PART II

---

A dream of flying -- common as dust.

Swirling golden dust and the rushing hollow of the wind. Wrenched into greyness, the blackness of long sleep, then blinked again into existence.

Dizzying, those swells of yellow cloud -- like a Turner sky, unchecked by flat earth or a frame's gilded curls. A monstrous firmament without ending or beginning. Only a warm gritty breath, faintly sulphurous, winding upward from the mouth of hell.

Float in its vapors forever and ever and no limbs to swim against the currents or wings to fly above. No feeling. No thought struggling to take form that wasn't erased, smooth as slate, the dark veil descending once more only to be whisked into tatters by the livid light.

It seemed for a moment that fingers curled into the very weave of the clustered clouds, invisible filaments biting into the illusion of flesh that clutched them.

Aimless floating became a pendulum's swing and then a tugging. The billowing mists beneath lost their softness.

The light lost its battle with the darkness.

* * * * *

The black veil didn't lift again, but after some time it was possible to make out shifting shadows beyond. And once or twice a circle of candlelight.

One shape -- only one that moved quietly and with invisible hands brought pain and warmth and an elusive comfort.

Then there was the unicorn -- snow white and wreathed in flowers. Other figures surrounded it, but they were impossible to make out in the dimness. Only the unicorn was bright enough to catch the meager light.

This time, when it winked into view, she saw it for what it was -- a woven image, part of a tapestry that hung across from the narrow bed. It was not as fine as those that hung in the Great Hall. The colors were brighter. Probably a modern imitation.

A single candle stood on the slender table that hugged one wall. Beside the bed was a cabinet of shallow, metal drawers. Blinking heavily, she tried to identify the room and her reason for being here, but the soft throbbing in her head was drawing her back toward sleep, and despite the sharper pain, she followed it.

When next the room sprang into her vision, the dizziness was gone. There was the tapestry as before, and the candle had become a small oil lamp, so grimed with soot that it gave off only a feeble glow. The walls, she could see now, were stone and the low ceiling, too. That sensation of endless dreaming had dissipated. Everything had the sharpness of reality. The smell permeating the tiny room that did not come from burning oil, the texture of the plain woolen blanket in her fingers, and most of all the aching in her leg.

Pushing her hands against the mattress, she managed to move into a sitting position, and pulled the bedclothes aside. A wide bandage crisscrossed her right ankle, and she frowned at it, trying to remember how it came to be there. Her legs were bare beneath a flannel nightgown that she couldn't recall ever seeing before.

She tried to think back -- past the darkness, past the dream images. The effort only brought a frightening confusion, so she concentrated once more on the surroundings. There was no sound to indicate what might lie beyond the two entrances barely visible in the shadows. Her arms in the unfamiliar gown, white with tiny sprigs of violets, were tired from simply throwing back the covers.

Turning her head, she saw that the pillow was covered in plain muslin, and beside her sat the source of the smell. Steam still rose faintly from the crockery bowl. It felt warm to the touch. Soup, thick with barley. Suddenly she was terribly hungry.

Ignoring the spoon that lay next to it, she cradled the bowl in her hands and took a sip. Delicious. Half the broth was gone before she resorted to the silverware. Finishing every bit made her feel instantly stronger, but at the same time the warmth spreading through her and the effort it had taken to eat coaxed her back down into the covers, and once again she slept.

* * * * *

"Joe, there's a call for you on line four -- a Mr. Krauss. He says it's important."

"Yeah, thanks Charlene." He finished the sentence he was writing and tossed the pencil aside. Krauss... Krauss. The name rang a bell but it wasn't loud enough to cut through the grisly description of murder he was having to put to paper. Hard stuff to shake off in time to figure which case me he ought to pull before answering.

"This is Maxwell."

"Leonard Krauss here. I'm the superintendent at Ms. Chandler's building?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Krauss." The guy in bad need of an ophthalmologist. "What can I do for you?"

"I found something very peculiar, Mr. Maxwell. I don't know what to make of it. I thought maybe you could explain it to me. I was down in the sub-basement under the building here, cleaning out one of the storage bins. There was a bunch of boxes just sitting by the wall, and I thought I better check and see what they were, whether they ought to be put away. I scooted them out, and there was this handbag."

"A handbag?"

"Yeah, a lady's handbag. I opened it up to look for an ID, and it turns out to belong to Ms. Chandler."

"What...? Now wait a minute. Was this maybe an old one she was storing down there?"

"No, no. It still had things in it -- like she was using it. "

"Stolen?" Joe was aware that his fist had tightened on the receiver. "Maybe somebody lifted it and tossed what they didn't want out of sight."

"Oh, no, Mr. Maxwell. Everything's in there -- keys, credit cards. There must be close to a hundred in cash. I don't understand it."

Joe's breath hissed out in a long-held gasp. "Just hold onto it. Don't touch anything. I'm on my way."

He slammed down the receiver and snatched up his coat. Damn it, damn it, damn it, he chanted under his breath, yanking open the door. I knew something wasn't right.

* * * * *

There was someone in the room. She sensed it even before she opened her eyes. Someone moving quietly, very nearby.

If only she could remember how she came to be here. Was there reason to be afraid? It took a supreme effort not to jump when a cool hand pressed lightly against her forehead, but she kept still until certain whoever it was had moved away.

Vague sounds from the vicinity of the table told her the person was as far away as they were likely to get in this cramped space, and cautiously she peeked out from lowered lids. A woman stood with her back to the room. Blonde. As she bent to adjust the lamp, Catherine could see her profile quite clearly. She'd never seen her before in her life.

But was that true? For the first time the inability to think beyond the here and now seemed ominous. Panic began to threaten. Perhaps she'd gasped, because the figure turned toward the bed.

"About time you woke up. I see you liked your dinner well enough."

"Who are you?... What is this place?"

"Not very polite are you?" The voice was faintly amused. Its owner moved with efficiency and took a thick washcloth from one of the narrow drawers, laying it neatly beside a bowl of warm water.

She was slender, middle-aged. There was something haughty in her manner as she reached out her hand. The touch was gentle, but it made Catherine flinch, and she brought her own fingers to the spot beside her right temple. It was undeniably tender.

"Still sore? It's only a bruise -- nowhere near as bad as that scar on the other side. I can give you something for the headache if you want it."

But the throbbing had stopped. Alarm had all but cleared the struggling thoughts from her mind. If only she could pull back the ones she needed, the ones that would explain what she was doing here.

She wished the woman would remove her hand, but it stayed to linger caressingly along the line of her cheekbone. There was an odd, shuttered look to her expression that made Catherine uneasy.

"Who are you?" she repeated, hoarsely.

"I'm the person you should thank for getting you out of a pretty pickle, but you don't remember that, do you?"

"No."

"Just as well. You have a bad sprain. The swelling's gone down quite a bit. Still, I wouldn't think about trying to walk on it if I were you."

"I need... I need to go to the bathroom."

It was true. She did. But a part of her made nervous by the warning not to walk (a simple precaution or was there a more sinister implication?) wanted suddenly to test her strength.

"Yes, I imagine you do. Here." The woman flipped back the covers and slipped her arm around Catherine as she sat up and unsteadily brought bare feet to the cold, stone floor. An unpleasant jolt shrieked up her leg with the attempt to put the slightest weight on it, and she let herself lean against her companion as they made haltingly for the smaller doorway.

The stranger was not much taller than herself, but there seemed an incredible wiry strength in the arm supporting her. Or perhaps it was only the contrast with her own light-headed weakness.

"I can manage," Catherine said, finding herself in an alcove with a crude toilet not unlike some of those in the tunnel community. Her companion waited outside and helped her back to the bed. It annoyed Catherine that the brief activity had left her exhausted.

Yes, she was definitely below, but this woman wore ordinary clothing -- plain shirt and slacks -- not the distinctive tunnel garb. And Catherine was still sure she hadn't seen her before.

"You haven't told me who you are," she said, forcing strength into her voice.

"Who do you think I am? You seemed to know last night. You called me 'mother'." There was that faint sense of amusement again behind the bland expression. "I'm far too young to be your mother. Why don't you just call me Clarissa?"

"Is that your name?"

"All of it should have been mine by rights. I take what I can get. You're my guest here, uninvited, at that, so suppose you tell me who you are."

"I... I'm not sure. I can't seem to remember things."

That wasn't entirely true. Fear of the unknown was sharpening her perceptions by the minute. Obviously this was someplace below, and she had come, of course, to see Vincent, but where was he? Did he know where she was? A muddled dread swam into consciousness with his name. She must try not to think of him, not to call him here until she was sure there was no danger. If only the woman -- Clarissa -- would go away and give her time to try to fill in the disturbing blank in her memory.

But this stranger clearly knew more than she did; she might be able to supply the answers. Yes, it was best to keep her talking, but until she understood what was going on, why she was here, some things would be best kept to herself. Not everything, she decided, remembering the bandage that appeared expertly applied. The woman had a shrewd, watchful look about her. Pleading total loss of memory might only arouse her suspicions.

"My name is Cynthia. I'm a secretary."

"So what were you doing down here?"

"That's what I can't remember. Visiting maybe... delivering something. I don't know."

"A helper." Clarissa nodded as if she'd already guessed as much. "One of those who makes it possible for that bunch under the park to survive."

"You know them?"

"I know about them. So many people living in one small area -- too many, but surely you didn't think they were the only ones with the idea to live down here?"

"I really didn't know."

"Well, believe me, there are others. From what I hear, those people haven't escaped anything. They've brought it all with them -- rules, duties. What's the point? Most of us who've chosen to go underground did it because we're sick of crowds and rules. We value our privacy."

"You live here alone?"

"More or less. Your ankle -- let me see it.''

Catherine had little choice. The cool fingers that unwound the wrappings unleashed shooting stabs of pain, yet the woman's touch spoke of competency. Straightening, Clarissa stuffed the bandage into the pocket of her trousers. "The swellings gone down, but you don't want to move it if you can help it."

She pulled open one of the flat metal drawers -- like the ones you see in doctor's office, Catherine realized suddenly -- and brought out scissors and a length of clean, brown cloth. She began to rewrap the injured leg with swift, sure movements.

"Are you a nurse?"

Clarissa's look was oddly supercilious. "Now why would you ask me that? Why not say 'Are you a doctor?' I should have been a doctor. I was in pre-med for a time."

"Why did you quit?"

"I didn't quit. The money quit. She stopped it -- just like that -- and there was nothing I could do about it. Not then. But it wasn't always like that. I grew up with money. I wore the prettiest dresses of any girl in school -- smocking and lace and eyelet, starched pinafores and Mary Janes every day of the week. Just like you -- a rich girl."

"What makes you say that?" Catherine's heart quickened with the fear that this woman might know all about her, know that she hadn't given her real name.

"I saw the labels in the clothes you were wearing."

The self-satisfied smile, not quite a smirk, had begun to irritate Catherine, but here was a clue that might jog her sluggish memory. "What happened to them? What kind of clothes were they?"

"Dirty. I threw them away -- slacks, a sweater. Pretty expensive for a secretary's salary, wouldn't you say? Yes, I remember what it was like to try and lead a genteel life on too little money, saving to buy one good suit or a cocktail dress. But sportswear? No one spends that much on casual clothes unless they have money to burn."

Catherine didn't answer. Is that what the woman was after -- money? Is that why she was here? She felt a little ashamed of her suspicions as Clarissa took the washcloth and with slow, gentle strokes washed Catherine's face and hands.

She wanted to protest, to say she could do it herself, but could she? Lassitude was stealing over her, stronger even than the curiosity that tugged at her foggy mind. One thing important to say before she gave in to sleep. "Clarissa, I have to get to my friends. I have to let them know I'm all right."

"But you're not all right. Not yet. And a friend will come soon enough." Clarissa's eyes glittered in the darkness. Her secretive smile puzzled Catherine who, nevertheless, had lost the strength to ask more.

* * * * *

When she opened her eyes again, the room was deserted. She had no idea how long she'd slept, and nothing in her surroundings gave any clue to the passage of time.

Were they worried about her -- Vincent and the others? Or did they know she was here? What had happened -- an accident? Could she have somehow taken a wrong turn and become lost in the maze beneath the city? If so, they might not even have known she was coming, but Vincent would have known... That feeling of dread again that refused to explain itself.

Efforts to recall the circumstances leading up to this moment brought only a confusing montage of memories -- most of them from weeks and months ago. Short-term memory -- that's what was missing, something to do with whatever trauma had left her mind woozy and her leg a constant source of dull, throbbing pain.

It would be simple enough to fasten on the thought of Vincent, to let her feelings flow and bring him to her, but something in this situation gave her pause. Her position here was vague. Obviously, she'd been rescued -- from something, cared for with some degree of skill, yet she couldn't shake the sensation of being a prisoner. She couldn't risk drawing him into so uncertain a set of circumstances.

Time to test her resources, to challenge the weakness that, after all, might be the only thing holding her hostage.

Resolutely, she swung her feet to the floor, pleased to feel no dizziness. By putting all her weight on the left foot, it was possible to stand. Walking was another matter. Even using her right foot for balance produced a tingling pain, and she virtually hopped to the table some yards away. By holding to it and then to the wall, she was able to reach the little bathroom, though the effort left her discouraged. The possibility of leaving this place and finding her way unaided to the central tunnels seemed fanciful. Her ankle throbbed. She was already tired.

"Going for a walk?" Clarissa's voice, tinged with unpleasant irony, greeted her as she emerged. "You'll only make it worse."

Silently, Catherine allowed herself to be helped back to bed. There were things she had to know, and she was formulating the best way to ask them when she saw that another bowl of soup had appeared on the cabinet. She ate it all, greedy for the strength it might provide.

Clarissa watched her with the same unfathomable expression.

Maybe she was simply lonely. It wasn't surprising that her social graces might be a little rusty if she'd lived alone for a long time. Catherine wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, but she wished the woman wouldn't stare like that. She was studying Catherine's face with a predatory fascination that made her decidedly uncomfortable.

"The soup's very good. Thank you, Clarissa. I appreciate everything you've done for me, but I simply have to get a message to my friends. Will you help me do that?"

"What friends are those?"

"Anyone -- everyone who might be wondering where I am. Where I come from you can't simply disappear for two days and not alarm people."

"Two days?" It took a moment for Catherine to realize that the unpleasant croaking sound was meant to be a laugh. "I've been waiting on you a lot longer than that. You should be grateful, my girl. If I hadn't found you when I did, no one would ever know what became of you."

"What did happen?"

"I have no idea." Clarissa's tone implied she didn't care all that much. "You probably got lost. That happens down here -- intruders wandering around where they have no business. You fell and hurt yourself. I told you someone will come any time now -- someone who's familiar with your friends. He'll know the best thing to do."

"Who's that?"

"Nobody you're likely to know. He comes and goes."

"But he lives down here?"

"I told you a lot of people live down here. Some are little more than animals. Their minds are gone -- too long living like moles and rats, but they can come in handy. Some of them are stupid as sheep. They'll do anything for the simplest little rewards."

"Is that how you live? Do these people get you the things you need?"

"Oh, yes. I seldom have to go up into that cesspool of a city. I have my work, you see."

"What kind of work?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

Catherine was growing increasingly annoyed with her hostess's manner. Game-playing, pure and simple, and there was so much she needed to know, but it wouldn't help to antagonize her, not before she was able to assert herself with any chance of winning. "I'm just curious about how people down here survive -- especially alone. It must be difficult."

"Not if your needs are simple. There's freedom here. The freedom to do whatever you want. I create things -- beautiful things out of ugliness and uselessness. Not everyone could appreciate the subtlety of what I do."

Catherine wondered if she meant the kinds of crafts the tunnel dwellers made. As scavengers, they had learned to waste nothing. With tenderness she thought of Vincent's ability to see the potential in other people's discards, of Mouse's ingenuity at turning odds and ends into practical -- and not so practical -- devices. Some of the women took their handiwork above to sell on consignment. Perhaps Clarissa did too.

"What about your friend -- is he an artist, too?"

A burst of laughter careened sharply off the walls. "I'm sure he thinks so, but no... I guess you could say he's a fisherman." Her mouth twisted with suppressed mirth, and she stared at Catherine expectantly, waiting to see if she grasped the joke.

Catherine didn't. And so far she had gotten no useful information. She prayed that the woman was merely eccentric and not what Joe would call a real "nut case." Joe. What day was this... would he be expecting her into work? "Can you at least tell me how long I've been here?"

"I'm afraid not. Time doesn't mean very much in this place. That's one of its attractions. "

Catherine was suddenly sure she was lying. With what reason except to torment her? None of it made any sense. But at least she didn't have to cooperate in her own frustration.

Without another word, she pushed down into the covers, turning her back on the woman, and, after a moment, heard her leave the room. She thought of rising again, attempting to make her way to the entrance to see what lay beyond. Or perhaps she should try harder to sift through her memories, find the most recent one and hopefully, this time, follow it to an explanation.

But before she could do either, she drifted again into sleep.

* * * * *

"You've got nothing."

"You call that nothing?" Joe was incredulous. After everything he'd said, Moreno could sit there calmly, his fingers steepled, and say that with a straight face.

"You've got no motive, no body, no evidence a crime has been committed. And," Moreno added as Joe opened his mouth to protest, "you've got a chief suspect who walked in here of his own volition and volunteered the information that he was the last person to see the alleged victim. He didn't have to do that. His name might not have come up at all if he hadn't made a point of it."

"Alcott's smart. Maybe he figured someone might have seen him with Cathy that night, so he gets the jump on 'em -- plays the responsible citizen."

"He is a responsible citizen," Moreno reminded him with a touch of irony. "That's a fact."

"Plenty of so-called responsible citizens have turned out to be dirty," Joe argued.

"Granted, but we're paid to deal in facts, Joe. The ones we have say Alcott's an okay guy. If evidence turns up that says otherwise, then we revise the picture. We don't do it out of our imaginations. Besides, if he's so smart, why didn't he get rid of the circumstances that made you suspicious? You say the keys were in her purse, so why doesn't he fix the apartment to look like she's left on a long trip? What possible reason would he have to take her purse down to the basement where somebody could find it? Why not get rid of it?"

"I don't know." Joe shook his head. "I don't know why he did any of it. I'm not even guessing at what he did, but he did something. The whole thing's fishy. You know that."

"So it smells. I give you that, but the Grand Jury doesn't play scratch 'n sniff. They want evidence, and you don't have it. What you have is a highly credible witness, a long-time friend of Cathy's telling you he advised his patient to get some rest. Was she showing signs of strain, Joe?"

"A little... yeah, I guess."

"And she called in sick?"

Joe nodded, frustrated.

"That's what a jury's going to hear. What are you gonna tell 'em that the old family doctor suddenly went berserk and did away with her? On what grounds? Unrequited love? A mention in her will? Maybe she caught him doing Frankenstein numbers in the back room."

"I don't know the reason. I don't even know if he's guilty of a crime, but I do know a woman doesn't take off with no makeup, no luggage and no purse."

"What about her passport?"

"Not there. Alcott says she kept it in her safety deposit box."

"It's where I keep mine," Moreno said. "Look, I agree with you that there are questions that need answering, but we have to be very careful here. I'm not going to start subpoenaing bank records and flirting with invasion of privacy charges until Alcott's had a chance to explain. He comes back -- you bring him in for questioning. Unofficially," Moreno stressed with a warning finger. "When's he due back?"

"Couple of weeks," Joe said glumly.

"All right. You sit tight until then, I mean it. Leave it alone."

"Yeah... okay... sure."

It was a less than gracious departure. He could feel Moreno's eyes on him as he closed the door. So much for hoping to probe a little deeper. He hadn't mentioned his visit to Cathy's bank -- the one he'd found named on her checks. Yeah, it was in spitting distance of Alcott's office. The manager had smiled courteously and confirmed that Ms. Chandler was indeed a valued customer.

"But if you wish access to her records, Mr. Maxwell, you'll have to return with something more than merely your curiosity and a badge."

He wasn't likely to get the "something more" at this juncture. No way to see if Cathy really had made a sizeable withdrawal on the night in question -- not with Moreno playing it so cautious.

And wasn't it just damned convenient that a second call to the hotel in Mexico City -- the connection seemed just fine, thank you -- had produced no Peter Alcott? Gone with some colleagues into the countryside. Yes, he still planned to depart for New York at the previously scheduled time. Unofficial or not, Alcott was going to have a welcoming party of one when he stepped off that plane.

At Milo's that night, Joe poured out his frustrations over a round of draft. "My hands are tied. I can't do anything till this joker gets back to the city -- if he comes back."

"I'd like to help you out," Dan commiserated, "but we got the same boss, you know? I can ask around on the q.t. and see if anybody's heard any dirt on this doctor. That's about it."

"Alcott," Kyle frowned, "tall guy -- face like a hatchet? He plays racquetball where I do. I've never met him, but I can certainly find someone who has."

"Thanks, guys." Joe wasn't enthusiastic. None of this was likely to lead to Cathy.

"That's the trouble with getting too close to the system." Kyle embarked on his favorite thesis. "You've got the power. You've got the connections, but every move you make has to be approved or your butt's on the line. What you need, Joe, is someone who's got the clout but not the baggage, someone who can nose around on his own. Any markers you can call in?"

"Not from anybody in Alcott's circles -- or Cathy's." Unless... the idea went against the grain. It could stir up more trouble than it was worth. Still, if he couldn't think of anything better... No, he was clearly losing it when thoughts like that began to cross his mind. "Hey, guys, enough shoptalk. I gotta twenty here -- how about some darts?"

* * * * *

There was no sound of pipes clanging. She had strained her ears time and again to be sure, but never caught the slightest hint that the communications system reached this area. No rumble of subways either.

Once she had thought she heard voices, not far away, and she had pushed herself out of bed, ignoring the protest in her ankle, but the room had spun so wildly -- for a moment it had seemed that the wall she leaned on for support was itself spinning out of control -- that she had fallen back onto the bed, gasping.

It puzzled her that the dizziness had returned. It hadn't been there those first few times she awakened, and even the bruise on her temple didn't hurt anymore. Only movement stirred it up. As long as she remained still, there was no vertigo at all, and thankfully, no accompanying nausea.

She drank the soup that appeared periodically, as well as the bread and cheese that Clarissa now brought on a regular basis. It was all she could do to help herself get stronger. Sometimes she flinched or gasped when Clarissa examined her ankle, but the truth was the pain had almost disappeared. She'd tried to put her weight on it several times now, and though it was still weak, she thought she'd soon be well enough to escape, if escape was the right word for it.

Clarissa continued her competent care, even helping her to bathe, changing the sheets, giving her a fresh nightgown. She insisted, not without good reason, that Catherine was in no condition to go off in search of her friends. There would be plenty of time for that when her friend arrived; he would know just what to do.

Not being able to remember so many things was frightening. There were times when Catherine wondered if that fear wasn't spilling over into her perceptions of everything -- needlessly. Was it right to suspect Clarissa's motives simply because she was a little odd? Elizabeth was odd. Narcissa was odd. Mouse was... decidedly odd, but it didn't make them sinister; it didn't mean their hearts weren't in the right place.

Still, she decided to err on the side of caution, letting Clarissa think the ankle still caused her pain, pretending a weakness she didn't always feel. Only the persistent dizziness prevented her from choosing her own course, and she prayed that too would soon disappear.

In the meantime, she'd stopped asking questions. She'd stopped offering any conversation at all. What was the use when she never got a straight answer? And she had the idea that Clarissa rather missed the chance to talk. Perhaps if she held out long enough the woman would try to goad her into conversation or reveal something about herself that might clarify the situation.

So far, it wasn't working. Clarissa had shown an icy indifference to her silence, and Catherine had the discomfiting feeling that whole days had passed since their first conversations.

"There's no swelling at all." It sounded like an accusation. "Are you sure you can't stand on it?"

"I'm sure."

"Don't try to deceive me. What I know about the human body might surprise you. "

Catherine raised her head slowly, hoping to minimize the swirling feeling in her brain. Clarissa regarded her with her usual expression of superiority. Maybe it was time to play on that, instead of letting the patronizing attitude irritate her. "You must have been very smart to qualify for pre-med."

"Smarter than they knew. Of course she tried to claim she bought my way in -- but it was a lie. She never understood anything but her money. She tried to buy everything -- lives, beauty, justice, but I have all of those at my disposal, and I never saw a penny of the money."

"Who?" Catherine ventured, wondering if anything the woman said would make sense.

"My grandmother -- my father's mother -- the grande dame of Lyden. She had a huge house on a hill overlooking the lake. A circular drive with gravel pink as roses. No one else in town owned anything like it. She lorded it over all of them, and they took it, because the foundry was practically the only employment for 50 miles. My grandfather worked there himself when he was alive, but after he left it to her I don't believe she ever set foot in the place. She only used it to threaten people. If they didn't behave the way she thought they should, they'd be fired, and in Lyden, there weren't many other options."

"Did your father work there too?"

"My father -- work?" Clarissa laughed her thick, grunt of a laugh. "He didn't need to. My grandmother gave him an allowance -- a generous allowance. He spent it on every good-looking woman that crossed his path -- waitresses, the wives of his friends at the country club, anyone who caught his fancy. I remember once he took me to my piano lesson. Miss Ayers -- she seemed very old to me, but I suppose she was attractive enough. They left me to practice my scales in the parlor all afternoon long. Each time I stopped, Miss Ayers would call out from somewhere down the hall and tell me to keep playing, and I'd hear my father laugh. I was too young to know what it meant, even when they came back. Miss Ayers looked very untidy. Her hair was mussed, and she'd buttoned her blouse all wrong. They kept laughing -- the two of them like school children."

Catherine didn't comment. Clarissa had perched on the side of the bed, her back very straight. A muscle in her cheek twitched as she talked.

"When I was older, I began to understand. I had a friend in high school -- Celia Graham. I never had many friends. They were jealous of me, of course, because my grandmother sent her car -- a vintage Bugatti, long as a bus -- to take me back and forth to school. The boys were afraid of me too, because of her -- what she might do to them or their families, but I didn't care. They were silly, all of them. My father was much more handsome than any of them. Everyone said he was charming. I didn't understand in the beginning that Celia thought so too. She was the first friend to come to my house. We did our homework together, and sometimes she spent the night. Of course, I saw the way my father flirted with her, the way she looked at him, but then she stopped coming at all. When I spoke to her in the halls, she'd get flustered and walk away. Finally, she just wasn't there anymore. She left school. She left Lyden. They say she was pregnant."

"What about your father?" Catherine asked softly.

"Oh, he took up with the woman who did my mother's hair. She finally couldn't stand it anymore. She changed hairdressers."

"Your mother knew about his affairs?"

"Everyone knew. That's what happens when you have people living too close together. There were no secrets. Not back then anyway. Now... now there is a secret in Lyden, but no one knows. No one will ever know." Clarissa's voice drifted off. She still sat on the bed twisting her long, slender fingers in her lap. An absent smile playing across her mouth.

Catherine felt a chill watching her. She wanted her to go on. She wanted to know what kind of person the friendless little girl in Mary Janes had become. "How did your mother feel about it all?"

"My mother couldn't afford to feel. She had no money of her own, nowhere to go. She was nobody. My father married her while she was still in high school. They had to get married, of course. That's what they called it in those days, and my grandmother was furious. She was mortified that her only son would consider marrying the daughter of a mere foreman in her foundry. She fired the man, but that didn't work. He got roaring drunk and told everyone in both the bars in Lyden that without a job he couldn't afford to support his daughter and her bastard. He was going to get the sheriff to arrest my father for statutory rape.

"Of course, it took no time at all for that threat to reach my grandmother. She probably decided it would be cheaper to buy off an unemployed laborer than to grease the palms of the entire Wilcox County sheriffs department, so she paid him to take his daughter and leave town. I think she even got him a job out of state. I'd love to have seen her face when she found out my father had followed them and brought her back. He married her before they even got back to town."

"He must have loved her very much."

"Who?" Clarissa turned a blank face toward her. "My mother? I don't think love had anything to do with it. He did it to thwart my grandmother. I believe it was the only time he ever blatantly rebelled against her. He humiliated her in front of the whole town. Everyone knew she despised my mother, that she had failed in her manipulations. Oh, I think he enjoyed it very much. It was his single act of independence. Before that and ever after she controlled everything about him. There was the money, of course. He only had what she gave him, and he relied on her to hush up his scandals -- buy off fathers, fire the husbands who objected to their wives taking off with the town Casanova. But he was so charming and he always spent money like water. He never ran out of women."

Catherine wasn't sure which was more appalling -- the distorted relationships Clarissa was describing or the cool, half-amused tone in her voice as she did so. "Your mother must have been very unhappy."

"She was a weak woman. Her family were nobodies," Clarissa reminded her frowning, as if she thought Catherine hadn't been listening. "I didn't want to be like her -- helpless, always whining after my father's affections. I was going to make my own money -- a lot of money. I was going to be a doctor, and then someday there'd be my grandmother's money as well. I was her only grandchild, you see."

"Were you close to her?" Catherine ventured, already dreading the answer.

"She was a monster. I hated her, but then everyone did. As long as I played the good little girl and brought no shame on the family name, she saw that I had everything that no one else in town could afford. I got good grades, and she ordered me expensive clothes from Chicago and New York. There was a party dress one time -- buttercup yellow -- the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. My grandmother said I could have it, if my next report card was perfect. I was sure it would be, and I'd wear that dress to the Founders' Day tea, and all those girls in school who never talked to me would be jealous.

"Something happened. I don't know what, and I got a B in music, but I told my grandmother I'd had all A's. She smiled at me, and the next day the box arrived from Berry's, the store where I'd seen the dress, and that's what it was all right, only it had been cut to ribbons -- a hundred, bright, ragged ribbons.

"I stayed away from boys -- or they stayed away from me -- and I got a sports car on my 16th birthday. She promised to pay for my education, as long as I toed the line, and I did.

"When I graduated from high school, she couldn't be bothered to make the long trek down the hill -- not that she couldn't take off for a cruise or a health spa when the mood struck her -- but the important thing was there -- a check for my first year of schooling. I remember holding it in my hand and feeling a great sense of freedom. It was like a ticket to the future, away from all of them -- my father with his endless parade of women, my mother with her sorrowful looks, and her -- the monster on the hill, pulling the strings, watching everyone dance." The taut lines in Clarissa's face had softened. She appeared almost happy, as she turned again toward Catherine.

"Of course," she added, "that was before the murders."

* * * * *

Vincent stood at the door of his own chamber, viewing it with a detachment that sent ineffable warmth sputtering through his veins, looking at it -- not as his room, familiar all his life -- but as the enchanted cocoon it had become one April night.

Her presence there seemed unexplainable, the stuff of fantasy. A princess, bound by a spell whose evil belonged to a kingdom beyond comprehension, delivered somehow into his safe keeping. How easily his allegiance had turned from the only world he'd ever known. He hadn't intended to flaunt the rules. He hadn't meant to defy Father. He'd simply given it no thought at all, as if the moment he knelt to touch her in the dewy grass, all purpose changed, and all worlds changed with it.

He thought only to save her, to soothe her, to banish the fear that briefly eclipsed her own bright fire. To do that he would give her pieces of himself, violate secrets without a qualm, bear even the moment when she cringed at the feel of his hand. But he had never expected that she would turn on him with the light of her acceptance, the warmth of her friendship. He had wanted only to free her from her terrible bondage, and suddenly he was soaring beyond the limits of his life, as if it was she who had come to heal him or break a spell that had held him earthbound, body and soul.

The princess freed had touched him and granted the wish he never knew he had.

Leaning against the familiar stone, he saw his chamber as a receptacle of vivid moments, where they had smiled and cried and even shouted at one another, where love had held sway in shy touches, in whispers, and in the long silver silences when they needed no words at all. Perhaps it was fitting that this space, redolent with memories, belonged to him who would not let a single flicker of those images fade, rather than to Catherine who must put them aside, who needed the anonymity of strange places to find another life.

In his reverie, he was unaware that anyone had approached until a hand slid across his shoulders. If Father found it odd that he was standing here, staring into his own chamber, he gave no indication.

"How are you feeling? Is all the soreness gone?"

"You're a fine doctor, Father. I had no choice but to recover."

"I wish that were true. You know, it's strange, but this chamber always strikes me as too quiet, too empty these days." Vincent looked at him, surprised and touched that he would share his own nostalgia for the cherished moments lingering here. "Yes, Devin's been gone far longer than he was actually here, yet I still expect to hear you two laughing and shouting, quarreling over some childish game, every time I approach the entrance."

Vincent turned back to his appraisal of the room.

"I've been thinking. I wonder if I shouldn't write to Devin and ask him to come for a visit. Would that please you?"

"It would please me more if you wished to see him yourself. I'm certain it would please Devin more as well."

"Well, I wasn't actually thinking of what would please Devin --"

"You seldom do."

He felt the slight recoil in the figure beside him, regretting his quick words. Father looked so haunted of late, he certainly didn't need the stirring of old guilts, but how Vincent had longed to stir the memories in this room. If he could inculcate them with his passion, infuse them with his intensity, they might yet take on such scintillating energy as to live again. They might approach a reality powerful enough to ease the agony in his heart.

"That's not fair of you, Vincent."

"You're right, Father. I'm sorry. I know how genuinely you value your reconciliation with Devin. My thoughts were... elsewhere."

"Of course. I only thought that his companionship might do you good. It might help you to forget."

"What is it I should forget?" A dangerous rebellion was rising in his blood again, but he was powerless to stop it.

"Well, you know -- everything that's happened -- your illness, the memories that keep you frozen here in the doorway as if you had no right to enter your own chamber, your own life."

"Those memories, Father, are my most precious possessions. Without them there would be no life. I would not choose to forget them, nor is it companionship that I lack. I wonder that you find it so difficult to name what is missing in my life."

"I simply don't think you should dwell on it....

"Her. Father -- not it -- her. Please don't disturb Devin with all this. In helping Charles he has found a purpose that's eluded him all his life. He's beginning to feel his own worth. Don't jeopardize that by setting him a task at which he can only fail. If you'll excuse me, there are torches that need resetting."

He swept away then, leaving Father wordless in the doorway, followed by a trace of mixed emotions he could not define. The grief so evident in the older man's eyes didn't fit somehow with his obdurate refusal to speak of things that really mattered.

Not since Vincent had first recovered, not since their frank conversation about the past, about his dreams, had Father mentioned Catherine at all. He could have helped to make these memories live. Instead, he seemed bent on ignoring them, or encouraging Vincent to ignore them.

He could do without companionship, the pale imitation of what he'd shared with Catherine. What surprised and disturbed him was that Father could take on the role of adversary, for any enemy of his memories was his enemy as well. He moved through the shadows, fiercely alone, igniting the spent torches, basking in the glow of the images that no darkness could ever hide from his heart.

* * * * *

Catherine sat on the side of the bed trying to feed herself with a minimum of movement. As long as she kept her head perfectly still while she ate the cheese and dry bread, she could hold the woozy feeling at bay.

She had been right in thinking that Clarissa's solitude made her ripe for a willing listener. Once the woman had begun to talk she showed no sign of stopping, though it didn't feel like a confidence shared. More like a monologue. Catherine doubted that her presence was required or even noticed, as the litany of injustices was trotted out in dry, ironic tones.

But she was grateful for it, for the insight it might give into the woman's intentions. Her appetite had diminished as the story progressed and vanished altogether with Clarissa's last chilling words. All the more reason to fortify herself against whatever perils surrounded her here. She forced herself to eat another bite.

Clarissa had risen, her carriage stiff, head erect. Slowly, she circled the tiny room, pausing to look with unseeing eyes at one object or another as she spoke.

"It would have been all right in the end. Everything would have been all right if it hadn't have been for her -- my mother. All those years doing nothing, whimpering in the shadows. They wouldn't let her take a job, you see. My grandmother thought it would look bad for her son's wife to be working side-by-side with people no better than the ones she employed at the foundry. She could go to the club and to church, always dressed very well, but most of the time she just sat at home staring into the garden.

"Once she did take a part-time job at the library, sorting and stacking -- she wasn't good for much else, but my grandmother found out and threatened to cut off funds to the Friends of the Library. Most of the books came from her, not to mention the building itself, so they got rid of my mother. She wasn't permitted to mix with the workers' wives, and she had absolutely nothing in common with the more educated women in town. Even I could see that she wasn't much use to anybody."

The bread stuck in Catherine's throat. She took a drink of the cool spring water Clarissa had provided, glad to have finally succeeded in downing every bite, though she'd tasted none of it. Part of her felt like screaming for the pathetic story to end, but part hung suspended on Clarissa's every word.

Anyone might have thought they had much in common.

Two daughters -- only children -- born into wealth, but there the parallel ended. She thought of her mother, so gentle, so vital and warm despite her sad childhood, her father's jovial, tireless strength, the unconditional love that had glowed brightly among the three of them. Fighting the inevitable vertigo, she lay back down and pulled the covers up to her chin.

"That summer -- the one before I went away to college -- a man came to the house. It wasn't much of a house. There were a dozen just as fine on the older streets of Lyden. My father said it didn't matter. We wouldn't be there much longer. He was always saying that, expecting my grandmother to die. Then, of course, the house on the hill -- the only one worth having -- would be ours. He always said she was much older than she looked, though I don't recall ever hearing her age. She was vain about it -- like she was everything else, and of course, she could afford all the available means for preserving her youth. There were the health spas, and every couple of years she would disappear only to return with her skin a little tighter, the circles under her eyes suddenly gone. After a while, she began to take on a look of perpetual surprise -- all that pulling back of the wrinkled flesh around her eyes, you know." Clarissa smiled vacantly down at her, lost in some reverie of her own.

"You said a man came to the house," Catherine prodded.

"Yes -- a man. He was an architect I believe -- or a decorator -- from Chicago. He said he was studying Victorian houses for a book he was writing. My mother showed him ours, and she gave him iced tea in the garden. I saw him often around town that summer. He went to all the homes. Sometimes he made sketches: sometimes he took photographs, but I never recall seeing him at our house again. Still, there was talk -- the kind that ends abruptly when you enter a room. I was used to that. My father's exploits were a staple of town gossip. I think many of the people there would have died of boredom if they hadn't had his outrageousness to talk about. They were content to live their lives vicariously. He played the rogue for all of them.

"But my mother was acting strangely. She took time with her appearance -- even when she wasn't going to the club. She would disappear for hours at a time and come home looking almost happy. My father didn't notice. He never paid her any attention. She began to say odd things to me -- like had I really been happy there... and wouldn't it be good to have a life of my own when I went away to school? She'd never shown any interest in what I thought before or even in what I planned to do later on. She'd always been a nervous person, but that summer sometimes she would seem terrified. Other times she looked so youthful and lively that I could almost see why my father had been attracted to her. She actually cried when I left for college. She hugged me and told me to be happy, though, of course, she saw to it that I never could be. She ruined it all.

"I didn't know any of it back then. I was away from home for the first time. It was as if those people no longer existed -- I didn't care what they did. Except for my grandmother, of course. She was still controlling the purse strings, but I studied. I studied night and day to keep my grades up, so the money would keep coming, and I could use it to learn a profession that would make me rich -- quite apart from her fortune, but always that was waiting, too. When they were all gone, there would be only me and the money and that house on the hill. But she was plotting and scheming. Oh, she was selfish. What she wanted was all that mattered and she didn't care that her selfishness would destroy us all."

"You mean your grandmother?"

"No... no, my mother, of course. She was having an affair with this man -- this book writer from Chicago. She planned to go with him when he left town that fall. You should have seen the notes he wrote to her. I found them -- right there in the house, after it happened, in the pages of her old high school yearbook. Maudlin sentiments about how delicate she was, how sad -- like a bird, trapped in a cage, that had never been allowed to spread its wings. Trite -- ridiculous garbage about how he would take her away and make it all up to her. He was a fool, and, of course, my father found out.

"I don't know why he reacted the way he did, why he cared. I suppose he was so used to having his way with women -- it was his claim to fame. Maybe he couldn't stand to think that one of them would make him a laughingstock -- especially that one -- his wife. Maybe he hated the idea of my grandmother being right about her -- that she was low-class, acting like a tramp. He'd begun to drink heavily by then, too, so who knows what was in his mind, but he found out about them.

"He -- her lover -- was renting an old farmhouse about two miles from town. One night my father said he wouldn't be home till late. He assumed she'd take advantage of the fact and go whoring off to the country, so about midnight he went out there himself. He drove by the house, but the garage was right in front, and there was only one car in it. My mother's car wasn't in the drive, but he was convinced that she was there, so he doubled back -- there's not much traffic out that way -- and finally he spotted it a hundred yards or so from the house. She thought she was being clever, leaving it there behind the trees, but he saw it, and he pulled farther down the road and waited with the lights out.

"Some time later, sure enough, there she came, walking along the shoulder without even a flashlight. I don't know what she did -- if she recognized the car as it was bearing down on her, but after he hit her, he backed up just to make sure, and then took off. Not a soul saw him. A perfect crime."

Catherine swallowed. It felt like her lunch was still caught halfway to her stomach. "Are you saying no one suspected?"

"Of course, they suspected. That's all those busybodies have to do with their time is to suspect people, and the motive had been the talk of the town for weeks. Officially it was a hit-and-run, but the police couldn't ignore the gossip. They talked to my father, and he denied knowing anything about it."

"But surely, the car…"

"The car wasn't there. It had disappeared. My father claimed it was stolen that same night. He claimed he had gone to my grandmother's, which was true enough, and she backed him up. She said he was there from early evening till the next day when the police called with the news. According to her, he started to leave around 11, but when he went outside the car wasn't in the drive where he'd left it, he ended up staying all night on the hill."

Catherine was acting on professional instinct now. It helped to quell the emotions that had been building within her as Clarissa's tale unfolded. "Didn't they question why he failed to report the car stolen that same night?"

"I don't know what they questioned in the privacy of their own squalid little office. I'm sure they questioned the wisdom of going up against my grandmother. I'm sure they questioned whether they were willing to risk losing their jobs, but they didn't do much. What could they do unless a car turned up with – with evidence of a car vs. pedestrian encounter. That's what they call it, you know, in their police jargon -- car vs. pedestrian. Almost three weeks had passed before the sheriff mustered the courage to get a search warrant and go up that hill. My grandmother had a huge garage, and they finally got in there, but they didn't find anything, and the sheriff lost his badge in the next election."

"I had to come back for the funeral. My father was drinking non-stop by then. He didn't go out much, which was just as well, because he raved constantly, and he didn't care who heard him. That's how I know what happened that night. I had missed the first quarter's exams, so I stayed there through my college break, and I heard enough to know what people in Lyden were saying. Some suspected him all along. They said it was guilt making him drink, and some of them thought he was innocent. They claimed he was grief-stricken over my mother's death, that in spite of his affairs he had loved her so much. Romantic hogwash.

"The truth was he hardly ever mentioned her in his tirades. It was my grandmother he cursed about. He said she thought she was God. He said she'd never let him have a life and now she'd stepped between him and death. He'd get sloppy drunk and laugh incoherently about how he couldn't even get himself arrested. He wasn't charming anymore. He wasn't even handsome.

"One night -- about two months after I'd returned to school -- he ran his car -- the new car -- into a tree. He was killed instantly. I was in my art class. I loved that class because I didn't really have to work to get an A. I had a natural talent, you see, and I was still taking general courses prior to med-school. They came and got me and took me to the dean's office. It was such a shock. There was the news of my father's death, of course, but what rendered me speechless was my grandmother. She was sitting right there in a leather chair with the sun streaming in the tall windows. The dean was murmuring how courageous it was of her to come and be there for me, when she must be so distraught herself.

"I was numb. I barely registered the part about my father. I kept staring at her, sitting there in her powder-blue suit -- she didn't find black flattering -- with pearls at her throat and her hair just so. I seldom saw her anywhere, except where she held court -- in her own house. She never came to any town functions unless she was being honored. Or Founders Day, she came to that every year and gave a speech like she was blessing the multitudes.

"It was a while before I understood what they were saying. She was smiling so graciously, explaining that financial support for my education would be withdrawn effective immediately. The dean said he didn't understand, but she was very patient with him. She said that she had never believed I was truly her granddaughter, that my father was tricked into marriage with a common girl who'd probably slept with every man in town, that I was a 'bad seed,' but out of deference for her late son, who she described as too good-hearted to accept the truth, she had supported me with great generosity. Now that he was gone, and I was no longer a minor, she never wanted to see or hear of me again."

"Clarissa... I'm sorry." Catherine whispered. The feeling was heartfelt. It was hard to imagine how anyone could emerge emotionally intact from the kind of family she described.

"You are, aren't you?" Clarissa regarded her with cold curiosity. Her own manner was devoid of emotion. "The dean looked terribly uncomfortable. He suggested that perhaps she should consider awhile before making a decision in light of the emotional stress of the situation. My grandmother turned to him quite coolly, and said that she was prepared to make a sizable request to the medical department, but only on .the condition that I receive no financial aide that would enable me to remain a student. I thought the old gentleman would have apoplexy."

"Surely, he didn't go along with that?"

"I don't know. I walked out. I do know that later when I received my transcripts, the grades I had made were useless -- too many courses uncompleted. For a while I thought I could work and earn the money to go back to school, but, of course, I never did."

"And your grandmother never had a change of heart?"

"My grandmother never had a heart. She had power, the power to destroy anyone she wished."

"I can see why you think of your parents' deaths as murder."

"My mother's, yes, though he never would have gotten away with it without my grandmother's help. I suppose you could say that my father died because of her, because he never learned how to live his own life, but it's indirect, too complicated to be interesting. No, the best murders are simple and direct. I've saved the best till last."

* * * * *

Pascal was on patrol.

The switchboard -- that's how he thought of this particular stretch where the messages ran thick and clear from every sector. He walked the length of it hearing -- not the cacophony that got on most people's nerves after a few minutes in the pipe chamber -- but the distinct voices, the separate stories.

You must be like the conductor, his father had told him once long ago, laughing when his earnest young son had thought he meant a subway conductor. Subways had been an endless source of fascination when he was a boy. Now he tended to regard them as a nuisance whose meaningless clatter often drowned out the more delicate cadence of the pipes.

An orchestra conductor, his father had explained -- aware of every instrument, every note, able to follow each melody and rhythm without losing the thread of the others. Pascal could still remember the sense of wonder as he realized one day that he was doing that -- that he had been doing it for some time.

He was listening, but he was watching the friend who'd chosen to be with him here all afternoon. Vincent stood, back to the wall, seemingly impervious to the noise around them. Funny, too, because everyone knew his hearing was acutely sensitive. The racket didn't seem to bother him. It took a lot to bother Vincent. Of course, once he got bothered... well, that was another matter.

Pascal had always admired that serenity in his friend. Vincent never fell prey to the kind of petty grievances that set other people off -- people like Cullen and William, even Winslow, God rest his soul. Vincent had a knack for recognizing what things were worth getting upset about and the others rolled off him like rain.

People were always trying to lure Pascal away from his pipes, convinced he was missing something in not often being in the thick of tunnel society. The fact was his quiet nature tired quickly in the high-energy exchanges of the others. Their excitement and exuberance and spirited arguments often made him long for the relative peace of the pipe chamber. Vincent understood that. Vincent was easy to be with. Maybe too easy just now, he thought, sneaking him another glance.

How Vincent could manage to be so "there" and so not there at the same time was a mystery. He was a formidable presence with his cloak swaying dramatically from the broad shoulders, that mass of golden hair. He stood with one knee bent, straining the buttery leather boots that gave him the look of a warrior ready to surge into battle at any moment. Yet Pascal would have bet anything that his mind was a million miles away... or at least a few thousand.

Not that he could catch him at it. Every time he'd said anything in these last couple of hours, Vincent had come right back at him, as if no other thoughts possessed him but the here and now. His expression betrayed no sorrow, no hint of a troubled mind, but Pascal knew a mixed message when he ran across one, and he'd known Vincent all his life. He only wished he understood people as well as he did the language of the pipes.

Subconsciously, he'd been recording a brief, unanswered message that originated topside. Pulling out a narrow notebook, he jotted it down.

"That was Dr. Wong for Mary. He's got some herb he says is good for clearing sinuses. At least I think it was sinuses. It's not a word you hear very often on the pipes."

"Several of the children have colds."

"Well, that must be it then. She didn't answer -- probably knee-deep in stuffy noses. Will you remind me in case I forget to give it to her?"

"Of course."

He would, too, thought Pascal. Vincent never let anybody down. You couldn't fault a thing he was doing, couldn't pinpoint a single instance of his being too absorbed in his own concerns to react. That was the problem -- he reacted. He didn't act. He didn't seem to choose things for himself. Even being here today. Pascal had the uncomfortable feeling that Vincent was here on his behalf, putting in an appearance so Pascal wouldn't worry about him, but what did Vincent really want to do? When was the last time he'd smiled?

A new conversation caught his attention, and he pressed his ear to the slender copper pipe that carried it. "This is great," he said, after a minute, breaking into a grin. "Vincent, come here. You have to hear this."

Obediently, Vincent moved -- for the first time in at least an hour -- coming to stand before him, his head tilted toward the pipe that his friend found so fascinating. "Cullen... " he frowned, "... and Lena?"

"Yeah, he told her he enjoyed the talk they had while he was fixing her furniture. He's asking if she'd like to take a picnic down to the falls."

Vincent straightened. "Do you do this often?" he said with an arch look.

"What...? Oh, eavesdrop, you mean?" Something else he admired about Vincent -- his ability to hide a blush. Hard to claim the same talent when your hair kept deserting, leaving more face to turn red. "No, not intentionally, but sometimes it can't be helped." The embarrassment was worth it; that was the closest thing to a twinkle he'd seen in Vincent's eyes for a long time. "Everybody knows half the messages have to be relayed. If it's private, they're better off writing a letter. You know I don't go blabbing everything I hear to the others. Sometimes I'd just as soon I hadn't heard things. It makes me uncomfortable. In fact, I used to wonder about that -- whether Catherine minded you knowing --" He broke off, inwardly cursing himself for his clumsiness. Some new emotion flickered in Vincent's eyes and was gone. "Look, I'm sorry. I should stick to the pipes, I know."

"Why, Pascal?"

"Bringing up Catherine like that. I know it's a painful subject right now."

"Painful?" Vincent seemed to consider the word for a long time. "No. Catherine will always be for me a symbol of great joy. Any pain I feel is my own, my own inability to accept the inevitable. She bears no responsibility for my weakness."

"Come on, Vincent -- you're the strongest person I know. Most people would be devastated by a loss like this." Damn! That was no better. Why couldn't he just keep away from the subject?

"I don't wish any of my friends to feel they cannot speak their minds -- or their hearts... ever." Vincent said. Flipping his cloak out behind him, he sat down on the top step, and Pascal found himself, as he often had, utterly drawn in by that gentle voice, by the clear blue eyes that were filled with concern for him -- for his disquiet. As he joined Vincent on the step, he wondered if anyone had ever had a dearer friend.

"To answer your question," Vincent continued, "Catherine was always able to hide her feelings from me if she chose, just as we may hide our feelings from ourselves."

"But is that such a good thing to do? Isn't it better to let them out?" Pascal ventured tentatively.

"I let them out... sometimes, in some places."

Vincent's voice was very quiet. Pascal felt indeed that he had touched a nerve, and that this oblique reassurance was the most he could expect on the subject. "Can you still feel it, Vincent -- your connection with Catherine?"

"I feel it. It's different now -- fainter. Only once or twice recently it seemed more than that... just for an instant... as if she were still close by, and I could feel a fear in her. It makes no sense. Perhaps the distance... perhaps my... illness changed it in some way. I don't know."

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Maybe it's easier if you just don't think about her."

The deep-set eyes blinked at him. "How should I not think about her? She is everything, Pascal. She is my world -- that hasn't changed. That will not... change."

"Even... even if you never see her again?"

"It makes no difference... How to explain it?" Vincent stared at the dome that soared far over their heads a moment. There was a flash of long, white teeth as he seemed to draw the answer in with his breath. "Wherever you are, Pascal, whatever you're doing, you are conscious of this world around you. Isn't that true? Whether you're listening to the pipes, or reading or even sleeping, a part of you is always aware of this place, that it surrounds you. That is how it is for me -- with Catherine, with her spirit. My feelings for her surround everything else. They are the only boundaries."

Pascal nodded. "I think I understand. I'm just so sorry it didn't work out for you two. I really thought it would."

"No. It wasn't possible. I see that now. You've known me all my life, Pascal. You know there are... things in me, darknesses that I should never have brought so close to another. Father knew that. He always knew."

"You're right. I have known you all your life, and that's crazy, Vincent. Anyone who knows you knows there's no way in the world you would ever hurt Catherine. No disrespect to Father, but I think he's completely wrong."

"Don't blame Father. There were times when I told myself he was wrong, when I dared to hope, but I felt the truth of his warning in the madness. I saw it in my dreams."

"Madness is madness. Dreams are dreams," Pascal shook his head, wishing he had the words to express what he felt so deeply. There was an injustice here, and the two men he admired most, the two who for him personified justice and logic and compassion, were blind to it. "I'm sorry, Vincent. I know it doesn't matter now, but I don't believe you could ever have brought anything but love to Catherine." He could feel himself blushing again. "Would you listen to me -- talking like the voice of experience."

"I do listen to you, Pascal." A wide hand squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "As the voice of friendship. Never doubt that I'm grateful for that."

Pascal watched as his friend rose, towering above him. "Do you have to go?" He hated to see the brief rapport broken. Vincent, he thought, didn't talk nearly enough about himself.

"I must. If I hurry, I can bring the herbs back from Dr. Wong's before you give Mary the message."

"Right -- the message." Pascal watched him go in a flurry of black and gold, feeling suddenly a little lonely, and wondering what horrors of loneliness Vincent carried with him.

* * * * *

Clarissa had grown more animated. She still sat stiffly at the end of the bed, using few gestures as she talked, but there was a fervor in her eyes that Catherine hadn't seen before. She wished she wasn't seeing it now. The more Clarissa told her the more she felt her first instinct had been right, and however she came to be here, it was a place she should leave at the earliest opportunity.

"Of course. I couldn't go back to Lyden. I had no desire to ever see the place again and no chance of ever getting the money that was rightfully mine. I stayed in Chicago near the university, near the hospital. There were people I knew there -- not precisely friends -- but I still hoped I could find a way to continue my education. I had no money. I worked at menial jobs that my grandmother would have found insulting -- if she knew, if she cared.

"Two years passed, maybe three, and I was still no closer to my goals. It began to make me angry, seeing the students, none of them as committed as I would have been, going on, succeeding, while I was left working in a nursing home for minimum wages. There were things to do and buy in the city, but I could afford none of them. I had all the disadvantages of living with the masses, but none of the benefits, so I began to think about moving on.

"One of the students told me about a job some distance away -- in a rural area. The pay was more than I was making, and room and board were included. It might have been distasteful to some people. There was certainly no future in it -- that's why they paid so well, but I wrote to them, and they told me to come along. I had to hitch-hike to get there, and when I did, I thought at first I'd been given the wrong directions. It was just a plain clapboard house -- miles from anywhere. No sign, but there I was standing by the roadside with nothing but corn fields on either side, so I knocked on the door.

"Well, the moment I was inside, I knew it was the right place. It was beautifully furnished with antiques, thick carpeting. In the back, where it couldn't be seen from the road, there was a pool and lovely landscaped gardens, surrounded by trees, all very private and very expensive. The only unattractive thing about it were the residents. They all looked horrible, and that's, of course, why they were there.

The woman who ran it -- Frick was her name -- had found a way to make herself a pretty penny with very little work.

"All of the guests, you see, had recently had cosmetic surgery -- face-lifts, nose jobs, what have you. Once those procedures are done, there's a period -- depending on the extent of the surgery, of course -- when the patient really requires no medical attention, but they look grotesque. For women so driven by vanity, the thought of returning home looking worse than when they left, the risk of being seen by friends they hope to fool with their new, improved faces, is unthinkable. Staying at the clinic or hospital where they had the surgery is often out of the question and besides, it's tremendously expensive. Frick had come up with the idea of a halfway house -- a place where they could hide for a short time until the signs of surgery were gone. She could charge a lot less than the clinics and still make an easy fortune.

"One nurse was employed on a full-time basis, but most of the duties could be seen to by anyone. We helped with the preparation of the food, cleaned the rooms, sat with the patients and talked or played cards, or read to them if they didn't have the use of their eyes. We wrote their letters or devised little amusements. If you made a resident's stay more pleasant, there could be a healthy tip when the time came for her to leave. I saved quite a bit of money in the two years I was there.

Catherine, who'd been hoping against hope for a happy ending, asked, "Enough to go back to school?"

Clarissa bristled, "I will tell the story in my own way, if you please. The money wasn't important. Oh, no, it wasn't the most important part at all, because, you see, for once fortune smiled my way. It was so unexpected, like a gift out of the blue that no one but me could appreciate. I had been into town to get groceries. A new patient had arrived, Frick said, and I should see if she needed anything. Well, of course, she gave me the name, but even then. I couldn't imagine that fate could be so kind. I thought it must be coincidence. Still, I was trembling when I found the door to the room ajar, and slipped right in. It was her, and she was lying there with bandages still on her eyes. She was asleep.

"Oh, it took great strength of will for me to leave her like that, but I knew I had to. I went back to my own room and packed my bag. When they were all at supper, I took it outside and left it behind the shed. She would be taking meals in her room, of course, until the bandages came off, but one of the other girls had already taken the tray up. You can imagine how anxiously I waited. It was one of the longest nights of my life. The time seemed to crawl by with the dishes to be done and the kitchen cleaned, but there were things I needed there. Some of the women were playing Scrabble. Others were watching television. I pretended to turn in early, listening until I heard the last of them go upstairs. It was very quiet. A bit more activity going on, a little more noise, would have been preferable, but what can you do?

"My heart was racing when I went to her door. The patients weren't supposed to lock them, in case of fire -- that was the rule, but what did she ever care about rules? As soon as I felt the knob turn in my hand, I knew it was meant to be, that this was my moment, and then came that arrogant voice from the bed. Oh, it gave me energy, that voice. It gave me courage. She demanded to know who was there, why I hadn't knocked. I would have liked so much to stretch it out, to savor it all a little longer, but there wasn't time, and she was so powerful, I was afraid somehow she would know it was me, even if she couldn't see, even if I never spoke a word.

"But, of course, I did speak. I sat down beside her on the bed, and I, whispered, 'It's time to remove your bandages.' No, she said, it wasn't -- the doctor had left strict orders for her to keep them on till the next day, but by that time I had the things out of my apron pocket -- the scissors, the knife. 'Clarissa,' I whispered, 'You must stay very still,' and I began to cut away the bandages. I think she was quite as incensed that a stranger had dared to call her by her first name as she was by my actions, and she was going to scream or call out any second, so I had to keep her quiet, but I wanted her to see. I wanted her to know in the end who was doing this to her. Her eyes were so swollen she could barely open them at all, but I held her there with my hand over her mouth, until I could see the spark of recognition, of outrage. 'Grandma, what big eyes you have,' I whispered, and oh, it was wonderful seeing the fear come over her, knowing I could joke because I was the one now with the power. I had to finish it then, quickly, but afterwards the joking mood was still on me, and I thought what I would have done if I'd been her surgeon and I took the knife --"

Clarissa stopped and threw Catherine a sharp look. "You're white as a sheet, girl. Well, of course, not everyone's got the stomach for it -- for the skills a doctor has to have, but I assure you it comes naturally to me. Anyhow, I took what I wanted from her and the apron and the instruments, and I locked the door behind me. Nobody saw me when I slipped out and grabbed the suitcase. I took off across the corn fields and hitched a ride with a trucker. I was across the state line by dawn, but I kept on going."

"Down south I sent... what I had of hers in a little box to her house. I don't know whether anyone ever opened it. I suppose they must have -- her attorneys, whoever went through the estate, though I like to think they never did. I like to think of it there in the house still. Do you know I never heard one word about any of it, her death -- any of it? No one knew where I was to call me back to the funeral, as if I would have gone. I hadn't used my real name since leaving home, so there was never really any chance that I'd be connected to it. The perfect crime.

"I came to New York, and yes, I did take classes. I'd had to give up on being a doctor, but there was still the art. For years I got by. Then one day I saw a man I thought I recognized. He had given a lecture once -- a very strange, wonderful lecture in Chicago. I'd never forgotten it, and I was sure it was him, though it was so many years later. I went right up to him and told him how I'd admired his ideas. Well, that was my second great piece of luck. He was quite taken by my work when I showed it to him. He told me about this place.

"So you see, I have it all -- her freedom, her power. It is very true that money's not the important thing, and you realize now that you've gotten expert care here. If you like I could read to you or we could play cards."

Telling her story had obviously left Clarissa in an expansive mood. "No, that's very kind of you, but I'm really tired. I think I'd just like to sleep now."

"Very well. It won't be long now, I'm sure. Then we'll know what's to be done."

Catherine lay wide awake, after she'd gone. Beneath the covers, she was trembling. There was still no guarantee of immediate danger, just because her hostess might -- or might not be -- capable of murder. It was possible the whole story was a fantasy. But if it wasn't, would Clarissa have revealed it if she intended to let Catherine leave? No one in their right mind would do that. Still, she was clearly not in her right mind. Was it possible that she expected Catherine to accept it all as a happy story in which justice prevailed?

There was no way to second guess a mind like Clarissa's. The only possible response was to get away as soon as she could and take her chances in the tunnels. For a moment she considered the alternative of simply relaxing the firm grip she was holding on her fear. She could let it flow and bring Vincent to her, but the thought brought confusion surging back into her brain.

No, she mustn't rely on him. It wasn't right. What about those others Clarissa had mentioned? Were they nearby? She could be luring Vincent into a situation whose dangers she didn't even know. And why... why did the thought of him bring her up against that terrible blankness? It would be foolish to try her escape until there was a chance that Clarissa would be asleep. Her best guess was that the bread and cheese were meant as a noon meal and the soup as dinner. The menu hadn't varied, and the long quiet stretches invariably came after the soup.

Lying in this bed hadn't done a thing to prepare her for action. A tentative effort at sitting brought the dizziness back full force, and she sank back down, furious at her own helplessness. The least she could do was flex her muscles, try to combat the sluggishness that never seemed to leave her limbs. She could turn her ankle now with hardly any pain, and she did so over and over, hoping to restore its use. Concentrating on one area at a time, she contracted the muscles in her arms and legs, systematically. Everything worked, but the effort was discouragingly tiring. Still, .she kept it up for what seemed hours, hours in which her mind remained just as rebellious as her body, refusing to give her the clues that would help her to understand how she got here and why the thought of Vincent rang in her head like a warning.

* * * * *

"Ah, Vincent. We've seen so little of each other lately. Please come in. Sit down."

In his nervousness Jacob's voice sounded a touch too loud. He wondered if his son noticed, as he descended the stairs and circled the desk with panther grace. How mysterious those eyes could seem in moments like this, Jacob thought -- shadowed, glittering. Vincent's silence only intensified the impression that he was sizing up his opponent with some superhuman faculty that went beyond words.

Opponent? Had it come to that? Jacob shook off the melodramatic thought, hiding his chilled fingers in the folds of his shawl. "What do you say to a game of chess? It's been a long time."

"No... No games."

Jacob thought there was an undertone in the complex voice, but Vincent sat down with every appearance of being at ease. "All right, then. Tell me... how have you been getting on?"

"You see me every day, Father."

"Yes, of course, I do, but it's usually with the others. I don't know what you're feeling, what you might be going through."

"Whose fault is that?" Vincent said with a mildness that instantly put the older man on guard. "Whenever we're alone together you seem preoccupied. There's always something that needs your attention."

"Well, I'm sorry, if that's been the case recently. I suppose I've had a great deal on my mind."

"Such as ...? What's been troubling you, Father?"

Jacob was not pleased to see the question turned on himself; there was nothing to do but turn it back. "You have, Vincent. I don't think it's unusual for a parent to be concerned when his child has been through a terrible ordeal, and it has come to my attention that you are displaying a certain -- distraction."

"What sort of distraction?"

"Well, merely that you seem preoccupied at times... brooding perhaps."

Vincent rose from his chair, bristling. "Has this 'distraction' kept me from my duties, Father? Is there a single responsibility that I have not fulfilled? I've worked with the children, with the new family settling below. When the council has met I've been there -- and done my best to contribute." He was pacing now, rattling off a barbed point with every step. "You yourself objected to how quickly I rejoined the work crews. When Jamie thought she had been followed through the 3rd St. entrance, I went there prepared to do whatever -- whatever -- it took, Father, to see that our secret was not compromised --"

'Yes, yes, of course, you did. "Jacob raised a placating hand. "I'm not disputing your actions." How had a simple expression of concern managed to rile him so? "No one does more for the community than you. I was referring to your state of mind. I've seen the signs of melancholy when you thought no one was looking. Someone chanced to... uh... notice you down by the falls one day, and I'm told that you often go to the park entrance, a place which I realize has great significance for you. I'm concerned that you may be dwelling on a subject that can only cause you pain."

"What subject is that, Father? Is it so difficult even to speak her name?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Vincent. Of course not. I --"

"Then why is it, Father, that every time she is mentioned you look as if you wish yourself somewhere else? Someone speaks of Catherine at supper and you change the subject. Yesterday Eric asked if he might write to her and you scolded him about his lessons. What is it? Is her very name to be expunged from our conversation?"

"Vincent, please, sit down. You're reading something into this situation that simply isn't there. If I've discouraged talk about Catherine it's been for your sake. I thought you might find it upsetting. Surely you know I only want what's best for you."

"Oh, yes. I know that. What I don't know is why you're lying to me."

Jacob's denial died in this throat. Eyes of ice were burning into his. Vincent did not sit back down.

"Isn't it enough for you, Father, that you were right -- that Catherine is gone from my life? I've done what you asked. I've become what you wanted. Now you question my right to even grieve for what is lost. Am I to be allowed no flaws at all? If it's perfection you're seeking perhaps you should have concentrated on Devin, because I cannot be a perfect man, Father. I cannot be a man at all. Isn't that what you've taught me?"

"Vincent, if you would simply calm down -- I understand your emotions are raw just now, but I'm trying to help you."

It didn't take a lapse into some primal state to make his son an intimidating figure. If he hadn't dealt with this temper before Jacob might have been cowed by the mercurial anger parading before him. As it was, he jumped when a fist came down on the desk with such force that several books tumbled to the floor.

"Help me what?" Vincent thundered. "Help me to forget her? Would you take even my memories? She's gone from my life, banished from my dreams. Now you would have her ripped from my heart as well. I'm sorry, Father. It's too much to ask -- even for you."

He shot up the steps and was gone before Jacob could find the breath to call him back. Shaken, he lowered his head to his hands wondering how an honest attempt at reconciliation had gone so wrong. Comfort -- that's what he had hoped to offer, and any doubt that it was needed had vanished with Vincent's volatility. Beneath the calm, beneath the resolute acceptance, there flourished a great deal of pain.

After a moment he forced himself to rise and took a few labored steps. With great deliberation he picked up the scattered books, stacking them neatly on the desk.

How could he hope to offer comfort in this dark hour when, even clouded by sorrow, Vincent could see that his staunchest ally was a liar?

* * * * *

At last Clarissa appeared with the evening meal -- the usual bowl of steaming soup. Catherine wondered if the woman's own diet followed this same predictable routine or was there laid out nearby a more interesting meal -- fruit, perhaps, and vegetables, maybe a juicy steak. She thought the lightheadedness might have disappeared by now if only the menu were more substantial.

Still, the soup was delicious as always. She ate it quickly, anxious for Clarissa to be gone. It was unsettling the way the woman just stood there, arms folded, with that habitual expression of haughty amusement.

"You haven't told me what you thought of my story," she said as Catherine handed her the empty bowl.

"Your story? I'm sorry. Clarissa, my mind's in such a muddle. I'm afraid I can't remember anything distinctly." A feeble ploy, but the best she could think of to minimize the damage. Perhaps if Clarissa thought she didn't remember the sordid details, she'd be less likely to try to keep her here -- if that was her intent. Fat chance, Catherine amended inwardly as the sly expression didn't change. Clarissa had an agenda all her own, and it was doubtful that anyone else could change it.

"You're not very curious for someone who wanders around where they're not wanted."

"No, guess not." Catherine shrugged with what she hoped would be a disarming smile. "Good-night."

"Enjoy your beauty sleep." Chortling roughly, Clarissa left the chamber, and then began the endless stretch of time while Catherine waited for the coast to clear. She practiced her kinetic exercises, listening for sounds from the room beyond. Time was hard to judge since she'd awakened here. It seemed to fold in on itself like a telescope, making minutes seem like hours, and then again she would realize that hours had passed in what seemed a few half-dazed moments. It was the persistent churning in her head, she thought, that must be to blame, wondering for the first time whether the accident -- whatever it might have been -- could have damaged her inner ear. For a while, this afternoon, the dizzy feeling had seemed to be fading, but now as she sat up and cautiously prepared to stand, it was back in full force.

She made her way slowly to the foot of the bed, and rested against the wall, waiting for the room to stop swaying. By leaning against it, shuffling sideways, she was able to keep the movement of her head to a minimum. It seemed to help. A surprisingly short passage lead from the doorway to a brighter, much larger chamber beyond. The corner of a table was visible, a chair and little else. Cautiously, she edged her way toward the light, stopping with each breath until the gyroscope in her head had righted itself. One step more and she would be able to see the entire chamber. Too bright for sleeping quarters. With luck it would be empty. With luck there would be a way out into the labyrinth, into obscurity where it would be safe to open her mind and beg him to come.

Afterwards, she wasn't sure whether she'd simply lost her balance or if the shock to an already befuddled mind had sent her reeling to the chamber floor.

The room was filled with people. They lurked everywhere in the shadows. Staring faces swooped down at her like harpies, screaming their silent screams.

* * * * *

Vincent awoke with a start, nearly knocking over the inkstand at his elbow. His heart pounded with a sense of fear and of Catherine. A dream, some nightmare image that he could not recall. Even now it was fading.

Beyond the circle of candlelight, the chamber was in shadow. Late. It must be very late. The pipes were nearly silent. He looked down at the journal at the lines written before he'd drifted off.

Tonight I walked the tunnels -- alone, and it seemed to me the shadows on the walls, the shadows like storm clouds overhead, and those on the path before me -- dark pits waiting to pull me to unimagined depths -- all of them seemed as nothing to the shadows within me. When I let myself examine those dark places inside, I knew that they had changed.

For such a long time -- as long as I can remember -- the darkest places in me sprang from that fury that is mine and yet is not mine. That is what shadows meant to me, the possibility that I would lose myself and become only darkness, but tonight I realized that there are blacker places still, places so chill, so bereft of hope that the human heart can scarcely survive their touch. Those shadows were the truth of a life without her, without Catherine.

However much I try to reach out for the beauties in life, and there are many, I cannot deny that those shadows exist. Friendships, the trust of good people, the world we've built here -- more beautiful to me in its strength, its innocence, than any shining castle. All these things touch me, and I touch them and there is goodness in that. There is comfort. Yet all of them all of the candles lighted in the name of hope, of truth, cannot dispel those places in my soul.

For a moment tonight I thought they would smother me. The shadows without, those within, would come together somehow, until my aloneness was so complete that I could open my eyes and find the world vanished -- this world, the one above, even the boundless reaches of the stars -- they would all be gone. I stood against the wall and fought for long moments simply to remember how it is a man can breathe. It seemed my mind had forgotten to will the beating of my heart.

And then it all came back to me -- in the memory of everything she was and is and will be. In her remembered eyes I saw the courage and the love that give the smallest things their meanings, that give me meaning. And I knew that I would willingly gather all the shadows of the earth, if it would leave her to the sunshine.

I would hold them all. I will hold them all, as fast as friends, and dream of endless sunlight in her hair.

Gently, he closed the book and sat for a minute listening to the far-off maverick trains that cut across the darkest hours of the night, and the sounds of knocking, hissing steam. Yes, it was late. He had walked a long time, after leaving Father, returning to record his thoughts in the journal that had always been a source of comfort, helping him to put into words the emotions that moved so strongly through him. Apparently, it had comforted him straight into sleep, but it couldn't have been for long.

He rose, frustrated with the inability to recall what had waked him so violently. The brief sleep might have been a night's worth for all the inclination he had now to go to bed.

A nameless anxiety was building inside. Every muscle in his body was tensed to move -- toward what? Against what? His hands clenched at his sides. It was dangerous, this tension, and he knew he should work it out in some constructive way, but the truth was he would have loved to strike out at someone, at something. He almost wished there was some valid threat looming over the community that would allow him to let it loose and was immediately ashamed of the thought.

Must go somewhere, do something. There was a time, when restlessness kept sleep at bay, that he would have gone naturally to Father, who never turned him away. He would emerge from his sleeping alcove, denying that he had been doing anything but reading, and sit patiently talking into the night, until Vincent's agitation had passed. There was a time.

No doubt he himself was responsible for much of what had gone wrong in their earlier conversation. He had gone to the study hoping to soothe troubled waters, yet found himself immediately pounding against their currents. He was fearful of the secret sorrow that etched the beloved face, of what it meant, and mystified that Father no longer trusted him enough to confide it. But his attitude, his naive belief that thoughts of Catherine could be set aside, the inexplicable callousness that he should even wish to do so…

Vincent did not know where he was going tonight, but in his present mood he knew where it would be best not to go. His cloak snapped around him as he strode with aimless energy from his chamber.

* * * * *

With empty eyes they swarmed -- faces she thought she knew, others glossy and white as ghosts, some mere fragments, disembodied, grotesque.

On her hands and knees now, the twirling in her head subsiding, she tried to focus as they flew away, retreating to the far wall. Masks. Only masks, she realized.

Until one of them spoke.

"So, you do have some curiosity after all. Well, what do you think? Do you like my work?" Clarissa eyed her dispassionately from behind a long table littered with jars. She was wiping something with a stained cloth and made no move to help.

Or to hinder. Catherine realized, but then that hardly appeared necessary. There seemed little hope of reaching the doorway that must surely lead to freedom. The few steps leading up to it might have been mountains, and they seemed very far away. The best she could do was maneuver back against the solid wall and sit tucking her gown around her knees, hoping to salvage something useful from the situation.

"You made these things?"

"I created them. Some, I assure you, were easier than others. It helps when I have the proper materials."

"They're... quite remarkable."

"More than you know, my girl. You'll get filthy sitting there on the floor. If you want to be out here, why don't you take a chair?"

"I don't think I can," Catherine said truthfully enough.

Clarissa didn't reply. She finished cleaning the object in her hand -- something that flashed with the gleam of metal as she laid it on the table -- and came around to hook a bony hand under Catherine's arm, helping her with a minimum of ceremony to an ornate armchair.

Eyes closed, Catherine waited for the giddiness to subside. When she opened them, Clarissa was back at the table, one sharp elbow jabbing the air as she ground away with a mortal and pestle. "Were you thinking of leaving here just now?" she asked, though her tone held little interest.

"Why should I want to do that? You've taken good care of me, but I still need to let people know I'm all right. There must be a way you could help me do that."

"I'm not one of their helpers. As you can see I'm a very busy woman, and I expect to be a great deal busier very soon. You would do well to learn a bit of patience. Besides, you haven't been here very long now have you? No one's had time to even notice you were gone."

Was that true? No, of course, it couldn't be. She had been here for days. Hadn't Clarissa said as much before? Not being able to judge the passing of time was only one of the frightening tricks her mind kept playing. Here with those bizarre masks staring from the walls and a possible murderer calmly puttering with her odd paraphernalia. Catherine felt suddenly that even more frightening revelations were just out of reach.

With an effort she turned her attention to the chamber. Just as she'd thought -- no one else. No sign that anyone but Clarissa called this eerie cavern home. If left alone, she could make her way up and out that doorway -- even if she had to crawl. The chances that Clarissa would give her the opportunity seemed remote, but perhaps if she showed no inclination to escape...

"What is all that?" she asked, feigning casual interest.

"The jars? Chemicals, naturally -- solvents, dyes. The vats are for clay and plaster. Would you like me to show you something?" For a minute her eyes gleamed with barely suppressed excitement, but then she shook her head. "No... not yet. There'll be plenty of time, after he gets here. I don't think he'd like it if I went ahead without his approval. You can never be sure what will rouse his anger, you see, and he can be very cruel when he's angered. It's better to wait."

Catherine considered asking again who "he" was, but she was in no mood for another of Clarissa's coy smiles. For all she knew, no one ever came here at all. The visitor might be a figment of the woman's warped imagination. Or maybe she was expecting the devil himself. It wouldn't surprise her in the least, but the thought was hardly comforting.

So far she'd spotted nothing that would help her to get away or even to contact the others. Near the steps lay a curious, dark mound. It gave off sharp, golden glints in the candlelight. "What is that?" she asked.

Clarissa looked up, following her gaze and her face lit with amusement. "Why, it's a net. I told you my friend is a fisherman of sorts. I suppose I should put it back before he arrives, but they so seldom do any good. Still, he's full of ideas like that -- quite mad they seem sometimes, but he loves his tricks and gadgets -- like a child."

The description reminded her of Mouse, yet the image it conjured was not the one she expected -- not the mischievous, laughing face she was used to. In her mind's eye, he looked fearful and unbearably sad. Why? Anxiety was rising with that sense of memories just beyond a veil. She forced it down. The effort just to sit here was alarmingly taxing.

Clarissa had apparently noticed, but her look held more satisfaction than sympathy. "You're going to fall out of that chair, you know. Why don't you go back to bed. Who knows, in the morning you may feel good as new."

Catherine suppressed the urge to scowl at her. It might make her feel better, but it seemed best not to antagonize her hostess, not to court her suspicions. Hating the feeling of helplessness, she accepted Clarissa's support without a word, stumbling back to the dark little chamber and the bed, as the walls wheeled around. Within minutes she was asleep.

It was sometime during the night, perhaps toward morning, that the veil lifted. All the images crowding behind it spilled out -- a chaotic clutter of random scenes that gradually fell into place.

A man with a tape recorder. A golden locket. Father bleeding, warning them that they had to hurry. Elliot's bafflement. Peter -- with a syringe of blood.

And Vincent.

How could she have forgotten -- even for a moment? He was in trouble, terrible trouble. He needed her. With a gasp she awoke, but the dreams didn't fade. As she lay in a cold sweat, they grew clearer, locking into place, until little of the blankness remained.

Not dreams at all – memories, recent memories. He had told her he loved her -- there in the waning glow of the sun, he had said it, both of them hoping the crisis had passed. But it hadn't -- the summons below, the chilling discovery that he had not waited, that he'd gone off deep into the darkness, warning them not to follow. But of course they had, she and Father, Pascal, Mouse -- yes, poor Mouse. She saw again the look on Father's face as she insisted on going ahead. The mingled hope and fear. And then there was only the sound of Vincent's pain drawing her downward, only the need to share with him whatever agony he was suffering.

Had she actually reached the cavern? Or somehow lost her way, ending up here? It wasn't worth spending time trying to remember. What had happened to Vincent? That's what she had to know. How much precious time had been wasted in her half-dazed condition, lying in bed, listening to the ravings of that poor deluded woman?

She sat up, heedless of the pitching and rolling that the movement triggered. Maybe the return of the missing memories signaled a healing, or maybe it was the sheer force of purpose that gripped her now, but the vertigo didn't seem quite as bad as before.

And she was leaving now -- this very minute -- if she had to drag herself to freedom. If Clarissa had to be overpowered, well then, she'd find the strength to do that, too. No wonder something had whispered not to call Vincent to her. Was he still raging alone in that dreadful place? Or had he collapsed again into delirium and fevered sleep? She would find him wherever he was, wherever she was.

Barefoot, she stood and edged around the bed. Reaching the wall, she slid along it as she had before. This morning it stayed more rigidly at her back. Her head still felt as if it were full of water that refused to find its level, sloshing about, making it hard to keep her balance, yet the sensation had abated a little, and she maneuvered down the short passage, straining to hear sounds of activity ahead, praying there would be none.

Taking a deep breath, she peered cautiously into the chamber of masks and at first thought it empty. She steeled herself for the few steps that must be taken unaided into the center of the room. Then there would be the chair to hold onto and a small sturdy table and then only a few daunting yards to the steps and freedom.

There was a smell in the room that hadn't been there before. Before she could place it, Clarissa suddenly rose from behind the work table.

"This must be it," she said, hoisting a metal box onto the littered surface. For a moment Catherine thought she'd been spotted, but Clarissa began to rummage through the box without looking up.

Damn. Was it better to stay here, hoping the woman would leave the room while her tenuous strength played out? And where was she likely to go but this very passage? It must be morning, and mornings Clarissa bent her care-giving skills on helping her bathe. No, she couldn't afford to lose another moment. She touched the crystal beneath her gown and summoning all the forcefulness at her disposal, stepped out into the light.

Clarissa looked up. Her eyes seemed to glow with secret excitement, but her voice was as sardonic as usual. "You've managed to make a more graceful entrance today, I see."

"And exit," Catherine said flatly. "I'm leaving now Clarissa. I have to."

"In your nightgown?"

Catherine ignored her. Adrenaline took her within reach of the chair. She grasped its back, then leaned on the table for a few more faltering steps. Look ahead, she told herself. Keep your eyes on one spot.

Letting go of the support, she weaved uncertainly into the open space before the stairs. Even fixed on the goal of the doorway, she could sense that Clarissa hadn't moved. The realization sped her progress over the vast expanse of the remaining yards. At the first stone step she stumbled and fell, pushing herself immediately to her knees. Freedom was only a short climb away and beyond that -- Vincent. Vincent who needed her.

"Leaving so soon? What a pity. We haven't had a chance to get acquainted." The voice was not Clarissa's. It came from the entrance above. The voice was... Her head jerked upward, an ill-advised move that sent her senses swimming once more, so that it was hard to bring the figure standing above into focus. He seemed to loom gigantic in the doorway -- clothed all in black, and then she saw the gleam of beaten gold that was his mask.

* * * * *

He moved through the hollows with the sureness of a stream, with a stream's grace and with no clearer picture of his goal than a stream held in its sinuous waters. Behind him lay the bright beating heart of the community with its veins of torch lit corridors, ahead the endless tangle that threaded like dark capillaries into the earth.

The air grew pungent with the brassy smell of stagnant water and moldering earth. Disks of fungus winked at him from the crusted walls, emitting a pale, eerie glow. Subtle odors of spring whispered in the moss that he could not see, so delicate was its tracery among the stones.

"Now this is a sewer," Devin had said with disgust on the long ago day they had first ventured here. Vincent had felt mildly disappointed that his brother didn't want to go any farther, because, of course, it was not a sewer. Not at all like those manmade structures, the repellent evidence of advanced civilization that everyone avoided.

This was a place fashioned by the earth itself, filled with strange swampy odors like those he imagined must rise from untamed jungles above. Its inhospitable darkness appealed to him in the way that all things mysterious and undiscovered drew him, but Devin had turned and headed back toward the maze. He had come this way only once since then and found at the journey's end a living, breathing horror of which these fetid passages seemed emblematic.

The lantern swinging at his side tossed coins of yellow light on the path ahead that slipped across the brackish puddles, lending them a strange beauty. The soft slapping sounds of his boots echoed against the rock, sending small things skittering into the shadows.

He bowed his head beneath the lowering, dripping stones and wondered why he'd chosen this singular route. Because it held no memories of her to take him unawares? Or because its solitary blackness made a likely screen on which to cast the blazing images he carried with him?

The passage funneled out into a crude cavern and suddenly the air was alive with a shrill beating of wings. The bats swarmed crazily at his entrance, bursting into frantic, random flight. Birds of the netherworld. What was it he and Devin had decided? A shrieking of bats? A braille of bats? A battle?

Father had shared with them the secret communal names of animals. Herds, of course, and gaggles of geese and the delectable exultation of larks, but he couldn't recall what name to give the bats, and so they had come up with their own. "What's the name for us?" Devin had asked, and Father had said proudly, "We are a community." It was the first time he'd heard the word, and Vincent had found it beautiful, though not quite in a league with exultation.

In these primitive alleyways of the earth there were no torches to light the way, only that gentle light that remained with him always, the cherished images, his constant companions, the fuel that drove the machinery of his body. It must be daylight where she was now, and he wished for her flights of colorful songbirds. For himself, the blandishment of bats. Yes, that had been their most colorful attempt to surround the unbeautiful creatures with poetry.

His destination yawned before him, drenched in Stygian gloom. The walls were blasted, so thick with soot that even the lantern's light was almost swallowed, finding nothing to reflect on. Charred wood, mounds of ash and contortions of dulled metal. The place chilled him with its testimony to a fear that every one of the tunnel dwellers harbored.

A fire below could lay waste to the work of more than 30 years in a matter of a few apocalyptic moments. They seldom spoke of it, so horrific were the implications, but the possibility dictated much of the way they lived -- the ceaseless patrols to check the gas lines, the constant efforts to make water accessible to every part of their world.

Here the fire had been confined to a single cavern, finding the corridors beyond too unrelentingly wet for habitation. Nothing remained. He wondered again what impulse had brought him to this place -- an evil far greater than the inferno had flourished within these walls. Perhaps among the worthless wreckage lay hardened puddles of gold, but there was no one to reclaim them.

He who had sowed the seeds of horror had reaped the whirlwind. In his fanatic quest to destroy his one-time friend Jacob Wells, Paracelsus had grasped any weapon at his disposal -- even his own death. And how deftly he'd tipped the scales toward madness. Vincent could see now how his own vulnerabilities had been exploited with unerring skill.

Catherine had been a more formidable foe for Paracelsus. Catherine he had never broken -- even for a moment.

The knowledge warmed him even in this ghastly sepulcher. Catherine was a survivor, and his own survival would pay tribute to her. Turning to go, he caught a tiny glow in the darkness abandoned by the lantern. Not the shine of gold, but something with a strange, unhealthy gleam of its own. A plant, he realized, one of Paracelsus' deadly hybrids springing up to haunt the desecration. The resiliency of evil.

Scornfully, he turned his back on it, carrying out into the passageway the knowledge of a love that lived forever, feeling the invincibility settle over his shoulders like a bright mantle, like a spell of truth and beauty cast against the armies of the night.

* * * * *

Before she could scramble to her feet, an iron hand clamped on her wrist. That face in its bizarre armor was bending down into hers. Not real. It couldn't be real, yet recognition subtly altered its lines, as he got a clear look at her beneath the tousled hair.

She attempted to pull away from him. "I thought you were --"

"Dead? How can you be certain I'm not?"

"Because you're hurting my arm," Catherine hissed.

"Forgive me. It's not often we have visitors here. Please come sit where you can be more comfortable." With one hand he pulled her to her feet, the other sweeping a formal gesture toward the ornately carved chair. A nightmare unreality settled like a pall over her thoughts. His grip seemed preternaturally strong. Objects in the room shimmered with no more solidity than ghosts. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps she was still in the narrow bed, dreaming, but she didn't really believe it as he forced her with mock civility to sit.

"Her name is Cynthia... " Clarissa offered smugly.

"Really, Tamara. Is that what she told you? You shouldn't be so trusting."

"Tamara? She told me her name was Clarissa."

"Did she now? It would seem we all have our little deceptions." As he reached beneath the chair, she tried to focus on the table beside her, looking for a weapon, and a wavy line hovering above the surface became a candlestick. As she lunged for it, there was a clicking sound. Paracelsus stepped away from her. Rounding the table he moved the heavy pewter weapon just out of her reach with insolent slowness.

Catherine blinked down at her feet. An iron ring -- attached to what, she couldn't see -- encircled her left ankle.

"A regrettable preca