The Spire (40 page)

'We should take that,' she said. 'Someone can look it over later.'

'Then let's go. I don't want you anywhere near here, Taylor. Let Garrison do the rest.'

'What will you tell him' If I understand what you've told me, my father set all this up perfectly, including Swiss bank accounts. Then he murdered the only witness.'

'That's my point.'

'And mine. If dreams and instincts and pages from a diary added up to anything, you'd have already gone to the police.' With the same frightening calm, Taylor refocused on her father's laptop. 'There's a reason he didn't want me touching this.'

Darrow glanced at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock. 'What time does he come home''

'Usually around six.' Taylor tapped the keyboard, summoning her father's files'research papers, records of bills, student essays. 'When I began my dissertation,' she told Darrow, 'I was absolutely paranoid that someone might steal from it. So I encrypted it with a password: 'Anne,' after my mother. No one could have guessed it unless they knew me very well.'

She could have been discussing the last novel she had read or her favorite restaurant in the West Village. Only the way she held her head, still and focused on the screen, betrayed her feelings. Quietly, she said, 'He must have hidden a file using a separate password.'

Watching her, Darrow flashed on his first financial fraud case. The chief financial officer of a major company had mapped out the falsification of profits on his home computer, in a file entitled 'Liberal Accounting Adjustments.' The man was more arrogant than inventive; too accustomed to believing himself smarter than his adversaries, he thought himself impervious. In this he had been wrong. The password he had chosen, the name of his graduate school, had embarrassed Wharton deeply when Darrow revealed it in court. Taylor looked up. 'I just tried to open a file called 'Family Pictures,' ' she told him. 'But the computer is asking me for a password. Any ideas''

'No.'

'We both know things about him,' Taylor insisted. 'What password would he use''

'Try 'Nietzsche.' '

Swiftly, Taylor did this. 'No,' she told him.

She tried several others. Edgy, Darrow went to the entrance of the study, half-expecting Farr. Darrow had betrayed his thoughts, though not quite all, to a man with a feral sense of danger. He thought of all the ways Farr had covered himself, even within his own family, in part to keep his daughter's doubts at bay. An ambiguous but disturbing image came to Darrow: Anne Farr painting beside the river; Lionel Farr staring at a depiction of the Spire that Taylor had never seen again.

Over his shoulder, Darrow said, 'Try 'Spire.' '

He walked into the living room. Opening the front door, he stood on the porch and looked up and down the street. Though blocks away, neither of the two men he saw on foot had Farr's erect posture or martial stride. How many times, Darrow wondered, had the sight of those things made him smile' With a leaden feeling, he closed the door, carrying the burden of his fears and memories to Farr's office.

Taylor had turned from the screen.

In profile, her skin was unnaturally pale. She did not move. All that distinguished her from a mannequin was the single tear running down her face.

'What is it'' Darrow asked, and then looked at the screen.

Her back to a dark stone wall, Angela Hall stared back at him, naked but for the leather straps that bound her wrists and ankles. Stunned, Darrow placed his hand on Taylor's shoulder and felt the tremor running through her. With unearthly quiet, she said, 'Imagine calling this file 'Family Pictures.' '

His hand resting on her shoulder, Darrow clicked to another photograph, then several more. Her face frozen when it was not turned away, Angela was captured in different poses. The photographs suggested varied possibilities. But their common theme was exposure and helplessness'the man behind the camera could tell her to perform the act suggested and Angela could not resist. The photographs could have illustrated her diary.

Darrow clicked again.

The next set of photographs was of a young white woman he did not know. From the length and style of her hair, Darrow guessed, she had entered Caldwell before him. He supposed that she, like Angela, might have majored in philosophy.

Darrow stopped clicking.

'Keep going,' Taylor said in an ashen voice.

She had turned to the screen, the streaks of wetness on her face glistening in its gray-blue glow. 'No,' he answered.

Reaching past him, Taylor clicked the mouse. Rather than looking at the screen, Darrow watched his lover's face.

Her expression, he thought now, was like Angela's: oddly stoic, eyes frozen in shock. Suddenly she flinched, crying out, then bent forward with her eyes shut.

Darrow faced the screen. Naked, Anne Farr hung by the wrists from the chain of the Spire's bell. The bell was behind her head; had Farr pushed her, Darrow thought, it might have rung.

Darrow shut off the computer.

Resting his face against the crown of Taylor's head, he murmured, 'Take both laptops, Taylor. That's all that's left for you to do.'

There was nothing else to say, Darrow knew, or the time to say it. Taylor seemed to grasp this. After a moment, she raised her head to look at him.

'Go to the police station,' Darrow directed. 'Tell Garrison what we found.'

Moving slowly, Taylor unplugged the laptop. Her voice muted, she said, 'Where will you be''

Darrow did not respond. Instead, he picked up Farr's desk phone and dialed a number he knew from memory.

On the third ring, Farr answered his private line. 'It's Mark,' Darrow said. 'I need to see you.'

For an instant, Farr did not respond. 'Concerning what''

'Family pictures. The ones on your computer.'

As Darrow absorbed Farr's profound silence, Taylor's eyes widened in fear. 'So this is what we've come to,' Farr said at length.

'Yes.'

'Then I'll meet you at the Spire, Mark.'

Abruptly, Farr hung up.

Taylor grabbed the lapels of Darrow's suit coat. 'We know what he is,' she said in desperation. 'Please, don't do this.'

'I have to,' Darrow answered. 'Because of all he is to me.'

W

HEN D ARROW REACHED THE S PIRE, THE OAKEN DOOR AT its base was ajar.

He stopped, afraid of what might follow if he entered, dreading the claustrophobia that had enveloped him in the tower sixteen years before. Farr would know this; he knew Mark Darrow well. Breathing deeply, Darrow filled his lungs and then crossed the threshold.

The dank smell of moist sandstone flooded his nostrils. The winding stairs above him, lit dimly by lamps placed too wide apart, disappeared in shadows. Darrow began climbing, his loathing of close spaces tightening around him like a vise. This time, he could not distract himself by counting the steps. This time, Farr awaited him.

As he climbed the Spire, Darrow thought of finding Angela Hall's body. From the moment a stunned Mark Darrow had run to him for help, Farr had taken control, improvising with what Darrow now understood was a psychopath's nerveless brilliance. Perceiving that Darrow's account of the party led directly to Steve Tillman, Farr had prevented Darrow from warning Steve by taking him to Durbin's home. There Farr had taken charge of Caldwell's response, making himself as indispensable to Durbin as he was above suspicion. When Steve was arrested and Mark had asked for his help, Farr had sent Steve to a lawyer he knew to be incompetent. The last piece of Farr's lightning adaptations was the sacrifice of Mark's closest friend to a life in prison.

Briefly Darrow paused in the darkness, recalling the night Farr had first approached him. Moments before that, he had thrown the winning touchdown pass to Steve; barking signals, Mark had shut down his emotions, banishing all thought except to execute this play. The crowd noise had vanished; the task before him became no more daunting than a video game. Mark had first done this as a boy, shutting out his mother's frightening shifts of mood, the sudden violence of his alcoholic father. Perhaps that was why his coach had called him the 'mentally toughest guy around.' Except, perhaps, for the man at the top of the Spire.

He was not quite ready, Darrow realized. In his reasoning mind he understood who Farr had been in secret. Murder was nothing to him. And yet this same man had saved Darrow from a life so dreary that it frightened him to recall. He could not make two decades of affection vanish in an hour.

Darrow kept climbing. The only sound he heard was the echo of his footsteps. He must not think of Taylor, or anything outside the Spire.

Why had Farr chosen this place, Darrow wondered. He kept expecting the provost to appear on the darkened steps above him. Surely he was near the top; the sound of Darrow's breathing, more labored now, whispered against the stone. But there was no way of knowing where Farr was'the staircase kept winding upward, vanishing from sight. Darrow bent in a semicrouch, preparing to dodge or leap.

He suddenly stopped, the pit of his stomach hollow. At the top of the staircase he saw the door to the bell tower, slightly open. Farr had entered Angela Hall's 'chamber of stone.'

Darrow climbed the final steps. As before, his footfalls caused a thudding echo; the element of surprise belonged to Farr alone, a man who seemed to have retained his assassin's skills.

Abruptly, Darrow pushed open the door.

He saw nothing but the brass bell and the chain from which Anne Farr had been suspended. Edging forward, Darrow looked to each side. The door shut softly behind him.

Flinching, he heard Farr's mirthless laugh.

Darrow turned to face him.

Farr stood beside the door, his blue eyes glinting with keen appraisal. But for this, he looked disconcertingly the same. Something in Darrow's expression caused him to smile slightly.

'You were expecting me to start speaking in tongues'' Farr inquired sarcastically. 'Or perhaps a disjointed rant''

He was utterly calm, Darrow realized. Mildly, Farr asked, 'Are you afraid, Mark''

Darrow found his voice. 'You murdered at least four people.'

'Four''

'I'm counting the prostitute in Vietnam.'

The trace of amusement vanished from Farr's eyes, replaced by heightened attention. 'I've underrated you, it seems.'

Once more, Darrow willed himself to feel nothing. 'Maybe so. I'm the one you left whole.'

'Unlike Taylor, you mean.'

Darrow nodded. 'At least she's still alive. You must have always watched her, wondering if you'd be forced to choose between her life and yours.'

Farr stepped closer to Darrow, grasping the chain of the bell. Then he leaned against its metallic mass in a pose of relaxation that, to Darrow, seemed explosive in its stillness. 'When did you divine all this, Mark''

Darrow did not move. 'I'm not here to impress you. I came to tell you that it's over, and that killing me is pointless. I want you to come down with me.'

Farr's eyes became a chill blue. 'Then persuade me. Enthrall me with all you know.'

'What's to say, Lionel' You're a sexual psychopath. The rest followed.'

Farr's expression became blank, almost bored. 'Spare me the lecture on pathology. If we're both to leave here alive, I want facts, not stereotypes.'

The explicit threat was so casually delivered that it made Darrow's skin clammy. Against his will, he absorbed the gloomy shadows, the heavy bell, the dingy stones against which Angela had died. The sole light came from the four openings in the stone'through one of which, decades ago, a young man had fallen to his death. Finding his voice again, Darrow said, 'Angela, then.'

'Yes,' Farr concurred. 'Angela.'

'A bit at a time, you brought her close'saving her scholarship, taking a professorial interest, giving her grades she feared she hadn't earned, reviewing her papers, then making revisions until she was no longer sure whose work it was. Pretending to help her, you eroded her sense of self. Whether or not she needed you to succeed, she came to believe she did. Helping her financially was part of the endgame. That, and the draft letter of recommendation you dangled.'

Watching Farr's expression, keen with interest, Darrow stopped there. 'Go on,' Farr demanded.

This, too, was a game, Darrow realized, its stakes obscure but perhaps lethal. He shrugged his assent, continuing with a casualness he did not feel: 'Your psychic stalking had worked before. Whatever her reasons, Angela let you bring her here, becoming little more than robotic as she submitted to what you needed.' Darrow's voice became cutting. 'She wrote the diary to record what you were doing to her. By its end, she loathed you as deeply as you deserved.'

Behind Farr's opaque mask, Darrow sensed an anger he was fighting to control. 'Is that what you think''

'_You_ read the diary,' Darrow retorted. 'You killed Carl for it. Angela was so young, Lionel. Before you found her, she was filled with hope. Maybe that came back to her. Maybe sleeping with Steve Tillman, even drunk, made her skin crawl at the thought of you. When she left his room to come here, she was done with you.' Darrow softened his voice. 'Fred Bender thought Steve killed her because she threatened to charge him with rape. Right theory, wrong man. Angela threatened to expose you to Clark Durbin. So you beat her, then strangled her to death where we're standing now.

'After you carried her body down, the waitress saw you laying it on the ground. Even then, you'd had the presence of mind to lock the door behind you. No one but Carl Hall and Taylor's mother ever imagined what had happened in this place.'

Farr's glacial eyes remained on Darrow's face. 'Are you expecting me to comment' Or are you simply trying to dazzle me''

The questions jarred loose Darrow's anger. 'We're talking about murder and sadomasochism. If you still imagine I'm who you need me to be, you're a fool.'

A flush appeared on Farr's cheekbones. 'It's not that easy to insult me, Mark. Your story's incomplete.'

'So's your comprehension,' Darrow responded. 'DNA lasts the longest in dark places. I'm sure there's a genetic trace of both of you still here.'

Farr's eyes narrowed. 'And Carl''