Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 12

John Moreno thought of himself as an ordinary guy doing his best to survive in a crazy, mixed-up world. His parents had raised him right. They'd given him principles, and values, and a deeply grounded sense of morality. And he believed in doing the right thing. In justice. The day he'd won the election had been one of the highlights of his life.

And yet somehow tonight he found himself standing in a seedy part of town facing a man who could destroy him with a single word. How had it come to this? How had he allowed this man, this scrawny, slimy bastard, to take complete and utter control of his life? When had he become a puppet on a string?

He sighed and shook his head, giving in to the inevitable. "Burch knows the address."

"This is not a profitable situation, Mr. Moreno." The man was thin, with dark hair and dark eyes and death in his voice. And after more than a year of working for him, John still didn’t know his name. "Too many liabilities."

"I can handle it." John tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"Can you handle your assistant?"

"Maxwell?" How did they know about Joe?

The other man nodded.

"He's no threat. Trust me." John knew what happened to people who posed a threat, and he didn't want Joe's death on his conscience along with Cathy Chandler’s.

"I would like to trust you," the man said, but John heard the doubt in his voice.

"I can take care of this."

"Then do it."

The other man disappeared into the shadows. John watched him go and wondered how many people would have to die before the nightmare ended.

 

********************

 

Elliot's third meeting with Vincent was to take place back at the carousel. As he got out of the car, he tugged his jacket into place and looked at his bodyguard.

"Ten minutes."

"Right." The guard nodded.

The car door slammed behind him, but Elliot hardly noticed. His thoughts were on Vincent. And on Cathy.

The door of the carousel building was unlocked again, and Elliot stepped inside, searching the shadows. "Vincent," he called in a low voice.

There was no sign of him, and Elliot moved around the carousel, peering into the darkness. He was so intent on his search that he jumped when a voice called out behind him.

"Hello, Mr. Burch."

He spun around. Two men had followed him into the building. He knew them both. One—short and bald, with the soft contours and constipated expression of a banker—was Arvin Cates. And the other . . .

"Moreno."

Moreno shook his head almost sadly. "You must be crazy, Burch. What could be worth all this?"

"You wouldn't understand," Elliot said.

"Probably not."

Casually, Cates pulled out a gun, and for a second Elliot couldn't move. Arvin was a businessman, not an assassin. A pencil pusher. What the hell was he doing?

There was an explosion of sound as Cates fired, but the shot went wide, and Elliot didn't wait for him to try again. He ducked and ran, keeping the carousel between himself and Cates, counting on it to give him some measure of safety.

Another shot rang out and a bright shower of sparks flew over his head as the bullet ricocheted off a metal post. Elliot cursed himself for a fool. He'd walked wide-eyed into an ambush, and now there were two armed men between himself and the only exit. But there was no time to think about that as more shots rang out and bullets dislodged a chunk of wood from the flank of a carved swan, sending deadly shrapnel flying in all directions. Elliot dropped and rolled, coming to his feet again as another bullet shattered the concrete floor near his head.

Wrapping his hand around a metal support post, Elliot used it to slingshot himself off the back edge of the carousel and around to face his attackers. Only they'd moved, and he was no longer sure where they were. He froze, listening, his eyes wide as he searched the shadows, alert for any hint of movement.

He didn't see them, but he heard their footsteps. They had separated, Moreno circling in one direction, Cates in the other. He was trapped between them, like a bull being herded to the slaughter. Damn!

He saw Cates before Cates saw him. He was passing one of the horses, gun held high, finger poised over the trigger. Elliot waited until Cates was almost upon him. Then he sprang, arms extended, fingers grasping for the gun. They struggled. There was a grunt, and then Moreno's panicked shout.

"Cates!"

Elliot seized on the momentary distraction to slam Cates's arm against an unforgiving pole. There was a snapping sound, a scream of pain, and the gun clattered to the floor. Elliot bent to pick it up. But Cates kicked him before he could close his fingers over it, sending him spinning away with a grunt of pain. In the time it took Elliot to regain his balance, Cates had scooped up the gun and brought it to bear on his heaving chest. Oh, God. Cathy I'm so sorry.

Suddenly there was a roar and a blur of motion as a giant shape launched itself from the darkness, taking Cates down and out of Elliot’s sight. A second fierce snarl was followed by dreadful silence. Elliot strained to see through the darkness. What the hell was it? And why did it seem so familiar? But there was no time to puzzle over it. Moreno was still around, somewhere.

Elliot peered into the shadows, eyes wide as he probed the menacing pools of darkness. There. Moreno was aiming his gun, his eyes full of fear. But not at him. Who, then? Elliot turned.

Vincent. Of course. He should have recognized the hulking shape at once.

Moreno fired. And then fired again. Two shots in quick succession. Elliot was certain Vincent had been hit. He must have been. But Vincent didn't even slow down, he just growled low in his throat and kept moving. Elliot turned away, unwilling to watch what happened next. But there was just a single sharp cry of fear and pain.

And then the awful silence returned.

Elliot turned back in time to see Vincent fall to his knees. He scrambled across the carousel to him, reaching out a hand to help, ignoring Moreno's sprawled and bloodied body. Vincent wrapped his hand around Elliot's arm and struggled to his feet. Then he turned, and Elliot saw his face for the first time.

The shock of it stunned him. Long tangled hair, intelligent eyes filled with pain and remorse—and features more catlike than human.

What the hell?

For a long moment, Vincent held his gaze. Then, without speaking, he turned and stumbled away.

"Vincent!" Elliot called, recovering himself. "Vincent!" He ran, cutting through the carousel in the direction Vincent had disappeared. But he was too late. Vincent had already gone.

 

********************

 

Catherine had been hiding just outside the carousel, safely disguised within the folds of the dark green cloak. She and Vincent had arrived late, detained by one of the sentries for a series of questions that Vincent had answered patiently even though she’d sensed the tension in him, the need to be on his way. Afterwards, he’d taken her hand and led her quickly through the tunnels, admonishing her once again to stay hidden. He’d been about to leave her when the sound of gunshots pulled his head up and around.

"Go!" he’d ordered as he’d left her at a run. "Go!" There'd been fear in his voice. For her? For Elliot? Catherine didn't know.

But she hadn’t left. Instead she’d stood with her heart in her throat and listened to the battle being waged inside. She heard Vincent's roar, and then two more gunshots, and then a sudden burst of pain ripped through her, pain so intense her knees nearly gave way. She recognized the sensation. She'd felt it all too recently.

The gunshots were followed by eerie silence.

"Oh, God. No! Vincent!" She ran, desperate to find him, to see him. Not caring that she might be seen as well.

And then he stumbled out of the shadows, his cloak in disarray, his hair scattered wildly over his shoulders.

She ran to him, catching him in her arms as he stumbled. "Vincent!"

"Must . . . get . . . Below."

She pulled his arm across her shoulders and flung her other arm around his waist, ignoring the tug of her stitches in her desperation to help him. She felt the warm sticky dampness of his blood, saw the terrible, spreading stain on his shirt.

"I'll get you to Father, Vincent. I'll get you there, but you have to help me."

He nodded weakly and they wove an unsteady path through the shadows to the safe haven of the drainage ditch.

It seemed to Catherine as though it took hours to make the short journey. Beside her, Vincent's breath came in short, tight gasps, and his fingers tightened painfully around hers. She kept up a steady stream of quiet encouragement, and though later she’d have no recollection of the actual words, he kept moving, kept putting one foot in front of the other.

And then they were there, and Catherine yanked open the metal grate and led Vincent into the cool darkness. "Wait here," she said, helping him to lean against the wall. "I have to close the gate."

He nodded, and she hurried back. It took her only a moment to latch the steel bars and hit the switch to slide the concrete panel into place, but when she turned back Vincent had slid down to lie in the dirt, and a dark stain was spreading beneath him.

She dropped down beside him, moved his hair out of the way, and made sure he was breathing. She whispered a desperate plea for him to hang on, leapt to her feet, and ran. There was a sentry point not too far away, and she found Jamie there. The girl's eyes widened when Catherine skidded to a stop.

"Catherine, what is it? What's happened?"

"It's Vincent. He's hurt. Get Father! Hurry!"

Jamie nodded and turned to send out the emergency message on the pipes. Catherine didn't wait for her to finish. She ran back to Vincent. Kneeling by his side, she talked to him, her voice urgent with fear.

"Stay with me, Vincent. Father's coming. You're going to be all right. Please . . . hang on." Somehow she found the strength to roll him onto his back. She grabbed a handful of his cloak to hold against the wound, putting pressure behind it, trying desperately to stop the steady flow of blood.

She didn't know how long she stayed by his side, talking to him, begging him not to leave her. And then Father was there. And William. She looked up at them and realized her face was wet with tears, her vision blurred with them.

"Help him, Father."

Father dropped his cane and fell to his knees by Vincent's side. Tearing open his medical bag, he pulled out a pair of scissors and cut away Vincent's shirt, mumbling a quiet oath when he saw the wounds. Quickly, he bandaged them. Then he looked up at William.

"Help me get him to his chamber," he said urgently. "And Jamie, send out a call on the pipes. Have Mary meet us there. Make sure she brings the surgical kit."

Catherine blinked. She hadn't even been aware of Jamie's presence, so focused was she on Vincent. But before she could say anything, Jamie was off again at a run.

When they reached Vincent's chamber, Father turned to Catherine. "You should wait outside," he said quietly. "Until we finish."

"No." She shook her head once, sharply. "I need to be with him."

Father looked at her and sighed, but there was no time to argue. "All right, then. Come along."

It was a long time before Father said anything else other than quiet requests to Mary. Finally, he stood back with a sigh. "That's it," he said. "The rest is up to Vincent."

"Father—"

He looked over at her, tired and worried.

"Will he be okay?"

Father gazed at Vincent for a long time before answering. "I think so, yes."

And then somehow the world was going gray, and her head felt light, as though it might float away, and Father's arms were around her as he guided her down into a chair.

"Easy, now." He caught her shoulders, pushing her head down. "Take slow, deep breaths."

She did, and the world swam back into focus.

"You must be careful, Catherine. You still aren't fully recovered yourself." He looked concerned, and she saw his eyes go to her arm. Luckily, her own wound had not reopened with her exertions, and he nodded in satisfaction as he looked back over at Vincent. "He'll sleep for a while," he said. "You should get some rest as well."

"I will, Father. But I'm staying here."

Father didn't question her decision. "I've seen Vincent sleep in that chair on more than one occasion. I suppose it'll do for you as well."

Catherine smiled and touched his sleeve. "Thank you, Father."

He'd been busy with his medical bag, but now he looked at her, puzzled. "For what?"

"For understanding."

"Ahh . . . well, I'm not so old that I don't recognize a hopeless battle when I see one." He smiled tiredly. "I'll be back to check on him in an hour or two. Call me if there's any change in his condition."

"I will."

And then it was Catherine's turn to sit beside the bed, to hold Vincent's hand, and to read the comforting words of Great Expectations, her soft voice lingering in the darkened corners of the quiet room.

********************

 

Cold. So cold. And wind howling through the tunnels like a living thing. He moves slowly, pushing through the icy gale. Ahead of him, a steady banging sound—the iron gate blown open and closed again by the wind. Why isn't it latched?

As he nears the gate, snow blows into his face, coating his hair and clothes. He puts up a hand to shield his eyes, and keeps moving. The wind blows harder, and icicles tremble over his head. Then he stumbles. Beneath his feet, a form. He stops. Looks down. Something is buried in the snow. Something oddly familiar. He lifts his head and scans the surface of the blowing drifts. There. Ahead. What is that? He takes another step, shivering now, forcing his feet to move.

And then he recognizes it. An arm, bent at an odd angle and raised into the air as though grasping for . . . what? Rescue? Only it's too late. There can be no rescue here . . .

"No!" Vincent sat up, breaking out of the dream. "No!"

And then Catherine was there, her hand warm and alive on his arm. "Vincent! What is it?"

He struggled to catch his breath, the fear still pulsing through his veins. "I was . . . lost. In the storm."

"You were dreaming," she said. "There is no storm. You’re safe. In your chamber."

He turned, looking around, trying to place his surroundings. "I . . . went out last night. I was Above. In the park."

"I know. With Elliot." She hesitated, and he heard the fear in her voice when she continued. "You were shot." Her hands were gentle on his shoulders. "Rest, now."

His breath was still coming in short gasps as he lay back against the pillows, and she soothed him, pushing his hair off his face and straightening the blankets. "It'll be all right," she said softly. "I'll be here."

 

********************

 

Father felt very old as he faced Steven across the dimly lit chamber. It was a common issue, really. Certainly it was one he'd had to handle before. But the timing of this lapse was particularly unfortunate in light of Catherine and Vincent's dangerous search for their missing son.

William's anger cut across the heavy silence. "It's the second time you've fallen asleep on watch!" It was well-known among the tunnel-dwellers that William preferred to handle problems himself, and being forced to bring this one to Father's attention would likely leave him in a bad mood for days.

"Is this true, Steven?" Father asked.

They were in Father's chamber—Father and William and Steven and Brooke. Steven looked chastened, ashamed, his eyes not quite meeting Father's.

"I never meant to," he said. "I . . . was tired, that's all. I didn't get much sleep."

"You didn't get any sleep at all," William said.

"How long has this been going on?" asked Father. "You should have told me. Insomnia can be the first symptom of—" He trailed off as Brooke came to stand beside Steven. The two of them exchanged a glance and Father saw something pass between them. Something familiar.

He sighed. "Oh."

"It's my fault too," Brooke said quickly. "Steven was with me. It's not like there were any intruders or anything. Nobody got hurt."

"This time," Father said. "Look, I understand your wanting to be with someone you care about. But you mustn't ignore your other responsibilities."

"Maybe," said Steven, "if I do some extra turns at sentry duty—"

"Yes." Father stood up and crossed to Steven's side. "I think that would be very fair. And you can start—" He looked from Brooke to Steven and back again. "Tomorrow might be good."

Brooke broke into a wide smile. "Thank you, Father."

Father watched the two of them go and then turned to William with a chuckle. "How long has this been going on?"

William shook his head ruefully. "Last time I looked, they were still fighting over toys."

There was a sound at the chamber entrance and Father looked up to see Jamie standing there. "Catherine needs you right away," she said. "Vincent's waking up."

"Oh thank God." Father grabbed his bag and followed Jamie out of the chamber.

 

********************

 

Diana swept the flashlight beam back and forth as she walked. It was cool down here in the tunnels, with a breeze that came from nowhere only to disappear somewhere else. Passageways branched off at odd angles and unpredictable intervals, as though they'd been engineered by Lewis Carroll for the white rabbit. She walked slowly, stopping to make chalk marks on the wall at each intersection. In minutes she came to the spot where she'd turned back the last time she was here.

The opening was gone.

She brought the light up, playing it over the place. There was something odd about the brick. She stepped forward and reached out to touch the wall. Her fingers came away damp. The mortar was fresh, the bricks new. That explained the difference in texture. But who had bricked it up? And why?

 

********************

 

In Vincent's chamber, Father had his fingers around Vincent's wrist, his eyes on a stopwatch.

"I dreamt," Vincent said, "that there was a storm in the tunnel."

"He's still feverish." Catherine met Father's eyes. Vincent was awake, but agitated, almost delirious. And she couldn't seem to get his temperature down—no matter how often she changed the cloths on his forehead. She kept a calming hand on Vincent's shoulder as Father worked, moving close again as soon as he was finished.

"We'll get a grip on that soon enough," Father answered reassuringly. "Peter sent down some antibiotics." He turned to put his stethoscope away. "We'll have to watch out for infection, of course. But otherwise, I'd prescribe a few days bed rest."

Without warning, Vincent shoved aside his covers and struggled to his feet. "I have to go Above."

"Vincent!" Catherine reached for him, but Father was there first, catching Vincent as he stumbled.

"That's out of the question," he said as he helped Vincent back into bed. "I took two bullets out of you last night." He pulled the covers back into place. "And you've been running a fever for hours. You're in no condition to go anywhere." He turned back to his bag. "I'll get William to bring you up a light meal. If you think you can manage some food? You need your strength." He lowered his voice, turning to Catherine, who'd come to stand beside him. "Keep him in bed. And if there's any change at all in his condition, call me at once."

"He's burning up," she said. She felt so helpless.

"I know. It frightens me too. Maybe the antibiotics will help. You know how quickly he heals. But with this massive blood loss—"

"Isn't there anything else we can do?"

"No." Father shook his head. "The only cure is time. And he must not reopen those wounds. Any more blood loss, and—" He let the thought hang, touching her arm before making his way out of the chamber.

Catherine watched him go and then turned back to Vincent. She moistened a fresh cloth with cool water and laid it gently against his forehead, hoping to bring the raging fever under control. Then, instead of returning to the chair, she sat down on the bed beside him. Putting her arm around his waist, she lowered her head to rest on his stomach.

As she drifted off to sleep, she felt the touch of his hand on her hair.