The Tower

"Like it's the basis for everything," Travers said.

"Yes. That from which all else springs. An Earth Mother of sorts."

"How about that one?" Jade asked, pointing to the sketch of the hands.

"For that one, Mr. Marlow, your guess is as good as mine."

After studying them for a few more minutes, Jade rolled them up. "Mind if I hold on to these?"

"Not at all, Mr. Marlow, that's why I brought them."

Jade stood up. "Well, I'll definitely be in touch." He extended his hand. "About that little mix-up in communication…"

"A mix-up, was it?" Dr. Yung smiled and took his hand. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful. I'll take some time with it, think it over. I'm usually more insightful once I've sat with something for a while. Why don't you call me later this week?"

Chapter 32

" H A S 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?"