KALEIDOSCOPE III
Cynthia
Hatch
Part 3d
The Murdock trial had generated a
surprisingly large following. With no grisly murder to be recounted, no lurid
tales of sexual misdeeds to whet the public's appetite, it nevertheless
attracted more spectators every day than the courtroom could hold. Joe called
it the "Little Jack Horner" syndrome. The foundation had so many
fingers in so many pies that a lot of people had felt the effects. And none of
them thought that P. Branham Murdock had been a good boy.
It was in the corridor, crowded
with people who hadn't found a place inside, that Catherine first noticed the
face. She had scarcely given another thought to Dr. Stratton's warning after
passing it on to Vincent, and the image skittered past her unrecognized until
she reached the stairs. When she looked back, he was gone, but she had no doubt
that it was the same person in the Polaroid, the man called John McConnell.
She looked for him among the rush
hour throng when she left the building that night, and just to be on the safe
side, took a circuitous route to her apartment, pausing often to check the
faces around her. The temptation was growing--to chalk it up to
coincidence--but the next morning as the taxi left her apartment house and
swung around the corner, she spotted him again, his hands in the pockets of his
Burberry coat, staring up at the building.
She wondered if he intended to
remain a spectator on the fringes of her life, waiting for the monster of
Steven's stories to reappear. Well, that wasn't going to happen, but she went
back over the events since Halloween night, searching for any possible lapses.
The only entrance she'd used to the tunnels was through the subbasement, a
space familiar and confined enough to make her confident that McConnell
couldn't know about it.
Was there any way he could have
seen Vincent when he came to her balcony, followed him perhaps? Or the day
she'd met with the Duffys at the perimeter of the park, could he have followed
her and thereafter kept an eye on the couple, even followed Kanin when he met
with them? And how had the Duffys been admitted to the tunnels--through the
culvert or some other secret entrance where they might have been followed? She
made a mental note to ask them next time she went below.
None of the possibilities seemed
likely. The man could hardly be so many places at once, and she began to hope
that he'd show up again--at her office, the apartment--anywhere she might
typically go in the city. Only then could she be sure he hadn't stumbled on any
knowledge of that other world. They were so close now. There was so much to
lose, and they had so carefully pared away the most perilous aspects of the
life they tried to share. To find the secret compromised at this point--to
somehow be the cause of that--was too cruelly ironic.
She actually felt relieved when
she picked him out, hovering around a small knot of people at the bus stop
across from her apartment, when she set out for work the next day. Attaboy,
John, she thought, just stay where I can see you, and we'll all have nothing to
worry about. For a moment she considered crossing the street and speaking to
him. What would he do? Dr. Stratton had said he was impressionable. With a
little well-placed charm she might be able to disarm him totally, commiserate
with him about their mutual friend Steven and his unfortunate delusions.
Why, yes, she imagined herself
saying, Steven's descriptions are so colorful. I even persuaded a friend of
mine to design a Halloween costume based on his imaginary monster. You saw us?
. . . You're kidding! Isn't
On second thought, it seemed best
to pretend she wasn't aware of John McConnell at all. As long as he thought she
was oblivious to his spying, she could make certain he saw only what it was
safe for him to see. He would have no reason to suspect she led any life other
than the one that was played out so publicly every day, and sooner or later he
was bound to tire of the game.
Asthe week wore on and McConnell
continued to turn up like a faithful dog, she relaxed a little. The Murdock
trial was at last over, and she had nothing more pressing in front of her than
a heavily belabored brief written by one of the interns. As she studied it,
making comments in the margins like a fussy schoolteacher, she wondered if her
own first efforts had been this overwrought.
"Cathy, Joe said to nix your
phone calls so you could have some peace, but I think this one's personal--a
Jenny Aronson?"
"That's fine, Charlene--put
her through."
She continued to skim the page in
front of her as she picked up the phone. Jenny's familiar greeting was a
welcome relief from reporters asking the same questions over and over again, as
if no one had thought to ask them before.
"How's it going, Cath?
Whatcha been up to?"
She considered the possible
replies. Well, let's see. I've had a couple of sessions with a would-be
sorceress, I helped some street people relocate into the bowels of the earth,
and I've made wild, unbelievably fulfilling love with the man of my dreams.
Instead she said, "The Murdock trial's over. We won."
"You did! That's great? When
did this happen?"
"Around
"And I'll bet your picture
will be on the news tonight."
"Oh, joy." Catherine
frowned at the brief. Surely, the word "heinous" had never gotten
such a work out.
"Don't slough it off, Cathy.
Public recognition can't hurt your career any. Some people would die for that
kind of visibility."
"Some people would kill for
it, too, Jen. I just don't happen to be one of them. Depredation is spelled
'p-r-e,' isn't it?”
"Uh-huh. What are you
worried about--you always look great on camera. Now, me--I don't know why, but
my pictures remind me of those animals in National Geographic--just after
they've been blasted with a tranquilizer gun? Kind of shocked and not half
bright."
"That's not true, Jen,"
she grinned. "Why do I get the feeling you're not real busy today?"
"It is a little slow,"
her friend admitted. "Am I keeping you from anything?"
"Just terminal boredom. I'm
glad you called."
"Well, I'm serious about the
publicity. Who knows? You could end up with
"Not to mention his
ulcers," Catherine said without enthusiasm.
"I guess--but just think of
the fun you could have being Joe's boss."
She conceded that the
possibilities were interesting.
"But why stop there, Cath?
This town could use a woman mayor. A little feminine sensitivity would do
wonders to cut the wrangling at City Hall. Somebody who'd have the priorities
straight. You know, get the criminals off the street, help the homeless, put
panty hose dispensers in public rest rooms. It has a nice ring, don't you
think--Madame Mayor?"
"I'm afraid I've never had
any desire to be a mayor, Jen--or a madame either for that matter."
"You are woefully lacking in
ambition,
That's what you think, she thought
wryly. You wouldn't believe the ambition I have in mind or the obstacle I'm
willing to take on to get it. In fact, she had never felt so focused in her
life, so gut-sure of what she wanted. "So what's going on with you, Jen?
How's Michael?"
"He's terrific, and I've
done something rash. I just couldn't see any other way around it."
"What?" After finding
the word "intransigent" three times, spelled three different ways,
she no longer had the slightest idea which one, if any, was correct.
"I gave up my apartment. It
just seemed stupid to sign another lease, when I knew we'd eventually move in
together. We're going to look for a place this weekend."
"That's exciting, Jen. When
do you have to move out?"
"Well, that's the
problem--already have. My landlord agreed to keep my stuff in storage--for a
small fee. I was wondering if it would be all right if I stayed with you till
we found something."
Catherine's pencil came to an
abrupt halt on the page. Her divided attention coalesced with a sense of
dismay, and the silence must have seemed pointed.
"Don't hesitate to say no.
Cath, if it's not convenient. There are other people I could ask. You were just
the first one I thought of."
And why shouldn't she? They were
best friends. They had roomed together in college and had a great time, and as
far as Jenny knew, she lived the life of a monk. Wistfully, she felt another
option for privacy going down the tubes. "Of course, Jen. You know you're
always welcome."
"It won't be for long--a
couple of weeks at the most. I'll just crash on your couch, and I won't even be
there half the time. Michael and I won't try to turn the place into a love nest
or anything like that."
"That's okay, Jen. I don't
think it's destined to be love nest material. You want to come by after work?"
"If you don't mind. I really
appreciate this, Cath. Think of it this way--you'll be helping the course of
true love to run smooth."
Catherine had good reason to
dispute that argument, but she kept it to herself.
John McConnell was across the
street looking through a newspaper--or pretending to--when she headed for home.
She spotted him again two hours later when she went down to help Jenny with her
bags. He was huddled in a bench over by the park, and as the evening sky
released a cold, persistent drizzle, she wasn't sure whether to feel sorry for
him or to be glad that he was getting what he deserved.
Jenny fully intended to be a
considerate guest. She'd stopped for groceries along the way, and the two of
them fixed dinner in the tiny kitchen, bumping into each other as they had in
the old days, laughing at memories they shared. There was something nostalgic
about the coziness with the rain pattering softly on the windows. Catherine
sensed that Jenny felt it too.
They might never again have the
chance to recreate the closeness they had once shared. Jenny's life had already
taken a decisive turn, and if she couldn't know that Catherine, too, had her
eyes fixed on another horizon, there was still an unspoken knowledge that they
might not ever spend time together quite like this again.
The crackling of flames in the
fireplace mocked the dreary sound of the rain. In the living room the two of
them curled up with wine glasses and the classified sections of several papers
that Jenny had bought to check out the coverage of the Murdock trial. They were
having a good time interpreting the euphemistic descriptions of rental
properties--"vw," Jenny said, probably meant you had to share the
place with a Volkswagen--and Catherine might have been content if it weren't
for the ache of longing that had predictably increased with the time since
she'd seen him.
He probably wouldn't have come
tonight anyway with the chill rain making the already dangerous journey more
perilous. Did he know she wasn't alone? She tried not to sound too eager when
an ad seemed to answer Jenny's requirements, but she wasn't sure how long she
could hide her longing under the day-to-day observation of a concerned friend.
They found several possibilities that might be worth following up on Saturday
when Jenny and Michael intended to begin their search in earnest.
"It's almost time for the
news," her house guest announced out of the blue. "Who do you think
will have the best coverage?"
"I don't know, Jen. To tell
you the truth, I'd just as soon skip it. There must be something else on."
"Really, Cath, you could
stand to exercise your ego a little."
"Why?"
"Well, without a strong ego,
you'd have your id--you know all those wild, instinctive impulses--running
smack up against your superego--the part with all the impossibly high ideals.
You'd go nuts trying to keep them in line."
"Either that or turn out
close to perfect," Catherine said with a cryptic smile. "It's a good
thing you're not dating a neurosurgeon--you'd probably insist I have a CAT
scan."
"Oh, no, your brain's just
fine, Cath. That's why you could stay ahead of Murdock's lawyers. Maybe you
don't want to gloat about it, but I do."
She hopped up and turned on the
TV, which showed them a picture of emaciated figures against a cracked, desert
landscape. The scene changed--to a flooded village where survivors clung to the
floating debris that had been their homes--and then to a woman under some kind
of bizarre assault. This last she finally recognized as herself, surrounded by
reporters, all pushing their microphones into her face.
She watched dispassionately, as
her image walked with confident strides down the corridor of the courthouse
until the bristling band gathering around blocked her way. Some women eschewed
high heels as too frivolous for a professional look, but she weighed that
against the psychological advantage of the additional height they gave her and
thought it was a good choice. They allowed her to attain eye-level with at
least some of her challengers.
The dark suit looked serious
enough for the occasion. Her hair swooped forward, with no evidence of tortuous
styling, to soften her naturally strong jaw line. Her mother had said that was
a gift from Grandfather Chandler, a man so noted for his obstinacy that some of
his adversaries called him "bulldog."
Somehow that had done nothing to
raise the confidence of an anxious adolescent, as she'd studied herself in the
mirror, thinking her mouth was too big, her eyes too pale to justify the label
of "pretty" that she'd accepted without thought all her life. She
didn't look at all like Adrianne who had vivid blue eyes, fringed with long
dark lashes, or Kelly with her cute freckles and turned-up nose. There were no
signs that she would ever attain the willowy grace of her friend Sara, and
Jennifer Farr complained constantly to the other girls that her mother was
always having to take her shopping for new and bigger bras. It couldn't seem
like a problem Cathy Chandler would ever have to face, but boys proved
mysteriously oblivious to her shortcomings, and the brief period of insecurity
had died a natural death.
"You look terrific,
Cathy," Jenny enthused, as if racking up points for beauty was a
requirement of jurisprudence. She knew there would be similarly unbiased
comments yet to come, but a knock on the door drew her away from her
self-appointed cheerleader. She slid back the bolt, keeping the chain in place,
and opened it, wondering who would show up at this hour.
Zach stood in the hallway,
grinning at her. "Excuse me, ma'am. I'm selling magazine subscriptions. If
you order something, it will help send a boy to camp."
Catherine released the chain to
open the door wider, just to be sure he knew she was not alone, but from the
look in his eye, he was already into the masquerade. "What camp?" she
challenged with a conspiratorial smile.
"What . . . oh, uh . . .
Camp
"Sounds unusual. How many
magazines do I have to buy?"
"Just one. I mean, we give
you one--as a free sample. You can decide the rest later." He thrust a
roll of paper into her hand.
"Well, thank you very much.
Isn't it raining out there?"
"No, it stopped. I have to
go now."
"Yes, well be careful."
She winked at him and shut the door, unrolling the magazine. The Saturday
Evening Post, June, 1955. Thank God, she hadn't had to tackle Father's
periodical collection. Flipping through, she spotted the ivory paper that she'd
known would be there somewhere, and trying not to look as pleased as she felt
went back to join Jenny on the couch.
"You missed the whole thing,
Cath."
"That's okay. I was there,
remember?"
"Well, you were just
right--very professional, very poised--real mayoral material, if you don't mind
my saying so. What was that--someone selling subscriptions--in the middle of
the night?"
"Best time to catch people
at home, I guess. It's been a long one, Jen. I think I'll call it a day."
She had to help her guest make up
the folding bed before she could escape to the bedroom with the ancient
magazine and draw out the sheet of paper. He knew she had company. How she
wasn't sure. Had he ventured out even in the dismal rain? And what might have
happened had Jenny not been here? Would the weather have been the excuse they
needed to finally go inside? She thought of the fire, blazing cozily in the
fireplace, looked at the bed that seemed suddenly so much wasted space and
wondered how long they could cope with the status quo. Her need for him was absolute.
It was impossible now to separate the simple longing to be with him from the
sensual rhythm that thrummed along the bond. But his note said he would meet
her tomorrow night below the building, and she couldn't help hoping against
hope that he might have modified his views on the proper treatment of beloved
books.
***
The next day she scarcely left
her desk at all. It seemed most of what she needed to learn lately could come
from the endless stacks of papers or the telephone. A restless energy was building
up. Some of it could be attributed to the sedentary work and some, she knew, to
the wish, the need, to reconnect with the other half of herself.
For weeks now she had been going
over the details in her mind--how it could work, what she would need to do to
make it happen, and gradually it had all fallen into place. The myriad pieces
made up a stunning and irresistible design in her own mind, one she was eager
to execute, but he had to be able to see it, too, and she had no idea how to
get him to look.
She thought if she raised the
possibility when they were together tonight, he would likely turn it aside. How
long could he do that? How long before he recognized the sincerity of her
decision? He was so deeply touched by her acceptance, her love. The relief that
had washed over him when he realized she could share even his darkest moments
had been worth every bad moment they'd ever been through together.
That was the problem, she
decided. He was so in awe of what he considered her generosity and selflessness
that he was in danger of seeing everything she did as motivated by the same
qualities. He was bound to view the choice she'd made as yet another instance
of unselfishness, and it was a line he would not allow her to cross. So how to
convince him that there was so much more to it than that?
She still hadn't come up with an
answer when she left the building. It felt good to be free, to be hurrying down
the steps into the early darkness, despite the frigid wind that was threatening
rain again. Would it be better to duck down into the subway entrance and
squeeze into an overcrowded train or risk trying to find a cab in the rush hour
traffic before the storm broke? While she tried to make up her mind, she was
almost unconsciously scanning the street for the familiar sight of John
McConnell, and it filled her with a peculiar sense of dread when she failed to
find him.
"Hey,
"You want a ride home?"
"Is that strictly
kosher?" She had already noted the unmarked police car, flaunting its
precious permit, at the curb.
"I'm going off duty.
Besides--you're an officer of the court . . . and the price is right."
"Sold," she grinned, as
he unlocked the passenger door and she slid inside. The subway probably would
have been faster, she thought, as they pulled into heavy traffic, but not
nearly as comfortable. It was still almost three hours until she could meet
Vincent, and Jenny had told her she'd be out late tonight.
"You remember a guy named
John Herman, Cathy? Captain--worked the Carol Stabler murder?"
"Mm. My first shining moment
with the DAs office. I remember. Didn't he retire shortly after that? I heard
he had heart problems."
"He retired from the force,
but you know what these lifers are like. They don't let go that easy. He's been
playing armchair detective ever since. It seems he's put together some kind of
weird conspiracy theory, involving a whole string of unrelated cases. A lot of
them were ones that you worked on."
"If he's retired, how does
he get his information?" She didn't really care, but the question helped
mask the anxiety that had crept over her at Greg's pronouncement. Safety in
this world was only an illusion. Just as you thought you could breathe easy,
something would happen to stir up the waiting panic again.
"Are you kidding? Thirty
years on the force--he can call in a lot of markers. Nobody's going to think
twice about letting him in on what's happening. He's probably got plenty of
guys picking his brains."
"Well, what is it, Greg,
that he finds so interesting about those cases?"
"Casualties, Cathy. Bodies
turning up with real strange injuries--like they'd been mauled by some kind of
animal. You must have noticed."
"I remember something like
that in a few cases," she conceded carefully, glad that the darkness in
the car prevented him from noticing how pale she must be. Her hands twisted in
her lap. "But it was never directly related to what I was working on. What
does Herman think it means?"
"Who knows," Greg
shrugged, wheeling around a bus that was coughing more pollutants into the
heavy air. The rain had started to fall. "All I know is he's got some bee
in his bonnet about it, and since your name appears in some of those files, I
thought you should know."
She began to wonder if it was
only a coincidence that she'd run into Greg on the steps. "Well, I should
think the explanation would be obvious to anyone with his experience."
"Oh, yeah?" He shot her
a surprised look. "So what's your theory?"
"Do you remember the subway
slasher, Greg? That was long about the same time that Carol Stabler was killed."
"Our lovable folk
hero," Greg said sardonically. "How could I forget? It was a shame in
a way. The Protectors weren't all bad, but nobody trusted them after it came
out about Jason Walker."
"They never found him, Greg."
"You think he's responsible
for all this? I don't know,
"That's just what he'd want
people to think after his respectable cover was blown, but you remember the
kind of weapons that were confiscated. It fits."
"I don't know. The guy was
an egomaniac in his own way--strutting around town, giving interviews. He liked
to hear himself talk. It's hard to imagine him settling for a life of
anonymity, taking the risks he must be taking to wipe out the scum."
"At least it's only scum
that's been wiped out." She felt compelled to drive that point home.
"Well, it's an interesting
thought,
Too late, she saw the pit that
her reasoning had opened up. The Protectors had stuck together at the time,
claiming total ignorance of their leader's extracurricular activities--and his
fate--but if pushed to the wall, someone might break. Someone might say a
little too much about what had really happened. "You know, there's another
possibility, Greg."
"Wait a minute." The
radio had been chattering all along. Greg had turned it down, but as a
conscientious cop he couldn't bring himself to turn it off, and the 415 had
caught his attention. "That's just a couple of blocks up. You mind if we
swing by there?"
"No, go ahead." She
knew he was thinking that in the knotted traffic, made worse now by a steady
downpour, it could take the nearest patrol car a few minutes to get there, and
a few minutes could be crucial to someone's life.
"So what were you
saying?" he asked, edging out into the center lane.
"Just that it's
possible--with all the hype the slasher got, the way he captured the public's
imagination--that people might be consciously trying to duplicate his methods
in order to confuse the issue. The killings might not be related at all, but
the killers may have had the same idea--to push the blame on a mysterious
vigilante, someone who doesn't exist."
"You must have given this a
lot of thought,
"No, not really."
Actually, the idea had come out of left field, but it suited her purposes very
well.
"It's no wonder we don't
always see eye-to-eye with you judicial types. Cops think in straight lines.
Lawyers look for the damnedest convoluted logic."
"I won the Murdock
case," she reminded him with a smile.
"Yeah, that you did. I'm not
saying it's not worth considering--just that it's not the kind of theory your
average cop's going to come up with."
"Well, it might be nice if
you pass it on to Herman before he sets anyone off on a wild goose chase at the
taxpayers' expense."
"I'll do that."
She had done what she could to
cloud the issue, but the knowledge did nothing to quell her unease. No matter
what precautions they took in the future, the past could still arise to
jeopardize everything. Any day she could look up to see John Herman bearing down
on her, demanding she explain the string of unsolved killings that wound
through her case files. Vincent had been safe until she entered his life.
Whatever else their love had given him, it had also given him vulnerability.
Acknowledging that made her feel almost sick with fear.
The car lurched to a stop in a
no-parking zone. Through the rain-washed windshield she could see a narrow,
modern apartment complex. She recognized it at once. "Greg--what was the
apartment number?"
He was already out of the car,
being pelted with rain. "8C."
"I'm going with you."
She scooted across the seat and followed him up the front stoop. "It's on
the second floor."
He didn't slow down or ask her
how she knew that. She'd been here before-- months ago, trying to convince a
mother to file charges against the husband that had abused her little girl. Joe
had said Greenwald was in custody--that he was doing time for extortion. Was it
just a coincidence that there'd be a domestic disturbance call from the same
address?
The door to 8C was ajar, and
there was no response to Greg's shout. Gun drawn, he pushed the door back as
far as it would go. It was very quiet. "Wait here," he said and
disappeared inside. Her hands were clammy, her heart beating fast. She had the
sense that there was something terribly wrong in the world.
"Cathy . . . can you come in
here?"
Her legs felt strangely numb as
she crossed the tiles in the entry way, the thick blue carpeting of the living
room. Greg was standing at the bedroom door. "You don't need to see . . .
it's a kid . . . a little girl. She's been beaten."
"You mean . . . she's
dead?" The blood was rushing to her nerveless feet, leaving her
dangerously light-headed. "I don't understand."
There were some things that even
seasoned detectives found hard to handle. Greg swallowed, as he put his hands
on her shoulders. "I need you to make a call, Cathy. Get a team down here.
Can you do that? I've got to talk to the neighbor that called this in."
She nodded mutely, and he took
off at a run. For a moment she thought she should go into the bedroom. Maybe he
was wrong. Maybe the child wasn't really dead. The image of a little girl with
a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes rose before her as clearly as when she'd
visited here months ago. No, he must have been sure. Her stomach was churning,
and she forced herself to turn to the phone, grateful to have some purpose.
Greg appeared again, as she was
hanging up. "They're on their way."
"The mother, Cathy," he
said grimly. "Lady downstairs heard the commotion. Said it was worse than
usual--the kid's screams. Right after she phoned, she saw Mrs. Greenwald
hailing a cab. She had a suitcase with her. Listen, I'm going to have to make some
more calls, put out an APB. There's no reason for you to stay."
"Okay," she nodded
weakly. She didn't want to stay. She wanted to run from the horrific reminder
of how fallible the justice system really was, how fallible she was. It had
never occurred to her to suspect the mother. She had prided herself on the gut
feeling she'd had about the husband. And all along the child had been in the
care of her tormenter.
She found herself on the street
with no memory of coming down the stairs. Rain was beating down, but its
coldness was no worse than the one inside her body. When the taxi appeared, she
ran for it automatically, huddling in the back seat, barely able to give her
address.
The seat was frigid. A chill
draft blew through all the sprung joints of the doors and windows as they
rattled through the wet streets. The lights of the city, that had so often
seemed cheerful and beautiful, twisted and distorted in the drops that snaked
down the windows. Through the prism of rain, the city revealed its sinister
beauty, like the image in a fun house mirror. A car swerved in front of them,
and the cabbie cursed.
She turned from the bleak
scenery, but the images wouldn't go away. A tenacious police captain,
determined to interfere with something he couldn't possibly understand. Mrs.
Greenwald refusing her efforts to get her to testify against her husband, while
a little, blue-eyed girl sat looking up at her. McConnell dogging her steps as
if he had some right to attach himself to her life. "Take the
She needed the symbolic
reassurance of his existence, needed to try and catch a glimpse of the bridge
above the culvert through the rain-blurred windows. But as the taxi splashed
down the winding park road, she felt no comfort. The closer they drew to the
spot that should have calmed her turmoil with its reminder of security, the
more she felt the panic gathering in her stomach. It was more than that; a fine,
icy thread was winding through every vein, a sense of desolation so complete
that she couldn't put a name to it.
And suddenly she knew with deadly
certainty that it was more than her own. Dread echoed through the emptiness and
came back to her again making it hard to breathe. McConnell--why hadn't he been
outside the building when she left the office tonight? Another image rose up
before her eyes--Zach smiling in the doorway last night, enjoying their little
subterfuge. Zach saying the rain had stopped, returning through the park,
perhaps followed by Steven's friend who, after all, had hours before he would
need to watch her departure for work the next morning.
"Let me out here."
"Yeah, right." The
cabbie took her breathless command as some new form of humor.
"I mean it--stop the car."
Obliging, he floored the wet
brakes. They screamed in protest. "What are you nuts, lady?"
She thrust a twenty at him, and
plunged out into the rain. He hadn't bothered to pull into the curb, but there
was no other traffic, and she dashed across the darkened roadway and the
deserted sidewalk, half sliding down the slope with its treacherous coating of
soggy leaves. She gained the shelter of the drain pipe, following the thin
trickle of water that bisected it, toward an ominous darkness at the other end.
Her mind had disconnected.
Adrenaline alone forced her forward. The wild pumping of her heart sent a mad
rush to her ears as she rounded the corner, and she registered no shock at what
she saw there--the dark shape stretched along the ground, the impossibly wide
pool of blood, darker still, as if considerable time had passed since it had
poured across the dirt floor.
At an objective distance, far
removed from the horror before her, some faculty continued to take note of details--the
utter stillness of the body, the way the fringe at his shoulder had dipped into
the grisly pool, soaking up the blood like wicks, the scream that rang so
shrilly against the barren walls.
When had the structure of the
world begun to slip? It seemed important to remember, if she could pinpoint the
exact moment that the first crack had appeared, it might be possible to go
back, to shore it up before everything collapsed. Was it the moment when the
truth of her arrogance about a little girl's safety had hit home? When the
specter of the past had risen to remind her that she carried the seeds of his
destruction? Or had it gone unnoticed--when she had failed to see the
significance in McConnell's sudden absence?
No answers came, and she
staggered under the weight of the questions, sinking to her knees beside the
still form. There was no life here, none except her own, oddly detached now,
yet fear continued to wash over her in noxious waves. It was as if she saw it
all through a glaze of murky waters--the lifeless body beneath a shroud of
ebony, the puddle of blood that was stagnant now, the yellow light slicing
through the opening portal to cast him in silhouette as he froze there, his
hair a bright nimbus from which she couldn't look away.
She could only stare at him,
unable to process any further reaction at all. "Catherine!" His voice
was choked, but he rushed toward her, clearing the macabre obstacle in one long
stride to pull her to her feet. There was little of his usual tenderness in the
way he crushed her to him. His heart thudded beneath her ear. "Catherine,
I felt from you such terror . . . such despair . . . I thought. . ."
She clutched at his vest and gave
in to the hysterical tears. "Oh, God, Vincent, I was so scared . . .
everything was falling apart . . . and then the emptiness . . . and I knew he
must have found this place . . . "
It didn't seem to matter that her
words made little sense. She was here, safe in his arms, and it was enough to
vanquish the fear she had seen in his face as he'd appeared in the doorway. She
could feel the calming strength in the hands that soothed her hair as he
absorbed the storm of her weeping, the low crooning sounds as he sought to
comfort her.
Just days ago they had stood in
the Whispering Gallery, and for the first time he had dared to let her share
his pain. She had felt strong then, invincible, unspeakably grateful that he
had taken the unprecedented step, and now she was unashamedly clinging to him,
her own strength depleted.
"It's ugly out there,"
she sobbed. "We pretend that it's beautiful . . . that we can fix it . . .
but there's always something . . . trying to destroy it all. The little girl .
. . and they could hunt you down because of me . . . and this . . . oh, God,
for a minute I thought it could be you."
"I should see who it
is," he said softly. He gave her a reassuring look, steady with his own
courage, and released her to crouch beside the lifeless form. She closed her
eyes, still shaking, and for the second time tonight stood by while someone
else looked on the face of death, but her reticence could not quiet the nagging
sense that somehow she should have been able to keep this from happening.
He rose and picked up the
innocuous rock that held the secret to communicating with the world below. She
couldn't follow the lengthy message he tapped out at all, couldn't fix on
anything but the solidity of his presence as he turned to take her in his arms
again.
"Who . . . who is it?"
"It's impossible to tell . .
. a man . . . dressed in the clothing of your world."
"It could have been you. I
know who did this. I know it was John McConnell. It's you he's been looking
for, if you had come here to meet me. . . or look at the stars . . . or . . .
" Hysteria was rising again.
"Catherine, I've sent for
someone to deal with this. I'm going to take you below, where it's warm and
safe. You can tell me everything there."
"I want to go below. I don't
ever want to come back. I don't want to go out in those streets again."
He said nothing. She knew she
sounded irrational, but his arm came around her, and he steered her past the
grisly reminder that rationality was an elusive commodity in her world. The
metal door slid shut behind them, and though she was still crying quietly, she
didn't miss his sigh of relief as safety closed around them.
Her steps faltered, but he didn't
offer to carry her. Perhaps he hoped the simple act of walking would help to
dissipate her turmoil. Everything . . . she'd tell him everything. For now it
was enough to have his strong arm around her, his silent solicitude washing
over her with every glance. The tears were under control when they encountered
Kipper near the second level, but her eyes must be red and swollen. The boy
looked at her anxiously, at a loss for how to react.
"What . . . what's the
matter, Vincent? Can I do anything?"
"There's nothing to worry
about, Kipper, but yes. Could you run ahead to Father's chamber and ask him for
some brandy? Tell him it's for Catherine."
"Sure--I'll bring it to your
chamber." He took off at a run, and when at last they reached the
entrance, he was already waiting, a dusty, leather-bound jug in his hands.
"Father wants to know if there's anything he can do."
"No . . . Thank you for your
help, Kipper," Vincent said, taking the jug. "Tell him Catherine and
I wish to be alone."
Inside, he removed her coat. It
smelled wet and musty, and she was glad to be rid of it. Her other clothes were
dry, but she was still shivering, as he guided her to the bed. The blanket he
chose to wrap around her was the same one she'd worn that night--made by the
Navahos who knew the world was not a perfect place.
That brought a first tentative
smile, and he returned it, though his eyes were somber. Taking an ornate
chalice from the shelf, he filled it, placed it in her hands, and pulled a
chair around so that he could sit facing her.
Obediently, she took a drink and
then another, unsure whether the brandy was responsible for steadying her or
whether she owed it all, to his comforting presence as he sat waiting with
unruffled patience for her to finish. He didn't speak again until she had.
"Tell me," he said quietly.
She began with an account of John
McConnell and his persistent presence. "It didn't frighten me, Vincent. I
got used to him being there, and then tonight--when he wasn't, I didn't think
much of it, until I realized he might have followed Zach to the park entrance.
I was feeling such fear . . . such a coldness. It seemed more than my own, and
I was terrified that something had happened to you."
"Catherine, I was fearful
for you as well. Is it possible that--somehow you felt that, even if you didn't
fully understand its meaning?"
"I think it is," she
nodded. "Vincent, ever since . . . ever since we first made love, I'm
feeling more and more as if I can sense your emotions, the way you've always
known mine."
"Almost as if we were
one," he said reflectively.
"I'm glad about that, but I
guess I'm not too adept yet at interpreting what it means. It never occurred to
me that we were . . . well, feeding on each other's fear."
"But it was some time
earlier when I first sensed your turmoil. Long before you arrived at the park."
She sighed heavily.
"Everything seemed to start falling apart right after I left the office
tonight. All the rules, all the certainties. Things I thought I had under
control. There's a police captain who's been studying unsolved killings. A lot
of them involving cases I've worked on. I tried to throw up a smoke screen, but
just the idea that someone could still be interested in all those closed files,
that they might start looking for you . . . because of me. . . "
"Not because of you,
Catherine. What I've done, I've done out of my own need to protect you. You
were not to blame."
"I think that's open to
debate," she said with a melancholy smile. "But it was awful,
suddenly feeling that--no matter how things have changed--our love has still
put you in danger."
"They would never find
me," he said, taking the empty goblet from her grasp. He placed it on the
table and she slid her hands into his. "Go on."
Her lips began to tremble as she
described what had happened at the Greenwald residence. "A helpless little
girl, Vincent. No older than Gina. I had the chance to help her, to prevent
this, and I was so sure I knew what I was doing, so sure the father was hiding
something that I never looked at any other possibility. I was careless."
"You were mistaken." He
shared her horror for the worst of all possible crimes, her sadness for a child
he'd never seen. It was there in his eyes, but so was his sadness for her.
"No one could care more than you, Catherine, but caring does not make us
any less fallible . . . only more human."
She couldn't let go of the
self-recrimination. "If I had listened to you--about Steven Bass--a man
would still be alive. He's out there, Vincent. McConnell is still out there,
and obviously Dr. Stratton was wrong about him. Nobody is safe. Anyone who
tries to leave the tunnels--"
"No one is likely to go out
for now, Catherine--in the rain."
There was a timid summons from
the doorway, and Vincent stood calling out permission to enter. For once the
interruption struck her as neither humorous nor maddening. Her emotions felt
raw, battered by the night's events. The good fortune that had been theirs for
so long seemed suddenly to have run out.
She recognized the young man who
entered now, though she didn't know him well. His name was David, and he was
dressed in a heavy sheepskin vest splattered with rain. His dark hair was wet,
plastered to his head. He looked pale but determined.
"I thought you'd want to
know, Vincent. We moved the . . . the body out into the park up near the road.
We were very careful. It's all been cleaned up."
"Did you see anyone?"
"No, not a soul. We looked
through the man's pockets--to see if there was anything to identify him, but
there wasn't. Whoever killed him would have taken his wallet. I guess, if he
had one."
For the first time Catherine
noticed the wad of wet fabric the boy was twisting in his hands. "What is
that?" she said, suddenly alert.
"Oh. . . it's a scarf. It
fell off when we were dragging him out of the tunnel. We didn't notice it till
we came back in. Is it important? Do you think we should have taken it out and
put it on him again?"
"It doesn't matter,"
Vincent assured him, laying a hand on the young man's shoulder, acutely aware
that his duties this night had been more than anyone should have to bear.
But Catherine was still staring
at the plaid wool, its fringe now stiff with blood. "Wait . . . when you
searched the body, did you notice . . . The coat he was wearing, was it lined
with the same material as the scarf?"
David looked at her, surprised.
"Yes, it was."
"What does this mean,
Catherine?" Vincent turned to her, instantly aware that she had found
significance in a detail that was meaningless to him.
"I think I know who he
is," she said, staring at him wide-eyed. This night seemed destined for
changing realities, toppling preconceptions. "I think it's John McConnell."
The name meant nothing to the
sentry who suddenly looked very young and very weary.
"Thank you for your help
tonight, David, and--please, thank the others as well. You should get some
rest."
David nodded gratefully and left
the chamber still twisting the gruesome scarf in his hands, as if he didn't
know a decent way to get rid of it.
"McConnell wore a scarf like
that, and the coat had a matching lining," she said when he'd gone.
"Then perhaps he was never
the danger to us that you feared. He might have come here in hopes of finding
me . . . perhaps followed Zach last night, but there may have been no harm in
his intent."
"Who could have killed him?"
Vincent shook his head. "The
blanket that covered him . . . someone must have been taking shelter there--one
of the homeless people, one who was not willing to share his discovery."
"So he wasn't a murderer . .
. only another victim. Still, if he hadn't become so obsessed with me--with
Steven's stories . . . "
"Catherine." He had
returned to the chair, facing her, taking her hands again. "It's useless
to blame yourself. This man chose to insinuate himself into your life . . .
into our lives. We can mourn that choice and the terrible thing that was done
to him, but I sense in you tonight a willingness to take on responsibilities .
. . which are not yours."
"Whose responsibilities are
they, Vincent? Sometimes it seems like everything's out of control--that nobody
can really affect anything."
We can only be responsible for
ourselves, Catherine--and offer help to those who are willing to take it."
"Yes," she said. It was
time she took responsibility for her own life. This night had demonstrated
clearly how fragile the certainties really were. The most carefully constructed
frameworks could collapse without notice. There was no time to play life like a
game. "I meant what I said, Vincent. I don't want to go back there."
She was looking directly into his eyes, clear and blue, full of encouragement,
and it would have been impossible to say what gave her the impression that he
had winced.
"Catherine," he said
slowly. "I know what you're feeling. I felt it, too. When I saw you
tonight . . . that you were unharmed . . . I had no other thought but to hold
you and to keep on holding you . . . to bring you here and protect you . . . no
matter what. You were afraid as well, it's only natural that you wish to escape
a place that has held so much tragedy for you tonight . . . but later . . . you
will want to go back."
She heard him out and felt a calm
settling over her like the ones she sometimes knew in the courtroom, when the
nervousness fell away and there was only the sense that the truth would
prevail. "You may know what I'm feeling, Vincent, but you don't know what
I'm thinking--what I have been thinking for a very long time now."
This time there was no mistaking
his unease. He lowered his gaze, and she could feel the energy beginning to
churn through him, the reflexive instinct to remove himself from potential danger.
She half expected him to leap from the chair and find some excuse for physical
activity. She tightened her grip on his hand.
He could have extricated himself
easily enough, and she had no doubt that he knew her tenaciousness signaled a
larger purpose, but he took a deep breath and met her eyes again. "Take
care, Catherine, that what you say will still be true when the crisis has
passed, that it is your mind speaking as well as your heart."
"You've always told me to
follow my heart, Vincent," she reminded him with a smile. "And I've
done that. It just took my mind a while to catch up. When I first came here, it
seemed that my whole life had collapsed. I wanted to build a new one--one that
had more meaning, one where I could make a difference. That was hard for me. It
meant giving up activities and attitudes I'd always taken for granted, and
learning to deal with hard work and a lot of ugliness I'd never had to look at
before . . . even failure."
"And great success, as
well." He was listening to her. Despite the slight reserve in his
manner,his eyes never left her face.
"For everything I had to
give up, for all the new things I had to experience, there was still so much
that stayed the same. I still had my apartment, more money than I knew what to
do with, my dad and old friends to turn to if I chose. I didn't even really
change professions--just shifted into another gear."
"You studied a long time,
Catherine. Those skills shouldn't be wasted."
"The point is that I had a
secure base under me when I decided to spread my wings. If anyone had suggested
that I make a complete break with the life I knew--say, in a place like this--I
would have been lost. I couldn't have done it. I mean, there wasn't even a
mirror in your chamber." She smiled at him in case he didn't recognize the
modest attempt at humor.
"The oversight's been
pointed out to me," he reminded her.
"It didn't just happen
overnight. Vincent--my learning to cope. There were a lot of stumbles before I
really had the confidence to fight the way I should, and in all that time, I
found less and less of the life I used to know being important to me."
"Because the work was
fulfilling."
"Yes . . . and because of
you."
She had loosened her grip on his
hand, but he didn't withdraw it, and now he brought his other hand to touch
hers gently. It always seemed to fascinate him--this contrast in their hands,
as if the sight of her slender fingers against his palm held all the mystery of
their dissimilar lives. "So much of what you left behind was because of
me, because of our secret."
"I know. And so much of my
strength came from you, but I'm trying--as much as possible--to look at the
situation aside from all that."
That seemed to surprise him. As
well it might. In her heart it was impossible to separate him and her love for
him from anything at all--from a single breath she took--but as long as he felt
her decision was based solely on her devotion to him, the stronger his
resistance was likely to be. It was his rationality she had to appeal to, which
was why she'd fought down every urge to slip into his arms.
The candlelight playing across
his face as he solemnly listened to her had made that difficult. It conspired
to point out the endlessly intriguing attraction of his unique features, unique
and hers--to caress, to kiss . . . She forced her attention back to the
rational. "I needed to have some familiarity in my life, some things that
were just as they'd always been in order to explore the rest, to find out what
was most important to me. I think of it now as a training ground. It made me
open my eyes and see the very best and worst in human nature. It taught me what
things are really worth fighting for in this life. It isn't the law I care so
passionately about, Vincent. It's the people it tries to protect. Without the
job, I don't think I would have seen that so clearly. I'm very glad I had the
chance to view my world from that perspective."
"It's your world, Catherine,
it's part of who you are."
"That's true, and it always
will be whether I choose to stay there or not, if I went to China . . . or the
moon . . . it would still be part of me, but it doesn't mean I have to cling to
it in order to know who I am."
"Are you thinking of going
to one of those places?"
It was a stalling tactic. She
dealt with them often enough to recognize it. A witness might see where the
questioning was headed and know that getting there was inevitable but still be
unable to resist the brief respite that came with a delay. "Well, I've already
been to
"That can be true of other
places as well."
"Only if you romanticize
them too much and fall to see the reality. I've seen the reality of your world,
Vincent. I've seen the hard work it takes to keep it livable. I've seen it
visited by violence, and illness and death. And I've seen the qualities that
make it so extraordinary--in the people, in the philosophy they live by. I've
watched it become a better place, because those who live here have a real stake
in its future."
"Surely, that's just as true
of the people who live in your world." His hand slipped easily from hers,
and he stood with a restless movement, finally crossing to a shelf where he
extracted a fresh candle from its teak box returning to the table to replace
the one that was burning low. Low, she thought, but not that low. The
transparent excuse didn't trouble her. In fact, she saw in his shattered
tranquility the first sign that her words were striking close to the heart of
his resistance.
"Many of the people feel
that . . . yes, but a lot think about nothing but themselves."
"That's all the more reason
that those who care--people like you. Catherine--are invaluable there."
"Oh, I'm not unique. There
are plenty of people who can do what I do. You'd be surprised how many
attorneys the universities turn out these days. There aren't enough jobs to go
around, and lots of young lawyers are committed to making things better."
"As you yourself are
committed," he said. He was still now, but the writing table was between
them, and she wondered if it gave him some illusory defense against the assault
of her argument. "Why do you say that there is not enough work for those
who want to help, when there is clearly so much to be done?"
"Money again. My world is
built on it. There are dedicated people, yes, but there isn't enough money
available to create positions for them."
"All that dedication . . .
wasted." His tone told her he despaired of ever understanding the world
that rejected him.
"It wouldn't be wasted here.
Dedication is valued in your world. Money is useless. I'm afraid, it's often
the opposite above."
"Yet you've helped so many."
"I suppose. It's hard to know
what happens to them down the lane. I want to keep helping people, yes, but I'm
not sure why I should be locked into one way of doing that. Do you remember the
journals I told you about that Jenny is editing? They tell an amazing story of
people who left their lives and everything they knew to move far away. They
were ordinary people, Vincent, but they were willing to start again--to help
build a new life and new ties--maybe even a better place than they had left,
because they could learn from past mistakes. It must have been incredibly
fulfilling to be part of that."
"Yes." It was the first
word of agreement she'd had from him, and it was followed immediately by
another display of agitation, one with which she'd become very familiar, as he
began a distracted pacing.
"This world is still so new,
Vincent. It's a frontier as surely as those long ago settlements in the west.
And there's something very challenging about that, a chance to help get things
right from the beginning instead of just trying to patch up the loopholes like
I do now. Up there the system is so entrenched, and most of it is right and
good, but the shortcomings are built in. Individuals tend to become symbols or
statistics. I want to deal with real people--directly. I want to be there to see
what happens in their lives down the road, and share that with them--whether
it's good or bad."
He had turned, looking at her,
but his expression was hard to read beyond the circle of candlelight. Despite
his need to move about the room, he still had a solid hold on his emotions. She
could feel the reticence that subverted the flow of his feelings to her.
"I'm tired of just popping
in here, trying to contribute in some small way as if this place was only
marginally important to me. It isn't, Vincent. It's worth so much more than
that. I want to be a real part of it, to do what I can to help it work. I want
the right to rise or fall with whatever comes. I'm strong enough to do that
now. You know, it's funny, I used to worry about running here when things got
too much above, but all the time I was doing the reverse as well. When there
was a problem here, I could just turn around and go to my nice normal life
above and pretend this place didn't exist."
"You've never done that,
Catherine," he said with conviction.
"Maybe not consciously, but
it was always there like a safety net. It's time I committed all my energies to
one place--one goal. I'm willing to learn the skills it takes to live here, and
I think I can contribute something. I'd love to help the children, Vincent.
They need as much love and attention as they can get, and there are things I
could do that no one else could. I know how the world works up there. There are
people I can call on for favors--to check out the topsiders who cross your
path--like the Duffys. I could meet openly with the helpers . . . ease the
transition for those who are ready to return to a life above . . . deal with
problems that concern both worlds. You know those come up, Vincent. You were
the one who pointed out we're all part of one great city. I can move with ease
up there--like a liaison." She was aware that she was already talking as
if her place were here.
"It isn't easy to stop
caring about the life you've always known. Are you so certain it wouldn't
trouble you to abandon a world you've fought so hard to help?"
He tossed that one over his
shoulder, as a part of her noted that even turned away from her he had the
power to arouse her most prurient interest, but it was a fact she was doing her
best to ignore. "I don't see it as abandonment, Vincent. Every time
someone raised here--like Michael or Laura--goes out into that world, they make
it a better place. Or the people who've only been here a short time-- because
they had to heal or regain their perspective. Each of them takes what they've
learned here and spreads it around up there. They're like seedlings, nurtured
in a safe place until they're strong enough to flourish even in the wilderness.
Who knows what someone like Kipper or Zach or Samantha or even Gina will contribute
someday? Helping that to happen could give to my world far more in the long run
than the limited job I do now."
He stopped at the table and
slowly turned the empty chalice. Firelight glanced off its burnished facets,
tin probably, but now it gleamed like silver. "You have people you care
for above," he said with a casualness that made her heart leap.
"I have people I care for
here, too."
He straightened, eyes meeting
hers briefly. His were bright and a very deep blue as they sometimes appeared
when he was concentrating intensely, but his voice was calm, almost
matter-of-fact. "You say that dedication is of little value up there
without money, but you have that as well, Catherine, and with it the power to
do great good."
"The interesting thing about
money is that its very impersonal. You're right, I do have quite a bit--or
access to quite a bit, but it doesn't really need me to do its work. It could
create jobs for many of those people who genuinely want to help. It could
support programs--for kids and women, the homeless. There are a lot of
different things it could do--with very little prompting from me.
"I took a lot of notes while
I was wading through the Murdock fiasco about what to do and what not to do--to
keep funding effective. Handled properly, that money can perpetuate itself for
a very long time. It can still be making a difference in lives up there--beyond
my lifetime. I have most of it planned out in my head. My father's lawyers can
help, and I have someone in mind who'd be the perfect go-between, someone with
my best interests at heart."
"Who, Catherine?" He
hadn't commented on the idea itself, jumping immediately to the relative
irrelevancy of who she could depend on to implement it, and she wondered if he
thought she meant Elliot.
"Peter Alcott. He's wanted
to do something to help me, to feel that he's honoring the memory of my
parents' friendship by being there for me. He would always know where to find
me if anything came up that needed my attention. I could be helping the world
up there in the language it best understands--money, and the one here in the
only currency that really counts, Vincent--caring and commitment."
"And what about your . . .
other dreams?"
"What other dreams?"
she asked and thought that if he dared to say one word about her getting
married and having some other man's children, she would launch herself at him
with such vehemence that the dark force coiled within him would never know what
hit it.
He glanced at her, his smile so
ironic that she thought he must have read her mind. "Whatever dreams you
might have had," he said equivocally.
She returned his smile, relieved
he hadn't resorted to an argument that would only have served as an insult to
them both. "Well, I certainly never dreamed of being anything but a small
cog in a big wheel, but here I could do things that would affect everyone in
the entire community. I could be essential, Vincent, in the way that everyone
here is essential to the well-being of your world. Not many people get a chance
like that anymore. Its the old pioneering spirit, and this is the place to put
it to work."
"You sound as if you've
given this a great deal of thought," he said cautiously.
"I have. Remember when you
told me that you would never interfere with a choice I made about my life?
Well, this is it. This is the choice I've made."
"Is there anything else?"
"That depends. Have I
convinced you? If not, I'll keep on going." His pacing had stopped, but he
remained slightly turned away from her. Neither his expression nor the free
flow of his feelings were accessible to her, and no words followed to indicate
how successful she'd been. "I don't suppose that it would be entirely up
to you anyway," she added, more to fill the silence than to address a real
concern. "The council would have to agree, wouldn't they--and Father? I
guess all I really need is to know whether I can count on your vote."
"The others would be quick
to accept your presence here, Catherine. I am perhaps the only one who would
insist on a condition."
"A condition?" She
wasn't at all sure that what he said about the others was true, but at the
moment it was a matter of monumental indifference. A condition. One tiny little
condition seemed suddenly all that stood between her and the answer to
impossible dreams. "What condition?"
"That if ever," he
said, turning to pin her with a fiercely intense look, "if ever you should
change your mind and long to return above . . . that you will do it,
Catherine--without hesitation, without guilt. You must promise me that."
She nodded, trying to look
appropriately solemn, knowing how sincerely he meant what he said, but it was
hard. The idea that in a thousand lifetimes she could ever long for any other
place when she could be at his side made her feel like laughing. So did the
sudden rush of his feelings flowing toward her. And the recognition that in
this moment the last obstacle had tumbled to dust made it hard not to cry.
So she did both--as she stood, as
he moved with sudden unleashed speed towards her and caught her up in his arms.
A shudder passed through him as the tension fell away, though his embrace was
almost crushing her, but she couldn't have cared less. After all, the lock she
had on him, as she wept joyfully into his hair, would have broken anyone else's
neck.
"Catherine . . . I never
dreamed you would feel this way."
"It is what I feel . . .
what I think . . . what I need," she smiled, framing his face with
trembling hands, soaking in the brilliant glow of his eyes. "Does this
mean you'll vote for me?"
"This means everyone will
vote for you," he promised.
That he'd see to that she had no
doubt, but she hoped it wouldn't require the kind of ultimatum he wouldn't stop
short of using. "No, really--do you think they'll understand my choice?"
"It's the job of the council
to recognize the truth. I'll simply tell them what you've told me."
"Oh, well in that case,
there is one small detail I left out of the argument-- for clarity's sake, you
understand, it's a little biased. You might not want to use it, but it is the
truth."
"What is it?" he asked,
though the way he was caressing her cheek told her he needed no further
ammunition to fight the battle.
"I also want to come here so
I can be with you every possible opportunity, every day and night for the rest
of my life, so I can love you and share whatever comes--your joy and pain, and
make you so happy that we won't be able to imagine how we ever lived apart. Do
you think that will impress them?"
"They might find it a little
less than objective," he admitted, "but it impresses me . . .
Catherine, I promise you . . . if this is what you want . . . I will live my
life trying to see that you never regret the things you left behind."
"No." Her fingers
touched his lips, parted with the fervent expression of his promise. "Just
live your life being you and let me share that, and I'll have left nothing behind
. . . nothing."
He kissed her then with all the
sweet sensuality they had denied themselves this evening, and she sighed
against him feeling as though she'd just swum to shore through some treacherous
current. His arm still around her, he pulled her down to sit beside him on the
bed, and she glanced at it wistfully.
"Wouldn't it be lovely to
celebrate?" she asked, knowing it wasn't necessary to define either what
they would be celebrating or the nature of the celebration itself.
"It would . . . it will be.
There will be time, Catherine, but we must be patient."
"I know. I want to start the
wheels in motion right away. I need to talk to Joe. I'll have to give him
two-weeks' notice, Vincent. And there's Jenny to deal with."
"That won't be easy for you."
"No, but it's far easier
than the alternative." Once the choice had been made, she was restless to
see it become reality. Fortunately, she had already planned most of it--who she
would need to call, what she would have to do to minimize the risks. "It's
going to be easier for me than it is for you. Do you think we should both go to
Father--confront him together?"
He shook his head. "No,
there are things to be settled far beyond the simple question of your wish to
live among us, issues that have their roots in the past, Catherine, in Father's
vision for me. They exist only between us."
"I understand. I don't envy
you that conversation, Vincent."
"It's long overdue. Please .
. . don't trouble yourself about it."
"I wish I could stay here
tonight--even in the guest chamber, but Jenny's moved in with me for a while.
She'll jump to the worst possible conclusions if I don't come home."
"She won't be far from
wrong. You were in danger tonight, Catherine, and whoever did this is still out
there. You must take great care until . . . until I can watch over you
myself." She smiled at the sense of wonder that crossed his face with the
realization that soon he could do just that.
"We've come this far. I
won't let anything get in the way now. I'm sorry-- about having someone staying
at the apartment. She's my friend. There was no way to refuse her, but it
complicates our chances of being alone together. She says she won't be there
all that much at night, but . . . "
"Catherine," he said
softly, stroking her hair. "As you say, we've come this far and soon I
plan to hold you in my arms . . . every night, all night, for as long as it
pleases you."
"That long?" she
grinned, charmed by his ingrained cautiousness. What heaven it would be,
proving to him again and again, that the day when she would prefer to resume a
life above was only a myth rising from his astonishment that such happiness
could be his.
The sparks between them were
threatening to ignite. The acknowledgment of it shone in the rueful gleam in
his eyes as he said firmly, "I'll walk you back."
The prospect of leaving had no
more appeal than it ever had, but the last thing she needed was Jenny setting
up an alarm, and soon she would never have to face such a parting again. On the
trip down tonight she had felt hopeless and helpless, lost. She had barely been
able to walk. Now she glided effortlessly beside him, her direction clear.
Every time he looked at her, she
smiled, and his somewhat dazed expression made the smile broader. He squeezed
her hand, and shook his head in silent acknowledgment that miracles seemed to
be a basic fact of this new life they had forged together.
When he left her at the ladder,
it was with another reminder of the danger that lurked somewhere above and a
reminder of the immeasurable pleasure waiting below as he claimed her eager
mouth.
At her apartment door, she
hastily put her coat back on. It was still damp and didn't smell particularly
attractive but she didn't want to arouse Jenny's suspicions. Inside she didn't
turn on the light, relieved to see that the couch was opened and her friend was
curled up beneath the blankets. She tiptoed to the bedroom, glad to escape
scrutiny, when a plaintive voice rose from the sofa bed.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine, Jen. I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to wake you."
"As if I could sleep. You
didn't say anything about being out late tonight. I was getting worried."
"Hey, you're supposed to be
my roommate--not the housemother. There were plenty of nights at school when
you covered for me."
"Sorry, Cath, but when we
were at school we didn't believe that all the horrible things that go on out
there really existed. What happened?"
What hadn't happened? Two
murders, the panicky fear that what she loved most was in jeopardy, the
decision to change her life. But she wasn't up to tackling it all tonight.
"Oh, nothing much, Jen. Just the usual stuff. We'll talk more
tomorrow--and for heaven's sake, please try to have happy dreams."