The Tower

She had spoken, her words coming in fragments as her voice faded in and out of hoarseness. "You know," she'd said softly to the throng of listeners, "we're more than this." She'd swung an open hand around to indicate the throng of listeners, the bright lights, the police cars. "We're more than just this."

As she had turned to go, McGuire had stepped forward and placed his hand on her shoulder, but she'd shaken it off and kept moving. McGuire had done nothing. Jade had just returned to retrieve the Atlasias, and if McGuire had decided to detain them further, he had been prepared to step in to prevent it. Thomas had followed his wife to the car, his eyes on the ground.

Once again, they had been subjected to a terrible ordeal, and Jade had been the one to do it. All for a failed plan, he thought as he looked at Darby, collapsed on the sofa, exhausted and drained. He crunched another ice cube and his eyes hardened. All Allander needs to succeed, he thought, is for me to do nothing. I'd burn any bridge to get to him.

He stood up and headed for the door without facing them.

"He knows now," Darby said, "that I've betrayed him."

Slowly, Jade turned around. "Yes," he said. "He does."

"I'm glad you're in our corner."

Jade looked at her for a long time. "So am I," he said.

He walked quietly to the door and left.

The two men crowded against each other as soon as they saw movement at the gate. A figure scaled the fence right next to the big gold letters that formed the arching Midland Hills Cemetery sign.

"Could be him. Could be Atlasia," the shorter agent whispered to his partner on lookout. He whipped out his binoculars and tried to focus them through the trees.

The other agent leaned against him, one hand resting on the walkie-talkie looped through his belt, the other on his gun. "Is it him?" he hissed.

"Think so. He's heading for the grave." He waited as another tree trunk blocked the figure from view.

The other agent strained his eyes through the dimly lit cemetery. "It's him. He's at the grave site," he whispered impatiently. He unholstered his gun and started to step from cover. "Call it in," he said.

He got three steps from the small grove of trees when the shorter agent called to him in a hoarse whisper. "Wait! Come back. It's not him."

The other agent backtracked. "What do you mean it's not him? Who is it?"

The shorter agent grinned. "It's Marlow."

"Jade Marlow?"

He nodded.

"What the hell's he doing here?"

"See for yourself."

The agent took the binoculars and peered through them.

Jade stood before the grave, his head bowed meditatively. His eyes were open and his face wore a tight, serious scowl. His lips moved, offering jumbled phrases to the silent cemetery. For an instant, his face softened, and he ran his thumb across his bottom lip.

The agent lowered the binoculars and smiled at his partner. "Holy shit! It is him. Should we approach?"

"No way. Not unless you wanna lose a limb."

"So what should we do?"

"Just watch him, I guess. Make sure he doesn't dig them up or anything." He laughed, a short, hiccuping giggle.

The taller agent raised the binoculars back to his eyes. Jade was nowhere to be seen.

He drove along the streets, prowling in his bullet-riddled car. He didn't want to go home, but he wasn't sure exactly where it was he did want to go. He turned on the radio and a news brief blasted from the speakers.

"-today at The Cutting Floor. At least one male was injured and-"

He clicked it off and drove in silence, listening to his tires clatter over the sewer grates. After a while, he wasn't sure where he was.

The pounding started in his head, like a vise tightening incrementally around his temples. The throbbing increased until he could almost hear it. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a bottle of Advil. With his left hand on the wheel, he couldn't get the top off, so he banged it against the dashboard and the round pills spilled everywhere, clinking against the windshield and scattering across the passenger seat and the floor. He scooped four of them off the seat and swallowed them.

Shaking his head and pressing one hand to his face, he kept driving, still with no apparent destination. All of a sudden, he was in his garage. He stumbled from the car and into the house.

Somewhere deep inside him, he heard the singing start again.

He staggered to the study as if he were drugged, and there he collapsed into his chair. His hand groped for the drawer, knocking the lamp off the side of the desk. It swung from the cord, light twirling around the room. Without looking, he opened the drawer and pulled out a small music box. All he could hear was the rhyme in his head, even over the tune of the music box.

Eenie meenie minie moe.

Catch a retard by the toe.

Make him holler blow by blow.

Eenie meenie minie moe.

The music box stood open, the top of the circus tent long chipped away. His hand came down firmly over the lid of the box, trapping the music inside.