Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sage did what Sage did best—a mic-drop statement that finally had Leo’s shrink speechless.
In that silence, Leo prepared to depart. “Well, now that I’ve done my job and kept Dr. Warmstone safe, plus recovered the items Cetus was after…” Leo went to hand the journal and picture to Sage, only she shook her head.
“Oh, no, Leo. You are far from done yet. You will remain by Ruth’s side until the relic is found. Perhaps even longer.”
“What?” he yelped. That hadn’t been part of the plan. Not that he actually had a plan, other than fighting his inner demons.
“Who says I’m going to help?” his shrink added, determined to be contrary.
He couldn’t believe how long and strenuously she argued against the evidence before her eyes. Like, yeah, starbeaming and shit didn’t follow the laws of science, but once you’d experienced it, how could you deny it?
“You will aid, because only then will you both find the closure you’ve been seeking,” Sage stated with utmost confidence implying she’d seen something. What though? Leo knew better than to ask for details because the reply usually ended up being along the lines ‘Because I said so.’
“Closure from what? I’m fine,” huffed the red-cheeked Ruth.
“You can lie out loud, but not to yourself.” With that, the tiny Sage, who packed a punch without ever raising a fist, left.
Ruth turned her ire on Leo. “Why do I get the impression I don’t have a choice?”
“We don’t,” his sullen reply. “I’m not happy about it either.”
“I don’t care who she is. She doesn’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Then I hope you can live with yourself when bad shit starts to happen.”
She glared…
…at the king of glares, as he served a stinging one right back.
“This is bullshit!” Ruth exclaimed.
“Agreed.”
“Why does it have to be you?” she further grumbled. “Surely if this task is so important I’d be better off with someone who isn’t a drunk.”
Ooh, the doctor could sling her own shots. He didn’t wince, but he uttered a defensive, “I haven’t had a sip since yesterday morning.”
“One whole day. Let’s get out the party balloons. Or maybe not quite yet because I’ll wager you’re craving a sip.”
The truth hurt, and like any wounded animal, he fought back. “Fucking right, I do. It might help me deal with you,” he snarled.
“Well, you’d better not, because if I have to work with you to find this stupid door and stupid antique before I can get my life back, then you will be sober because I am not dealing with your drunken or hungover ass.”
“I’ll have you know I am perfectly functional the day after I binge.”
“I doubt you’re fully capable, not to mention, you smell.”
At her statement, he gaped. “Do not. I shower every day, sometimes more than once.”
“Do you really think that hides it? It’s like a marinade that oozes from your pores. It’s gross, and I won’t have it.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” He’d moved closer as they argued and leaned down, putting them almost nose to nose. Close enough to realize she had a faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“I can and will tell you what to do because, unlike you, I recognize destructive behavior. You claim you drink because you can’t handle the grief and guilt of losing your family, but in truth, you’ve chosen to wallow in self-pity.”
“I don’t wallow.” A stiff reply.
She oinked.
He blinked. “What the fuck was that?”
“The noise a pig-headed man makes.” She oinked again and added, “Deny all you want, but it’s obvious you wallow in your misery because you’re too cowardly to live.”
“Wrong. I’ve been too cowardly to die.” He never could bring himself to end it.
“Guess I should add selfish to your list of traits.”
“How am I selfish?”
“Because it’s all about you. You resort to ill humor to discomfit others. You weaponize your grief to extract sympathy.”
“I’m not forcing anyone to endure anything. Not my fault they won’t leave me alone. I try to keep out of sight.”
“Because that’s kinder,” her sarcastic retort. “Do you really think it doesn’t hurt your friends and coworkers to see you suffering?”
He recoiled. “I didn’t ask for their sympathy.”
“Caring people can’t help themselves, and yet I’ll wager you’ve thrown it back in their face.”
“I’m sure they’ll get over it,” he snapped.
“The same way you got over your trauma?”
“It’s different.” Even as he said it, he heard how it sounded.
“Yes, you went through something horrible, but the way you’ve handled it hasn’t been healthy. You’ve chosen to make it your entire identity.”
“My baby girl was murdered!” Apparently, the doctor needed a reminder.
“And that is unbelievably tragic, but do you really think self-flagellation is the right way to deal with it?”
“What would you suggest?” Because while he hated hearing it, she had a point. He had been wallowing and refusing to find any joy in anything. He avoided his friends. Avoided anything that might help him move on because, if he did, then it would diminish what happened to his daughter and wife.
“You claim to be a warrior. Act like one. Your job is to stop evil so that no other father or mother suffers like you, so that no other child is taken before their time. That is how you deal with your grief by preventing it from happening again.”
Her words struck a chord in him. What if atonement didn’t come from being miserable but from helping others? It wouldn’t bring back his baby, Olivia, but staving off that loss for others would be a noble thing, a fitting tribute to his daughter gone too soon.
Rather than let her know her suggestion had merit, he went completely off-topic. “We should find out what room Tower has assigned you.”
“Changing the subject, I see.” She snorted. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
What did she expect from him? She’d just given him a harsh reality check. It would take time for it to process. Would it change his outlook? Maybe. But even if it didn’t right away, she’d planted the seed. Now, it was up to him whether it grew.
“How big is this place anyhow?” Ruth asked as she followed him out of the portal chamber.
“Big.” So big he’d never been to the top. Why would he, when everything he needed was held within the first dozen floors?
While he’d seen it before, Ruth hadn’t, and she craned to look around their grand vestibule. Double doors, taller than Leo by a few feet, made of battered bronze and inscribed in a language no one could read. A marble floor that sparkled. A staircase that wound around and upwards.
“Does this tower have guest suites?” she asked.
“Yeah, but don’t ask me where they are. Tower decides who gets what.”
“You speak as if it’s sentient.”
“Because it is. Tower gives us what we need.” Again, something he didn’t understand or question. Not anymore, at least.
“More likely it’s just got really good staff who know how to maintain and serve its occupants.”
“Could be, but I’ve never seen them.” He headed for the stairs. “Hope you don’t mind the climb. I know the first few floors don’t have any suites for staying in.”
“First few? How many floors are there?”
“Let’s just say that it’s the tallest building in the world by quite a bit. So tall, it should be impossible.”
He watched her eyeing the steps, her expression daunted before she’d begun and confirmed as she muttered, “You’d think living in my multi-level brownstone would have curbed my aversion to climbing.”
“Think of it as a free thigh master.”
“Not all of us want tree trunks for legs.” She spoke as if it were a bad thing.
As they ascended, she remained observant and curious. “How old is this place?”
“No idea. Few thousand years, at least.”
“And where is it?”
“Iraq.”
She stumbled. “You’re joking.”
“Why would I joke about its location?”
“Because, if you’re speaking the truth, we went from New York to halfway across the world in the blink of an eye.”
“More like two or three blinks. I’m not sure of the exact speed, but it’s faster than light.”
“Insane,” she muttered under her breath then more loudly, “How come everyone thinks the Tower of Babel is a myth if it’s still standing?”
“Because no one can see it. Tower has protections that prevent people and even satellites from spotting it.”
“Like the Bermuda Triangle,” she joked.
“Not really. The Triangle isn’t something that can be seen, only experienced.” Some sort of thin spot between their plane of existence and another that randomly opened and shut.
“How long have you lived here?”
“A long time.”
“I see we’re back to your curt non-answers,” she grumbled.
“What’s the point of saying more? You’ll just scoff at the answer. And to think you called me stubborn, Buttercup.”
“Do not call me Buttercup. My name is Dr. Warmstone.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to work for me because we are no longer doctor and patient.”
“Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re not. We’re partners. So your choices are Ruth or Buttercup.”
“Ruth then, because Buttercup is you mocking me.”
His lips curved. “Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
They reached the landing, and Ruth paused. “What’s this floor for?” A good question, given the wide openness of it.
“Reception hall, or I guess you could call it a ballroom, not that we’ve ever hosted any parties.”
“Then why have one?”
“Only Tower knows.”
As they resumed their climb, she snapped her fingers. “Wait a second, is this the tower you meant when you said you asked your wife to leave home?”
“Yup. Had Kylie come here with Olivia, the wendigo would never have gotten them.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t kidnap her like you did me.” She still sounded salty about it rather than thankful he’d saved her life.
“I almost did, but given the troubles we were having, I didn’t want to make things worse. I should have though, because at least then she’d have been alive to divorce me and we could have split custody of Olivia.”
“I’m confused. Why live in New York if you already had a home here?”
“Because of Kylie. She spent one night at my place and claimed it was too creepy. Insisted if we were going to be a couple that she needed to live among people.”