Part 16

KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

PART 16

The next night's sleep was neither planned nor particularly restful, as Catherine's head snapped up, and her eyes opened to a view of another night shrouded park. Humidity frosted the windshield, making the light from the street lamps beyond eerily diffuse. Her neck was stiff from the awkward position in which she'd drifted off.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"I don't know. It's three thirty now. A couple of hours." In the darkness of the car, the Styrofoam cup in his hands stood out with a ghostly glow.
"Why didn't you wake me, Joe?"
"For what? You've been working hard. I figured you could probably use the rest. Besides you haven't missed a thing. No sense in both of us twiddling our thumbs."
She twisted, trying to stretch her cramped muscles in the confines of the anonymous little car. "Well, at least I could have kept you company -- talked to you."
"You didn't know you talk in your sleep? I had no idea you led such an interesting private life, Radcliffe. I got quite an earful."
"What do you mean?" For a moment a coldness seeped in at every pore; then his grin flashed in the dim light.
"I'm kidding, all right? You slept like a baby, and you couldn't have picked a quieter place for it. Nothing's gone down at all. The box is still there."
'What do you suppose it means, Joe? The caller said midnight. Do you think he spotted something?"
"It's possible, but he'd have to be pretty naive not to know we'd be around. I'm not sure what his game is."
Their own parking spot was discreetly distant from the area where the caller to a local radio station had demanded the ransom be placed. None of the considerable number of law enforcement people standing by was so close that someone who fancied himself a master criminal couldn't hope to approach the spot and slip away again.
From where they sat, they couldn't see the drop-off point at all: in the angle where the walkways converged, behind the benches in Battery Park. Other unmarked cars were scattered through the area. manned by officers with special infrared binoculars.
"Bates says a drug deal went down about an hour ago near the terminal, and nobody moved on it. If our man was watching, he should have felt pretty cocky. Maybe he never intended to show."
"Then what's his purpose in all this, Joe?"
"Beats me. This one's felt strange from the beginning. I'm not sure we've really got a handle on what this guy's all about, Cathy, but I've got a hunch we're wasting our time here. How about I take you home?"
She nodded. "Okay, I appreciate your coming along, Joe."
"Hey, I got the distinct impression I was hotter to be in on this than you were. Maybe your intuition told you it wasn't going to work."
"Maybe," she smiled. As he picked up the radio to let the other members of the team know they were pulling out, she was glad he'd misunderstood her hesitation in coming here.
When he'd called this evening to tell her that the exchange had been arranged, he'd assumed she'd want to be close to the action.
"Is there really a reason I need to be there, Joe? I mean, as you've pointed out many times, there are lots of people involved in this case just itching to get credit for an arrest, and I really haven't come up with anything that's helped us get closer to a solution."
"Give me a break. Radcliffe. You've put in just as much time and sweat on this investigation as the Hardy Boys. I didn't see them come up with anything either. What's with you? You're usually right in the thick of things, making me sweat, and now you don't want to be part of this?"
"Maybe I'm getting old, Joe, or a little tired of dealing with people who want to kill me. Call it crazy, but I'd just as soon not have to fight for my life."
It was a friend's voice that said, "Cathy, believe me, I'm glad to hear you talking like this. You know how I feel about you always playing so close to the fire, and I'm not asking you to walk up to the guy and tap him on the shoulder, but you were assigned to this case --you wanted to be on it -- and it's important that this office has a visible presence at the showdown, The taxpayers have got to know they're getting their money's worth. If you're opting out --just say so -- I can go myself."
This last was the boss speaking, reminding her of the obligations she'd accepted. "I didn't mean that, Joe. I'll be glad to do whatever's necessary. I'm only trying to be more cautious like you're always telling me to be. But what are you doing at the office on Saturday night? Are you just looking for an excuse to get in on my case?"
She could almost hear his grin. "This is your baby, Radcliffe, but I wouldn't mind coming along --just to make sure you don't get into trouble."
"Right, Joe. I can be ready in fifteen minutes,"
They had arrived at the appointed place hours ahead of time. Around the perimeter of the park, various people had taken their positions, giving themselves time to blend into the deceptive peacefulness of the place. There were, she knew, policemen in panel trucks, in nearby buildings, on a Liberty Island ferry docked nearby, even one unlucky operative destined to spend lonely hours in the charming ambiance of the public rest room.
Where the special agents had dispersed she wasn't precisely sure; they seemed to thrive on secretiveness, as intent on being as invisible to the other members of the team as to the man they hoped to capture. Uncharitably, she hoped it was Greenwald who'd drawn rest room duty.
At eleven thirty a car pulled up, some distance in front of them, and a man stepped out carrying a tackle box. He proceeded to the designated drop point and returned empty-handed, announcing his departure with an exaggerated gunning of the engine. The park settled back into an air of waiting.
"How about this guy Stark," Joe had commented, sipping the first of innumerable cups of coffee. "Is he an opportunist or what?"
"I think you could call anyone who runs for political office an opportunist, Joe."
"Maybe, but offering to put up the ransom? He might as well have gone door-to-door, saying 'vote for me and I'll get this painting back for you -- the citizens of New York'. He's buying votes."
"I'll admit it looks that way, but I think he does really have an interest in art. I remember seeing him at various fund-raising events over the years."
"You know the guy?"
"I've met him. He belonged to a lot of the organizations my father did. It seems to me he's supported museums all along."
"A rich man's sport," Joe had commented laconically. "You sure hobnob with some unusual people, Radcliffe."
"You don't know the half of it," she'd grinned.
"Well. I don't know much about what motivates a guy like that, but I do know this is going to backfire. The public's not in the mood to elect officials who bargain with extortionists."
In the end, of course, they hadn't really bargained at all. The gray metal tackle box that the caller had specified they use held only a deceptive top layer of genuine bills. If the man who came to claim it, stopped to check the tightly wrapped stacks, they'd have time to capture him where he stood. If he didn't and simply sprinted back toward the street, the invisible band of officers would tighten like a noose, cutting him off from escape.
But he hadn't come. Hours later the box sat undisturbed beneath a bench, and Joe was driving her home.
"They'll call us, if anything breaks. Are you going to be where we can reach you tomorrow?"
"Yes, Joe. I'll be home, but how long will they keep watching?"
He shrugged. "Probably until some poor derelict comes across the box and finds himself being grilled by the FBI."
"What a terrible thought, Joe. Can you imagine? Homeless, down on your luck, and the first person who takes an interest in you is Albert Greenwald?"
"It could be worse, Cath. By nine o'clock that park will be filled with people, lining up for the excursion boats. What if one of them stumbles across the box? When that cartridge blows, and turns 'em blue, there'll be one tourist who won't exactly go home singing 'New York, New York'."
"Or even worse," she said with an air of one-upmanship. "What if our thief were to keep his bargain and leave the painting just sitting by the bench -- where someone from out of town could pick it up? They'd have a pretty incredible souvenir to take home."
"Yeah," he chuckled. "Sure beats one of those pillows with a painting of the Empire State."
'It really isn't funny, though. There are so many things that could go wrong.'
"The whole thing's wrong, Cath. I've just got a gut feeling the guy never intended to show. He's a game player -- the kind that keeps changing the rules. I'm not sure we even know what's at stake yet. You want me to walk you up?" he asked, as they pulled in front of her building.
"No, thanks. You've done enough baby-sitting for tonight."
"Ah, it was easy duty. Besides,' he added, as she got out of the car. "I got to hear all that juicy stuff you talked about in your sleep."
This time she knew he was teasing. "Good night, Joe," she laughed, slamming the car door on that irrepressible grin.
The first phone call came early -- a report that the tackle box had been retrieved at dawn and that a plainclothes officer would be posted nearby in case someone showed a peculiar interest in that particular spot: the whole operation was considered a wash. The second call came in the evening. Another television station had received a video tape showing, ominously, only a blank wall. The distorted voice had repeated a cryptic verse, followed by the word
"Soon," She called Joe at home to relay the message.
"Are we sure this isn't a crank, Cathy?"
"It's about the only thing we are sure of. He included the serial numbers from the first tape he sent us --just like he did with the ransom demand."
"Well, keep me posted, kiddo. I'll be home."
And so will I, she thought, regretfully. There was no telling what the caller meant by 'soon,' and she had promised to stay available. The long hours between word on the case had been filled with catching up on letters and phone calls to friends she too often neglected of late, but with the night shadows gathering, the longing to go to him became intense. She wanted to tell him what had been happening, to share it with him, so that when the next step came she could carry with her a sense of his involvement, that deeply held feeling that what she did. she did for them both.
Frustrated, she decided to go to bed early. For all they knew the thief could choose to resume his game in the middle of the night, so it might be wise to get some rest. She was Just turning down the covers, when it came -- a light tapping on the terrace doors, a small sound that stirred her with all the resonance of thunder.
Hastily tying the sash of her peach silk robe, she ran to the doors and threw them open. He was standing -- not in the shadows, but by the wall, his back to the city. Uncovered, his hair shimmered in the faint moonlight, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. How long had it been since he'd come here – two weeks? She'd begun to think the balcony's tantalizing isolation had warned him away forever.
"I wanted to see you, to tell you things," she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. "But now that you're here, I can't even think what they were."
His expression told her he understood, that his own purpose in coming here had momentary fled from his awareness at the sight of her, but he averted his eyes and didn't move toward her. "Catherine, I can only stay a moment, but I needed to see you, to ask you something, and I felt that you wanted me to come."
"I did. I've been so tied up with this case. Is everything all right below? Why can't you stay?"
"The council has called for a general meeting."
"At this hour?"
"It was meant to be earlier in the day, but..."
"But what? What's happened?"
"Mouse's project, Catherine -- his solution to our rebellious pipe. For the most part it was a success, but we guessed incorrectly about the pitch of the shield. In pulling it up, one of the walls was damaged. We're in the process of repairing it now."
She caught the unconscious flinching of his right hand and went to him, lifting it tenderly in her own. The skin was scored and scraped raw at the base of his thumb, and she had pressed her lips to it before realizing that the touch might be more painful than soothing, but he didn't recoil, and when she met his gaze, he looked away again.
"Vincent, promise me you won't go on working until you've done something about this."
He shook his head in gentle protest, but she was adamant.
"It could get infected, if you don't. Please. I'm not asking for the moon --just a little antiseptic and a bandage."
The words were light, but the concern that motivated them was not. and he didn't fail to note it. "How can I deny so modest a request?" he conceded at last. "Now tell me."
She described the fruitless night in Battery Park, and told him what little they'd learned since. '"There was only a verse on the tape, Vincent: All nature is but art, unknown to thee; all chance direction. which thou canst not see. Do you know those lines?"
He nodded. "All discord harmony not understood; all partial evil, universal good. Those are the words of Alexander Pope, Catherine -- his 'Essay on Man'."
"I think I'd feel more optimistic if he'd chosen the lines you quoted. What do you think he meant by them, Vincent?"
"Perhaps, nothing. If he's truly mad, they may be no more than a riddle, meant to provoke and puzzle those who search for him -- a game."
"That's what Joe thinks, too."
"Or perhaps he's telling you that nothing of what's happened has been left to chance -- that there is method in his madness. Either way, Catherine, he could be dangerous."
The silence that followed was a substitute for the words he wanted to say but wouldn't -- pleas for her caution, worries for her safety. She thought he was wary of pushing her in this regard, of the compulsion to plead that she remove herself from all risk, reluctant to impose his own will on her independence.
She understood the language hidden in his silence, for hadn't she just spoken it as well -- in her demand that he see to his injured hand? These hands are my hands. Oh, Vincent. she thought, why are we so suspicious of possessiveness? Maybe it's telling us something. Maybe it's the path we need to take,
Except for the brief attention to his injury, they hadn't touched. She felt he'd made a concession in coming here, to this place whose privacy, once so precious to them both, had become too alluring, too treacherous. She didn't want him to regret the decision and so contented herself by sitting on the balcony wall. facing him, as he looked out over the city.
"Tell me about the council meeting. What's happened that's so important everyone needs to be involved?"
He looked at her but quickly turned away again, and she realized he'd been doing that ever since his arrival, never looking at her for more than an instant. Suddenly she understood and self-consciously hugged her arms across the filmy fabric of her robe. How often had he come to her here, when she was dressed for bed -- in intimate garments she probably wouldn't have worn to answer the door. She hadn't thought twice about it, nor had he seemed to notice. But that was before, when the smoldering embers had been unrecognized, buried deep beneath a cool, white purity.
"We have been offered an interesting decision to make, Catherine -- one that will be presented to the whole community tonight."
"What is it?"
"A petition from someone who once lived below -- many years ago -- and who wishes to return."
"Is that unusual, Vincent?"
"The decision to go above is never lightly made, Catherine. Most who choose to do so are content with that decision. Father is determined that our world not be used as a place to hide, only to be abandoned when some conflict has passed. To use the tunnels to avoid facing problems above was never our intent. Our way of life requires a commitment."
"I understand," she said softly, wondering if this reminder had some more complex intent than the subject at hand. "Does that mean the petition will be refused?"
He shook his head. '"That is up to the community to decide, but there is an intriguing factor involved. The petitioner has studied in your universities, practiced a profession that is difficult for us to discount."
"What profession?" she asked, totally intrigued.
"One you mentioned not long ago -- civil engineering." He turned on her a brief smile whose irony she couldn't miss.
"Vincent, that's wonderful -- someone with real up-to-date solutions to the problems you've been having."
He nodded. "Someone who might have determined the grade of our broken pipe. Someone who perhaps could offer practical applications for some of Mouse's theories."
"Will that affect your decision?"
"It must not, Catherine. Such decisions should be based only on the reasons for seeking our sanctuary, the seriousness with which a life among us is regarded."
"Still, it's bound to influence people, knowing this person could be a real asset to your whole community. It's like a judge instructing the jurors to ignore an inadmissible bit of testimony. It's still in the jurors' consciousness, no matter how hard they try to ignore it. Unless, of course, Father doesn't intend to reveal that fact before the voting."
"Catherine, your world is complex; it requires a complex system of laws to function. Our laws are based on one simple idea -- truth. That the presence of someone with such skills could be invaluable to us is part of that truth. We can only trust in each other not to place that fact above the questions of commitment."
"Do you really think everyone can do that?"
Again -- that flash of an elusive smile. "There are those who will find it more difficult than others."
"Like William?" she grinned. "He's terribly pragmatic. Vincent. I get the impression he'd jump at the chance to have someone else work on the drainage problems -- so he could get back to his kitchen."
"It is the place he'd prefer to be. Doing what he does best."
"And what about you, Vincent? What would you rather be doing?"
It was an innocent question, born of genuine curiosity, and she was surprised when his head jerked up.
"Whatever . . needs to be done." He stepped back a pace. "Catherine, I must go."
"But you said you'd come to ask me something -- what was it?" He took a deep breath. "I came to ask you...to tell you...that you are welcome at tonight's meeting, if you care to come." At her stricken look, he hurried on. "I knew you had work to do, Catherine, that there was little chance you could join us, but I thought it might please you to know that it was Father who made the suggestion."
"He did?" She looked at him, amazed.
"He said it might interest you -- to watch our small system at work."
"I'm so flattered that he'd think of me -- that he'd deliberately ask an outsider to join you."
"You are not an outsider, Catherine, not to Father, not to . . . anyone in the community."
"Oh, Vincent, I'd love to come, I want to come, but I promised."
He stilled her anguished protest -- how she wasn't sure. He was still barely looking at her; he hadn't moved, yet she felt suddenly the certainty of his understanding and his determination that her turmoil be stopped. "The invitation was not meant to cause you regret, Catherine. Merely as proof that Father considers you part of us."
"If only we'd captured the thief last night, like I hoped we would, this would all be over. I could come with you."
"There will be other meetings, Catherine.' He was already turning away, pulling the dark hood over his head, "Vincent." He stopped, and she prayed her stubborn refusal to let him go so easily wouldn't make his obvious discomfort any worse. She smiled gently at him. "I let one man slip through my fingers last night, I can't let it happen again."
She stepped toward him, his trepidation washing through their bond to meet her. Incredibly, he appeared paralyzed, like some magnificent animal caught in a headlight's beam. Holding her body carefully away from his, she kissed him, letting warmth and reassurance and the sweet abiding strength of her love take precedence over the other emotions that could only cause him pain at this moment. As she drew back, for the first time tonight he let his eyes linger on her face.
'And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. One truth is clear, whatever is, is right,' he whispered, and to her questioning look added, "The next lines of Pope's verse."
"I think I like that last part best. Good night, Vincent"
When he had gone, she stood for a moment repeating the final words, hoping they echoed in his ears as well. 'One truth is clear, whatever is, is right." We both know what is, Vincent; we both know the truth. It's all that matters.
It hadn't been hard to suppress her desire, not when he had so obviously fought a monumental battle of his own in coming here. Her insistence on a kiss had been her way of proving to him that he needn't worry; they could still be together in this place they both cherished; they could love here without crossing the hidden boundary that he so distrusted. Theirs had been a spiritual kiss, one she hoped would help remove the stigma and make the balcony a haven of serenity once more.
The innocence and power of that kiss lingered, but with it lingered the taste of him on her lips, the memory of his presence so intensely felt that it followed her into sleep, flooding her dreams with its dark, musical magic.
She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her briefcase open before her. The papers she drew from it were printed with pretty runes -- moons and tiny glistening stars scattered among them. Delicately, with infinite care, she removed each one, and the pages, frail as dragonfly wings, slid from her fingers and glided to every corner of the room. inscribing silver circles as they flew.
They fluttered in their hiding places, filling the room with twinkling light as she moved toward the terrace, careful not to tread on the milky white train that swirled around her slippered feet. The doors swung open to a sky deep as velvet and as deeply blue. Against it his hair had turned to flame, tendrils of fire whipping around his face in a wind that smelled of honeysuckle.
His eyes darkened to the color of sapphires, as she floated toward him, naked now, to receive his kiss. She felt no shame, no surprise that he watched her unastonished, no protest that it should be his will drawing her forward. Like a stream to the ocean, her body flowed naturally to his, conscious, as he enveloped her, of every texture against its bare skin: the woolen softness of his vest, the rougher fabric of his trousers, even the cool metal fastening of his belt.
Around them his cloak swirled like smoke, ebony and midnight blue, stirring the fragrant air. Her pounding heart filled with the essence of his power, the indomitable force of his love. The lips she offered him trembled with her own violent need, as his mouth took hers in a kiss that demanded total surrender.
The terrace had mounded with plump drifts of snow. It sparkled in the flickering candle flame that glowed everywhere around them, its crystals soft as down and oddly warm, as he lowered her gently into their depths, his touch claiming her. his voice whispering promises that shattered her with their soft music, ravaged her with their tenderness. Her boundless love for him, the astonishing power of his for her, blended into a sweet agony of desire.
She saw her own pale hands reaching for the laces at his throat, only to be caught in a gentle grasp.
"No, Catherine. Never that." His voice was tender, a little sad, but it carried a note of finality that shook her. "Catherine, this love we share is for you alone." She tried to protest, to ask him to explain, but she had no voice and could only watch as he brushed his lips across her captive fingers. "These hands, your hands, weren't meant to give love."
"He's perfectly right, you know," Father's voice interjected, and she turned her head to find him sitting in the little wrought iron chair, regarding her dispassionately. "Of course, you're welcome to get a second opinion."
Frantically, she turned back to seek the reassurance of those eyes, so filled with love, but Vincent was gone. She lay utterly alone --in a dress as scarlet as the burgeoning fires that threatened to annihilate her.
With a sharp gasp she awoke, heart racing, and pressed the heals of her hands against her eyes. The dream images faded, leaving only a pulsing need that she tried quickly to suppress. A glance at the bedside clock indicated it had only been an hour since he'd left. He was probably hard at work, his mind occupied with the emergency at hand. She told herself it was unlikely that the enigmatic products of her subconscious could intrude on his crucial concentration, but this longing that infused her - this was real; this was intense, and it would sear its way along the thread of their bond with the speed of a heartbeat.
Rising, she went to the bathroom to splash cool water on her face. Better to risk wakefulness than to let her passion consume his attention in its rebellious heat, possibly endangering him in the process. What these repairs he had mentioned actually entailed she couldn't guess -- simple patchwork, barriers to be built, the shoring up of weakened walls that might collapse at any moment, crushing anyone who dared to challenge their weight?
Her fever cooled under the chill wave of possibilities. His greater strength and size, his dexterity, his innate courage, even his spirit that would move him to embrace the risks, rather than leave them to his friends -- all that he was I told her he was bound to be the one in greatest danger and, she reminded herself hurriedly, the one best capable of dealing with it. No sense in trying not to disturb him with her desire, only to plague him with her fears.
Resolutely she went out onto the terrace, the tiles faintly cool beneath her feet. She cut two perfect roses from the little bush, remembering as she did so, how in the dream they had blazed in the corners of her vision, their petals slender flames, burning red and white-hot in the velvet night. Now she inhaled their delicate fragrance and closed her eyes, intent on sending him the assurance that all was well and that she loved him more than life.
The next day's papers, robbed of the chance to blare the news of a sensational capture, turned their pique on the police and the DA's office, lamenting the lack of progress ir. the investigation.
"This isn't fair, Joe," she protested, indicating a front page article that questioned the city's commitment and competence. "We're not the only ones responsible, and it isn't our fault if the ransom was never picked up."
"No, it isn't fair -- it's politics. Get used to it, Radcliffe. It won't go away. Besides, these guys are in the business of selling papers. They want to keep this painting thing on the public's mind -- any way they can, and that could work in our favor in the long run. You gotta learn to be thick-skinned about this stuff."
"You're awfully sanguine, Joe, for a man who sacrificed half his weekend to public service."
"Hey," he shrugged, "you don't produce results, nobody's gonna give you a medal. If it's applause you're looking for, you'd be better off taking up juggling. You a little testy today, Radcliffe?"
"Maybe. I'm sorry. I just -- I didn't sleep well last night."
"Well, you've got a perfect opportunity to catch up -- aren't you due at a task force meeting?"
"Yes, I am." She returned his cynical smile, gathering up her notes. "But we could be surprised. Maybe one of our agents has come up with something."
"Now that's the optimistic Cathy we all know and love."
She carried the warmth of his smile to the conference room, but found it fading when the only person waiting there proved to be Special Agent Greenwald.
She summoned a polite greeting and chose a chair several places down from his.
"You got a lot of hot new leads in there?" He nodded sardonically at the folder she placed on the table.
"No, not really."
He leaned back in his seat, folding his hands over his ample stomach. His air of superiority rankled her already raw emotions.
"What about you? Is there anything new to report?"
He dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "We're on it, Ms. Chandler. It won't be long. Haven't you heard? We always get our man. Or woman," he added. "Don't want to be sexist about it, do we?"
She wondered if this was a clumsy attempt at civility or intended sarcasm. "I believe in this case, we've agreed that our primary suspect is a man."
"Yeah -- Sherlock Holmes, eat your heart out, huh? Why do you do it? The job pays nothing. It's tedious, risky -- puts you around all kinds of unsavory characters. With your looks -- and your money," he added, as if to let her know nothing slipped past him, "you could call your own shots."
"This is my own shot." She fastened him with a direct stare that implied the subject was closed, and he shrugged, muttering, "Well, my wife's never had to work a day since I married her."
Oh, that was almost painful to let pass, but she merely smiled. "She must be an extraordinarily lucky woman."
I'm doing it, Vincent. I'm learning self-discipline. I'm not as good at it as you are, but I'm definitely improving. Thankfully, she was spared from further testing, as more people arrived to start what, in fact, proved to be a rather lackluster brainstorming session. The discussion garnered more lines to follow but few conclusions. Much of their reasoning seemed to plod in endless circles, broken only by a ten-minute harangue in which Greenwald insisted that the record show the tackle box had been twenty-two feet from a "No Littering' sign -- not twenty. Her heart went out to the harassed young officer who tried stolidly to hold his ground on what seemed an irrelevant issue, but secretly she suspected Greenwald was correct. He hadn't gained his special agent status by virtue of personality, that was certain, nor did his skill lie in ensuring a smoothly coordinated effort.
He must be very good at something, and she hoped it was investigative skills that would bring this case to a satisfactory close. Although, watching him claim credit for solving this crime would be a singularly unpleasant experience, it seemed best to remember her own admonition to Joe -- the important thing was that the painting be recovered.
She emerged from the conference room at what was euphemistically known as quitting time. In theory, she could take advantage of that tonight. Work was pretty well caught up. The few loose ends on her other cases could be tied up later, and she was frankly tired of thinking about the art theft. As she organized her notes from the meeting into an ever growing file, the rationale for this train of thought couldn't be ignored.
She wanted to go to Vincent -- to share the day's events and make them real, to gaze at his extraordinary beauty, feel his strength surrounding her, the cool serenity that brought order to her universe, the warm hands . . . his hands . . . in the dream . . . caressing her. A flush rose to her skin, the touch of the crystal lying secretly against her flesh, felt suddenly, unbearably erotic.
She sank into her chair, files forgotten. There had been more about hands in the dream, but she wasn't sure it had made any sense and now couldn't recall the details at all. What lingered was an image of him willing to love her with all his heart, all the overwhelming sensuality of his nature, yet somehow refusing to be loved in return, withholding himself in a way that wasn't clear to her. She thought she had cried out, stricken to the depths of her soul by his refusal to accept her love, wanting to tell him that she needed to worship him, as he did her, that the invincibility of their bond required a sharing. Had that truly been in a dream or were her fevered thoughts embellishing it now?
"Yoo-hoo, Earth to Chandler."
She looked up to find a figure in front of the desk, waving for attention.
"Jenny I didn't see you come in."

"I'll say. I don't think you would have noticed Godzilla, You looked like you were a million miles away, Cathy. Is anything wrong?"
"No, I was just . . . daydreaming, but I'm really glad to see you. What brings you here?"
"I just thought I'd stop by on the off chance I could drag you away from all this -- to have dinner with me."
"Oh, Jen, I'd love to, really, but- "
"But you've got too much work to do. I know. We've been through this before. I just never seem to learn, do I?"
"I'm sorry, but there's some things I . . . I have to take care of. Maybe later in the week?"
"Sure. I'm gullible. I'll give you a ring."
Behind them Joe emerged from his office and headed for the water cooler. "Hey, Jenny," he called . "How's it going?"
"Another one who never knows when to quit," Jenny remarked. "I think I'll go bring him up to date on the slave labor laws."
Catherine felt a little guilty, as she watched her friend in conversation with Joe. There was no way to make Jenny understand how all encompassing her need was to be with someone else. To explain it would compromise the very thing that gave her life. She wasn't sure when she'd begun to think of him this way, not as merely the most important part of her life, but the source of it, its purpose and its goal, the catalyst for all the love and beauty and hope that tingled through her with every breath and made the time before she'd known him seem meaningless.
He wasn't expecting her tonight, but he'd be glad if she came. Unless of course, he was still embroiled in fending off disaster below. Even if he wasn't, she reminded herself, who knew how many hours he'd borne the brunt of the labor? He could be exhausted, though she suspected he would hide that from her with all his practiced skill at concealing so many things. Was it fair to chance that her visit wouldn't be an intrusion, either into his sense of duty or his well deserved rest?
Forcing her own needs aside, she had to ask if it was fair as well to burden him with these incessant feelings of desire, so soon after that dream had brought them to the surface, knowing how hard he was struggling to come to terms with his own.
And, if she was going to be brutally honest in this debate, it was time to consider the wisdom of these frequent trips back and forth from the Central Park entrance. In the past they'd seen each other only sporadically, and usually he had come to her. When she did go below, it was most often through the basement of her building, an almost foolproof option that unfortunately was no longer available.
Now when the need had become so great to spend more time together, circumstances had made them most vulnerable. Every time she used that entrance the chances increased that someone would notice and become curious. If Vincent wouldn't presume to point that out, she would have to point it out to herself. It was doubtful that Father realized how often she'd entered his domain of late by the same predictable route. He, she was sure, would have no hesitation in declaring it a foolhardy habit and a threat to the community's security. His acceptance was so newly won; to jeopardize that now, simply for the sake of indulging her own insatiable appetite for his son's presence, was not the smartest thing she could do.
Across the room, Jenny was preparing to leave.
"Jen, wait. If you're still up for it, I'd love to have dinner with you."
The restaurant they chose was expensive enough to ensure a leisurely meal, but not so up-scale that the waiter would be likely to hover, inhibiting the conversation. She and Jenny had such trouble getting together anymore, that when they did, when they really got started, they could go on talking for hours.
Jenny insisted on hearing a personal account of the most harrowing situations she had undergone since they'd seen each other.
"I don't know why you ask me this stuff. It always makes you worry, and it's all in the past anyhow."
"Maybe because you don't worry enough about yourself. Honestly, Cathy, I don't know how you can take that kind of life -- or why. I know what you do is important, and you're very good at it, but to continually expose yourself to danger -- I'm just scared for you, that's all."
"Jen, you'll get frown lines, I'm trying to be more cautious lately. I haven't even questioned anyone vaguely sinister in weeks."
"Well, I'll be glad when you get promoted, and you can at least leave the investigative work behind. That shouldn't take long, Cathy. How often have you had your name in the papers for helping to bring someone to trial? You've got to be moving up the career ladder soon."
Catherine didn't answer, thoughtfully picking through her salad. "You do want to do that, don't you?"
"I don't know. I've never really thought about it."
"Cathy, come on. You don't want to stay low man on the totem pole forever. You're making a name for yourself. There's no telling where it could lead."
'It's just . . . not what it's all about to me, Jen. I like what I'm doing. I'm not sure I want to take on more responsibility and longer hours. I want to have a life outside my work."
"I can't see that you have one now," Jenny said bluntly.
Catherine laughed. "I'm not working this minute, and it's only.., seven o'clock. So, come on, tell me what you've been up to."
"I don't know. You're a hard act to follow. Nothing very earthshaking. We've been busy getting the fall line ready, and I spent a week with Missy and Craig on the island. That's about it."
"What about Brad?"
Jenny gave her dark curls a shake. "That's over, Cath. We're not seeing each other anymore."
"I'm sorry, Jen. What happened?"
"It wasn't any one thing, just that he was assuming so much. He was talking about the regatta one day -- about how we'd get up there and who we'd stay with. and I suddenly realized he saw us that way --just going on together -- next spring, the year after that. I felt trapped."
'Maybe you wouldn't have, if you were really in love with him."
"Maybe. I love the idea of wanting to be with someone forever, but I had to admit it was never going to be like that for us, and if there's any hope at all of ever finding anyone I can feel that way about, then I shouldn't be tied down to half a relationship. I finally decided it was better to be alone than to settle for that. Do you think I'm crazy?"
"No," she laughed sympathetically. "I don't think so."
The worry lines were appearing again on Jenny's brow. "But what if we get so used to being alone and never having to consider anyone else's feelings, that we forget how to do it? What if, when you finally figure out how to be independent, it makes it impossible to ever really commit to somebody and share your life?"
"I think love will always make that possible," Catherine said carefully. "Finding the right person to belong to."
"That's a strange choice of words, coming from you." Jenny eyed her with surprise. "Even back in school, you were the one I always thought of as most liberated."
"Liberated, Jen, or spoiled? There's a difference," she said with a wry smile.
"You know what I mean, Cath. It's funny to hear you talking about 'belonging' to a man. Next you'll be telling me they ought to put 'obey' back in the wedding vows."
"I guess it does sound a little strange, but what if you found someone you trusted absolutely, someone who loved you -- more than you loved yourself, and everything you gave to him came back to you --magnified a thousand times, so that you knew you were a better person than you ever thought you could be? If you felt the same way about him, and both of you were so much more together than you ever could have been apart? To give yourself completely to that person wouldn't be like giving up part of yourself; it would be like finding all the parts you never knew existed."
Jenny had stopped chewing to stare at her. "God, Cathy, you make me wish I'd brought a contract with me. You sound like you're pitching the ultimate romance novel."
"Sorry," she flushed. "I know I'm talking too much."
"That's okay. It sounds pretty good to me, but the catch is funding a guy you could trust to never hurt you. Haven't you heard? The sensitive male is a myth -- kind of like the Loch Ness monster. You could go through the entire greater New York phone directory and never find a man like that."
The response was a shrug and a smile. "Maybe that kind doesn't have phones."
"Now that would be just my luck. I've waited all my life to look up and meet the eyes of my soul mate across some crowded room. When I do, he'll probably turn out to be a wino, shuffling along Broadway, mumbling to himself."
"Well... if you're going to be picky..."
"Honest to God, I'm not. I wouldn't question fate, if I could have that kind of drop-dead romance -- just once. but you have to admit it's weird, wanting to be self-sufficient and at the same time wishing you could find a man who would make you feel loved and protected. No wonder so many women our age are frustrated."
"It could be worse, Jen." She recounted her latest conversation with Greenwald.
"He actually said that?" Jenny looked aghast. "That the poor woman never worked? What do you want to bet she has to wait on him hand and foot? Is that what happens when you let yourself 'belong' to somebody?"
"No, that's what happens when you marry a self-important chauvinist."
"Well, in that case, I'll stick to my mumbling wino. God. Cathy, you've put away that whole steak. Something must be giving you an appetite."
"I guess so." In fact, she was surprised to find she'd nearly cleaned her plate. Was this sublimation? Indulging one hunger because another couldn't be satisfied? If so. she could be well on her way to begging hand-me-downs from William. "I'll just have to run off the calories."
"You're not still jogging in the park, are you? Cathy, that is so incredibly dangerous. It isn't just muggers anymore. There could be rapists and murderers. How can you ignore that?"
"I don't ignore it, den. but not all of those people are in the park. If everybody gives in and lets them take over, we won't have a city at all."
"That's your job talking," her friend insisted, "but it's crazy to take that kind of risk when you don't have to -- a woman alone. Cathy, I dreamed about you the other night. You were running through the park."
"We've established that I do that sometimes."
"No, I don't mean jogging -- you were wearing a dress, and you were running."
Catherine listened in respectful silence, having learned the hard way not to discount her friend's dreams, but few of them were precognitive, and Jenny was a natural worrier.
"To be honest, I couldn't tell if you were in danger or not, or whether you were even unhappy. You were just running. I'd forgotten all about it until now, but promise you'll be careful."
"I will, Jen. Believe me, I take your dreams seriously." In fact, this one clearly had a basis in reality that she didn't want to explain. Yes, she'd run through the park recently and would again. For some reason the thought made her realize she was still hungry. "How about it. Jen? What do you say we go for dessert?"