The Tower Part 7

A woman laughed heartily, throwing her head back and slapping her knee. She seemed faint from laughing, leaning into the large man next to her for support. Smoke, sweat, and the thick smell of beer hung heavily in the air, mixing with loud voices to form an oppressive atmosphere.

The kitchen doors banged suddenly as Jade kicked them open. Both Andrew and Kyle dropped their beers as they saw Jade's form moving swiftly toward them. Their gla.s.ses shattered on the floor.

Jade crossed the room in four strides, throwing the pan of greasy water on his second step and the pan on his third. They arrived on Kyle's face simultaneously, the water splashing over his eyes and cheeks, the pan smashing into his forehead. He screamed and rubbed his face, temporarily blinded.

Andrew remained frozen in his seat. Sweeping Kyle's stool over with his shin, Jade pivoted and threw a high side kick to Andrew's head. The outside of his foot caught Andrew just under the chin and smashed his head against the dartboard. Andrew's eyes bulged as he saw the dart stuck in the cork right next to his nose. Jade held the stretch, his leg extended to Andrew's jaw.

Jade cleared his throat once, then spoke. "If you move at all, I will break your neck into fragments. Understand?"

Andrew wiggled his head against Jade's foot. Jade decided it was a nod.

He turned his attention to Kyle, who had rolled to his hands and knees. Blood seeped through the back of his shirt, and Jade realized that he had knocked him onto his own shattered gla.s.s. Kyle staggered to his feet, wiping the grease from his eyes. He was too dazed to try anything, so Jade looked back at Andrew.

"Now, with a slow, even movement, reach inside your jacket and remove the gun."

With trembling fingers, Andrew reached inside his jacket. His hand emerged, holding a camera.

"Oh, for f.u.c.k's sake," Jade groaned. He slowly emerged from his zone, his vision widening, and he realized where he was. The bar had fallen quiet and everyone was staring at them, slack-jawed.

Jade lowered his foot from Andrew's jaw, remaining perfectly balanced on his other leg. Kyle tried to lean against the wall beside Andrew, yelping as the effort forced the gla.s.s deeper into his back.

Andrew tried a smile, but his quivering cheeks would not comply. "Andrew Straussman. The San Francisco Daily." His wavering hand went to his front pocket and he held a shaking press badge before Jade's face.

Jade looked away with a laugh, but it turned into a snarl. The jukebox rolled over a new record in the background and the spectators shifted uneasily on their feet.

"I have people following me who are a.s.sa.s.sins, hit men. I've put away rapists, murderers, child molesters. Do you really think I'm not alert enough to notice two reporters? What if I'd f.u.c.kin' shot you? Do you know how much trouble you would've gotten me into?"

Blood matted Kyle's beard. "You're right. I . . . we . . . we're sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now what do you want?"

"We just wanted a statement about today's shoot-out," Kyle said, wiping his face. "Cover story. You know, 'The Day Care Affair.'" He spread his hands nervously.

"Why didn't you just ask?"

"Well, we wanted to see where you live."

"And looking in a phone book was too much of a mental leap?"

Andrew and Kyle looked at each other sheepishly. The people in the bar began to go back to their business, a few of them pointing over at Jade and whispering to their friends.

Jade turned to leave.

"Do you think you'll get the Atlasia case?" Andrew called after him above the din of the bar, his last hope of ensnaring Jade in conversation.

Jade whirled around. "Atlasia? Allander Atlasia? How'd he break? Where is he? What happened?"

A smile appeared on Andrew's face, broadening with each of Jade's questions. He finally had something Jade wanted. He thought for a moment and decided to press his advantage.

"Well . . . I can't quite release all our informa-"

His sneakers left the ground before he could finish his sentence. One shoelace had come untied and was soaked with blood and spilled beer.

Jade's grip on Andrew's shirt tightened. "Information," he snarled. "Now."

"Dusk. Last night. Not located."

The arms relaxed and the grip loosened. "Thank you."

Jade dropped Andrew, and he collapsed to the ground. By the time he got up, Jade was gone. The reporter turned and looked at his blood-stained companion.

"You look like I feel," Andrew said.

"Don't flatter yourself," Kyle replied, wiping his beard. "You look like s.h.i.t too."

Jade heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him and turned to see a woman with enormous b.r.e.a.s.t.s wearing a red, low-cut dress. She twirled a lock of hair around a finger as she walked up to him, looking him up and down, noticing his six o'clock shadow, the hard line of his jaw, and his green, green eyes.

"I think you could have a really good night tonight," she said huskily.

Jade's eyes danced over her cheap outfit, taking in her costume jewelry and her ruby-red lipstick. "Yeah?" he said. "Thanks for the premonition."

He slid into his driver's seat.

A cloud of dust enveloped the woman as the car pulled away, and she felt the soft sting of gravel particles across her cheeks and in her hair.

16.

H E R blond ponytail swaying with each step, Agent Travers walked down the sleek black corridor with a briefcase handcuffed to her wrist. She ran her card down a slot in one of the large metal panels and a segment of the wall rolled back to reveal another long corridor. At the end of the second corridor, she placed her eye in front of a laser scanner. The check cleared with a series of beeps and a huge steel door clicked open. Travers entered the inner sanctum.

The room she stood in was the office of the man behind the men behind the scenes at the FBI. As far as anyone knew, the room was his home as well, for n.o.body ever saw him enter or leave the building. He seemed to be eternally present, a single beating heart within the labyrinthine network of subterranean corridors.

The room was empty except for a large black desk, with accompanying chair, that sat in the middle of a dark rug, and a single chrome-and-leather chair placed facing the desk. There was an enormous computer on the desk, and several video monitors were within easy view of the man sitting there, giving him access to an immense range of FBI intelligence that he could recall with the punch of a key. Though he was a solitary man in an airtight room, he seemed to know everything.

There was a great deal of agency lore surrounding this man, but it was anybody's guess as to how much of it was true. After he'd lost an eye in a freak accident or an operation, depending on which version one heard, he had taken the code name Wotan, referring to the German G.o.d who had traded an eye for knowledge. His remaining eye had grown quite sensitive to light, so he kept the room dimly lit. There was, however, almost as much artifice to his surroundings as there was need, since Wotan enjoyed his status as the agency mystery. By remaining in the shadows, he appeared even more intimidating and powerful, which was precisely what he wanted.

"Sit down, Agent Travers," he said quietly, his voice that of an older man.

Travers sat in the small chair ten feet from the desk, dangling her arm to allow the briefcase to rest on the floor. She stared at the row of blank screens set into the wall. When Wotan took meetings, which was not often, he turned off the video monitors.

"Yes, Wotan?"

"Any leads on Atlasia?"

"Well, sir, we found the speedboat about ten miles offsh.o.r.e. It appears he had set it so it would be headed out to sea, so we can't exactly pinpoint where he got out. He may have drowned. We put out roadblocks and sent search parties through all the beachside towns in proximity to the Tower, but there's nothing so far."

"It appears we have a child in need of punishment," Wotan said softly. "And the Tower?"

"Everyone there died except Claude Rivers, an Eleventh Leveler. The sleeper."

Wotan nodded in recognition. "Peter Briggs himself has ordered Rivers back in there as quickly as possible. Plus, I don't want him mingling with the other prisoners and guards. It puts them in danger."

"I'll inform Warden Banks."

"How'd Rivers survive?"

"It was an unusually high tide, so the water eventually covered up even his cell, but he ripped the U pipe out of his toilet and used it as a snorkel. The water's surface was only about four inches above the top of his ceiling bars. He spent the better part of an hour staring at the rippling air just out of reach before the emergency crew arrived.

"We notified all the prisoners' families, and no one should be a problem, with the exception of Cyprus's mother." She paused and pursed her lips. "She's a real b.i.t.c.h, sir."

Wotan leaned forward and light from the dim lamp fell on his face. Travers saw his bare eye socket, the skin stretched over the hole.

"I called Briggs first thing this morning. We're not going to fool around on this one." Wotan drummed his fingers on the desktop, then stopped. "I want Marlow on it," he commanded softly.

Travers shifted uneasily in her chair. "Sir, can't you give us more time on this? Marlow's a h.e.l.l of a guy to unleash in this situation- it's like letting a fifteen-year-old loose in a wh.o.r.ehouse, if you'll pardon the metaphor."

"It's a simile. And I want him."

A moment of silence followed, broken when Wotan cracked his knuckles by pulling his fingers down at the joint with the thumb of the same hand, one at a time. He paused between each pop, letting the noise fill the air. When he finished his fingers, he made a fist with his thumb inside and tightened it. His thumb cracked sharply. Then, he cracked the fingers of his other hand in similar fashion.

Travers sat quietly in the chair and waited for this ritual to end. She cleared her throat nervously. "Very well, sir. We'll put out the retainer and update him. Marlow usually works alone when he tracks, but we'll give him the flexibility to take another agent-partner if he needs it. He usually doesn't like the distraction, though."

Travers rose from the chair. "Wotan, sir . . . we will keep intelligence on it, won't we?"

"Of course. Just don't interfere with Marlow. I want him well-oiled and on course as soon as possible." His fingers traced the edge of the weighty marble ashtray that sat always within his arm's reach on the desktop. "Marlow will bring him in. He always does."

Travers had to lean forward to hear Wotan's final words, his voice was so faint. She snapped her head in a quick nod and left the room as Wotan ran his fingers gently over the bare socket of his left eye.

17.

A L L A D E R laughed softly as he wiped the noses of the two children. Their arms and legs were bound with gray duct tape and they lay struggling on the couch. The tape was also wound around their heads several times, covering their eyes but leaving the rest of their faces exposed.

The bodies of their parents lay on the carpet next to the couch. The woman's body was sprawled over her dead husband, her limbs interlocked with his. Their heads, arms, and legs were positioned at unnatural angles. Although Allander had intended them to look like two people holding each other intimately, they looked more like broken action figures.

Before arranging this deadly embrace, Allander had carefully gouged out their eyes with a knife he had found in the kitchen. It had taken him some time to get up the courage to approach the woman. The first thing he had done was to wet a towel and smear the white beauty mask off her face.

Now, he sat on a love seat with his knees pulled up to his chest. He hugged himself and grinned as he addressed the children.

"I'm certain that your estimation of your mother and father was rather hyperbolic anyway. Parents are deified by their children, but as you can see, the idols in the temple have come tumbling down." He extended a foot and touched the woman's corpse.

The little girl choked on a sob. "What did you do to my mommy?"

Allander chewed his cheek and squinted. "Let's just say I did nothing you didn't want to do yourself. I only put your desires into action. You see, that's the worst part about being a child-you're too small to have an impact on anything. Just a confused mind and a weak body with tiny little fingers insufficient to grasp and swing a blunt object."

He took the girl's hand and caressed her trembling fingers tenderly until she jerked them away. They brushed the ragged tape that covered his ring finger and a jolt of pain shot through his hand.

The boy was clearly too petrified to speak. His legs poked out of the large leg holes in his shorts, looking foolishly small and unimportant.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to dispose of you both for the time being," Allander said.

The girl's chest began to shake uncontrollably and she jerked around on the sofa and pulled at the tape on her wrists.

"Oh no. Oh no no no." Allander threw his head back and laughed a deep, rolling laugh. "I'm not going to kill you. Just move you to the bedroom, away from the watchful eyes of your parents." Standing up, he faced the children and his voice dropped. "They see not what they do."

The girl's bedroom was pink and yellow and splendid. The wallpaper had grand stripes of dancing color, and the bed was adorned with a flowing canopy. Above the girl's desk were several cut-out letters that had been colored with crayons.

The letters were aligned with an ordered sloppiness that only a child's hand could have accomplished. "L-E-A-H." They were proud, bright and confident. Allander stared in fascination at the girl's name, standing with one child tucked under each arm. "Astounding." He shook the girl gently. "Such self-affirmation. To be admired in a budding woman."

He laid the children side by side on the mattress underneath the canopy and unwrapped their wrists, allowing their groping hands to meet and clasp together. Then, he secured their fearful handhold and taped their other arms down to their sides.

After kissing both children on their foreheads, he stood back and admired his work. His fingertips moved lovingly over the boy's face, lingering for a moment on his lips. Running his other hand smoothly down his own stomach, Allander fondled himself. He moved his hand from the boy's lips, across his rosy cheeks to the back of his head and held it there for a moment before turning away.

It would be easy, but not quite what he wanted. The woman in the mask had scared him, but he had dominated her. The boy was nothing next to that.

He cleared his throat and found his voice again. "Brother King, Sister Queen. So much contradiction harmonized in a single pair. Play, children, and see each other not."

Allander stood naked in front of the full-length bathroom mirror and stared at his pale, bruised body. His dirt-covered feet had left marks on the white carpet. Gazing at the mirror through his tangled locks, he looked at the crusted blood on his bottom lip, the swirls of dried salt that clung to his chest, the small leaf of seaweed pasted by his left nipple, and the thin, wiry stubble that sprouted unevenly around his jaw and throat.

Peeling off the tape, he looked at the red slit in his finger. It was a brand, he decided. They had marked him like an animal, right across his own fingerprint.

He reached out his hand and touched the mirror. "What have they done to you?" he said aloud, his query bouncing off the white walls of the bathroom.

Allander sat on the love seat in the living room wearing a royal-blue silk shirt and a loose pair of pants with a drawstring. He had showered, shaved carefully, and re-dressed his finger. He had decided on the exotic outfit after trying on several; he felt it looked somehow princely on him.

He swirled some milk around in his highball gla.s.s and leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes. After a few minutes, his head lolled back, and in his mind he caught a glimpse of an overweight man pulling a clown mask over his unruly hair. Images of heads with the eyes gouged out and a hand wiping a white mask from a woman's face flashed rapidly through his mind. He awoke with a start, the gla.s.s of milk sliding from his grasp. He watched the milk spread across the carpet, sinking into the soft fibers. It reminded him of s.e.m.e.n.

He was instantly alert, his eyes darting around until he realized where he was. "Ah, there's the rub," he said, and walked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

The boy and girl lay next to each other, the sound of their breathing all that interrupted the perfect silence of the room.

"Leah?" the boy said.

"Ssssshhhh, Robbie. Don't talk. We don't know what the man will do."

"Is he gonna-" Robbie's breath caught in his throat and he started gasping, sucking air in and out through his wavering lips. Leah pressed his hand tightly.

Robbie finally regained control of his breathing and continued. "Is the man gonna hurt us?"