Relentless

of the elite class that determines the rules of the culture, including who’s certifiable and who’s not. They don’t lock themselves up. They carry the keys.”
    “Inmates in charge of the asylum, huh?”
    “Are you going to pretend you haven’t noticed?”
    “Sounds like you’re about ready to build our own stronghold.”
    “Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”
    “Listen, Penny, we’ve got to change plans now.”
    “Change what plans? Landulf?”
    Thomas Landulf, the author of
The Falconer and the Monk
, who was reputed to have cruelly tortured and murdered his wife and daughter before setting himself afire, had lived and died in a small Northern California community not far from the Oregon border, a place called Smokeville. That’s where we were currently headed.
    In our desperation, the Landulf murders appeared to be the only place we could start building a case against Waxx. If Landulf had been well-liked in Smokeville, the locals might not buy the official story. They might know things that were never brought up at the inquest or reported in the media, things we might find worth knowing.
    I said, “Clitherow is a lesson to us. He was safe. Then he tried to help us. By helping us, he gave Waxx a chance to get a new bead on him. If we start poking around up there in Smokeville, maybe Waxx or his buddy, the brother of all humanity, will hear about it.”
    The look she gave me was not one I would have photographed and kept forever in our book of fond memories.
    “So what do you want to do instead?” she asked. “You want to go to Waxx’s house in Laguna Beach, knock on the door, confront him?”
    “No thanks, no way. I’ve seen
The Silence of the Lambs
. I know what happens to people who go into Mr. Gumb’s house.”
    “So then what is your Plan B?”
    I listened carefully, but I didn’t hear myself saying anything. Only frosty plumes of breath came from my slack-jawed mouth.
    “You just want to give up our lives and go on the run forever, like Clitherow?” she asked.
    “No, no. I know that won’t work. We Greenwiches, we’re runners, but not the Booms.”
    “Damn right. Now more than ever, we have to go to Smokeville.”
    I stood there nodding stupidly, like one of those novelty dogs with a bobble head.
    “Is this discussion over?” she asked.
    “Well, I don’t seem to be able to hold up my end of it, so I guess it’s over.”
    “Good. We’re maybe three hours south of San Francisco. You drive. It’s my turn to catch some Z’s.”
    I got behind the wheel. She settled in the shotgun position.
    In the backseat, Milo was sleeping, and Lassie was sleeping but also farting. Fortunately, when she passed gas, the mutt produced a high flutelike note but no stink. Barkless, odorless, she seemed to strive always to give no offense.
    As I followed the long entry ramp to the northbound lanes of the interstate, Penny said, “What was that last thing Clitherow said, the bit that didn’t make sense, just before his throat was cut?”
    “I think it was ‘and now I’m in the tower
de Paris
with—’ Then just gagging-wheezing noises.”
    “De Paris
. ‘Of Paris.’ The Eiffel Tower? Was he calling you from Paris?”
    “No. I don’t think so. The knife was at his throat, he was done with the story they wanted him to tell me, he knew he was about to be cut—so maybe his mind snapped and he was just babbling.”
    “Did it sound like babble?”
    “No,” I admitted. “It was in that same terrible, flat tone of voice.”
    “Then it meant something,” Penny said. “It meant something.”

   I alone remained awake in the Mountaineer, unable to engage anyone in therapeutic conversation, and nothing relieved the solemn drum-drum-drumming of the rain except an occasional flute note from the musical dog.
    My thoughts returned to John Clitherow’s story of the murders of his wife and daughters. Waxx had wanted me to hear it directly from the doomed writer.
    His purpose must be in part to demoralize me, to frighten me to the extent that fear ceased to motivate me and instead inhibited me from taking aggressive action in defense of myself and my family.
    Remembering how I pressed Penny not to proceed to Smokeville, I realized with dismay how effective Waxx’s strategy had already been.
    Demoralization to the point of paralysis, however, was not his entire intent. Before killing John, Waxx had wanted to grind him down until he abandoned the view of life that had informed his