The Tower Part 17

"You think Atlasia's experience is one of the worst you've ever seen?" Travers asked.

Dr. Yung rubbed his hand across his forehead. "I don't know how, exactly, I should rank them, Agent Travers. Is forced oral s.e.x worse than a prolonged whipping?"

Travers's eyebrows raised and her mouth tightened.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Yung said. "That wasn't fair."

Travers nodded and indicated he should continue.

"My father's files were confidential; they were destroyed after he pa.s.sed away. However, I do know that Allander was a very precocious youngster at the time of the incident. He remembered everything. It was a horrific molestation-the extent of what he was put through we can only imagine. We do know there was forced oral and a.n.a.l penetration. Some of the . . . objects found in the room where he was kept . . . ." The doctor's voice trailed off for a moment as he recalled the crime-scene photos. "Well, let's just say that what purpose they served is well beyond the reach of my imagination. When I first saw Atlasia about six years ago, he dismissed those events as insignificant."

"Insignificant?" Jade asked.

"What a psychologist does, Mr. Marlow," Dr. Yung said, tilting back in his chair and pressing his hands together, "is listen to the s.p.a.ces between the words. Allander is bright enough to hold together on the surface, but he's in turmoil. I fear he never put those problems to rest."

"Evi-f.u.c.kin'-dently," Jade said.

Dr. Yung continued, ignoring Jade's interruption. "You see, people develop by grappling with their unconscious, their darker half. The shadow. It consists of all their deepest desires and fears. We're all made of good and evil, of both parts. The yin and yang." He gestured to the poster on the wall behind Jade and Travers. "Most people are a blend of both sides. But some, some people allow one side to take over."

"What do you mean 'take over'?" Travers asked.

"They are devoured," the doctor said darkly, "by their shadow."

"So Allander has a problem differentiating reality from his fantasies?" Travers asked.

"Not exactly. He can differentiate between the two, he just has nothing holding him back from acting on his wishes. His shadow is no longer held in check by his persona, or superego. So it roams free."

"A runaway libido with no brakes," Jade mused.

The doctor looked surprised. "Yes, Mr. Marlow. Something like that. I'm afraid I can't be more helpful, but Allander was quite guarded, particularly when he spoke to me. I'm sure you've found that in the tapes."

Jade leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. "Let's get into specifics, Doctor. Atlasia has made a number of Freudian references that I'd like some input about. He seems really proud of the fact that he's in touch with his unconscious, that he can see all the parts he's made of. And he's not afraid to act on his desires-the real way, not through sublimation. He's very aware of the difference, which I think is bad news. And he also said he's seen 'what there is in every little boy,' but if he's talking about the Oedipal complex, I'm not really sure why."

Travers helped Jade fill in the blanks as he presented the entire case, beginning to end. They showed the doctor photos of the crime scene at the house, and Jade played him the segment from the tape of Allander's interview that he thought was significant.

For a long time, the doctor didn't say anything. He picked up the photographs and examined them closely. "You said that the girl claimed that Allander spoke of parents, educators, and the law, correct?"

Travers nodded.

"Well, none of them stepped in and protected him when he was a child, when he was in need. So this is his payback. On the tape, he references Freud, discusses probing his unconscious and coming up with the truth-the truth that everyone should see, but doesn't. Allander has made his own diagnosis of society. Like Freud in Civilization and Its Discontents. And he's made a diagnosis of himself."

"What is that diagnosis?" Travers asked.

"That he can see man's true nature and act upon it. He feels that others cannot. They can't see their true needs, just as they could not see that he was in need as a child. He's gouged out their eyes to ill.u.s.trate that. He's written it on the bodies.

"And the pattern starts with the family. This may be a stretch, but maybe he arranged the bodies to mimic his parents. They have a healthy relations.h.i.+p, you've said. Maybe he's mocking that by posing the bodies in an embrace. He's portraying them as being happy in their ignorance."

"Ignorance is bliss," Travers said.

"Yes. Very appropriate cliche."

Jade was quiet. Something was not fitting all the way. Something was missing.

"So it all comes down to Mom," Travers said. "Seems like it always does. Remember Kemper in Santa Cruz?"

Jade nodded. "Fed his mother's larynx down the garbage disposal. Also Rivers, the Tower survivor. He got his mother."

"With Atlasia, it's not just his mother," the doctor said. "Atlasia's anger was directed toward both parents. He included the father in the posing."

"And the gouging," Jade said. "Well, we have full surveillance on the Atlasias."

"I don't know if that's a concern." The doctor shook his head. "I agree with you that he references the Oedipal complex-'what there is in every little boy'-but serial killers almost always displace. They rarely kill the people they're really furious at. They pick others and vent their anger on them. It's easier."

"Warden Banks told me that you hold on to drawings the prisoners make when they have Sketch Duty. I'd like to see some of Allander's."

"Sure, sure," the doctor said. "Though I don't know how useful they'll be to you."

He excused himself and returned a few minutes later with three drawings under his arm. He unfurled them on his desk. "We have only three of Atlasia's," he said.

The first drawing showed an enormous clown holding an uprooted tower under its face. A woman flopped carelessly out of a small window beneath the clown's curling fingernails.

The next picture was a sketch portraying hands. The first set of hands faced one another horizontally, fingers closed, fingertips a few inches apart. The hands were expertly drawn, right down to the lines in the palms. Beside them were two hands that seemed to be pointing at each other. The last image on the sheet was a solitary hand, its fingers together and thumb apart, pointed upward at a forty-five-degree angle.

The final drawing was an intricately detailed picture of a mountain range shaped subtly like the curves of a woman. Although it was at first difficult to notice the corporeal suggestion, there was something immediately erotic about the work. The drawings were made with crayons, but their clarity was exceptional. They were clearly the work of a skilled hand.

"The clown, of course, recalls the clown masks of his childhood captor," Dr. Yung said.

Travers nodded. "How about the others?"

"Well, this really isn't my forte," the doctor said. "But I find the mountain range interesting in how it incorporates female s.e.xuality into the earth."

"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?"

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 a.s.sist 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sed the journey in a back seat, his body pressed against the cus.h.i.+on 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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?"

The guilt at that memory still gnawed at her from time to time. What could I have done differently? she would ask herself defensively. Did I do all I could to protect my boy, to treat him normally afterward? Did my feelings of disgust filter through the mask I wore at home? Did Allander feel my anger, my irrational fury that he had brought all of this to our lives?

After the boy had . . . after the incident between her and Allander, Darby had known that Thomas considered his son dead to him. In fact, he had felt that Allander was no longer his son. After that, Thomas had told her, he felt that Allander drew his inspiration from some source beyond Thomas's comprehension.

"Hon, are you all right?" Thomas's soft voice at the door startled her, and she knocked over her gla.s.s of wine. She watched as the liquid darkened the papers on the desk-the bank statements, the mortgage papers, the letters and magazines. She made no effort to stop the flow, but watched it as the keen smell of alcohol rose to her nostrils and permeated the room.

Thomas walked over and leaned on the desk beside her. He cradled her head to his chest as the tears came, and they cried together softly. Finally, Darby leaned back and looked at him, then wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. She spread her hands and used her fingers to erase the tears beneath her own eyes.

"Well, hon," she said. "I guess we're just one big dysfunctional family, aren't we?" They laughed together for a while. Gradually, their laughter fell back into tears.

33.

J A D E lay draped across his leather couch in a daze, surrounded by the clutter of books and papers. A taped recording of a psychiatric interview played, and Allander's voice resonated through the room. Three of the walls now held black-and-white photographs of Allander and his victims, and the television blinked images of his trial, the bluish glow mapping erratic patterns of light onto the room.

Jade's eyes closed briefly and his hand, still grasping the doc.u.ment he had begun to examine, fell to his chest. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to fight off sleep, but his exhaustion was too great.

He was reclining in the middle of a ma.s.sive rose garden, a peaceful oasis that seemed to exist out of time and place. Row after row of roses stretched before him, roses of different sizes and colors. A stone wall surrounded the fertile soil of the garden.

Lying propped on his elbows, Jade surveyed the calm surroundings and inhaled the fresh air. Suddenly a roll of thunder broke from behind the clear sky, and Jade searched overhead for any trace of darkness. There was none. The sound of tiny footsteps became slowly distinguishable, a cavalry of small feet pounding a ground unseen, accompanied by the whistle of thin legs pumping vigorously.

Then they were there. Hands grasped the top of the stone wall, hoisting to elbows, then elbows to knees. Bodies poured over the wall, spilling down the ten-foot fall and bouncing effortlessly to their feet.

Boys. Scores of boys flooding the garden from all sides.

A look of panic flashed across Jade's face, an unfamiliar expression that sat awkwardly on his features. He rose quickly and twisted to glance around.

He watched as the boys continued to tumble over the wall. Righting themselves, they attacked the rosebushes, breaking off stems and gripping them tightly, the thorns puncturing the flesh of their hands. Using the stems like sickles, they lopped off the heads of the flowers. The blossoms fell and the petals came apart, littering the ground. The boys laughed as they raced through the rows of bushes toward Jade, who was frozen in place.

The boys bleated in pleasure as they raised their voices to the heavens, breaking into a chant of nursery rhymes. "Eenie meenie minie moe," they sang, repeating the lyrics in a near scream.

Rosebush after rosebush fell before their marching feet, plowed down by the vanguard. Droplets of blood from the boys' hands fell to the ground and dotted the trampled petals. The rose stems snapped through the air like whips. Jade recoiled before the onslaught, lifting his hands to his face, peering out through the prism of his fingers.

He awoke from his dream with the noise of Allander's voice filling his ears and with Allander's eyes gazing at him from the pictures spread about the apartment. He didn't lurch awake as many people do after a nightmare. Instead, his eyes opened and he waited silently for the world to flood back to him.

Jade rose from the couch and walked to his study, crunching papers underfoot as he moved. As he crossed the living room, his pace accelerated until he was running.

Inside the study, which, unlike the living room, was still neat and clean, Jade picked up from the desk a small box that held pencils and pens. He dashed its contents to the desktop, then struggled to keep them from falling to the floor, fencing them in with his forearms.

Slowly, he relaxed. Pulling the black desk chair to him, he sat down. He leaned forward on the desk and began lining up the pens and pencils, separating them by color and type. They were all different shades of black and gray, and there were five of each kind.

As he organized them, his breathing slowed to normal and his fingers stopped shaking. By the time he reached the black pens, he was ordering them with machinelike dexterity.

When he had all the pens and pencils lined up perfectly, he removed a ruler from his top-left drawer and pushed it against the erasers of all the pencils. He let his breath out through clenched teeth as the ruler pushed them into a perfect line, the tips lined up like little soldiers. Picking up the pencils, he slotted them neatly into their division of the box. He did the same with each type of pen until all sat in order-once again the way they had been. He leaned back in his chair and ran his thumb across his bottom lip, pressing tenderly.

The rollers on his chair grated noisily in their plastic sockets as he pushed back from the desk. He got up and centered the swivel chair in the s.p.a.ce beneath the desk. Closing the door to his study very gently, he walked into his bedroom. Like the study, this room, too, was neat, orderly, organized. All was as it should be-except for one thing, which Jade noticed immediately. Some of the pictures were missing from his bookshelf.

He felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The sound of the chase.