PART III

Joe pounded down the concourse, threading his way between baggage-laden travelers. Two -- not one -- but two accidents holding up traffic before they'd even made it through Astoria, and why was it that the flight you wanted was always scheduled for the farthest gate?

Up ahead he could see a knot of people standing near the waiting area and prayed they were there to meet passengers from Mexico.

"Flight 451?" he asked breathless, as he reached the ticket agent.

"Just arriving, sir."

With a sigh of relief he glanced up at the window, where the jetway was being extended to the door of a 767. These last three weeks had seemed like months. After having to hold back so long, it would have been just great if he'd been too late to intercept Alcott.

He took his place with the people standing at the end of the restricted area. From here there was a clear view of the passengers as they deplaned, and there was no way anybody could slip past him unnoticed. Still, his tension mounted. What was taking so long?

At last they began to appear, sporadic a first, then in a jostling crowd no more orderly than you'd see in the subway. Expecting Alcott to fly first class, he tried to count, but at least 20 passengers had passed him by now. They were already into the coach crowd. So maybe the good doctor was frugal with his money.

A lot of suntanned faces. A lot of sombreros and piñatas. Families with tired little kids. Some well-dressed guys who looked like they might have been attending the same medical convention as Alcott. Around him there were squeals and laughter, as people connected with each other, creating momentary bottlenecks and then drifting off.

At last he was the only one standing there. The jetway was empty. A ticket agent was moving to close the door. "Is that it?" he asked her. "You're sure there's no one else on board?"

"That's it, sir. Were you expecting a party who didn't arrive?"

"You could say that."

"It was a pretty full flight. Maybe they decided to take a later one."

"Can you check that for me?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Passenger lists are confidential, unless you're with the pol --"

He already had his badge out. All the anxiety that he'd tried to tell himself was out of line was back in full force. "I'm with the DA's office and this could be real important."

"Of course, sir."

He followed her to the desk, where she began to pull up manifests on the computer. "Is this something we should alert the flight crew about? If there's a dangerous passenger on board, they need to know."

"No, that's not a problem -- just somebody we need for questioning real quick." Alcott's name didn't come up on the remaining flight tonight, nor was he scheduled on any other airline. If Alcott had taken a powder, he was never going to forgive himself. "What about earlier flights? Can you still pull up the lists for those?"

"Certainly." Her fingers were already flying over the keys. What if it wasn't there? He began to wonder if he could impose on her to check Mexico City flights to other destinations -- like to anywhere in the whole known world. "Alcott... Peter Alcott?" she said suddenly.

"Yeah." At this point, her discovery took him by surprise.

"He took an earlier flight that arrived at 3:30 this afternoon."

"You're sure he boarded?"

"Absolutely."

"Thanks -- you've been a big help."

Once again he took the concourse at a run. So Peter hadn't disappeared into the wilds of Bolivia. What was he doing changing his flight plans? Maybe he suspected they were onto him.

The Queensboro bridge was laced with lights when he crossed it again, pushing the speed limit as hard as he dared. He tried to tell himself that this whole mystery might be a figment of his imagination. He tried, but the feeling in his gut wouldn't go away. There was no shaking the sense that the night just settling over the city was going to be a long one.

* * * * *

Shadows fell across his shoulders like cold clouds.

He had left behind his armor of beaten metal that might have caught whatever meager light penetrated to this far outpost of his kingdom. Fitting that a monarch who chose to explore his realm in anonymity should leave behind the golden emblems of his office.

He was sovereign here, though these humble, incredulous peasants might not know it yet. He was come like King Richard to reclaim his throne and soon -- very soon -- he would reveal himself, in triumph stepping into their small, colorless lives at the moment of their greatest confusion, their greatest grief, and sheep-like they would bow to his authority.

There was little chance of encountering any of his subjects in this desolate area far from their habitat, far from his own. Still, inborn furtiveness kept him to the gloomy margins of the caverns he passed through, sliding from dark to sheltering dark with sharpened senses.

A monarch should know his kingdom -- even its farthest reaches -- and his probing mind had for days now hummed with curiosity. He must confirm his theories, see for himself the place that had made it possible for such a valuable hostage to fall -- heaven-sent, it seemed -- into his hands.

The north shaft, Tamara had said. Poring over his own meticulously executed maps, he had deduced where its origins might be -- in an area inhabited by no one, an inhospitable warren of low twisting passages where the air was stale, the atmosphere one of unmitigated gloom.

That anyone would choose to wander there was a mystery, but that Catherine Chandler, a creature who wore about her an aura of sunlight, should have elected to do so intrigued him utterly. Leaving the comparative freedom of cavernous spaces, he ducked into a low-mouthed passage and felt himself immediately trapped. It seemed to go on forever with few connections to other routes, no sudden release into spaciousness, like a funnel pouring its contents into some inescapable crucible.

The sense of entrapment grated on his nerves, and he paused straining for sounds that might indicate he was not alone. Of course, there were none -- only the wind whistling uninhibited through the narrow tubes, and after a moment he moved on, hunched ape-like beneath the sloping roof.

When at last the narrow passage opened up, and he stood at the threshold of his destination, triumph coursed through his veins. Just as he'd calculated. The bleak enclosure took its only illumination from the sickly glow of the north shaft, opening here as he had known it must.

He moved into the cavern, standing upright now and ramrod straight as befitted a monarch. At the rim, he looked down into the abyss with its curling vapors and smiled. So this had been the means by which the woman had been delivered to her destiny. Had something pursued her here? Or had she merely lost her footing on the crumbling ledge? And why here?

He turned and walked along the half-moon floor. A pile of rubble gave him pause. It looked as though something had wrenched its way into the wall dislodging a small avalanche. Curious, he continued to pace -- eyes narrowed -- searching every inch of the rough floor for signs of human passage, for some clue as to what might draw a person here. The dust was scuffed and scored, too disturbed to leave a clear footprint.

Lifting his eyes to the rugged walls, he felt his heart quicken and stepped forward, long white fingers tracing the rusty streak that appeared there -- mysteriously out of place. Like coming upon the primitive totems left by a prehistoric race. Lascaux. Alta Mira. Oh, yes, very like.

Eagerly he edged along the wall finding another symbol and another. The facts began to meld in his mind.

What had Jacob said? That Catherine had followed his son into exile, that she had found him in an advanced state of delirium, his fury turned on himself, that Vincent had collapsed at last and been carried away. He hadn't connected it before -- the incidence of Vincent's downfall with the woman's disappearance, but they must have coincided; they must have happened simultaneously right here.

He turned back toward the center of the cave, studying the circumstances in this new light. Vincent out of control. Catherine daring to approach him. And then her plunge toward oblivion. An accident?

Perhaps -- or perhaps the direct result of violence. Vincent's ferocious rage unsoftened by her solicitous presence, unresponsive to the love she offered in exchange. Ah, the thought was delicious; it was the very proof of his beliefs -- that love had no power against his son's innate savagery. He fairly trembled with this confirmation that his own instincts had lead him unerringly in the right direction.

Soon. Very soon, he must put into place the last -- and most vital part -- of his plan, and he had no doubt, no doubt at all, that it would succeed. A great happiness, a great peace warmed him as he abandoned the cavern, all its secrets yielded up to him, as everything he cherished, everything he coveted would soon be yielded up to him.

* * * * *

"He shouldn't have gone off like that when they loved each other so much. It was his fault she died."

"No, it wasn't. He had to go away, but he came back."

"What good did that do -- when she was dead?"

"She wasn't dead."

"He thought she was."

"That was her fault."

"Wasn't either. Tell him, Vincent -- it wasn't her fault was it?" Samantha turned to a higher authority, brown eyes blazing an appeal.

"No, it wasn't her fault -- or his." Vincent rose from the bed, where he'd been unobtrusively sitting out the debate, and joined the two children at the writing table. "The story tells us that finding fault can be like a sickness, feeding on itself long after the original quarrel is past. Such hatred for its own sake can destroy even the innocent."

"I'll bet they were sorry," Geoffrey said. "Romeo and Juliet's parents -- I bet they wished they'd just been friends all along."

"At least they found a nice count for Juliet to marry," Samantha supplied in the interest of fairness. "Which is better, Vincent, a count or a duke?"

"Count Dracula," Geoffrey suggested, grinning. "Maybe you could marry Count Dracula, Sam."

"Maybe you could marry an ugly, old toad."

"Dracula? Toads? I thought you were studying Shakespeare today," Mary said from the doorway.

"Romeo and Juliet," Vincent confirmed. "We were discussing the persistence of old rivalries."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Geoffrey, it's your turn to help in the kitchen. William's waiting for you. "

"Oops -- I almost forgot." Geoffrey jumped up. "We're going to make gingerbread, and he lets you lick the bowl. Thanks, Vincent. See you later." At the door he paused and looked back at Samantha who was still sitting at the table. "You want to come too, Sam?"

"Well... if you really need the help... " Closing her book with a great show of nonchalance, she slipped daintily from the chair.

"In answer to your question," Vincent advised her as she passed, "a duke is higher in rank. "

"And if you marry one, you get to be a duchess, right?" Samantha absorbed the information with a bemused look, as if she might be compelled to choose from any number of eligible peers on her journey to the kitchen.

"Old rivalries, hm?" Mary said, when the children were gone.

"But, as you can see, not very deep ones."

Mary smiled and began to gather up the papers that the children had left behind. "What about you, Vincent? Have things gotten better between you and Father?"

How to answer that. Their last conversation had been reminiscent of former times -- with Father there to soothe his anxieties. The old affection had risen up easily between them, yet he'd been so intent on his own fears that he'd made no effort to search out the source of Father's. "Yes, Mary, things are better. The last time we talked, he seemed himself again. He was a great comfort to me -- almost cheerful. Still, I wonder what can have troubled him for so long."

"Perhaps he was just waiting for you to turn to him, Vincent. People like to feel needed. I'm so glad you did that. It would be terrible if you two shut each other out." She picked up the book that Geoffrey had left behind. "What a lot of children have turned these pages -- and adults, too. Do you remember the time that Michael played Romeo? I think that's when he fell in love with literature."

"I remember. All the girls wanted to play Juliet." Vincent took the cracked, leather volume and the newer paperback that Samantha had been using and returned them to the bookshelf by his bed.

"And Laura -- how thrilled she was when she was chosen?"

"All the passion of the words was there in her hands."

Mary smiled nostalgically, "With Rebecca reciting the script, content to let Laura have the spotlight. I wonder how she's doing?"

"Rebecca?" Vincent took the papers from her, turning to a small wooden chest on the bottom shelf.

"No -- Laura. I'm sure she's all caught up in her plans with Jerry, but it would be good to hear from her, just to know that she's all right."

"She's well, Mary. Father received a letter from her not long ago."

"Oh, I don't think so. Vincent." Mary slipped the pencils into the table's shallow drawer. "I asked him just recently if he'd heard from her, and he said he hadn't."

Vincent's hands froze on the lid of the little chest. Ice seemed to drift up his spine as he turned back toward the center of the room. "When," he said slowly, "when did you ask him?"

"Why... it was just yesterday -- yesterday afternoon. What is it? Is something wrong?"

Wrong? He stared at her, oblivious to her puzzled expression. Everything was wrong. How had he let himself be so easily persuaded that something was right? Anger was churning up through his stomach, thawing the coldness, anger and a nameless fear that was like kindling to the rising sparks. "I'm sorry, Mary," and his voice sounded half strangled to his own ears, "I have to go."

Lies and more lies and inexplicable feelings tapping at his heart, his brain. Ignoring Mary's perplexed look, he charged from the chamber, hands flexing at his sides.

* * * * *

Joe drove straight to Alcott's apartment, but there was no answer, and the doorman said he hadn't seen him. A call to the hospital got him the news that Dr. Alcott wasn't scheduled in for two more days.

Now what? The phone booth felt like a cage. He had the nagging feeling that he'd let Cathy down. The telephone book had been ripped off, and he fumbled through his wallet for several minutes before finding Elliot Burch's card. Maybe just maybe he'd have some info. What were the chances he'd be in his office this late? Not knowing where else to turn, he dialed the number and was surprised when Burch's secretary answered.

"He said I should put you through if you called, Mr. Maxwell, but I'm afraid you just missed him."

"Do you know where he was going?"

"Yes, he had an appointment with Mr. Manning at his office. Would you like that address?"

Joe took it down and considered calling, but it wasn't far from here, and if he didn't take some kind of action soon, he was going to explode.

* * * * *

Heat waved behind his eyes, even as Vincent forced himself to slow from the dead run that every muscle was urging him toward. Anger, hurt -- the nature of the feeling churning within eluded him. And, after all, what difference did it make? Perhaps they were the same in the way that all overwhelming sensations were the same in the end, commanding mind and body, even the very beating of one's heart, with no deference to reason.

It was dangerous, this feeling. He knew it and so would not run, though the ungoverned power caused his long legs to eat up the well-worn passage with hard, angry strides. He must gain control, must calm himself and think before reaching Father.

But what was there to think? What was there to know? Catherine was lost to him and so, it seemed, was the only other person who had ever really understood -- at least part of -- who he was. His concern had been met with deception. His trust with betrayal. Not in weeks had Father seemed so genuinely himself as he did at that moment when he lied so glibly about the letter. Lied -- and smiled.

Smile and smile and be a villain. The quote crept insidiously into his mind, bringing with it a flash of memory that knotted his stomach -- the false father, mocking him, drenched at last in his own blood. Had he known, even as he struck the fatal blow, that it was a chimera taunting him and not Jacob Wells? Long after the madness, after he was himself again, he had been sure of it. His empathic powers were as involuntary -- and as reliable -- as breathing: they had never failed before. Rather, he thought, their soft insistence had been drowned out by the wild clamoring of thoughts that Paracelsus had orchestrated.

Paracelsus. Another violent alarm struck at his solar plexus. Why? Where were these brief surges of feeling coming from?

Madness. Was that what Father saw that caused him to withdraw his trust? All these weeks Vincent had guarded his secret sorrow, tried not to infect the others with the vastness of his emptiness, yet Father knew him better than anyone. Better perhaps than he knew himself. Had he seen beyond the pain to signs of encroaching madness and built around himself a wall of denial that would not let Vincent come too close?

Answers. He must have answers before all the certainties were gone. They were slipping away with such speed. His fists closed tight, as if to grasp the last remnants of them. The deadly nails bit into his flesh. Before his swimming vision a figure appeared.

Cullen.

Cullen whose face in the shuddering torchlight suddenly gave way, telling him more clearly than words how he must appear -- a demon on a brutal mission.

"Vincent...? Hey, man, what's the matter? Is it --" All the color drained from Cullen's face as he shrank back against the wall to let him pass. He did not follow, and Vincent didn't acknowledge him in any way.

Ahead, he could see the yellow glow from the study. He homed in on it with a terrible single-minded purpose, his breath coming stronger with anticipation. He might as well have run here for all the good his measured pace had done. There was no dissipation of the roiling energy; it only seemed to increase with nearness to his goal. Dangerous and pain-driven. How could reason have hoped to catch up with its swelling power?

What did he know of reason?

Enough to slow. Enough to pause at the entrance and grip the stones of the archway like a drowning man clinging to a raft. Scattered thoughts tried to exert themselves, pummeled on all sides by bright bursts of outrage and fear, and which were the brighter, he could not tell. Beyond this threshold lay answers, but just as surely there lay the horror of what he might do to obtain them with his feelings careening out of control.

If Cullen hadn't stepped aside, would he have plowed right through him? The knowledge that he could not answer that was as frightening as an affirmative. No. No, he must not do this. Not now. Not this minute. The very strength of the urge to continue served as a warning bell.

Safe. No one was safe -- least of all himself.

He drew a shuddering breath and released his grip on the rough-hewn rock, indifferently, noting the raw scoring of his hands. Coming here was the very opposite of what he must do, where he must go. Somewhere far away from the others. Somewhere where he could be utterly alone to try to untangle the fear and rage twisting through his mind, and barring that, to at the very least make certain their tentacles did not reach out to choke his friends.

Sanctuary. He knew just the place. With bitter irony and a kind of fascinated horror he conjured up the vision and, whirling from the entrance, at last allowed himself to break into a run.

* * * * *

To Paracelsus, the journey upward from the secluded cavern seemed shorter, brighter. His steps were buoyed by the sweet odor of victory that clung about his thoughts. When he emerged into the wider expanses beyond the catacombs, he forgot his intention to stay to the shadows. What need for precautions when he could feel invincibility emanating from every pore? He knew them all so well -- his victims, his enemies. They were no match for his intellect or his instincts. In truth, they had never stood a chance.

A sound pierced his euphoria, unidentifiable but out of place, and with long practice at self-preservation, he withdrew into a shallow niche. From here he could view the entire cavern in secret, but for a moment the distorted acoustics made it impossible to pinpoint the direction of the noise.

Several passages emptied into this room, and his eyes darted from one to another. He was safe here, unobserved, a circumstance that gave rise to a gratifying sense of power. He relished the sensation, yet when the figure appeared on the opposite side of the expanse, a momentary terror ripped through his complacency.

Vincent.

His expression was stormy. The power seething around him like an energy field reached out even here to chill his blood. Yellow hair streaming out behind him, his cloak billowing like a black sail, he didn't pause but rushed straight for the tunnel Paracelsus had lately traveled and disappeared from sight.

For a moment he remained, stunned by the unexpected, by the realization of how close he'd come to discovery. He shook off the chill, his brain working furiously to make the most of what he'd seen. Vincent was upset. That much was certain. What had disturbed his balance, he could not know, but it was perhaps incidental. The fact, the indisputable fact, was that something had shaken his usual serenity. Something was challenging already that delicate and foolish veneer of humanity, and now he was once more seeking the exile that had almost been his undoing before.

The knowledge seemed to him a gift, a miraculous gift of fate that confirmed the righteousness of his own campaign. He eased out of his hiding place and began to hurry back towards Tamara's lair. The execution of his plan had still been some days off. He was by nature a cautious man, unwilling to act until all the factors were in his favor, but this... this unexpected boon must not be wasted. Vulnerable already, Vincent was unlikely to find peace in his chosen haven, the site of a hellish hour that must surely come back to haunt him, further threatening his grip.

Oh, no, it must not be wasted. The plan must simply be accelerated. The final decisive battle must be waged now -- tonight. The gods had chosen to bless his quest and in so doing had given him the means to ascend to their level.

Lucifer in heaven. A fallen angel ascended once again.

* * * * *

Half a minute later, and Joe would have missed them. As it was he recognized Burch at the wheel of a Mercedes that was just pulling away from the building when he drove up. Had to be Manning with him. Now what were those two up to?

Telling himself it might have nothing to do with Cathy Chandler, he slipped back and let another car come between them. Easy enough to follow in city traffic and he didn't have anything better to do. He fell back farther when they pulled into the park but almost blew it when they suddenly drew to the curb in the middle of nowhere.

He pulled in behind a bend in the road and got out, watching them from behind his car. Both men were casually dressed. Burch had some kind of small pack thrown over his back, and Manning was struggling with... a dog?

Since when did your basic tycoon hire one of the city's top private detectives just to help him walk the dog?

* * * * *

There was a current running through him tonight, as if his body were held together with hot wires.

Catherine could sense it, though nothing had changed in his demeanor. He stood, cold and expressionless, looking down his nose at her, a bowl of soup cradled in his skeletal fingers.

Huddled on the bed, she tried to match his unreadable expression, hoping he couldn't sense her own underlying emotions -- alarm at the new tension he was trying to hide, at the fact that he'd chosen to bring the infamous supper himself.

"Eat quickly now," he commanded. "There's work to be done."

She took the bowl and as slowly as she dared skimmed the spoon across the surface. His gaze never wavered, and she was obliged to take a small sip, inwardly pleading that he would leave.

"What is it, Catherine? Is there something wrong with the soup? Is it not to your liking?"

"No... it's just a little hot."

"Would you like me to blow on it for you?" There was such sarcasm in his tone. She prayed he hadn't begun to doubt her subservience. Could that be why he had come himself? Steeling herself, she took another spoonful.

"I shan't leave until you've finished."

In that case, she judged, it would behoove her to jettison the reluctance. If she must drink it anyway, better to do so with every appearance of enthusiasm. Still, he never turned away. Never -- she could almost swear it -- even blinked, and the horrible conviction came over her that he would not leave when she was finished, that he intended to stay here watching her, and she would have no opportunity to rid herself of the insidious drug.

When the bowl was almost empty, she handed it to him, heart pounding with an anxiety she did not want to feel.

"Very good, Catherine. I must say you have become a most agreeable companion. I shall miss our little talks. There's only one small thing I require of you for now. Beneath that unfortunate gown. I believe you wear a crystal. I would like you to give it to me now."

Rebellion rose in her with such force that she feared he would see the truth in the stiffening of her muscles. The crystal was all she had -- all she had of Vincent, of herself, of the truth. Paracelsus had taken it from her once before, and everything in her fought against surrendering it again, yet it was only a symbol of things that must be protected at any cost, however high the price.

Slowly, she reached up and undid the clasp, pulling the pendant from her neck and handed it to him without a word.

"How kind of you," he said with false gentility. "Oh, and by the way, you needn't worry that I will use it to lure your precious Vincent. That is your role, after all, is it not? You have my word that he will never see it."

What was he up to? She couldn't make sense of it, but suddenly it didn't matter, because he was leaving, actually leaving her alone. She waited till the murmur of voices in the room beyond told her he was talking to Tamara and then sped to the bathroom for the distasteful duty that ensured her control of the situation.

When she emerged, it was with a growing feeling of hope and excitement. He had said he would miss her. The moment of liberation must be drawing near, the moment when she would be free to go to Vincent's chamber and tell him everything that had happened. She sat back down on the bed praying that it would be tonight.

* * * * *

Elliot Burch would have made an elegant cat burglar, Manning decided.

Slim and athletic-looking in jeans and a dark turtleneck, he was peering into the pipe like a thief sizing up a darkened house.

The chances that there was anything of value in there seemed slim; in fact, they seemed close to zero. Rats more likely and a nasty smell. Here in the sheltering concrete arms that framed the culvert, they weren't likely to be seen. Good thing, too, with their flashlights and tools and this crazy dog wrapping the leash around his legs again.

"You sure this is the way to do this, Elliot?" Maybe his own doubt was infectious. Maybe they'd just walk out through the soft summer night and get a drink.

"I'm sure, but I won't hold it against you if you want to pull out."

"Can't do it. I had to spend all Saturday afternoon with this mutt before Sanders would consider loaning her out. Besides she's getting paid more for this caper than I am."

"Not any more," Burch upped the ante without so much as a blink and began moving into the pipe.

Manning had little choice but to follow. The dog must have sensed that there was purpose now in their movements. Stretching the leash out as far as it would go, she got down to business, her long ears trailing on the damp concrete.

* * * * *

"Did she enjoy having your company for dinner?" Tamara tossed at him derisively, as Paracelsus emerged. Clearly, she found her slightly repugnant pursuits -- continually adding some foul-smelling chemical or another into the basic clay -- more interesting than his own plans, but he wasn't offended. Not tonight. Not with everything going more smoothly than he had imagined it could.

"Bring me a pen," he ordered. "Paper and an envelope as well. And then I want you to take the girl to the pool where you bathe. See that's she's cleaned up for her romantic assignation with my son."

"Tonight?" Tamara gaped at him foolishly.

"Yes, tonight. An opportunity has presented itself that adds a measure of security to my plans. It would be foolish to let it pass. Now, Tamara."

His tone sent her scurrying through the narrow opening. When she returned he was sitting at the table smiling to himself.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" She placed before him a sheet of vellum, a creamy envelope, a silver inkwell, rich with filigree, and a heavy antique pen. "I mean, she's drugged. She's not very stable. What if she slips in the pool and drowns? How am I supposed to prevent that?" Her slightly shrill intonation indicated she was well aware what the consequences would be if she allowed such a thing to happen.

"Tamara, Tamara," he chuckled, enjoying her consternation. "I truly must question how you survived so long on your own in that world up there. Your gullibility is the sort of weakness that the world above exploits with perfect impunity. I wonder that you weren't sucked into some lethal snare long before you fell under my protection."

Her expression was a perfect battle between protest and confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, my dear Tamara, that Catherine is not now -- if, indeed, she has ever been -- under the influence of your much touted soup and its secret ingredient." The expansive mood was cause for celebration, surely an occasion for indulging in his one vice. He fished from his pocket a slim cigarette case and matching lighter of burnished gold. He had taken the first satisfying puff before Tamara found her voice.

"It's not possible. I've watched her drink it down myself."

"As I have, and I am sure that even as we speak, she is retching up its contents as she has undoubtedly done for some time. In all your hours alone with her, Tamara, did you never take note of the fact that she is a most resourceful young woman, a strong woman?" Really, with her wide-eyed stare, vacant as one of her masks, Tamara could be frightfully irritating.

"You're saying she was stronger than you -- that she outsmarted you?"

"Certainly not. Your knowledge of gamesmanship is sadly lacking, Tamara. One does not want to lose, but neither does one derive true triumph from an easy victory. A worthy opponent is essential to enjoyment of the game, and Catherine has proved herself a most amusing strategist. I particularly liked her refusal to escape at the moment offered to her. That was a sophisticated play -- intellect overriding one's own instinct for survival. Yes, considering the few options open to her, she has conducted herself quite admirably." He drew another long puff, flicking the ash onto the stone floor.

"So what's the point? Why go through this charade of playing with her mind, getting her to do what you want, if you suspected she'd find a way around it? I can't believe you like the notion of her laughing at you."

"You're quite wrong, Tamara. In fact, that was the essential purpose of our little charade, as you call it -- to give her the illusion that she knows my intentions, to build her confidence. Remember what I told you about playing upon a subject's strengths instead of weaknesses. Tonight she will leave here convinced of my plans, thinking of nothing but pouring her heart out to Vincent, though I fear she may find him in a less than sympathetic mood. But no matter his reaction, while he is concentrating on Catherine, I shall make the final move -- check and mate in one."

"I thought you expected him to tear her apart."

"Oh, I do. I'm more confident of that than ever. Belief in his own humanity is slipping through those remarkable fingers -- so clearly designed for better things. One more tipping of the scales, and he will be lost in a quagmire of rampant feelings that he is utterly incapable of sorting out. I have seen him, Tamara. He is in an agitated state. Perhaps he will simply strike her down with no impetus at all. Or perhaps the events of this evening will provide the final push. In any case, I can count on his being distracted by Catherine's reappearance. That was my purpose all along, but distracted and far from the others -- that is a gift." He stood up, grinding out the cigarette under his heel and sat back down to take up pen and paper. "Now, do as you were told," he said coldly.

"Take her to the bathing pool? But if she's only pretending to cooperate, she could try to get away."

"And reveal her strategy at the end game? I think not. Take care that she doesn't, Tamara. If she left now, she would go to the wrong place. She would not find Vincent, and it is necessary that she do so. Only the miraculous return of his lady love can guarantee his absolute oblivion to everything else that might transpire. I need time -- time in which Vincent poses no threat."

"No threat to what?"

"To the ultimate goal of the game," he said, with ill-concealed disgust for her obtuseness. He opened the inkwell and smoothed out a single sheet of paper. "The goal has been the same from time immemorial. Even you should know it, Tamara. One must capture the opposing king."

* * * * *

Joe was finding it a little hard to formulate a theory.

In the absence of hard facts, a decent hunch could be a starting point, but so far nothing he'd come up with held water. At first he'd thought Burch and Manning were hoping to blend in with the casual park scene, but when they'd strolled down into the ravine he changed his mind.

Meeting somebody maybe, where they wouldn't be spotted by passersby, but nobody else showed. The two of them just stood there talking and looking at the storm drain. In a couple of minutes, they had disappeared inside.

Oh, now this is weird, he told himself.

It got even weirder when they didn't appear again. He waited another five minutes and then retrieved his flashlight from the glove compartment and descended to the culvert's mouth.

* * * * *

"Father, where the hell's Vincent?"

Jamie's braid whipped across her shoulders as she bounded down the steps. Like a cat, Jacob thought, flicking its tail in irritation.

"Jamie, there's no need to express yourself with such appalling inelegance. Vincent isn't here. I haven't seen him. "

"I'm sorry. It's just that he was supposed to meet me an hour ago. Cullen's been emptying out that storeroom where things were getting warped, and I was supposed to get a dresser. It weighs a ton, so Vincent promised to help me bring it down. "

"Perhaps he forgot."

"Uh-uh, Vincent never forgets things like that."

"Well, then, he's probably been delayed. Did you send out a message on the pipes?" If she had, he hadn't noticed it. He'd been too lost in thought this last hour, unable even to concentrate on the work before him.

"A long time ago, but he didn't answer." For the first time Jacob realized that her blustery manner was meant to hide genuine anxiety. "I don't understand why he hasn't answered me."

"It's dark out by now. He may have gone above."

"Everybody knows Vincent never goes above anymore."

"Do they?" He hadn't known. He knew very little of his son's private life lately and even less of his deepest thoughts. Some of Jamie's concern was taking root in his troubled mind. "Go to Pascal. Have him send out a general request -- for anyone who's seen Vincent to report in. He may simply have ventured off beyond the pipes, but someone will have seen him."

"Not if Vincent didn't want them to," the girl said darkly.

Nebulous fears made his voice as testy as Jamie's. "Why should Vincent wish to hide his whereabouts from any of us? Run along now. Pascal will solve the mystery in no time."

"I hope so." Jamie didn't look convinced, but she hurried off, leaving the pall of her uneasiness behind.

Too much had happened lately. He was beginning to lose his natural optimism. Things could go wrong -- terribly and irrevocably wrong -- slipping, before one knew it, beyond all help. What, on another night, might have caused him a bit of paternal worry, now seemed ominous, fraught with dark possibilities that he dared not even imagine.

He tried to return to the schedule he'd been struggling with since supper and realized that now more than ever his concentration was hopeless. He found himself listening for Jamie's general alarm on the pipes.

Vincent was probably at the falls. Yes, most likely. He'd simply forgotten his promise and gone off to commune with nature at her noisiest. Of course, he wouldn't hear the pipes. The thought of him climbing about on that treacherous cliff was hardly reassuring, but at least it was a fear that Jacob had grown used to over the years.

It was necessary that he, of all people, keep a positive outlook. The others looked to him for guidance, for reassurance that all was well. His confidence inspired their own, yet there were times lately when he greatly feared his life-long determination had perished -- like so many things -- with Catherine Chandler.

* * * * *

The big culvert, nestled beneath the park, ended at a gate and what looked like a dead end. So much for explorations, Manning thought, but Burch was already fumbling along the wall. In a minute he had located a lever and a whole circular section pulled away revealing another pipe, this one softly lit.

"A lot of it's lighted," Burch explained, as they followed it to the next junction. His voice rang hollow in the tube. "Everything's in here -- gas lines, water, cable. It's like the heart of the city in many ways." He hesitated at the next crossing -- this one a four-way -- and then moved confidently off to the left.

It wasn't much farther, though, that he stopped, frowning at the three choices that confronted them. "I know we came up this way, but -- damn." Reaching in his pocket, he drew out a brightly colored scarf. Manning didn't have to ask who it belonged to or why Burch had kept it. "Come here, Posy. What do you think of this, girl?"

The bloodhound sniffed obligingly at the silk.

"Seventy-two," Manning reminded him. "Seventy-two hours at the outside -- that's all the time they have to pick up a scent. Cathy Chandler's been gone for weeks."

"I know, but if for some reason she's hiding out here, there may be a chance she came this way recently."

Manning thought it doubtful. Posy apparently did too; she scrabbled around for several minutes, searching for some trace of the scent the scarf gave off before turning back to the men with a mournful look.

"Now what?"

"We'll just have to take a stab at it, and if we get nowhere, we come back and try a different way." Burch pulled out a note book and scribbled a crude map of their progress so far.

"You do the honors this time, Cleon. Pick a tunnel -- any tunnel."

* * * * *

The icy waters broke over her head, exhilarating, adding to the sensation that the long impasse of weeks was about to be broken, that freedom was close at hand.

Above her on the rocks, Tamara hunched like a vulture, watching her every move. Catherine didn't care. Soon, very soon, she would be in his arms, the nightmare behind them. She ducked again in the waist high water, as much to shock her tightly controlled feelings back behind their protective barrier as to enjoy the bracing sting of the water. To feel clean again -- after so long.

Tamara had given her a cake of soap and a plastic bottle of shampoo, common brands from above, which seemed peculiar in this exotic spot.

She had been surprised and wary when Tamara came to the bed chamber and removed the chain from her leg. It was all part of the plan, she supposed, an effort to make her presentable as a sacrifice to the blood-thirsty deity Paracelsus presumed to reside in Vincent's soul.

The man himself had been sitting at the table in the chamber of the masks, so intent on what he was writing that he had given her only the most cursory glance as they passed.

Tamara had steered her roughly through the slotted stone behind the work bench where she'd caught the glimpse of a darkened chamber, probably Tamara's own and then the passage had split into four -- like the tines of a fork. They had taken the second from the right which ended abruptly at the bottom of a tall, lightless shaft. A single torch hung in a sconce, green with mold, but the slender falls that tumbled down one wall, the clear, clean water seemed like heaven.

She gave only a few seconds' thought to Tamara's eagle-eyed surveillance before whipping off the gown and submerging herself in the waters. It's your head she's after, she reminded herself with dark humor, determined to enjoy the pleasures of the moment.

She soaped her hair several times, rinsing it beneath the cool rush of the cascade, momentarily disappointed to find Tamara waiting at the edge with a huge towel. Grimacing, Catherine stepped from the pool and took it, wrapping the towel swiftly around her, accepting a second one with which she dried her hair silently and, she hoped, meekly.

She didn't feel meek. She felt power returning to her. The opportunity to at last act again -- on her own behalf, on Vincent's -- was perhaps only minutes away. It was all she could do to keep the elation from showing in her movements.

"I brought you these," Tamara said, thrusting into her hands a familiar sweater and slacks. These -- these were the things she was wearing on that fateful night, and they looked none the worse for wear. "I cleaned them," Tamara said shortly, perhaps recalling how she'd said they'd been destroyed. Probably keeping them for herself, Catherine guessed, "All but the coat -- the coat was a mess. You don't need the coat."

No, she didn't need the coat. It must be midsummer by now. The realization stung her -- so long. It had been so long. Hurriedly, she put on her very own clothes.

* * * * *

It was different this time, Vincent noted. Despite the questions whirling in his brain, the fear, the confusion, he did not feel as he had felt weeks ago making this same trek. Then the very walls had seemed alive, pulsing and contracting like the entrails of some hideous monster. He knew it, though his memory held only brief flashes of the journey. There had been fever and chills, an uncontrollable shaking in his hands and hallucinations that seemed somehow as real as himself.

Tonight the upheaval remained within. He did not stumble, though his heart was stumbling. He did not roar out his pain, though pain there was. No fiendish apparition goaded him from the shadows, yet a part of him would have welcomed it -- something upon which to focus his enormous frustration, someone to share his aloneness, which now seemed complete.

Down he went through the blue-black shadows, his way lit only by the cold light of reason. Desperately, he tried to keep it from going out, knowing it to be the last bastion of humanity. If that light were extinguished, there would be only the slip into darkness, back into a primordial code of mindless savagery, no better than a beast's.

Yet what he saw in that tenacious light chilled him and offered little hope. Catherine was lost to him, not because she had found someone who could give her the happiness she deserved. He had expected that, known it was inevitable from the beginning. He had even hoped for it in some lofty citadel of his heart where nobility prevailed against tumultuous feeling.

And he had dreaded it with a passion that shocked him.

But no one had lured her away from him. That moment might still have been far in the future. What he was, what he was capable of becoming -- or incapable of holding back -- had driven her off. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves....

It was his own troubled psyche that had betrayed him -- betrayed them both -- until she had seen the hopelessness of continuing. His inability to control the secret longings that tortured him had made it necessary for her to leave. He knew the pain it must have caused her and wished that the peace she hoped to give him through such sacrifice had truly come to be. But it had not. There was no peace. There was nothing without Catherine.

In that cold light of reason, too, stood Father, a man who had devoted his life to nurturing the beleaguered soul of his adopted son. And now he had turned away as well. No longer did they meet as equals with easy affection and mutual respect. Father, too, it seemed had given up the battle, withholding his true thoughts, his former trust. Vincent suspected his physician's acumen had noted in him some sign of morbidity that neither love nor science could hope to cure.

It was useless to blame Father for what he couldn't help but see. Wrong to feel such anger toward him. Deep down his heart must be breaking to see the efforts of a lifetime crumbling. If it helped him to create this barrier of lies between them, then it was wrong to wish it otherwise.

And how long would it be before the others, too, saw what Father must have seen? How long before all the people he cared for kept a wary distance, knowing his humanity was doomed, expecting any moment a violent and immutable retreat into madness?

At the cavern's entrance, he paused trying to recall the last time he had sought its refuge. The memory didn't come, lost in those last moments of fury, he was sure. He stepped inside. The glowing mists writhing upward in the pit briefly cast the dome into high relief. Crossing the dusty floor, he spotted a fall of crumbled rock and wondered how it came to be there.

The place reeked of desolation. He had been right to come here, a creature doomed to solitude, skulking to a lair that held no memories of love, of warmth, of human contact. Here he must calm himself, must try to understand what was happening to him, yet it was difficult to think with the garish streaks leaping at him from the walls. The proof of what he'd done, of what he'd been, of the thing he seemed destined to become. He closed his eyes against them, fighting the fury that wanted to protest his fate.

Yes, there was sanctuary here, but where -- in all the universe that condemned him as an aberration -- where was there the promise of salvation?

* * * * *

Paracelsus was still in the outer chamber when Catherine and her sour escort returned, only this time he was standing, waiting for them.

"Well, Catherine, are you ready now to go to Vincent, to make sure that your fondest dreams -- and his -- come true?"

She nodded, "I'm ready."

"Excellent. I'm afraid I must ask you to wear this blindfold, a precaution, you understand, against someone in the future finding this place. Tamara does value her privacy, but you needn't worry. I myself will guide you where you need to go."

She stood quietly while the blindfold was fixed in place and then his hand closed on her arm, and they were actually leaving, actually heading toward the entrance that had beckoned so long and frustratingly in her captivity. Tamara didn't say a word and Catherine scarcely felt a polite leave-taking was in order.

"One step, Catherine, and another -- eight in all." His disembodied voice was almost jovial at her ear.

He really thinks this is going to work, she thought, as the cooler, more vibrant air told her they had reached the outer passage. She hoped he wouldn't take this opportunity to regale her with more of his grandiose plans. She needed to concentrate, to try and record in her mind the direction they took, any sounds that might help her to identify the place in the future.

It soon became apparent, however, that either Tamara's home lay in a hopeless tangle of labyrinths or he was deliberately doubling back and taking unnecessary detours to confuse her. At least she was spared his rhetoric. Paracelsus was unnaturally silent, perhaps envisaging the drama he expected to put in motion this night.

They went up and then down again, via sloping corridors and chill staircases of stone, but she was certain that for the most part they went up. Precious little to go on, but something.

She calculated that half an hour must have passed when at last he halted, releasing her arm. "Now you may remove the blindfold," he said, imperious as always.

Catherine obeyed, trying to hide the trembling in her hands. It was eagerness, not fear that caused their shaking. Eagerness and the crush of emotions waiting to spill out the moment she was safely away from Paracelsus. Her feelings it seemed knew that their long captivity was about to end. It took all her strength to keep them from flooding out along their bond, out to their proper home in the man she loved.

Would he be angry with her at first -- for going away, for not sending word? No, of course he wouldn't be angry. Hurt, perhaps, but then she would tell him what had happened, tell him that she had never meant to leave him, that she never would. She would warn them all that Paracelsus was alive, that he hadn't dropped his mad plans to regain power.

Could she deal with Vincent's rage when he learned what Paracelsus had done to her? Could she stop him from tearing off alone? Maybe it would be better to wait and tell them all at once, let the council decide, but first she had to see Vincent, had to assure him of her love, had to assure herself that he had survived last spring's ordeal.

All of these thoughts were buzzing around her brain as she blinked in the dim light. They were in a vast cavern, but she couldn't recall ever having been here before.

"Now, you may go to my son."

"I don't know this place," she objected. "I... which is the way to the tunnels?"

"There are tunnels all around you, but if you mean those inhabited by Jacob and his flock, it is not necessary that you find your way to them. The person you seek is quite nearby. Does nothing at all look familiar to you?"

She had the sense that he was toying with her, and her confidence faltered a little, but she scanned the vast space with its shadowy nooks and outcroppings of solitary stone. Here and there a deeper shadow hinted at a space beyond, and it was on one of these that she fastened, noting that an approach from the other side might have made it instantly recognizable. She was almost certain that Pascal had led her and Father here on that spring night -- the night she had last seen Vincent.

But why would he return there?

"It's quite true," Paracelsus said, as if he'd been following her thoughts. "The boy has chosen to revisit the site of his torment. I saw him pass myself -- earlier tonight. Go to him, Catherine. He may need you. I regret that I won't be able to wait for the outcome of this little liaison. I have an appointment to keep above, but you know what you must do."

She needed no encouragement. Afraid that running might be inconsistent with her supposedly drugged condition, she walked across the cavern, feeling Paracelsus' gaze with every step.

* * * * *

Joe had to admit it. They'd given him the slip.

Not intentionally. He was sure they hadn't known he was following, but he'd been banging around in here for longer than he liked to admit, and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Burch and Manning.

From the look of the place, he was the only one who'd ever been crazy enough to come down here. Interesting, though, the way all these tunnels snaked around right under the city. If people knew about them, they'd probably opt for this as a way to get around. It was sure less crowded than the sidewalks.

A couple of times he'd had to admit he was lost, but then he'd recognize some place he'd been before -- or thought he did. Still, in all his explorations, he'd never seen another way out, so chances were good that Burch and Manning were still down here, too. Why, he couldn't for the life of him guess, but on the chance that it had something to do with Cathy he was determined to stick it out.

There -- up ahead. He could have sworn a shadow moved across the junction. Too big to be an animal, too small to be Burch or Manning. Just keep cool, he told himself. No sense in imagining monsters and bogeymen. There's nobody down here but one renegade real estate developer and his sidekick -- and one deputy district attorney who ought to have his head examined.

* * * * *

Although Paracelsus thought her to be carrying out his own mission, Catherine couldn't help but fear that it was all a trick, that somehow he would reach out and stop her before she could enter the tunnel.

The entrance beckoned, not with the sinister aura that had hung in its gloomy shade last spring, but like a magical door that led to everything she'd yearned for through these long last weeks.

When her foot actually crossed the threshold, and the walls narrowed around her, she almost laughed with relief, daring to quicken her pace now that she was out of his sight. Paracelsus hadn't followed. In the low passage, a natural rock fissure, she would be able to hear the echo of his footsteps if he had.

He honestly believed she was on some mad quest of seduction. Well, let him think it. He was incapable of understanding that all she needed was the sight of Vincent well and whole, all she wanted was to fall into his arms and feel him solid and warm surrounding her. To hear his voice, to feel the ruffling of her hair beneath his breath.

Entering a stretch where the ground had buckled, thrusting treacherous stumbling blocks in her path, she was forced to slow down. The roof sloped sharply lower, so that she had to stoop. This was not the way she'd imagined her first taste of freedom. She had pictured herself flying to Vincent's chamber in the heart of the community, perhaps passing people she knew along the way who would express surprise at her abrupt return.

Here there was no one. Here there was only Vincent, waiting -- though he didn't know it yet -- for her. The truth of it was almost unbearable. For so long she'd had to monitor every genuine emotion, curtail every thought that came too close to melting her resolve. No longer a prisoner, she began to run.

And she began to feel.

* * * * *

Some time had passed since the pipes first rang out their request for news of Vincent. Jacob hadn't taken his eyes from the entrance since. Someone would come: someone would know what harmless errand had drawn Vincent's attention.

And sure enough -- here was Mark, straight from sentry duty.

"Father, I have a message here for you."

"Ah -- is it about Vincent?"

"No -- at least I don't think so."

Disappointment blended with curiosity. The young man was approaching with what appeared to be a letter in his hand. Probably from one of the helpers. Everyone below had a swifter means of communication. Perhaps it was the anticipated letter from Laura. And wouldn't it be wonderful if it contained just such news as he had fabricated only yesterday?

"There was a code on the pipes a little while ago -- don't know who sent it -- just a location. The Mirror Pool. I was closest, so I went to check it out, and I found this. It has your name on it."

"Yes... yes, it does." Jacob said taking it. "Thank you, Mark. You may go." The envelope bore the single word, "Father," penned in anonymous block print. It wasn't heavy, though there was a curious lump in the middle. He slit it open and pulled out the single folded sheet. As he did, something clattered to the desk top.

For a moment he stared at the object, paralyzed. The crystal winked bright fire in the candlelight. A length of fine gold chain puddled around it. Irrational dread crept along his nerves, a blind superstitious response such as primitive beings might feel at the sight of the unexplainable, and then he shook it off, berating himself for a fool.

Of course, there were countless crystals in the world and many were worn as ornaments as this one obviously was.

But why send it to him?

Uneasily, he opened the paper. There was no salutation, no signature. It contained only six words: "Sutton Place. You know the address."

Jacob read the message several times, as if persistence could change its meaning, a meaning that evoked a visceral response far beyond the simple words. He wanted to drop the paper as if it was cursed, but his spasming fingers would not let go.

Impossible.

Quite impossible, he told himself, but the sweat was gathering on his brow. His heart had begun to palpitate. The handwriting -- he knew it, had known it for more than 30 years, samples of it were still in this chamber on the flyleaves of books that had been John's. And no one else knew of the apartment on Sutton Place -- no one with the exception of Catherine.

Prying his fingers from the page, he picked up the chain, and the crystal twirled with the motion, flashing its jeweled colors like tiny beacons. It couldn't be. He brought the chain closer, bowing his head to study it through the reading glasses.

Not a store-bought design. The subtly varied links had not been made by machine. By who then? By Mouse?

Preposterous.

There was simply no way this could be Catherine's necklace, unless... He searched the indelible picture he held of her in those last fateful moments, the one that lingered, haunting him so. Her eyes wide with fear and determination, her clothes -- a sweater and slacks, a coat. No bright ornament shone in the image. Perhaps she had left it behind in her apartment when she rushed to meet him. Someone might have gone there and taken it, someone who was using it now to torment him.

But, of course, they couldn't know what he knew. If they expected him to believe that Catherine was in trouble, they had badly miscalculated, but what were they hoping to accomplish? And who would do such a thing?

Had John had an accomplice, someone privy to his activities on Sutton Place, who was now seeking revenge for his death? The note could be a clever forgery. Its message glared up at him from the desk as if written in neon, so like, so very like John Pater's hand.

God, if this arrhythmia didn't stop, he was going to have an attack. What was there to do? He couldn't simply stay here trying to puzzle out a riddle that seemed beyond reason.

And where was Vincent?

Suddenly, that question too had frightening implications. In desperation he snatched up the note and the necklace and hurried to his sleeping chamber.

* * * * *

As badly as Catherine wanted to hurry this journey, the trembling, far worse than any in all her weeks of captivity, made her unsteady. So completely had she held back her feelings that now they nearly overwhelmed her. She'd always been an emotional person. How had she managed a repression so total as to forget how potent they really were?

Well, of course, she'd had the best of teachers.

It was important to get her emotions under control, or she'd never be able to tell him the things he must know. Maybe it would be best to keep her distance, to speak to him dispassionately and rationally, about why she hadn't been there for him, about Paracelsus' reappearance. Those things were vitally important, and she was very much afraid that if he touched her, if he put his arms around her, she would simply dissolve into tears and make no sense at all.

Maybe he wouldn't want to hold her. If Paracelsus was to be believed, he'd made his peace with her absence. Was it unfair to long for his embrace when he'd worked so hard to renounce his need of her? Maybe it would be kinder to respect the change he'd imagined in their relationship, approaching him as a friend until she'd said her piece and hoping -- and praying -- that when she had, he would see that it hadn't changed at all.

There was another possibility too agonizing to face, but it teased at the edges of her thoughts, threatening her resolve. How many times had he told her the day would come when they must end? She had never quite succeeded in shaking him from that belief. What if he saw this time apart, this proof that he could go on without her, as a victory too hard-won to sacrifice? What if he regarded it as the sensible place to draw the line that he stubbornly believed must be drawn someday? How could she bear it if, after all she had to tell him, he simply looked at her with the same loving sympathy he bestowed on the others? For a moment she saw their reunion ending -- not in the all-encompassing embrace that took her breath away -- but in a brotherly hug, a strong arm offered to support her now -- always -- but with no hint of the passion that had always roiled beneath the innocence of their slightest touch.

Stop it, she told herself. You've been listening to Paracelsus too long, focusing on your desires, your needs. The important thing now was that Vincent should know the truth. The important thing was that in a very few minutes her eyes, starved so long for the sight of him, would be gazing into his.

* * * * *

Jacob stood on the sidewalk looking up at 666 Sutton Place.

Many of the windows were lighted but not those in the penthouse. There had been no answer to his repeated pressing of the button that buzzed somewhere in that darkened apartment. The door to its private entrance was locked as well. Perhaps this was it -- the end of the hoax, simply a bizarre prank to lure him out into the summer night in these damnably uncomfortable clothes. John had worn this suit. The thought added to his uneasiness.

He felt vulnerable, exposed, here on this city street, a foreigner on a lunatic mission that no amount of logic could justify. As much as he would have preferred to dismiss the incident and accept his role as the butt of a cruel, pointless joke, he could not quite do it.

That necklace. Someone had wanted him to think it was Catherine's. Why? No one could know what had happened to her or the depth of pain the sight of it would cause him. Yet the very aptness of it as a device to shake him, to draw him into a world he despised, resonated with pure evil, the kind of evil that only one man in his experience could embrace.

The street was relatively quiet. A faint breeze stirred the trees that lined the sidewalk. To the left a narrow path ran along the flank of the building. He could see a row of trash cans lined up beside it, and instinctively he moved into its shelter until he could decide what to do. He certainly didn't want to be arrested for loitering in this obviously sedate neighborhood, but returning home with no answers at all was intolerable.

Out of the street light's glare, he began to wonder if there could be another entrance -- perhaps for tradesmen -- in the back. Taking care not to tap his walking stick on the concrete, he moved stealthily along the building. At the end of the path, a few concrete steps led down to a cellar door. With a quick glance around, he descended and tried the knob. Firmly locked.

Returning to the narrow sidewalk, he hesitated, searching for another option. As he did, a flicker of light passed over his feet. For a moment he thought he had imagined it. At ground level there was a row of basement windows, but all of them were pitch black. Hunkering down, he peered into the darkness seeing nothing but his own pale reflection, and the light didn't come again.

The window did not appear to be tightly fitted, and running his fingers over the frame, he felt a vibrant mixture of surprise and dismay to find it unlocked. It swung silently upward in his hands.

Cautiously, he peered into the opening, and objects took shape -- two deep sinks, a stack of cartons. Several pieces of furniture had been stored here in awkward poses. Beneath this very window there stood a broad rectangle that might have been a bureau. Despite the helter-skelter state of the room, this one surface was completely bare. How ominously convenient, he thought, even as he thrust his protesting legs through the opening and lowered himself gingerly downward, still clutching his cane.

He was dimly aware of the pain in his hip, but his attention was focused on the single doorway that led from the room. It was closed, though surely it had been open a few minutes before. Someone had moved this way with a light -- a candle. The faint trace of its passing scent was so familiar to him that he couldn't doubt it.

He crossed the room, managing to avoid any collisions that could give away his presence. He had learned a thing or two in the last 30 years about dwelling in darkness. I must be mad, he thought, as his fingers closed around the door knob, yet there would be no peace, not even the occasional false peace he had settled for in recent weeks, if he abandoned the quest now. He shifted the walking stick to his right hand with some idea of using it as a weapon if need be and slowly turned the knob with his left. When it had gone as far as it would go, he eased the door back in measured increments.

So great was his expectation of horror that he felt a fleeting disappointment to find himself confronted with another uninhabited room. Again there were the puzzling shapes that rose from bundled newspapers, a jagged tower of boxes, an upended sofa. There was a faint grey outline to objects here that hadn't been noticeable in the first room. It came, he realized, from a second door, opened only a crack to let in a faint reflected light.

Moving silently toward it, he peered around the edge. A wooden staircase led to a landing several feet below before angling off around a corner. The light was coming from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. The stairs looked old, solid, but he had no illusions that they would not protest his passing, a theory that proved true the moment he shifted his weight to the first step.

Whoever was below must know he was here. But, of course, he did. He had been piping the tune ever since the envelope had been delivered into Jacob's hands in his own study. There suddenly seemed little point in sneaking up, as if his arrival was unexpected. Better, perhaps, to retain a measure of dignity for the confrontation to come.

Squaring his shoulders, he held his head high and began to descend the stairs. The creaking of the boards sounded like gunshots in the silence.

* * * * *

Vincent didn't know how long he had been standing here, hunched against the wall. There was nothing in this primitive cavern to mark the passing of time. No clocks; no candles, recording the fleeing minutes with their own demise; not even the distant rumble of trains that meant civilization was somewhere on the move.

There was nothing of humanity here -- no furniture, or artifacts or books. How unlike his own chamber with its comforts and its thousand tiny details crafted by human hands or a human mind commanding a machine. Beloved treasures all, but surrounding himself with them had no more made him a man than the stone circle enclosing him now made him a rock.

The loss that more and more defined his spirit -- the loss of trust in him by those he loved -- was it really no more than the sheering away of pretense? His lifelong resistance to that other part of him -- was that the biggest lie of all and this the truth? That he belonged to the shadows and the coarse earth and the mists?

He watched his own clawed finger prod at the wall, dislodging a shard of rock with inhuman efficiency. Tossed out above the swirling vapors, it plummeted from sight without a sound, into the endless void, so like the one he harbored in his soul. A seething emptiness, too volatile to take back up into the midst of friends, too elusive to grasp and bring under control.

If it was all meant to unravel, if the haphazard stabs of emotion heralded a final descent into madness, then why must he be left with the intellect to recognize and lament it? Easier -- and kinder -- to become that witless creature who had left the proof of its mindlessness on these walls.

Yet even that was denied him.

A clenched fist slammed into the bedrock brought him no pleasure or release. The impulse only underscored the fearful truth that he could never transcend the darkness that set him apart. His very resentment of those ungovernable passions brought them to the surface, and they came of their own accord these days without even his frustration to give them safe passage.

Even here, far from reminders of his human pretensions, far from Father's baffling contempt, here where he tried to gather a quietness into himself, they came. In the time he'd been standing here he'd known the quickening sensation of fear and elation both. They sprang full-blown, like wild flowers from the rocky terrain of his spirit, but what wind had borne their seeds?

If he took himself back up to the people he loved and that wind rose, gathering into a maelstrom, what seeds might it fling among them? Blind fury? A contagious fear? Better to remain here where there was no one to frighten, nothing to harm. He tried unclenching his fist, but tension kept his entire body rigid. Not so his heart which pounded out the inescapable sensation that fate was closing around him with the oppressive walls, penning the barbarian in his rightful prison.

Eyes closed, he stared into the blackness at the center of his soul, the core that no trappings of manhood could ever fully hide, not from Catherine, not from Father. And now it seemed inevitable that those who knew him best and loved him best should have been the first to see the futility of his pose.

The despair that rose from that inner chasm, more dangerous than the abyss beside him, was his own. He could at least take comfort in that. Embracing it wholeheartedly might prevent the seeds of any more alien feelings from finding purchase.

Yet even as he sought its familiar desolation, something was happening, something beyond his control.

The blackness faltered, pierced by a sudden radiance that took his breath. Vivid as life itself, but so unutterably soft, so sweet, that it staggered him. One hand unclenched to seek the wall behind for support.

It would end now; it would fade, the way these extraneous bursts of feeling always did, and this one he would regret. This one he wished he could hold to. Exquisite -- like a distillation of all things beautiful, but as he stood there transfixed the sensation kept coming, blossoming out from some central core. It seemed to him a garden, flush with the scent of roses, had run riot in his soul, dazzling with color, unstoppable and suddenly achingly familiar.

If this was the heart of madness, then he would be mad, go down willingly into its fragrant bower and lose himself forever in the delicate petals that drifted like a fresh breeze across the reaches of his pain.

Why he opened his eyes again, he did not know. With every ounce of his prodigious strength he longed to shut out the stark reality surrounding him, to sink deeper into that inner vision, and yet his eyes opened, blinking at the lone entrance across the cavern.

And as he watched, unable to move, unable even to bid his eyes to close, the vision took life beyond the confines of his spirit and shimmered into existence at the threshold of this cavern that was his fate.

* * * * *

"I'm telling you, Elliot, we've been this way before."

"Yeah. I think you're right. We must have come from the other side."

They stood in a cavernous space where pipes of varying sizes hugged the bedrock. A twilight glow crept in from the junctions at both ends.

"The trouble with this," Burch said, indicating the notebook with its crosshatching of lines, "is that you can't tell what level you're on -- like chutes and ladders. "

Manning nodded. Sometimes the ground sloped so gently up that they had been surprised to find themselves in a location reached only by a steep staircase at the opposite end.

"Are you game for this?" Burch nodded toward a rusty ladder that disappeared above them -- one route they definitely hadn't taken.

"I'm game, but I've got my doubts about Posy here."

"Give her to me. Come on, girl. That's a good dog." The animal wiggled obligingly toward him, and Burch scooped her up, hoisting the unwieldy body to his shoulder with one arm. He began to pull himself up the ladder with the other.

Posy interpreted her awkward position as a bid for affection and twisted to slurp a noisy tongue repeatedly across the bearded cheek. He couldn't do a thing to discourage the dog's ardor -- not suspended yards above a granite floor.

"She likes you a lot," Manning grinned, starting up the ladder. He couldn't remember seeing Elliot Burch looking anything less than cool, and poised -- till now.

"If anybody ever asks, you never saw this," came the admonition from somewhere behind the big dog's head.

"Hey, I don't believe I'm seeing it now. And to think I used to consider tailing some small-time hood interesting."

At the top, Burch released his burden. Posy sniffed happily around in a circle, searching for new smell sensations. This passage was darker. It didn't look familiar. Manning turned on his flashlight.

"Come here, girl." Burch slipped the day-pack from his shoulder and crouched to unzip it. Posy nosed toward it, bypassing the scarf he pulled out, to snuffle eagerly in the bag.

"You have something to eat in there?" Manning asked. Posy's muzzle had disappeared entirely. Only the long ears flopped on either side of the pack.

"Not that I know of. What is it, girl? What smells so good?" Burch withdrew the bag and reached in, pulling out a crumpled piece of white fabric. The dog was quivering all over, pushing her face into the cloth. Suddenly she bounded away across the dirt floor.

Manning lunged for the leash and caught it. "What is that?" Clearly the anonymous cloth held some interest for Posy who was itching to move on.

"Don't you recognize it? It's the handkerchief we found in that penthouse I supposedly rented. I threw in everything we picked up that night."

"But that was a man's handkerchief, right? No monogram. We didn't know if it belonged to the victim or the suspect. It isn't Cathy Chandler's."

"No." Burch's eyes were glittering as he watched the dog tugging at the leash. "No, but it might belong to someone who's involved with her. We may have something, Cleon."

"Then let's go for it." They began to move again down a passage of natural rock. "It's the dust," he added, as Posy pursued a straight line. "Their ears pick up scent molecules in the dust. With no wind in here, the trail could be days old."

"But at least it's a trail." Burch spoke in a hushed voice, rippling with excitement. The tunnel ended at another junction, and he shot his companion a meaningful glance as the dog didn't hesitate in choosing the right-hand passage. They both fell silent: their movements became more deliberately furtive.

The tunnel was sloping very sharply up.

* * * * *

Catherine's knees were shaking when she reached the cavern's mouth. She put up a tremulous hand to steady herself and peered anxiously into the gloom. To the left a glowering light pulsed from the abyss. It was that light that made the shadows appear to move along the ridged walls. Nothing else stirred.

Her heart was beating in her throat. Her breath trembled across parted lips as she scanned the emptiness. Please, God, he has to be here, she prayed. He has to be here. He has to be safe.

One step into the grotto and another. The yawning chasm that should have chilled her with the reminder of how close she'd come to death, the misstep that had cost her weeks of imprisonment, drew only a passing glance. If sheer willpower could grant superhuman sight, then she would have it, but only the shifting glow from the pit allowed her to catch a flash of wild gold that sent her heart racing.

She stared at the spot now mired again in shadow. It wavered and the fleeting glint of blue it showed her brought an ache to her throat. Eyes misting, she managed to advance a little closer before her legs forgot how to move.

In the dark cloak he appeared one with the shadows except for the telltale brightness of his hair and his face that seemed to glow with a light of its own -- golden, beautiful beyond memory. The most expressive eyes she'd ever known were looking at her as if she were a mirage.

"Vincent... it's me." The words came out as little more than a whisper, but there was no doubt that he heard them. A tremor seemed to pass over him. His mouth opened, but several seconds passed before he could articulate any sound.

"Catherine?" he said, and for a moment she almost lost her commitment to restraint. The music of his voice alone threatened to sweep her towards him through no power of her own. "You ... you're here."

"I'm here." What was it she'd planned to say? All memory of it was gone, lost in the charged connection that swam between them.

"How... how did you find me?"

She had the clear sense that it was not really the question he wanted to ask, that words were as difficult for him to conjure as they were for her, and she realized that it didn't matter what he said. Just to hear his voice, to feel the rhythm of it once more beating in her pulse was all that mattered. "I would always find you."

For the first time he moved. His hand came up to clutch the little leather pouch he still wore in an unconscious gesture that seemed achingly familiar to her. How often had she grasped her crystal just that way in these last weeks, finding courage in its silent promise?

"I thought," he began, "I thought you were still in Europe. Father told me of your decision. There was no need for you to return... to explain."

"No... no need," she whispered. "We've never needed explanations between us. We don't need one now."

"No." The hushed word hung in the motionless air. Only his eyes, blue as a summer sky, seemed troubled by some passing wind. "The truth was always there, Catherine."

She nodded. "I know."

"You were right to make that choice -- a new life, a life away from... all this."

"Vincent... " To hear from his own lips that he honestly believed that... Where should she begin to unravel the web of misconceptions and how could she do it with him standing only yards away, looking at her, despite the brave words, as if he could consume her with his eyes? But why start at the beginning when the end was all that mattered. "Vincent, whatever happens, whatever comes -- you are my life."

She couldn't hope to understand what all the emotions she saw in him, felt in him, might mean, nor could she care any longer about the sensible thing to do. A moment ago incapable of moving, she couldn't have held back now if her life depended on it. He had taken a step forward -- involuntary, she was sure, as involuntary as the lifting of his hands toward her, and it seemed she left the ground in her headlong rush into his embrace.

Cloaked arms like black wings enfolded her; burnished hair showered around her face as she flung herself none too gently against his chest. "Hold me," she gasped, as the tears she had refused to shed in exile rushed out to dampen his thick, wool vest.

The request was superfluous. He was clutching her so tightly that neither thought nor circumstance could come between.

* * * * *

The dank, low-ceilinged sub-basement came into view as Jacob descended the last few steps.

Here at last was the elusive candle in the middle of a long, stainless steel table. Beside it lay pen and paper. A single captain's chair stood nearby. It was empty.

The candle flame spluttered weakly, trapped in its own wax, giving little illumination to the room beyond. Shadows lay thick in the corners. Here the temperature was familiar, cool, slightly damp. His odyssey had brought him close to his own world, yet he felt his hackles rise and did not move away from the staircase, whose groaning treads assured that no one could approach unannounced from behind.

There -- in the far corner -- he thought he caught a flicker of movement. "Who's there?" he called gruffly.

"Only me, Father. I was afraid you would not come."

Shock was followed immediately by an almost overwhelming sense of relief. "Vincent? For God's sake -- you nearly frightened me to death. What in the name of heaven is all this about?" he demanded, surging toward the shadowed corner.

"Why did you tell me Catherine had gone to Europe?"

Jacob froze midway across the room, a new and in some ways more ghastly fear chilling him to the marrow. "Why, because... because she did, Vincent. I explained --"

The words were choked off as something surrounded him, squeezing his chest, lifting him off his feet. With a gasp, he looked down to see two naked, beefy arms locked about his shoulders. The walking stick fell useless from his hand. He kicked out wildly to no avail, unable even to twist around and see who held him.

"Really, Jacob. What happened to your fetish for the truth? Now you would lie even to the boy you raised to be so honest, so idealistic. I am sadly disillusioned."

Gone was his son's roughly mellow voice. In its place droned the cynical tones he knew only too well, whose contempt -- after all these years -- still troubled his dreams. Once again there was movement in the shadows, and a tall figure slid into sight, his grotesque half-mask glossy as a serpent's skin in the wan light.

"John, how... how...?" Before he could formulate the words, he was dumped none too gently into the waiting chair, held there by vice-like fingers, as a rope was whipped around his body.

"Do not tie his hands," Paracelsus ordered, moving closer as Jacob was rendered immobile. "Now -- leave us."

Beyond the pool of light, he could just make out a giant of a figure disappearing into the darkness. They were alone.

"I see you are curious, Jacob, about my seeming return from the grave. Don't be. You're ill-equipped to deal with the subtleties of my art. Suffice it to say that I am here, and I intend to reclaim what is mine."

"What is yours?" Already shock was giving way to anger. "You forfeited your rights to anything of value long ago. You cannot take by force those things you covet, John. You never could."

"Is that so? Then perhaps you will be good enough to cooperate with me. Tell me, were you pleased to receive Catherine Chandler's necklace?"

"I... I don't know how you got that, but if you expect me to believe that she's in danger, that you have some hold over her, it won't work. I know better."

"Oh, yes. You always knew better, didn't you Jacob? Always so certain, so closed-minded." He leaned, stiff-armed, on the table, fixing him with a malevolent glare. "What would Vincent do if he knew you had been lying to him about his precious Catherine? How quickly would his loyalty to his dear 'father' vanish if he were to find out what a hypocrite you are?"

"You don't know what you're talking about." Fear for his own physical safety was nothing to the panic beginning to grip him. Everything was unraveling. Nothing seemed certain any more.

"Oh, but I do. We both know, Jacob, what really happened to Catherine Chandler. It is I who have accepted the truth, but you -- you spin unimaginative tales of impromptu vacations. How long did you expect that to hold up? And how cruel not to let those who cared for her mourn her passing. A terrible thing, tumbling into that abyss. I wonder -- did she fall or was she... pushed?"

Chilled to the bone, Jacob could only stare at him. Words could not make it past his constricted throat.

"You look rather ill, Jacob. Would it ease your mind if I shared with you one of my little secrets? What would you say if I told you that the fair Catherine did not perish in her fall, that I rescued her and even now keep her under my protection, that she has become like a dutiful daughter to me?"

"I would say you were lying." Sorrow and outrage at John's peculiar brand of cruelty made his voice vehement.

"Yes, of course, you would. You only believe those things you can see with your own eyes, isn't that so? A tragic flaw, Jacob. I understand Vincent was in a dreadful state when she found him that night -- much as he is tonight."

The fear and horror alternating in his brain were eclipsed by this new piece of information. "What do you know of Vincent and his state of mind?"

Paracelsus smiled at the show of interest. "I was fortunate enough to encounter him earlier this evening. He looked rather... disturbed. Something had obviously threatened his vital balance. I wonder what could have ignited his turmoil -- perhaps the realization that you had played him for a fool? Still, I shouldn't worry too much about him. Catherine is even now going to his rescue. Of course, in his unstable condition, there is no telling what the shock might do to him -- or what he might do to her. But then you don't believe that's possible, do you, Jacob? You are a logical man, a rational man, untroubled by the visions that plague me -- of Vincent annihilating that young woman, who's been through so much, of the fury he will turn on himself when he realizes what he's done."

Jacob was no longer sure what was possible, but he was sure that John would not choose to reveal himself this way unless he truly felt that he had the upper hand. "What is it you want, John? Why am I here?"

"A minor thing -- a mere piece of paper, in exchange for which I will tell you where Vincent is -- and Catherine, too, though you may not choose to believe it. Without your cooperation, I'm afraid it may be too late for both of them. If you still fail to see the truth in what I'm saying, if you persist in believing the poor woman long dead, then perhaps you will understand that if you fail to do as I ask, I will go to Vincent. I will tell him how you have lied and share with him the ghastly circumstances of his true love's death. Either way, Jacob -- your version of the truth or mine -- I fear they both will be fatal to my son if you choose to be obstinate. "

"What is it you want me to write?"

"Merely a message to your followers in which you tell them that you have regretfully decided to resume a life above, that you bequeath the reins of their society to the one who conceived their world in the first place, the one responsible for much of what allows it to function. Tell them that they should obey me as they would you."

"You're mad," Jacob hissed. "I'll do no such thing. None of them would believe it if I did. They know me -- and they know about you. You're wasting your time, John."

"No, it is you who are wasting valuable time. Every moment, every second, that you delay brings Vincent closer to the ultimate tragedy. It is his life you are bargaining with, Jacob -- his and Catherine's. Is it really worth the price?"

"I know you're lying about Catherine," Jacob insisted bitterly.

"Believe what you will." Paracelsus shrugged. "Still, there's Vincent to consider. I fear this time you'll be too late to avert disaster."

"There's no reason to assume you're not lying about Vincent as well."

"Oh, no? Don't try to pretend with me, old friend. Vincent is missing. No one seems to know where he's gone, except myself, of course. How sad. How ominous, don't you think?"

Did he know something of Vincent's whereabouts? Or had he simply heard the general alarm on the pipes? He might be using that piece of information to pretend more knowledge than he had, yet Jacob couldn't deny the conviction that John wouldn't have picked this moment for a confrontation unless he truly held some advantage.

"What you're asking is useless. No one would believe I'd endorse your return to the community -- much less your leadership."

"You told them I was dead, did you not?" Paracelsus moved beyond the halo of light, black as a shadow except for the ghastly golden apparatus. Pale fingers trailed indolently along the edge of the table. "When they see me they will know you've lied to them. They may even question your motives, your fitness to lead. Perhaps they will be willing to listen to what I have to say, but if they are not it's no matter. You have taught them well to respond with kindness, isn't that so? To turn the other cheek?"

"They know what you've done. John. They know how you murdered Lou. Winslow -- Winslow's death is directly attributable to your actions. Your assault on Catherine and Vincent... I could go on, but we both know the lives you've destroyed both below and up here. None of them would ever listen to you."

"What will they do then? Call the police? Reveal the existence of their shabby little enclave to the authorities above? Or perhaps lay aside their abhorrence of violence and simply murder me in return?" His eyes glinted like a raven's. "If they do, Jacob, if they renounce their noble intentions of living by a higher law -- your law -- then I will already have won. My way will be the only way, after all."

"You're sick, John. You're not thinking like a sane man. I would never aid you in bringing that disease to good people -- people I care for. "

"As you wish. Please remember in these last moments that I did offer you a bloodless coup. If you choose to die instead, I will have to ascend the throne without your blessing. It won't be difficult. As you've seen tonight, there are others who follow me willingly. Their unique skills will be invaluable in the event that my homecoming proves... awkward."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Jacob strained against the ropes. They didn't give at all. "Aren't you forgetting Vincent?"

"I've never forgotten Vincent," Paracelsus shot back, "not for a moment, not since the hour when you took him from me."

"And what do you suppose he'll think of your treachery?"

"Vincent... think? I'm afraid his thinking days are at an end. He will soon be beyond the petty loyalties you envision, destined for greater things -- power without limits. If you believe he will care about which of us lives or dies you are sadly deluded. No, Jacob, don't look for help -- or revenge -- from that quarter. Now -- will you write my mandate and dissolve into that world you allowed to defeat you, or will it be necessary, after all, for me to kill you?"

"You've had the chance before and you didn't take it. Jacob searched the shadows as he spoke. The mysterious giant of a man had gone, but perhaps not far. There was a vague rustle of movement from beyond the doorway through which he had vanished. His walking stick lay useless some distance away, and John, he knew, had something up his sleeve.

"Did you think that was an act of mercy, of cowardice? Really, Jacob, you've never learned to think beyond your own narrow parameters. My exile has taught me patience. I've waited for all the circumstances to be favorable to my cause. The time has come," he said, and the click sounded loud and unmistakable even before the gleam of honed steel rose slowly to point straight at his heart. "But that patience is regrettably at an end. Circumstances for me are favorable, old friend with or without your cooperation -- and tragically unfavorable for you."

Unable to move, Jacob watched the point of the stiletto advancing toward him, as if fate itself had gathered into one bright and brutal point of light.

* * * * *

A creeping sense of injustice had become frustration and finally anger. With one mighty sweep of the butcher knife, the head flew off, neatly severed from the neck.

Tamara surveyed the carnage with grim satisfaction for a moment before chasing down the skull where it had come to rest against the wall and returning to smack it back down on the waiting neck.

Never mind that it was dirty now, that one cheek had collapsed and there were chips of stone embedded in the clay. They never really satisfied her anyway -- these images made entirely of dead materials. Minerals and chemicals, ore and decayed vegetable matter. They never had the life of the real ones -- the ones where art and nature combined to make something unique, something personal. That was when she felt her true power as an artist.

What did "he" know about art? Him with his fungi and formula and nets, playing out some silly game with another silly old man. Both of them, near as she could tell, wasting their time trying to get living, breathing people to do what they wanted them to do. Dead people were far easier to deal with, far more useful and accommodating.

Tamara cleaned the clay from the butcher knife with swift, angry strokes. That Catherine would be easy to live with -- once she was dead. Tamara looked forward to telling her more about her life in Lyden, more about the things she'd seen and done before coming to live down here, and she wouldn't have to listen to any annoying questions in return.

Fine bone structure. Well, to give Clarissa her due, she'd had that, too, but not the youthful skin -- flawless, unwrinkled. She'd been considering trying something completely new once she had that head to work with -- and the hair. She'd keep the shining hair. All those weeks of pampering, and now her prize had been whisked off to an uncertain fate.

Either this Vincent -- the only one of the cast of characters he was always going on about who sounded remotely interesting -- either he would savage the girl -- maybe beyond even Tamara's skills to repair -- or something would go wrong. Paracelsus' promise that she could have "what was left" struck her now as empty. Why, he hadn't even told her where they were going.

Did he think she was one of those mindless animals to be patronized only as long as she did his dirty work? Was she expected to stay here, uncomplaining after weeks of servitude -- with no reward?

So what if she seldom left her refuge. She liked it here. And she didn't like people. They made her nervous. You never knew what they were going to say or do. People didn't come here, unless they were already as good as dead.

But that didn't mean she couldn't venture farther if she wanted to. It didn't mean she couldn't figure out where the girl had fallen from as well as he had. And for her there would be no games, no grandiose matching of wits. If Catherine was already dead, fine, but if she wasn't -- well, that could be easily remedied -- as easily as decapitating the clay bust.

A mounting excitement caused her fingers to clench on the knife's handle. What if she could sneak up on him too -- the one with the fur and fangs? What a prize that would be, and hadn't Paracelsus said he was vulnerable right now?

Tamara felt a giddiness she hadn't known since the long ago day when she'd stood at a bedroom door in a house surrounded by corn fields and savored the revenge that awaited her inside.

She needed only the knife and a bag -- a sturdy bag -- for her quest. As an afterthought, she threw in a couple of towels.

She felt like a young girl again, hurrying lightheartedly out into the unknown.

* * * * *

Narcissa rocked to and fro, chanting quietly, but when she opened her eyes the veiled sight that greeted her was the same.

The few feathers floating on the oily water. The shells, too, in their wicker dish -- even the shadows on the wall. The message was unmistakable. It drew from her a low keening sound, as she hugged herself protectively against the fear.

Who was she -- an old woman -- to be burdened with such knowledge? Knowledge that she could not share, for who would believe her? Yet to know these things and do nothing -- this too was wicked... evil. Cowering here in the safety of her charmed circle could not hold back the curse, a terrible curse that would plague her all her days, even into death. Death was here now -- in the tunnels: he would not depart alone.

Death and the evil one and good people oblivious to the danger. She rose from her kneeling position with some difficulty. Mumbling frantic incantations, she gathered up a few small objects, amulets all, and stuffed them into the deep pockets of her skirt. A stout torch would serve as a weapon, as well as a light, though it was poor defense against so powerful a sorcerer -- one who could trick death, enslave death for his own purposes.

As she set out, guided by a poisonous miasma that she alone could sense, terror walked beside her. It well might be that she herself would accompany the dark one when he left here, a poor prize for his efforts. Only a half-blind woman who would have joined him in the spirit world before too long, if nature were allowed to take her course. Better that, than the destruction of the good ones, the powerful ones who were only beginning to live. Better that, than an old-age haunted by cowardice and regret.

Fervently she called on Legba to guide her journey. She did not know where she was going, but with the help of so powerful a loa, she would go where she must.

"Ezili Freda... Ougou Feray," she muttered over and over again. "Protect your children, the bright ones who carry your image on earth. Protect an old woman who is so afraid."

* * * * *

"Voices," Manning whispered.

His companion nodded, fixed on the opening just above them. Posy was urging them toward it. Thank God, she hadn't barked. "I can't make out what they're saying, can you?"

"Uh-uh. Doesn't sound like a woman, though. We better think carefully about this, Elliot, cause we're above the subways now. That's probably private property in there, and it could get embarrassing real quick. You sure you're ready for that?"

The choice was nothing new to Manning. A PI had to walk a fine line with the public -- and the police -- or risk seeing his license pulled, but the man beside him was -- like it or not -- a celebrity. A wrong step could send his name into the headlines by morning.

Burch leaned toward him, whispering, "Even if Cathy's not in there, the dog is onto something -- someone who was in that penthouse, and I don't care if it's the bad guy or the old man. Cathy obviously knew both of them. Whatever she's messed up in, they're both involved; they may have answers, and that's what we came for -- answers."

"Okay, it's your call." Manning pulled out his gun. Their eyes met for a moment, silently acknowledging the gravity of what they were about to do, and then Burch began to move stealthily toward the door.

The corridor was dark, a cool lightless arcade of cinder block. Three separate openings betrayed a dim glow from beyond. They edged toward the first one, and Manning tensed, gun ready, as his companion peered cautiously around the corner.

Despite the dank atmosphere, sweat was gathering on Manning's upper lip. It was hell wondering if Posy would let loose with a bark and wondering what Burch could see in the basement, but he didn't have to suffer long. Without a word, Burch abruptly plunged through the doorway, and reflexively he followed, dropping the leash, stiff-arming the gun as he leapt, bent-kneed, into the room.

Now the barking started. The bloodhound made a beeline for the single person visible in the cellar, though Manning had a fleeting impression of movement in the far corner. Whoever had been standing there had probably slipped into the corridor by the far door; he might even now be getting away, but Manning's attention was riveted on the man who remained.

He posed no threat, tied as he was to the heavy chair, yet Manning couldn't take his eyes off him. The most stinging sensation of deja vu kept him rooted to the spot. It was the same sight, right down to the old-fashioned suit, that had greeted them one spring night on Sutton Place. The same guy -- tied up in the same way!

Burch threw him a look that reflected what he felt but recovered his cool as he turned to the man in the chair. "We have to stop meeting like this," he said.

This time the old guy didn't appear to have been roughed up, but his face was ashen. His voice shook as he spoke. "I couldn't agree with you more, and I am... once again... most grateful for your arrival. Would you mind untying me... please?"

"Not till you answer a couple of questions. Who are you, and what's your relationship with Catherine Chandler?"

"Take it easy, Elliot." Manning pocketed the gun. "He's the victim here -- not the perpetrator."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't really care. I just want to know what's happened to Cathy. I don't think that's too much to ask in return for coming to his rescue -- twice yet."

"No... no, I'll be glad to answer your questions," the man said, "but please... "

Posy was dancing eagerly around her quarry. Manning went to her and knelt, giving the long ears a vigorous rub. "Way to go, girl. Good dog."

Burch's aggressive demeanor eased up a little, and he bent to work at the knots. Manning suspected it had dawned on him that -- whatever the story was here -- Cathy apparently cared about this person. "Who did this to you?" he asked.

"I don't... I don't know."

"But it was the same man who attacked you on Sutton Place." Manning didn't bother to phrase it as a question. Anything else would strain the credibility of even this crazy night.

"Yes, I suppose so, but he... he wore a mask. And this is Sutton Place -- the same address."

Manning and Burch exchanged surprised looks. It had been tough enough keeping track of their underground movements; neither had speculated on what neighborhood lay above them.

The ropes at last fell away, and the prisoner rubbed his arms, shifting in the chair, though he didn't try to rise. Manning couldn't ignore the impression that he was stalling for time. "Suppose you give us the whole story," he said.

The man nodded. He appeared to be gathering his strength or -- Manning's practiced skepticism said -- concocting a smoke screen. "My name is Radler -- Jeffrey Radler. I'm a doctor, you see -- or I was. I'm more or less retired now, but I've known Catherine's family for years. They were generous contributors to my small clinic, and she has been very good about looking in on me from time to time." He paused, taking a labored breath. "One evening... last spring... I received a call that someone had been taken ill at this address. Well, it seemed a bit odd that they should phone me. It's quite a well-to-do neighborhood; residents have their own physicians, as well as the emergency services, but a doctor doesn't question such a summons. I came and was... set upon by a man in a mask who took my medical bag."

"For drugs?" Those things happened, Manning knew, but not so often anymore since house calls were virtually a thing of the past. "So what was the point of trussing you up like that, where we damned near didn't find you?"

"There was a key in my bag -- to the clinic. I suppose he wanted time to get there, to take what he wanted before I could raise the alarm."

"And did he?"

"Yes... yes, I'm afraid a great deal was stolen."

"So why'd you come back here tonight?"

"An anonymous message. It said I could find my medical bag here in this basement."

"A little risky, wasn't it -- just for a bag?"

Radler nodded. "Yes, I suppose it was foolish, but the bag has great sentimental value. It was my father's before me. I thought if there was a chance... "

"And you got jumped again."

The doctor had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yes. I dare say it was the same man. He wanted me to write out a prescription -- for drugs." Manning had noted the pen and paper on the table. It all fit, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a shrewd mind working swiftly behind the man's abject manner.

Burch had said nothing during the exchange, but now he asked, "What does all this have to do with Catherine Chandler?"

"I'm afraid that's entirely my fault. The clinic had experienced a series of small thefts prior to the incident -- during hours when we were open. I hesitated to call in the police, thinking that if the thief were a regular patient -- or perhaps even a member of our staff -- I might be able to help him without bringing the authorities into it. I mentioned the problem to Catherine, who checked a list of names I gave her and found someone who'd been under suspicion by the police department. No proof, you understand, but she thought he could be dangerous."

"You think it's the same man who did this to you?"

"I fear it must be. I had hoped in recovering my bag I might find some sort of evidence that would positively identify him."

"But you didn't find the bag?"

"No... no, apparently it was only a ruse to get me here, to force me to procure narcotics. I doubt that he intended me any greater harm," he said, looking from one to the other, "but I'm eternally grateful to you both. I don't quite understand how you happened to come along."

Manning gestured toward Posy who was lying placidly at the feet of her prey with her head between her paws. "Posy here is a bloodhound. We haven't been formally introduced, but I'm a licensed investigator -- Cleon Manning -- and this is Elliot Burch. We were looking for Catherine Chandler."

Burch held up the handkerchief. "You must have dropped this in the penthouse."

The doctor frowned. "It's possible... but why on earth are you searching for Catherine?"

"We have reason to believe she may have disappeared," Burch said. "What can you tell us about that?"

"Well, I can certainly tell you you're wasting your time," he said a bit irritably. "I wonder if you would mind handing me my walking stick?" It was up to Manning to retrieve it. Burch was totally fixed on the doctor. "Thank you so much," Radler said as he took it, rising unsteadily from the chair. He was really quite a dignified looking old gentleman. "I would hardly call it a disappearance. Catherine is on holiday -- in Europe."

"Who told you that?" Burch said sharply.

"Why, she did. I received a letter from her just the other day. Whatever made you assume she was missing?"

Burch's whole body appeared to