DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized.

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Asylum

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August 24, 2024

He couldn't sleep.

Tom had managed to stay motionless in the overgrown bushes and grasses until his target had gone back inside, most of that time overlooking the couple as they shared a leisurely after-dinner coffee on the deck of "Eyes Only's snuggle shack," as he'd found himself thinking of it around 3:20 a.m.

His editor had warned him he'd become obsessed with the story and soon after, obsessed with Logan Cale as well as Eyes Only, and Tom called him crazy. Now, at 6:50 a.m. and finally conceding to himself he would not get any sleep, he started to wonder if his editor had a point. It wasn't obsession like a stalker's obsession; he knew Carter hadn't meant that. But he was an experienced reporter – and investigative journalist – and he knew better than to let his own feelings color his story. He'd done articles on serial killers and their victims, sick children and noble healers, all manner of the sympathetic and the repulsive, and had not succumbed to his own, personal reactions to the individuals or their actions. He was capable of doing his job well – several awards backed him up on that – and he had been fully convinced he could do as professional a job on this story as any other.

Now he wasn't so sure, in the light of day – a day that followed a night of wildly swinging reactions to what he'd found, and what he should report to the world.

At first, he'd been surprised – and probably a bit jealous – that Logan Cale looked so happy and content, clearly living a life in which he thrived, with someone he loved and who loved him. Initially, Butler's reaction was that the world was still so dark and mean at times, that anyone who could find such happiness, especially someone who had given so much and suffered so much for others, should be left to enjoy it in peace.

But then the idea started to nettle him that someone so talented, someone who had saved so many, with so many connections and resources, would simply chuck it all just to go cuddle with his honey. Sure, he deserved some happiness, but did he have to just stop everything, altogether? It wasn't like it was his injury that had slowed him down; hell, that had happened at least four years before he quit. Once Eyes Only had started, didn't he owe it to Seattle and the west coast to keep working? What was the man doing with his considerable talents here?

There should be some happy medium, Tom fought with his competing reactions, so that he could get some kind of a break from things but not just run away from everything ... once you take on a responsibility like being 'the only free voice left in the city" – many would say much past that – can you just pass it off to your flunkies and take a permanent holiday?

6:55 a.m., and Tom sat on the side of his bed, shoulders bowed in his weary realization. The mere fact that he had such strong and opposing reactions to what he'd found told him he was too close to this story. He still believed with everything in him that it needed to be told – but he just might not be the one to finish it. With a deep breath he looked up and out to the street below, just starting to show signs of life in the early morning light. You've come this far, he reasoned with himself. Let things go for today, just hang out and see if anything else comes along, then go talk to him.

But that's not what he would do, he heard himself poke.

"Oh, yeah," he muttered out loud to himself. "You've done a great job at anticipating what he'd do ... that's why you're so freaked about his dropping everything to just come here and write poetry."

Or maybe you're just freaked out 'cos you might just be wrong, maybe he did leave because of threats or his health, but still made it out here and in spite of everything has managed to make himself a good life. So, yeah, go ahead and take that away from him cos you're still pissed that he left...

Tom stood, growled to himself and muttered again as he headed toward the shower to get his day going. "First order of business, stop thinking you know what happened and investigate – after all, that's supposed to be what you do. Give it another day or two and then go see him with whatever you have then." He threw on the water and kept mumbling as he started soaking himself down. "Anything less is amateur."

A shower, a shave, and by the time Butler headed over to the diner for his coffee at 7:00, he felt he'd gotten his priorities in a bit better shape and was taking himself in hand, so much so he ordered himself a real breakfast of eggs with his toast and coffee. In another thirty minutes he was out wandering around another portion of the town with his camera, making sure that he continued his ruse, despite his temptation to let his thoughts run away with him.

Maybe you're not as obsessed as a stalker would be, but isn't this the sort of thing they do, slithering around to get the goods on someone? As he walked along the road paralleling the main street, near an attractive park, Tom let himself analyze the role of reporters, what they did. In the end, we decide who has less of a right to their privacy – or their personal lives – than others do, he conceded. But there are those persons of interest to the public, and by virtue of their actions ask for their lives to be revealed ... and Cale would have done exactly as I'm doing now, stalking a subject, watching covertly – even tracking down those who tried to run from their pasts, or tried to hide from their acts – or, in Logan Cale's case, from his deeds – in his quest for a story or a biography, a retrospective or exposé ...

Tom eased back into analyzing why this had been a more personal investigation, why his reaction with what he'd found about Cale hit him harder than it had with his other subjects. It wasn't the first time he'd reported about someone he admired – was it?

Maybe the first time you've pursued a story about a personal hero ... he finally prodded. He'd always been a follower of Logan Cale's writing, and had been swept away by the audacity and bravery of Eyes Only – and learning they were one in the same moved him, even after he'd become an experienced journalist in his own right. And since starting his research for the story, the more that he learned about this unusual man, this rare, guerrilla philanthropist, the more he'd felt amazed ... humbled ... anything but neutral and distant, he admitted to himself ...

As he walked, Butler came to an area of small, pleasant homes still well kept, with a small school at the end of the block. An elementary school, he could tell, with the playground equipment on this side – and, surprising him, the sounds of kids laughing and playing outside, even though it was Saturday. Curious, he walked on to see three clusters of three or four children, each with an adult, out in the yard as they worked to plant tree seedlings, happily digging in the dirt and enjoying their time together. Butler found himself smiling slowly, even wondering if this place were for real...

"Hi..."

Tom turned suddenly to see that a pretty, petite woman had come up beside him as he watched, smiling and friendly on the surface, but clearly there with the same look worn by kids' caretakers everywhere, the wariness that someone unknown was nearing their children. Even here, he thought sadly. "Hey," he smiled. "That's some work crew."

The woman returned his smile with a nod, looking back to the kids. "Work crew, landscape architects..." she agreed. "This is a long-standing tradition at this school, the first graders returning after their first summer vacation get together to vote on a couple trees they'd like the school to have. They go out and buy the trees, then plant them." Her smile widened. "It was determined long ago that the planning, the choices and the trip to buy the trees work just fine during the week. But the planting– with the digging and the watering – makes a lot more sense to do on Saturday so we can just hose them off and send them home."

"I'll bet." Tom laughed.

"You're the grad student visiting us for a while," she tried.

Tom nodded, and conceded honestly, "word gets around, I've noticed."

The woman shrugged. "Well, it's hard to blend in such a small town, and I think ever since the Pulse everyone is still just a bit more cautious. People here are generally happy to have visitors or new folks moving into town, as long as they're willing to respect those who are here and the community we all share." She shrugged. "This is a beautiful area, with a lot of nice people. The only fear anyone has around here is that someone might come along and try to take advantage of their neighbors' good nature."

Tom nodded, and looked back to the children. Tipping his head toward them, he asked, "Are you a teacher here?"

"Principal." She smiled, and offered a hand. "Sandra Jacobson."

"Tom Butler."

"Nice to meet you, Tom Butler," she grinned, and as they dropped their hands, added, "I'd better go help. Nice talking with you – and enjoy your stay."

"I will, thanks," he called as she went on to speak first to one group, then the second. As the principal went on to the third group, the teacher with them turned to talk with Sandra – and, as she stood, Butler realized that it was the same woman he'd seen the night before with Cale...

He shook himself to keep walking, to go in a direction that would allow a natural gaze her way, but he worked very hard not to stare, or to do anything to catch her – or the vigilant principal's – attention. So she was a teacher here? Or a parent? Maybe a volunteer. Whichever, the kids know her and she's supervising one of the groups, just as the other adults are ...

She's a community fixture? A native? Or the Seattle girl I thought she was last night? And either way, if she's a part of this community now ... what has Logan Cale done to find his own way to fit in here?

As much as he wanted to watch, to get some pictures of her to send back to Seattle in the hope that his sources could identify her, it wasn't worth risking his eventual meeting with Cale. He'd seen how the man felt about her and anything along the lines Butler considered would probably just anger him. Not worth the risk ... he breathed to himself as he walked past the school and on down the street...

As he had the day before, he returned to the café for lunch. Especially on a Saturday, the place was almost predictable in its cosy intimacy, the sounds of the locals engaging in familiar banter even more lively and affable with the diners in less of a hurry, no need to get back to their offices from lunch. Tom again sat at the counter, again reading the newspaper from a nearby town – safer than scribbling in a notebook, much safer than pulling out a recorders or computers or PDA, his second day here. He would do nothing to appear to be a threat or a puzzle. And he would try his damnedest to make it appear that he was reading the newspaper, as he chewed on the chance appearance of Cale's partner on his walk that morning...

He determined that this "leisurely" lunch break, over the lean newspaper, would last only forty minutes after the arrival of his sandwich. If he got lucky again, maybe by overhearing something interesting, all the better, but he doubted if he'd be as lucky as that morning, stumbling onto the woman he'd seen last night. Teacher or parent? Is there any chance at all that Eyes Only is actually a parent, too?

Butler smiled his order to the matronly woman behind the counter, then opened the paper to lay the front page across the counter top before him, contemplating this new thought now, too. A good reminder that there are still many unanswered questions about Logan Cale and Eyes Only, he counseled himself, and a better reminder to let the story write itself. He had nearly succumbed to the beginner's mistake of making the story fit his theory, rather than merely using theory as a springboard for finding the truth. He knew better, and would not forget it again, he vowed...

Not even when his luck kept reeling in such great prizes...

As he read, Butler was aware, without looking up completely, that the door had swung open. A customer, on his way out the door, started only part way through before he paused and stepped aside, holding the door open. "Heya, Rob," the man said affably.

"Hey, Mike – thanks." The voice was soft, and filled with the same, unhurried sound he'd heard from the others here. But Butler knew the voice as well as he knew his own, the voice of the man who'd inspired him years before to sneak into his father's office in city hall to obtain inside information for Eyes Only, the same man who made him realize that he wanted to write, to investigate, to tell the world what happened behind closed doors to give everyone, not just privileged types like his father, the straight information about those running the show...

Tom gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and reminded himself what a reporter did. Listen. Get facts, get information; jettison the theories. He's a man. A great man, but just a man. No preconceptions anymore...

Butler looked up, casually, and saw him before dropping his eyes casually back to his paper: Robert Eastman, formerly Logan Cale. Start from there...

"...bout time you showed up."

Butler listened intently to the conversation materializing behind him, as Cale made his way on into the café, and searched his memory for who he'd seen in his casual look around as he came in. Harder, because it was busier today than it had ever been, but he did remember that there had been one table where a man sat alone – waiting for someone? And now that Tom thought about it, he'd noted without noting that there was no chair in the space, opposite...

The voice had been affable, welcoming, despite the words, and Cale's voice in return was amused. "I finally found the short in Mrs. Keller's toaster oven," he announced. "How could I stop before I got it fixed and gave her a call?"

The other man chuckled, "you should have tried it out. You could have brought samples..."

Butler thought back: if he had placed Cale's voice correctly, he did go to the table with the chair missing ... and the man who had been waiting there was muscular, dark skinned ... and bald...