salt.w.a.ter entered the wound. The small lights of houses in the hilltops above the beach twinkled at him, as though jeering at him in his precarious situation.

Be calm. Just calm yourself, he thought. He rolled his tired neck from side to side and inhaled deeply, clearing his mind.

He kicked off his shoes when he'd first landed in the water, and now he stripped off his socks, his shirt, and even his thin prison pants. He tied one leg of his pants in a knot and shoved his socks and shirt into it before throwing the whole ball of cloth aside.

Wearing only his underwear, Allander gave in to the rhythm of the ocean, letting his body flow with the swirling water, letting it seize his limbs and take him under its sway. He rose, barely moving his arms and legs, and twirled on the surface before dipping below again, his exhausted body washed about like a leaf riding a harsh autumn wind. But the ocean continued to press him upward. He drank the air greedily before the ocean moved him down, forcefully sweeping him to sh.o.r.e. He felt his limbs grow stiff with the cold and he hoped they'd keep moving.

Finally, he noticed that the waves were breaking and he had to fight for breath as they crashed, spouting a white mist into the humid air. His torso actually broke through the surface as he neared sh.o.r.e, pushed into the air by the force of a wave, and he saw the lights clearly before his body hit the water again. At last, he felt the sand beneath his feet, and the thick pebbles and grains surrounding his toes. He touched the ground with both knees and still the ocean pushed him forward, seething up his back and through his legs, propelling him to sh.o.r.e.

Suddenly, his legs and waist were seized by a large, dark ma.s.s. A slimy substance wrapped itself around him and squeezed him tightly, tying up his limbs and sucking him back out to sea. Allander dug his fingers into the sand and pulled himself forward, screaming and thrashing.

The ma.s.s slid from Allander's waist and briefly held his knees before he kicked free. He turned on his hip to watch as it slid from view. It was a patch of dark green seaweed, glittering moistly in the moonlight.

He pulled himself free of the water as it retreated to gather itself for another surge onto the beach. Scrambling on all fours and wearing only a ragged pair of underpants, Allander was delivered to sh.o.r.e at three minutes past midnight.

The water climbed gently to where his body lay and barely touched his side, as if sniffing him curiously. Allander stirred, coughing deeply, and winced at the dull ache in his throat and head. His finger throbbed even more now. He drew himself up to his knees and peered around the beach, admiring its fine, open expanse, its irregular shape and sloppy curves. Overhead, the moon broke through the clouds. Throwing his head back, he shrieked, something between a sob and a cackle.

He ran his hands through the water, petting it as it edged forward to meet him again. It rose through his spread fingers, climbing clingingly up his forearms, and he dug his hands shovel-like into the moist ground and clenched them loosely. The water drew the matter away to reveal two fists of small wriggling crabs, alive and free in every handful of sand.

11.

T H E first light of morning broke through the low clouds and cast a bluish glow over the beach. The storm had pa.s.sed in the night, and the ground was damp with morning dew. A crab scuttled across the sand, back toward the water, its ragged claws leaving small trails in its wake.

Allander turned his head and coughed, then rolled over and threw up. His vomit smelled clean and fresh, his stomach acid diluted with salt.w.a.ter. The swelling on his shoulder had gone down during the few hours that he had been pa.s.sed out. He had slept deeply, but his eyes were puffy and sore.

At one point, from the depths of his stupor, Allander had thought he heard voices. Panic washed over him momentarily as he imagined cops or security guards dragging him from the beach. But then he realized that the noise came from a group of pa.s.sing teenagers, and they dismissed him as a harmless b.u.m.

Rolling to his forearms, Allander rose to his haunches, squinting even in the dim morning light. "'Free at last, free at last. Thank G.o.d Almighty, I am free at last,'" he mumbled. He laughed, a choke thick with irony.

He pulled himself to his feet, but stood stooped, favoring his swollen shoulder. Facing the breeze with his bare chest, he wandered from the beach, looking much like a scarecrow that had freed itself from its post.

He gazed up at the houses in the hills as he climbed the stairs that led from the beach to the residential neighborhood. Manicured bushes lined the sidewalks, but as the street wound higher up the hill, the neat shrubbery gave way to thicker underbrush. The houses sat farther back from the road behind larger gates. Their mailboxes were all that were open to the outside world, and even those were built into protective brick structures.

Blending with the shadows, Allander made his way up the street. It was early in the morning and no one seemed to be up yet. He could probably have proceeded up the middle of the road, but he kept to the shadows out of habit. He glanced at the gates as he pa.s.sed them, amused at the false sense of security they created for their owners.

At the top of the hill, he stopped at a white stucco house that peeked out behind an elaborate fence. Reaching through the gate, Allander slipped the bar. He swung the gate slightly open and slid through, disappearing into the bushes at the side of the driveway.

He ran his thumb gently over the b.l.o.o.d.y tape covering his finger. It was damp and the edges were frayed. Ocean water was cleansing, he reminded himself thankfully.

Making his way slowly through the landscape, Allander flanked the house, occasionally peering between the bushes to scan the area. Although he knew n.o.body would be awake at this hour, he didn't want to risk a bold approach.

He made his way behind a garden shed twenty feet from the side of the house. Sliding open a window, he crept through, noticing the equipment stored within. He had always prided himself on being able to make do with anything he could lay his hands on. So many tools could be found around the average house-tools of death, destruction, torture.

After digging through a toolbox, Allander held up a lengthy awl, studying it in the light that filtered through the dust and cobwebs.

The doorbell rang.

"Who the h.e.l.l? At this hour?" A shrill voice issued forth from beneath a white beauty mask and a set of rollers. Henry was startled until he remembered his wife's new habit of rising early to apply beauty products. "Go get the door, Henry," she urged.

Henry grunted and shifted heavily in the bed. "It's probably just the paper boy."

"Get the door, Henry."

Henry sighed and stumbled out of bed as his wife rolled back over on her side, her arms crossed on top of her red nightgown. It had been one pain-in-the-a.s.s thing after another since they'd let the maid go last week for stealing a bracelet from his wife's bureau. Just can't trust people anymore, Henry thought groggily as he padded across the tiled floor of the foyer.

"Who is it?" he called, and then mumbled in the same singsong voice, "You annoying a.s.shole."

He looked through the peephole and saw nothing, then opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Nothing. A bird called out twice from its perch in a tree and Henry relaxed and inhaled deeply, stretching his arms. He bent over and picked up the newspaper.

As he walked back down the hallway to the bedroom, the doorbell rang again.

"I thought I told you to get the door," his wife screeched from the bedroom. Henry winced at the sound of her voice, raising his shoulders above his neck as if to block out the noise.

"I got it. Just go back to sleep." He walked back to the door muttering to himself. He leaned forward to check the peephole again; there was a tinkling sound as the gla.s.s from the peephole broke. Henry convulsed and slumped forward. His body seemed to hang on the door from his head.

Allander pulled the awl back out through the peephole. Poised in his other hand was the hammer he had used to force the awl through the small hole and into Henry's eye. The door shuddered softly as Henry collapsed to the floor. His body showed no visible sign of violence except for the small puncture in the iris, through which the awl had entered his brain.

Allander pushed the door open, shoving against the weight of Henry's body.

Vanity breeds contempt, Allander thought. If you hadn't wanted the white castle on top of the hill, you'd still be dreaming of breakfast.

He crept softly toward the master bedroom, holding the hammer tight in his fist.

A familiar sensation invaded him, filling him slowly, leaving him with a tingling in his stomach-the ecstasy of the kill. Somehow, he knew that it was what he was made to do. And he didn't feel angry. In fact, it was the only time he didn't feel angry.

The woman's form under the blankets was barely visible from the doorway, yet Allander could sense the inconsistency of her femininity. It scared him, the inconsistency. It always had.

He approached her slowly, his knees trembling. His left foot came down on a lipstick cylinder and it cracked like a walnut.

The woman rolled over in bed and saw Allander's sickly, pale skin covered with sand trails and dried seaweed. The white mask over her face opened to emit an enormous scream. Allander backed up, momentarily fearful, b.u.mping against the cabinet.

Throwing the covers aside, the woman grabbed the phone from the nightstand and hurled it at Allander's head. She screamed her husband's name over and over: "HENRY! HENRY! GET THE CHILDREN! HENRY!"

The phone hit Allander in the face and split open his upper lip, spilling blood over his mouth. He cowered until he tasted its richness, then he felt himself energized.

The white mask was out of bed and running for the door. As she pa.s.sed him, Allander stepped forward and swung the hammer's pointed end at the back of the woman's head. It struck her in the soft nape of her neck and stuck. He jerked it back and swung again, lodging it firmly in the wound.

The woman fell as if in slow motion, jolting momentarily on her knees before pitching face first to the carpet.

Her final scream reverberated within the room, then there was quiet. The silence was broken by the distant crying of children.

A young boy's voice sounded from around the corner, "Mommy? Are you all right? Daddy?" It was a beautifully pitched voice, a soprano full of prep.u.b.escent innocence. It trembled delicately, like a feather approaching the blades of a fan.

Allander was the man of the house now. He had established that.

He wiped the blood from his lips and headed for the door.

TWO.

THE TRACKER.

12.

" S T A Y BACK, YOU f.u.c.k! DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT," Jade Marlow yelled above the scream of bullets that ricocheted off the pavement and the open car door that shielded him.

"But I think I got it! I think I got an angle to the door," Dave Patrick said excitedly, his eyes fixed on the second-floor window of the Lilliputian Day Care building, behind which a team of gunmen held three children hostage.

Jade peered cautiously around the car door. The late-morning heat made the yellow window frame waver and distort, its peeling paint seeming to vibrate in the heavy air. A wooden sign was staked in the middle of the browning lawn. "For Growing Sirs and Madams," it announced in impressive lettering.

"You don't! You don't have it, and you're my cover. Don't f.u.c.k me on this! I'm the lead here, so stay put."

Dave glanced at Jade nervously, his blue eyes filled with more bravado than intelligence. "I got it. I got it, Jade!" With that he leaped to his feet and ran out from behind the car, sprinting for the building.

"No, you stupid f.u.c.k!" Jade hit the door angrily with his elbow, then quickly turned and fired several shots at the second-story window. The gunman upstairs stayed put.

As Dave neared the door, it swung open and he found himself facing a fat man with a goatee, a shotgun braced beneath his jiggling chins. Panic crossed Dave's face. He tried desperately to skid to a halt while raising his gun, instead losing his footing and landing on his a.s.s. Before he could blink, Goatee had unloaded two quick shots into his chest, splattering his policeman-blue shirt with blood.

Jade pivoted around the car door and put one bullet neatly through Goatee's neck, dropping him before he could retreat. As he toppled over backward, another man scurried around the body and slammed the door shut again.

Rising slightly from his crouch, Jade peered at Dave's body. His longish blond hair, brushed by the wind, was the only thing that moved. Poor dumb guy, Jade thought, an ex-high school running back who'd never learned to separate the playing field from the world that fenced it in. He was definitely dead. At least you got us one kidnapper, he thought.

The door opened slightly and the downstairs gunman showered bullets all over the front of the car door. Jade flattened himself against the ground; as he got ready to return fire, the door slammed shut again.

Peering through the shattered remains of his driver's-side window, Jade noticed a mail slot toward the bottom of the thick oak door. He raised his gun, holding it firmly while he aimed. He fired once. The mail slot pinged open and shut like a throwing game at an amus.e.m.e.nt park.

Hearing a scream, he rolled from the safety of his car and sprang to his feet. He ran toward the door, firing over his head to keep the gunman upstairs at bay.

As Jade got to the base of the steps leading to the door, he planted his foot on Dave's chest and leaped over the four steps in a single motion.

The gunman lay across Goatee's body, his shoulders propped up by the wall. He was crying silently and holding his knee, his gun on the floor a few feet from him. Dark streams of blood spurted from between his fingers. When Jade kicked open the door, the man scrambled for his gun, but Jade stepped on his hand and fired once into the top of his head. The bullet blew out part of his jaw as it exited.

The foyer was a large room with smooth beige carpeting. A curved staircase swept up to the second floor, which was set off by wood railings. An elaborate chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. Elegant, though slightly rundown, the Lilliputian Day Care building was a converted mansion. It provided day care for the more affluent families in Pacific Heights.

Jade a.s.sessed his position: lower location, limited sight-extremely vulnerable. Either turn back or bulldoze ahead. He stepped over the bodies and headed for the staircase.

He made his way up the stairs, holding his gun next to his cheek. His muscles were tensed beneath his clothes. "Shut up, you little s.h.i.t," he heard as he reached the top step. A child whimpered softly. The noise came from the first room off the wide hallway.

Jade moved slowly toward the room, stepping quietly on the plush Chinese patterned rug. He paused beside the door frame and listened, carefully controlling the sound of his breathing.

"I know you're out there, a.s.shole. Come in," he heard.

Jade dropped to his stomach and peered around the bottom of the door frame. He could see Michael Trapp. He was backed into a corner, one arm locked around a six-year-old girl's neck in a half nelson, a gun pressed to her temple. She dangled in his arms like a rag doll, her b.u.t.ton eyes wide with fear. To Trapp's right, two boys knelt side by side, facing the wall.

Jade had studied Trapp's profile inside and out. He was a ransomer who'd never been in a face-off, although he'd killed kids before. Now his partners were dead and he was scared s.h.i.tless. But Jade knew he wouldn't fire right off the bat. He'd want to negotiate. That's what ransomers did.

Jade stood up and whirled around the corner, his gun pointed. The girl screamed and struggled in Trapp's grip.

"Drop the gun or so help me G.o.d I'll-"