DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized.
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Asylum
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In less than five minutes, Butler was downstairs at the front desk.
"Someone said there's a repair shop here in town – Mr. Papasian's, isn't it? Do you think it would be open today?" Tom asked the desk clerk-owner, offering his glasses in his outstretched palm as if they were evidence. "I finally broke the thing holding the lens in, there ... and I noticed that the optical shop isn't open again 'til next week." Butler had brought along a pair of glasses as back-up to his contact lenses – a pair that used a nylon line along the bottom of each lens to hold it in place. Once he'd decided he could get along without his glasses for a few days if needed, it took Tom only a couple minutes to pry away the cord from the frame and stretch it until it snapped...
The woman nodded. "I'm sure it is. Robert should be there for a while. He usually stays until at least 4:00 on Saturday." She verified for Tom which storefront was the one he wanted, and gave the glasses another quick look. "He'll be able to fix you up."
"Good – thanks." Walking out the door, Tom stepped onto the porch and down the steps to the sidewalk. Breathe, he berated himself. You're acting as if this is your first story. And, yeah, you want to convince Logan Cale you're worthy of his trust, that you have the chops to write about his work? Go in and giggle like a thirteen year old fan-girl. Hyperventilate while you're at it; that'll impress him...
Self-directed sarcasm reminding himself to get himself together, Butler stopped on the sidewalk in front of the hotel's picket fence, fumbling the glasses and loose lens into his case to buy him a couple moments, now that he'd stepped out in plain sight. A big story? Check. A personal hero, one who inspired the very job you're doing now? Check; check. Do-able? Check. And if you admired him even only half as much as much as you do, would you still be the best one to do this story justice?
...no question.
And with that, a small smile of anticipation started to grow...
He had walked the block and a half back toward the town center, where the old-fashioned storefront, its name painted on the large front window declaring "Papasian's Repair," sat only a couple doors down from the diner they'd each left so recently. As he approached, Tom could see his subject clearly, sitting at a sort of desk not far from the counter, engrossed in the device he held in one hand as he tinkered on it with the other. Tom forced himself to keep his pace steady, not to let Cale's peripheral vision catch him slowing or hesitating as he neared – but Butler's pulse quickened a bit to see it as he neared, in a sudden, attitude-smacking hope: that's no toaster oven he's working on ... it's the memory core from a state of the art, high power satellite remote feed unit like they use for remote-location communication and TV transmissions ...
...which could be used, if he understood the basics, with something so pedestrian as a TV satellite dish, rewired by someone who knew how, for sophisticated long-distance communication and remote computer access...
Tom tried to swallow the huge grin that threatened his face at the realization. No guarantee that he's using it for Eyes Only work, or even that it's his ... But just the possibility gave him a surge of anticipation which yet again threatened to rock his professional balance. He gripped the door handle, bit his lip. Showtime, he breathed to himself...
As he entered the shop, the green eyes he'd seen in countless hacks lifted to meet his, full of amiable curiosity. "Hey," Cale offered easily. "What can I do for you?"
Butler noticed that as he spoke, Cale kept his eyes focused directly on his own, while lowering the memory core onto the desktop, his hand unobtrusively blocking much of it, casually. Not a gismo that many around here would recognize, Tom thought, and he's banking on that. But just in case I might...
He stepped up to the counter. "People around here say that if it can be fixed, you can fix it," Tom began with an easy grin.
The man's green eyes relaxed slightly, twinkling behind his own small lenses, and his perfect teeth flashed as he smiled. "I only wish that were true. But I get lucky sometimes," he admitted as he grabbed the towel on the desktop to wipe off his hands, dropped it – deftly and smoothly covering the memory core as he did – to grip his wheel rims, and came toward the counter. "Whatcha got?"
"My glasses." Butler affected a rueful laugh, pulling out the case and opening it. "I broke the nylon band that holds the lens in ... and I'm told the only optician in town isn't back in town 'til Wednesday."
Cale smiled again and nodded sagely, apparently not the first time he'd heard that. "You'd be surprised how many people break their glasses on the days he's not open. Most of them seem to wind up here." He reached out and took the glasses, looked at them briefly and lay them on his thigh, dropping his hands back on his wheel rims to back up. "It won't take a minute." Pivoting toward a work bench opposite the desk, he pulled out a spool of heavy gauge fishing line, small wire cutters, matches and a candle. As Tom watched, Cale lit the candle, cut a length of line, and threaded it through one side of the lens frame. Leaning forward toward the flame, to melt the line's end he'd just pushed through the opening, he warned, "this won't be a permanent fix, and you'll want to be careful with them, taking them on and off." He gently tapped the melted end with his finger, melted it again and repeated the action, effectively creating a thickened plug of plastic that would hold the line in place, finally blowing on the result until it was hardened to his satisfaction. "But it will do until Dr. Carroll comes back – if you're in town that long." The green eyes lifted to him, half in question, half in challenge, before he looked back to his work– and before someone unsuspecting would have noticed.
But Tom caught the look and, spurred by his subject's challenge, asked "how long have you had this place?"
"Oh, it's not mine." The man who had been Eyes Only picked up the lens to nestle them into the frame, easing the line in the lens' groove as if he'd been puttering in a small town shop like this for years. "But the owner is elderly, and his health..." Logan shrugged as he worked, melting a plug on the other end to finish off the replacement band. "I'm able to spare a few extra hours every day, to help him out."
Pulse picking up again, the challenge having gone to his head, Tom licked his lips and dared, "Ah, well ... that helps explain why a Yale grad is out here in the middle of nowhere, playing Mr. Fix-it."
As he expected, "Mr. Fix-it" glanced up again quickly, wariness replacing the easy-going look of moments before. After pausing a beat to assess, Cale tried quietly, "why would you think I'm a Yale grad?"
Butler looked at his subject levelly. The wariness he'd seen had softened slightly to include a look of some inevitability, as if Cale had assumed all along that this was only a matter of time ... he isn't going to admit anything, but the Yale crack is too pointed to ignore – and too direct to avoid. Cale certainly knows he's been discovered. Tom felt an odd feeling of sadness to see, even this early stage, what he knew to be Cale's belief that this was the beginning of the end of his life here ... But no going back now...
"The same reason I think you're Logan Cale, and that this is where you came when you decided to leave Eyes Only to the people printing that weekly you started, once you were outed – and the ones still making hacks for you. Let's face it, Mr. Cale – you haven't worked too hard to change your appearance..."
The eyes glanced away for a moment as Cale considered what was just said – or maybe how to respond – then drew a centering breath. "Eyes Only may be a recognizable name and picture, but not all that many people would recognize me," he began. "And even if Eyes Only hacks were picked up this far from Seattle, television isn't really the center of people's existence out here. That, and the time difference putting the hacks on later than most people are watching anyhow, the likelihood of those few people who might know something about Eyes Only actually recognizing me..." He shrugged, then looked into Butler's eyes, intently. "So ... you've found me, and I've been honest with you." Cale sat back in his chair, appraising him. "Your turn – who are you, and why are you here?"
Butler suppressed a smile. Anyone would have questions ... but he'd been certain that early on, this subject, more than anyone he'd interviewed before, would try to be the interviewer rather than the interviewed. He'd been right– and it had come within the first three minutes of revealing his identity. "My name is Tom Butler. I work for..."
"The Post-Intelligencer. I remember the name," Cale said, non-committal.
Butler hoped like crazy his subject wouldn't see how flattered he felt that Cale knew his name. Don't blow it by acting like an amateur, he scolded himself.
"...and if you've done your homework you'll know that I didn't want to be found..."
"I have." Butler returned immediately, "and I've learned enough to know that if you had really wanted to disappear, you'd've known exactly how to do it. You wouldn't become an active part of the community where you'd ended up. You wouldn't be the center of attention again, this time by fixing everything in town that had ever stopped working. You'd get lost in a city like New York or LA – you'd lay low and not do anything that would catch anyone's eye. You would have changed your appearance..."
"...so because I didn't dye my hair and have reconstructive surgery, and actually showed my face around once in a while, you figure that gives you a right to come force me back into a world I tried to leave behind?" Angry now, Cale's eyes flashed as he spoke too quickly, looking hard into Butler's eyes, without the measured consideration of his earlier words. But once spoken, he seemed to reconsider, dropping his glare as something pulled at his thoughts. In another moment he spoke again, still looking away, his voice now flat. "I did my bit to try to fix what was broken, and got only so far." It sounded more like a rehearsed excuse than honest explanation, until he murmured, a bitter note now in his voice, "It's someone else's turn for a while."
"You're out of it, completely, then?"
At the question, Cale's eyes lifted again to his, a hardness to them that Butler could believe came from years of battling the corrupt, those in power, those who preyed on the weak. "What is it you want, exactly, Mr. Butler?"
"What would you want, if you were me?" Tom heard himself saying, before he could think, "writing for a paper in a town where Eyes Only made his way into millions of homes and workplaces, cleaned up government and brought down crime? A town where Eyes Only ends up being the fair-haired heir to one of the wealthiest families in the region, seriously injured in the fight to right all those wrongs? What would you want to know from the man who started all that, lived through it – and then left it all behind?"
Cale smirked. "So the P-I's become a tabloid since I left? Well, I'm disappointed – I'd think there ought to still be a news story or two around Seattle to be had, for a real reporter." Were the sniping words and caustic tone intended to embarrass Butler away from the story? Or to suggest he wasn't worth the attention? From all Tom had learned about this complex man, he knew Cale wouldn't relish being dissected for a story ...
'I don't think you believe the paper's changed," Tom said sincerely. 'Look – I've been doing the research and background on you and Eyes Only for months now – and I want to do your story. One way or another I'm going to write something – you were an important part of the West Coast and to just disappear, the way you did – I have to wonder if you didn't actually want the attention," he baited. "Pretty dramatic exit, otherwise..."
But Cale didn't bite. He's done it all and knows the tricks. Stop trying to outsmart him; it's hopeless...
Tom sighed. "Mr. Cale – I would like to give you a chance to tell your side..."
"You forget that I had the chance while I was in Seattle – above-ground and under."
And to stop thinking all together is even worse...
"Look..." Butler repeated, suddenly feeling as if he had no control at all in the situation. "I'm staying at the hotel. I'll be here another ... three days" he decided, off the cuff. "Think about it, and if you're willing to talk to me, please call me..."
The famous green eyes held his for long moments, weighing. "You know I've been trying to remain undiscovered. Why would I want to help you advertise where I am now?"
Tom picked up the glasses that Cale had laid on the counter in front of him and slipped them back into their case, and laid a twenty on the counter. "Because maybe by talking to me, you can convince me not to advertise it." He stuck his case in his pocket. "It's truly an honor, Mr. Cale. I hope you decide to call."
...and in one of the best acting jobs of his career, Tom managed to walk confidently, unhurriedly, out the shop door without looking back...
The waiting was hell.
Just like everything else about this story, Tom Butler felt more anxious waiting for Eyes Only's response to his request for an interview than that of anyone else about whom he'd written, even those more widely known or controversial.
He'd returned to the hotel to make notes; he'd paced in his room then went out to walk around another part of town, snapping photos of whatever he could think might relate to a cable site. He'd grabbed his bike to ride out of town, pedaling at top speed along county roads to burn off nervous energy; he rode back again nearly as fast. He made it to dinner time and went to the diner to eat; he returned to the hotel to pace.
And when he'd not heard anything by nightfall, he suddenly was caught by a whim: what if Cale wanted his privacy enough to flee from him, from town, and start all over at yet another town? It wasn't unheard of; and Cale seemed to crave his anonymity enough to do it.
...besides, he justified. ...I'll go crazy just waiting here...
...so for the second time in a little more than twenty four hours, Butler hopped on his bike to ride out to the lake, to see what was going on at Eyes Only's cabin retreat ...
This time he took a longer way around, not taking any chances that he'd be spotted now that Cale knew he was made. Butler left the bike several yards back, and, as he had before, moved silently into the overgrown grasses where he could peer into Cale's home...
Soft lights were on inside. With some adjustment in his position Tom could see into the large side windows, and found Cale crossing to a dining table, lifting dinner dishes into his lap and, presumably, returning them to the kitchen. The table had been set for two, but so far, he saw no one else. What happened to the plans the four of them had made earlier, for the evening? He watched as Cale cleared the table and wiped it down, his movements somehow different than before. Butler wasn't sure what made him think that; he watched carefully for more – and on the third trip realized Cale was moving more slowly, almost heavily. Was he ill? Injured? Something seemed to be wrong...
... something wrong? Tom snorted. Like just learning that your secret hide out had been found, maybe?
Tom felt his guilt prickle. Yet again he was made keenly aware of the irony: never before had his journalistic righteousness been such an intense intrusion upon his subject's privacy – and here, his subject was himself a journalist. Butler's earlier reliance on the fact that, as a journalist himself, Cale ought to understand his actions more than any other subject he'd pursued, was less comforting the longer he was there. 'The public has a right to know...' It was a mantra he'd learned in his first weeks working at the P-I after school as a high school kid, then in his journalism classes, and then back at the paper as a real staffer. Never had his resolve been even tarnished.
...but never has a story been so personal...
He'd do the story and do it well, but once it was put to bed, he'd think seriously about ever taking on a story again that was so close, about someone so important to him or a topic so significant in his life...
...or maybe I just need a good, long vacation ... he thought, wryly...
But just as quickly as Butler's private little joke brought a smile to his lips it faded, as he saw that the woman he'd seen there the night before – the potter, the teacher's aide – Linda – had come into the room, carrying generous duffle packed and thrown over her shoulder ...
... there was something seriously wrong in the image. The couple so full of love the night before, their expressions so joyful and happy, had changed, the sorrow clear even at this distance. And in growing regret, Tom watched the scene play out like a silent movie before him...
With dancer-like grace, the lovely woman crossed the room toward Cale, swinging the bag to the floor and, with a sad, aching gesture, reached out for his hand. As he took hers in his, Cale spoke to her warmly, his expression was supportive and certain as he watched her brows draw in response. She suddenly gestured to him and spoke quickly, seeming to implore his agreement, but he shook his head sadly, never losing the smile for her or dropping his eyes from hers. At this, the beautiful face tipped away; Cale crooned to her again, his words moving her to turn quickly and seek the comfort of his lap, his arms ... he folded her in close and stroked her hair; through the powerful lens Tom could see that Cale nuzzled her hair and rocked her, gently, seeming to speak in comfort ...
... Butler sat back, camera lowering, involuntarily. "Linda" is leaving. Neither of them want this... The good-bye scene made it clear it wasn't planned ... and was tearing both up inside...
... this is my doing ...?
He scrambled to look for any evidence that it wasn't permanent. The bag isn't huge, he reasoned, it couldn't carry more than two or three days' clothing at the most. And not much other than clothing and the basics could be carried easily on her back. He fought any other explanation, insisting to himself that she was leaving for only a short time, yet felt a sickening twist in his gut to see how hungry her kisses were, how Cale raised his hand to her cheek and gently let his thumb trace away some dampness that spilled down across her lips...
Unable to tear his eyes away, Butler watched as the woman slowly, sadly, untangled from Cale's lap. Leaning in once again for a long, tearful, needy kiss, she finally stood, let her fingers trace along his as they dropped their hands, and the woman lifted her duffle to withdraw. Cale managed the calm, supportive look for her until she silently stole out of the house. In a hushed breeze Butler could barely follow, he could see that she quickly walked a bicycle out toward the road then, lightly, mounted it, turning to ride back toward town...
...and back inside the cottage, Cale finally slumped, unmoving for long minutes just where she had left him. Hating to see what he'd find, Butler slowly lifted the lens to his face and saw the heartbreak there, the loneliness ...
For whatever reason they felt it necessary, for whatever length of time, the parting Tom had just witnessed clearly broke both hearts involved, and clearly was not something either wanted. Whether she was leaving, whether they were mourning the loss of their quiet, small-town life, Tom's gut told him just as clearly it was the result of his appearance. He had never before that moment had such powerful questions about the consequences of his work...
... is this what journalists do, ruin their subjects' lives for the sake of trumpeting their stories to the world? Was it right to reward their lives and successes, the source of what made them newsworthy, by interfering and even endangering the safety of those around them? Was it reasonable to intrude on their privacy for the sake of others' "right" to know?
...is this how a journalist celebrates the life of the person most influential on his own life choices? Is this how a journalist offers his thanks?
...and with none of his questions resolved, Butler's guilt-ridden indictment was broken by the slow, heavy of movement of Eyes Only toward the other room, and he watched as painfully, achingly, Logan Cale came out onto his deck, alone, to sit under the vast, clear sky, and stare in mournful yearning out at the dark, star-filled night surrounding him...
