DISCLAIMER: Dark Angel borrowed; as always, no profits realized.
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Asylum
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The call came just after 2:00. No amenities, no wasted words – only the familiar voice on the other end of the line saying tersely, "I'm at the shop. It's closed today, so there'll be no interruptions." The line suddenly clicked, and the call cut off...
Tom moved purposefully, grabbing his small recorder, a notepad, a couple pens – and at the door he paused only a moment, distancing himself from all the emotions and reactions that had arisen in him during his pursuit of this story. Anyone finds out all of what's been going on in your head over this one, your career's down the toilet, he reminded himself. You still have time to do this right. So don't blow it... He pulled the door open, strode brusquely into the hall to quickly jog down the stairs and out the door. He covered the block and a half back to the store quickly, thinking about the past hours but at a distance now, more analytical now than he'd been since his arrival ...
The night had been a long one, his earlier ebullience smacked out of him by the scene he'd witnessed the evening before, as he watched the toll his actions were taking on two innocent people. Initially, he'd tried denying his involvement in causing the pain he'd seen, and his first reaction was ridicule: he was just a reporter; it was just a story. Not the end of the world. It was only disrupting their lives because they let it. Why did it have to become such a big deal?
He'd heard the self-defense in his mental tone immediately. Soon thereafter came the bleating of his denial: How could I have known it would be so disruptive? Logan Cale had always been a public figure, his whole life had been in the public eye, in the papers: a family frequently in the news, a journalist publishing under by-lines and anxious to do so, like every other young writer, hacks breaking into the homes of millions...
...behind a disguise... his conscience had reminded him.
Maybe so. But still – public. Tom's inner voice could be stubborn in self-defense mode. First rule of journalism – one that Cale certainly knew – there were different rules for public figures. Part of the territory...
Tom remembered the look of inevitability Cale had worn – he'd expected to be found. Given that Butler could have been an assassin, or blackmailer, or thief, wasn't this better? Tom had tried to comfort himself with the self-righteous idea that Cale ought to have been happy it was he who'd shown up, and not one of those others – until it dawned on him: he doesn't know for sure you are who you say you are ... he doesn't know you haven't been bought by one of the ones who want to hurt him ... and he knows that if you can find him, he – and Linda – can be found. He doesn't know how this will end for him or for her; he doesn't know that they can be safe here anymore – and last night he took steps to protect the woman he loved, at least until he could know more ...
Another long night without much sleep had finally brought Butler back to the reality of who he was, why he was there, what he'd done wrong – and what he needed to do. He'd gone past the hero worship to get sucked into over-identification with his subject – as if he'd been the one to flee, so many stories left to write, so many of the weak still needing a champion ... and now as if the woman of his dreams had left, not Cale's ...
No longer. He was here for a story and if there was one to be had, he knew he'd find it. He'd trusted his instincts before. Now, they might not be quite as trustworthy – but instinct was all he had, at the moment. No more preconceptions; no more hero worship; no more assumptions – he was here to listen. And as Butler came to the locked storefront and rapped gently on the glass door, he drew one more steadying breath as he watched Cale come close to unlock the deadbolt and back up from the entrance.
Remember who you are, Tom breathed to himself, one last reminder, and why you're here...
He stepped through the door. Once inside, he watched as, unspeaking, Cale moved back to the doorway, closing the door and flipping the lock back in place. The "closed" sign remained in view but rattled a little against the glass as the door closed. With only a brief glance up at his visitor, Cale pushed past Tom and said quietly, "there's a back room..."
Butler started to follow his subject, wondering briefly if even in this quaint town Cale had bodyguards or operatives, if following him into the back room of a locked shop was as inadvisable here as it would have been back in Seattle. Tom had taken risks before, in more than a dozen different cities; the story, as always, was worth the risk ... but upon his entry, behind Cale, into a small, cluttered, empty 'kitchen' with a table, chairs, sink and battered hotplate, Tom relaxed a little...
Cale nodded toward a chair and went over to the sink, lifting a faded mug from the drainer. "Coffee?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah. Thanks." Butler remained standing as waited for the cup, feeling a flush of surprise for the hospitality, and wondered if it meant Cale thought they'd be there a while. The pot was full, he noted...
Cale poured the brew into the mug and turned, offering it to the reporter. "Sweetener and creamer are over there," he nodded toward the cabinet.
"Black's fine." He came close to take the cup, and saw that there was the barest amusement in Cale's eyes.
"Ah, right. You're from Seattle." He dropped his eyes before Tom could register the comment and make that human contact which might have made this easier. Awkward for the moment, Butler muttered his thanks and went to sit as Cale poured a mug for himself, oversized at the bottom and narrow at the top, and balanced it between his thighs as he crossed the short distance to the table. Lifting the mug to the tabletop, Cale drew a breath, but said nothing, waiting.
Get him talking, but step back, Tom's gut told him. Don't let him manipulate you... "Thank you for calling." Tom said simply. Let him talk...
Cale took a sip of his coffee in the silence ... another ... then finally put his mug back down. At last drawing another breath – and with a sideways glance at the reporter, Cale said, "Look – before anything else is said – I'd like to ask one favor." He stared into his coffee, considering what he had to say. "If you're going to out me, at least let me have the chance to tell people here before the story runs. They've welcomed me here. I'd like to be able to explain why I wasn't honest with them, that I meant them no harm or hurt, but that I was just trying to protect a lot of people – myself included." Cale looked back up, weighing his reaction, Tom thought. "I'd like to tell them myself that I lied about who I was. They deserve that much."
"Who did you say you were?" Tom asked simply.
Cale stared back into his mug. "Robert Eastman. Formerly, a TV news cameraman, injured on the job – couldn't exactly keep my job filming news stories out on the street – even if I could get places in the chair, I couldn't maneuver it and film with a portable videocam at the same time. A stab at studio filming didn't work out either, because those cameras are designed for someone standing, who could move with them." Cale shrugged. "So, the injury ends a career as a film journalist."
...not surprising that Cale would work out his identity to such detail, including a career that would be unwieldy from a wheelchair, but one about which he knew enough to sound convincing, if questioned ... Butler mused. Effective...
"So, Robert's out of work and ends up leaving the city and his old life behind," Cale continued, softening again, voicing even now a gentle surprise at how things worked out, "..and stumbles into a town full of people willing to welcome him, broken or not." He looked back up to Butler, and reiterated, "I owe them all, here. They never questioned me, not for a minute. I'd forgotten what that sort of life was like, trusting people at their word." He sighed. "I don't want to think that what I did tarnished anyone's trust here. Maybe I can make them understand, if I have a chance to try."
Cale didn't demand a promise in response, as if aware how hollow it might be, coming from someone he'd never met and who had no reason to agree. He simply stated his request and hoped it would be honored. Butler considered the man before him and jettisoned any lingering preconceptions he might have had. His subjects' stories were never simple, really – and with a complex man like Logan Cale, how could things have been as black and white as he'd anticipated? Listen and learn, he reminded himself.
Cale had fallen quiet, saying nothing more for several moments. It dawned on Tom suddenly that Cale knew the drill better than he did and was expecting a formulaic interview. A sudden smile threatened to intrude on his serious journalistic expression and he fought it back – he'd let Cale lead this one, after all. The way past the walls Eyes Only had erected was by not interviewing him, and letting him stew about it. Listen and learn, for sure, he thought. He simply waited...
Cale drained his coffee and looked over at Butler. "Well, let's have it," Cale frowned a little now in uncertainty at the silence, slightly more animated than before, but still guarded. He dared a look back into Butler's eyes as he pressed, "you wanted an interview. Here I am."
"Why did you agree to this?"
Cale's eyes flashed. "Did I have a choice? You said it yourself; if I didn't meet with you you'd publish it all, this place, where to find me – and anything else you may have uncovered here," his voice carried the tension borne of his not knowing what lay ahead. "I have no illusions that by meeting with you I could have any control over what you print – but it's a safe bet that I was more likely to have some input if I met with you than if I didn't."
Tom narrowed his eyes, thinking. "What would you have me leave out?"
Cale snorted softly, grabbing his cup to move back toward the coffee pot. A safe retreat, Butler recognized. His subject was feeling threatened. "You're giving me a choice?" Cale's sarcasm crackled. He stared at the coffee as he poured.
"I'm asking what you'd have me leave out," Tom repeated, evenly.
Cale's back was still to him, but Butler could see the shoulders drop a little. After a moment, Cale again, carefully, snuggled the mug between his thighs and returned to the table, not looking at his inquisitor. He lifted the mug, took another sip, and finally shrugged, almost to himself, "all of it." He paused, then met Butler's eyes, more centered now. "Ideally? Anything that would point to where I am now, or identify who my family and friends are, back in Seattle ... or here."
"So that's why you left," Tom baited his subject, knowing this wasn't quite the answer, to pull the correct response from him. "You wanted privacy."
"That wasn't why," Cale muttered immediately, as Butler had anticipated. "Did you ever read comic books, Mr. Butler?" Despite his newly found confidence with the interview, Tom blinked at the unexpected turn of the man's words, and Cale smiled in some irony to see it. "Do you know why Superman and Spiderman wore costumes and had secret identities?" He paused long enough to see Butler, drawn in, shake his head slightly, and went on to explain, "it's because Lex Luthor and the Goblin knew early on that superpowers have one, gaping weakness – not in the superhero, but in those around him – in Lois Lane ... or MJ... or even Aunt May." Cale's eyes registered when he saw that his analogy had been understood. "Doing the sort of investigation that Eyes Only does, you learn quickly that the pros find it far less effective to threaten or hurt you ... but the people you care about, that's a whole different story..." His expression carried the strain of unimaginable threats. "It wasn't all that safe for people around me before word go out. But after..." His voice and eyes softened in memory, going back to those times. "Suddenly, if Eyes Only was a target, I was, personally – and anyone important to me was, too. I have family still there, in Seattle, and friends. My cousin and his wife are there; they've worked harder than anyone can imagine over the past few years to resurrect the family business. It would be wrong to let them be driven away." Cale paused again, considering what could have been. "And I couldn't let them be threatened or compromised because of me."
"Was it only the threats?" Tom asked, "or did being identified as Eyes Only have other effects as well?" Something Cale had said, how he was the focus of the threats and not just Eyes Only, made him suspect there was more ...
The haunted smirk in response was revealing. "Before, it used to be that people contacted Eyes Only when they needed help to fight those in power. When they spoke to me they thought I was just another soldier. We'd talk about what to do for the good of the fight, pass information or plans, do what we needed to do. But then word got out. By that time, we'd done a lot, but the fight wasn't over, not by a long shot. I did try to keep things going, just as they'd been. But everything had changed – people weren't contacting Eyes Only anymore, they were contacting me -- for money, usually – and would get angry if I didn't just hand it over, right then, as much as they wanted..." His eyes focused on a time past and his voice softened, remembering, the thought clearly still painful. "I even tried, at first, tried giving them money if that was what they needed. But then more came asking, and when I tried giving them only some of what they asked for, not all of it – well, that just resulted in resentment, or anger..." He wavered a moment, then looked back up to Butler. "Eyes Only wasn't getting a tenth of the calls or requests for help that Logan Cale was. There was no such thing as underground for me anymore, and the informants or operatives with whom I worked most closely were under growing scrutiny, too." Cale sighed, sounding defeated even still. "It pretty well made the work impossible, as things were."
"So you bugged out – left it to the Informant Net?"
"And your better idea would have been to do what?" Cale's eyebrows shot up in question as he demanded a response. When Tom didn't flinch, his subject scrutinized him, and asked, "How long have you been a writer, Mr. Butler? Ten years? More?" he began. "Have you ever been the story? Imagine trying to do your job when there's no anonymity in who you are and what you do – like this; you wouldn't have been able to come to town and pass yourself off as a college kid. You wouldn't have been able to get into the candid conversations you had with the people around here." Cale frowned, the memory sharp. "It all changed – it wasn't about the work anymore, but about me... there were death threats ... bomb threats ... kidnaping threats ... All to demand money or hacks. What work we did do, it was never enough. There were always more demands... more threats... more people wanting money." His voice fell to nearly a whisper, the frustration and anger still fresh. "My staying in Seattle was hurting Eyes Only's cause," he admitted. "What else could I have done?"
But any glib reply Tom might have had was lost immediately, as the sound of a hand pounding loudly and insistently on the storefront's door caused them both to jump ...
