KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

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PART 18

It was such an innocent looking package, small, ordinarily wrapped in plain brown paper, yet the two of them stood looking at it for several minutes with trepidation.

"Why to me, Joe?"

"Your name's connected with the case now -- thanks to your friend Stark." The picture had been in the morning papers: the candidate, lending his support to the investigation of the art theft, apparently studying -- with one Catherine Chandler of the DA's office -- the secret contents of the case file.

And the package hadn't been mailed. It had simply been found, propped against the wall in the lobby. The thief was in a hurry now. That, she knew, was what they were both thinking. Something must have happened; something had changed. Neither really believed the message contained inside would turn out to be only a meaningless taunt, and for a moment they just looked at each other, knowing that in a matter of minutes they might be thrown into a storm of frenzied activity with no clear end in sight.

"The rest of them have been notified, Cath, but it's addressed to you. We might as well go ahead and have a look at it."

"Right." She followed him to the conference room, closing the door behind them. There was no note in the package, only the expected video tape, and Joe slipped it into the VCR, while they both stood inches from the set.

Static gave way to a sight that brought a sigh of relief from them both. The Vermeer shone clearly in an afternoon light, undamaged except for the visible smudge in the lower corner. The woman still stood serenely, as she had for centuries, poised on the verge of lifting the gleaming pitcher, drawn perhaps by some scene that caught her attention beyond the half opened window. The camera lingered on the painting, and Catherine's relief gave way to nerves. What if the purpose of this recording was to make them witness something horrible; what if an explosion were to destroy the picture before their very eyes? Her muscles tensed at the prospect, but abruptly the camera pulled back and began to pan very slowly to the left.

There it was -- the window Frye had said must be on that side of the room. Not the artistic product of a 17th century craftsman, like the one in the painting, but a serviceable New York apartment window, like countless others, plain and grimy with urban pollution. Why do this? Why show them whatever clues might be found in displaying the room? Maybe this really was all just a game to the perpetrator, a game that didn't necessarily have to end in destruction.

Her heartbeat quickened as another image slipped into the corner of the screen: a leg, a human leg, and then a shoulder, and suddenly they were looking at a woman. Her face was unlined, though a general laxness in her features gave the impression she was well past youth. Her hair was long and black, disheveled, her clothes plain dark slacks and a faded wind breaker. She looked into the camera, but her eyes didn't seem to focus, her expression strangely blank. She was tied to a straight-backed chair, and attached to the leg of it was an ominous mass exactly like that still visible on the picture's frame.

"God, Joe," Catherine breathed, the first words either of them had spoken since entering the room.

"We've got a sicko," he said quietly, not taking his eyes from the screen.

As if the broken silence were an invitation, a third voice joined theirs, muted and sinister in its distortion. "I know now what the painting's worth to you -- a half a million dollars. That isn't it's real value, of course. We all know that. It's worth more -- much, much more. And what about her? Much less? You decide that. You let me know. A fair price for one and the other to be seen no more. You talk about it, but don't take too long. This offer is subject to withdrawal without notice."

The voice was silenced, but the image still flickered on the screen -- of the bound woman, looking momentarily frightened, then vacant again, staring without expression into middle space.

"Do you think she's drugged, Joe? She doesn't really look like she knows what's happening to her."

"It could be. I almost hope so, for her sake. There's no visible signs of abuse anyway. We gotta get on this, Cathy -- find out who she is, what her connection might be to this guy. I know this thing gets uglier all the time, but at least it gives us a lot more to go on, and we've got to move on that. Nut cases like him can blow at any time."

She nodded, feeling vaguely sick, but it was no time to give in to weakness. Joe was right. At last they had something concrete to work with and a reason to act as quickly as possible.

The door opened, and Greenwald strode into the room with an air of officiousness that did nothing to lift her depression. "You don't mind, Ms. Chandler, if a few of us who are trained for this sort of thing kibitz a little about your case? We'll try not to get in your way."

Joe opened his mouth, ready, she was sure, to deliver an angry retort, but she took his arm, pulling him outside. "Forget it, Joe. We don't need any more dissension right now. The important thing is finding this woman."

"I know it's none of my business, and you're right, but I swear, Cathy, when this thing is over I'm going to tell that loudmouth what I think of him."

"That's good, Joe. You can probably sell a lot of tickets for it, but for now this is my responsibility, and I can handle it. At least I'm going to try."

There was too much to do, too much to plan, as the task force reconvened, for Agent Greenwald to seem anything but a minor annoyance. There was no question that the latest tape would be copied and distributed to local TV stations. This time there was only the one -- addressed to her, but the surest method of identifying the captive woman and picking up a trail to her abductor was to give the tape exposure.

For hours the conference room was once again headquarters to the comings and goings of many people, the site of heated arguments and some good ideas, but all the while the image of the forlorn looking woman hovered in the background, played over and over on the TV screen, her sadness seeming to whisper to Catherine below the loud voices in the room.

A network was set up for the quick exchange of information in hopes that a missing person report filed somewhere in the New York vicinity would make a quick identification possible. She stayed in the office till after ten, fielding calls, searching records with no promising results.

The late news was just coming on when she dropped, exhausted, onto the love seat in her own living room. It was the lead story, and once again she watched the pathetic little tableau, telling herself that someone else now seeing it might any minute pick up a phone and start the chain of events that would bring this nightmare to a close. She half expected a call sometime in the dark hours of the morning, but it didn't come, and her tiredness left no room for dreams.

By the next afternoon there was still no identification.

"I don't understand it, Joe. Somebody has to know this woman. The tape's been on television. The papers are full of this . . . this junk about which one should be ransomed -- the woman or the painting."

"You haven't even seen our favorite tabloid yet, Radcliffe. They're taking a poll -- an honest-to-God poll -- on which one ought to get saved and which one ought to be blown up. They've put in an eight hundred number."

"That's sick, Joe."

"No argument there, but it is publicity. This woman didn't fall out of the sky. With all the hype somebody, somewhere has got to see it who knows her."

"It's just hard to imagine that there isn't anyone already looking for her."

"Cathy, there are lots of people in this town that nobody really knows or cares about."

"You think she might be a street person?"

"The longer we go without an ID, the more likely that becomes. I think there's a good chance, yeah."

Catherine began to think so too, as the day wore on, and no one came forward. In some ways it should have been a relief to find that no loved one waited, suffering, made frantic by this woman's captivity and the terrible possibilities that could result. The thought of a child turning on the television to see his mother in that situation was horrible, and she was thankful that apparently that hadn't happened. Yet there was something equally disturbing in the thought that a human being could reach adulthood with no connections, no network of people who cared about her.

While she worked, Catherine had been able to keep the sadness of it at bay, but on the way home, it rose up prodding at her unsteady nerves, unsettling her with an elusive feeling that she finally identified as guilt. Not the generalized guilt that clutched at nearly everyone when they saw a man sleeping under a newspaper or a child wandering the streets alone. It stemmed, she realized at last, from the reality of her own happiness. How could she be so lucky, so incredibly blessed, and someone else have nothing at all? What kind of sense did that make in a universe whose designs she had come to respect?

She fixed a simple supper, telling herself it was useless and self indulgent to dwell on the injustice of it. Ignoring her own good fortune, her own contentment, wouldn't give those things to the downtrodden. Wasn't she already doing what she could to help balance the scales just a little bit? She told herself with determined logic that the physical and emotional weariness, brought on by another long day, should be proof enough that she was dedicated to helping those very people, and nothing would deter her from doing her best to find the woman before it was too late.

Letting the cold facts of life in the impersonal city get her down was counterproductive. She would be much better equipped to fight the grinding battle with her usual optimism and energy, yet try as she might, her exhaustion wouldn't let them take hold. She needed to feel that joy, that sense of possibility, in order to be able to function effectively, and there was only one place where she could find it, one person who could infuse her with strength and determination, merely with a word, a look, the miracle of his own existence.

She hurried to clean up the supper things, pausing only to change into a pair of low-heeled shoes, before she slipped out of the apartment and into the recently gathered shadows of the park. Already the exhaustion was leaving her, replaced with anticipation. Just knowing she would soon hear the healing balm of his voice put much of her gnawing unrest into perspective.

She couldn't fix everything. To presume the problems of the world only awaited her own careful attentions to be solved was ludicrous, as well as vain. There were plenty of people who cared, who worked hard to right the injustices of society. To tarnish the wonder of her own extraordinary good fortune with guilt would do no one any good. Better to appreciate it, be thankful for it and the strength it gave her.

Still, as she left the shelter of the street lamps, moving across the darkened grass, the image of that baffled face haunted her. No one to care, no one to take pride in telling stories of her girlhood. No one at all.

She was never sure at what point the sound entered her consciousness; only now as she noticed it, did she realize it was the repetition of it that had finally pierced her reverie. A small sound, like metal swinging against metal, totally out of place in the solitary stretch of lawn. She turned, finding nothing but the whispering grass, dotted with inky shapes of shrubs and trees, shapes that could hide anything from the gentle moonlight.

Automatically, she veered back to the glare of the street lights, walking with quick, positive steps, praying that the alarm going off in her head was the product of too many close calls, an overreaction to some innocent noise. It wasn't. The resumption of the tiny metallic sound, coming closer together now and nearer, pumped adrenaline through her, urging her legs into a run, still yards from the illusion of safety promised by the lighted sidewalk.

Two of them cut her off, large ominous shapes, men or boys she couldn't tell; their sly expressions seemed more gargoyle than human. She turned to find two more, the taller one swinging a bicycle chain as they closed the distance between them. The circle they inscribed around her shrank, and she knew it would close before she could hope to escape. Nothing to do but gather her wits and her energies, hoping the swaggering menace they displayed was all for show, poised to strike out with all the skills she had been taught if it wasn't.

"Your purse." One of the gargoyles spoke, thrusting out his hand, though it should have been evident she wasn't carrying one. On drugs maybe. If so, she could hope for their slow thinking, their jumbled reflexes, but no mercy.

"I don't have one," she said firmly, fixing the one that had spoken with a steady stare.

"Money then. Where's your money?"

"There isn't any."

With a snarled expletive, he lunged toward her, reaching for the pockets of her flowered skirt. Simultaneously, one of the figures lurking behind threw an arm across her dragging her backward, his grip giving her just the leverage she needed. Leaning into him, she lashed out, delivering a savage kick to the man descending on her. Its accuracy sent him sprawling, doubled over with pain. Immediately, she let herself go limp. In reflex, the arm at her throat relaxed the slightest bit, and she summoned all the power of the adrenaline coursing through her to drive her elbow into him.

With a grunt, his arm slipped from her shoulders, and she spun out of the path of the second man behind her, headed for the street. Her heart was pounding with fear and, for a moment, with the real hope that she might gain the light, that someone traveling the quiet street would see her.

The pain, as fingers clutched at her hair, yanking her off balance, momentarily blanked out all thought. She gasped, and the sound cleared her mind, reminding her of another weapon at her disposal, but before she could scream, a sound that might or might not be heard and heeded, a hand clamped over her mouth. She twisted, hoping to land another telling blow with an elbow, but as she did, two more of them were upon her, lifting her kicking legs, dragging her toward the bushes.

The chain was at her neck now, stopping her breath. The words, 'the last thing she'll ever do,' spat close to her ear. She saw the flash of metal in the moonlight, felt the panic begin to override her dwindling resources and heard the sound that shattered the night, causing her assailants to drop her, forgotten, in the grass.

All four of them froze, and for a moment she looked at him, seeing him as they must. The moon silvered his hair to a spectral glow. glinting on the white teeth; his eyes flashed cold fire in the darkness, but it was his body, poised to strike, that sent a chill to the heart. The savage power coiled in every line gave off almost visible vibrations, as if its primitive force, once released, could never be stopped, never restrained. The moment seemed to hang there in the warm, night air, though it could have been only an instant, and then it exploded.

The men tried to run, but he seemed to be everywhere at once, his snarls joining their strangely shrill cries in the darkness. It seemed to her, shivering in the grass, willing the air back into her lungs, that everything had gone into slow motion. In a dream she watched him appear to rise up from the ground, his arm arcing with a devastating grace, and beyond one of the hulking figures crumpled to the ground. In an instant he had whirled, his cloak, like a raven's wings, flying out behind him, as a second man, his face wild with fear, briefly visible to her, left the earth and fell to meet it again several yards away.

She was trying to get up now, needing to do . . . something. What, she couldn't grasp. Vincent had closed the distance between the third man and his own relentless rage. How? It seemed he barely touched the ground, born on some invisible wave of vengeance that saw his hand close around the throat of his target, lifting him like a crude effigy of a human being.

She pushed herself up on shaking legs, unable to tear her eyes from the spectacle before her. It played across her numbed mind like some unearthly ballet, pleasing in its precision and economy of motion, crushing her with its ruthlessness, with the whispered reminder that the destruction going on here was not confined to the victims.

With a sob she pulled in a cleansing breath of air. There was only one man moving now, making odd fearful sounds as he backed toward the street. He was no longer a threat. Surely, Vincent would see that, but when he turned her direction, she saw no dissipation of his fury. His eyes went, not to her, but to the cringing figure beyond her in whose hand a knife had appeared. The growl started low in his throat, and somehow it shook her more than that initial roar. There was no stopping him now, she was sure of it, yet she had to try. and she spoke to him. but he didn't seem to hear.

He moved toward the man, slowly, with a catlike grace, seemingly oblivious to the knife clenched in a desperate hand. Catherine stumbled toward him, calling his name, and as she reached for his arm, he moved, crouching and rising up in one motion. What he did was blocked from her view. She could only see, as he rose to his full height, the useless knife dropping to the ground, followed by its owner.

Her hand was on his arm now, the muscles beneath her fingers still tight with tension, and she knew suddenly what would happen next. "Vincent" she said desperately, moving around in front of him. "Don't -- please don't. Someone will hear. Someone will come."

He looked at her, almost as if he were puzzled to see her there, his eyes not quite focused, but the sound she feared (Was it a roar of triumph or anguish? She had never known.) didn't come. He closed his eyes, breathing hard, and when he opened them, she saw the recognition and almost regretted it, because with it came the pain and the dark despair that terrified her as his fury never could.

He looked around him as if only now seeing the devastation he had wreaked, and for the first time since the drama had begun, the panic that had gripped everyone else found its hold in him. She could feel the sharp pain of the breath he drew in, and he whirled, headed for the tunnel, for safety, for solitude.

She hurried after him, but he didn't turn, nor did he close the steel door after him. Was he too oblivious, too caught up in this reminder of his other self, to care? Or did he want her to follow him, need her to be with him now? The slender hope faded as he reached the end of the first tunnel and rounded the corner without looking back, taking the distance in long. angry strides that she was helpless to keep up with.

He had almost reached the haven of his own chamber when the awareness of her pursuit got through to him, and he stopped, turning slightly, not looking at her.

"Go back, Catherine."

The words hurt, but the anguish, buried deep in the tone of them, hurt her more, and she said in a voice that was smaller than she would have liked, "No."

She saw the almost imperceptible sagging of his shoulders and thought for a moment he wouldn't fight her on this, but he turned again, looking at the floor. "I must think, Catherine... concentrate. I must." His voice was low, the words disjointed, and she felt the truth of them in the taut wire their bond had become. He was truly struggling to bring himself into himself, to shut the door on that other part of him whose power was as immense as his own.

He started off again, not looking to see if she'd honored his request, and for a moment she wavered. Could she offer him nothing more than a distraction at this moment, a distraction that could be fatal to the fine balance he was fighting to retain? Already the impact of her part in what had just happened was assaulting her conscience, demanding to be recognized.

She couldn't look at it now, couldn't let it sweep her up in an agony of guilt, not when he was in a fight for his soul. But the responsibility was hers as well as his. She couldn't add to it the blame for his sinking into that dark solitude of despair she'd witnessed before. If there was any chance at all that she could prevent that, could pull him back from the vast well of recrimination that waited to swallow him, she had to try.

At the next junction, he pulled up short. A furtive look in her direction told him she was still there -- some distance behind. "Please, Catherine -- go."

She steeled herself against the pain he was transmitting, although a part of her only wanted to end it by doing what he said. Resolutely, she tried for a more normal tone in her voice with the result that it sounded unnaturally loud, echoing off the walls of the hollow space. "Go where, Vincent? Back into the park? Are you so certain those men are dead?"

"No!" His response was immediate, but she wasn't sure which question it referred to. "No," he repeated, almost in a whisper, "not the park."

Despite the quietness of his voice, there was an agitation uncommon to his movements, and he suddenly swung away from her again, long legs eating up the remaining distance to the place he seemed desperate to reach. He was already pacing the chamber when she entered and stopped by the door.

He looked up, but his eyes wouldn't hold on hers. His breathing was harsh, and a fine sheen of perspiration had appeared on his face.

"I won't bother you, Vincent," she said carefully. "I'm just going to stay here . . . where it's safe."

He didn't answer. The familiar sense of his habitual calm, that the bond had so often made her own, was nowhere to be found. In its place she felt turmoil and an impression of tremendous effort, more gnueling than the physical exertion she had witnessed in the damaged tunnel.

The room seemed inadequate to contain it, and when his pacing did nothing to dissipate its effect, he resorted to pressing up against the far wall, as if the solid rock at his back could steady the precariously tilted place the world had become.

"Maybe it would help, Vincent," she ventured softly from her place across the chamber, "if you talk about it. Tell me what you're feeling."

He shook his head. "I cannot...talk now."

"Okay... that's okay." For a time she stood silent, watching his labored breathing; his eyes seemed to be focused on something within. It frightened her, this struggle going on inside him, but she couldn't give into the fear, couldn't reflect it back to him, magnified. She had to do what she could to keep him anchored here in this reality with her. Once, in a situation like this, he had asked how she could bear to look at him. Now it seemed he couldn't look at her.

"Vincent, I wish you would look at me."

"To see what, Catherine? Your revulsion? The truth of what I am?"

The rare bitterness in his tone told her how close to the edge he was, how directly he was confronting his darker nature, with no subterfuge, no turning aside, and that, perhaps, was good.

"What I saw up there was four men who wanted to kill me -- and worse. And I saw you preventing that."

"You saw madness, Catherine," he said almost inaudibly, "madness and blood."

"I saw something else too. Vincent"' She was determined now to drag all the ugliness into the light, even the kind she had suppressed from her own fastidious conscience until now. "There was something almost...beautiful in what you did."

"'No!" The word rang with anguish, and his head snapped up to look at her. She saw in his shocked expression his worst nightmare come to life. the fear that he had corrupted her with that part of himself he hated most.

"Please, Vincent --just listen to me. There was a kind of terrible beauty in it, and something in me responded to that. Some primitive need deep inside to see that kind of swift retribution, that...dominance over the things that threaten us. It's not only in me, or in you; I think it's in everyone. We're just afraid to recognize it."

He had closed his eyes, head thrown back against the wall, but she knew he was listening to her. "What happened up there was as much my fault as yours." She ignored the protest implicit in the shake of his head, and pressed onward. "It was. I promised you I would find out if it was safe to come down here again through my basement. I did that because we both knew how dangerous it was to keep using the park, but I forgot. I got caught up in my work, and I simply forgot. And tonight I wanted to see you. Did I stop and consider the risk? No. Was I even careful on my way through the park? No. If I had been, this wouldn't have happened. The responsibility for all that -- for what you're going through -- is mine, and I have to accept that."

"There is no blood on your hands, Catherine."

"Oh, yes," she said with brutal honesty. "Yes . . . there is."

She felt strangely better for having acknowledged it, though she wasn't sure how much it had helped him. He still stood, eyes closed, but his breathing seemed less ragged, and tentatively she stepped out into the room. When he didn't stir, she crossed to the china pitcher and poured a little water into its broad bowl, wringing out the cloth that hung there. She approached him cautiously, knowing he felt her presence, but he didn't protest until she reached for his hand.

"Please, Vincent, I want to do this -- for both of us." She stroked the soft fur a moment, until gradually his fist unclenched, and she gently washed his fingers, taking great care to dab the soft cloth under the rough, sharp nails. These hands are my hands. Really, there was very little blood. She wondered if, in fact, the men were all that badly injured.

He didn't speak or resist when she reached for his other hand, just stood watching her ministrations, as if the sight of his hands in hers were hypnotic. She rinsed out the cloth and hung it on the bowl, returning to stand close to him. His eyes had closed again, and the nervous dart of his tongue across his lip told her he was still groping for that final hold that would convince him he was once again in control.

She reached up and stroked the hair that tumbled over his right shoulder. It was faintly damp with the sweat that still shone on his face. Not the result of the physical activity above, she knew, but further evidence of the turmoil taking place inside him. Her fingers smoothed it from his cheekbone, from the broad sweep of his brow. Fervently. she hoped the tenderness of her touch, the love reaching out to him through their bond would bring him peace.

A single bead of perspiration poised on his upper lip, and she stretched to kiss it gently away. It tasted of salt and of him and of the dark power roiling inside him, an exotic blend, intoxicating in its elusiveness, and she found herself wanting to taste it again, as her lips soothed his fevered skin.

She followed the trail down his neck, his hair tickling at her cheek, and allowed the tip of her tongue to touch him, craving the new sensation with all the lust of a long held addiction.

The world seemed to be shrinking around this singular fascination. Little else pierced her consciousness, but his heartbeat --that she could feel, steady and unnaturally strong against her breasts. She had no memory of pressing up against him. His arms were still at his sides. She could feel it now -- that incessant pounding within him that was working its way into her as well. Her kisses moved inexorably up his neck to the stubbled jaw and slowly across his chin. He still had made no move either to stop or encourage her. What power was enticing her she couldn't think. Her own will was lost in a beguiling languor; his was still reeling from the challenge to its domination. He stood rigid against the rock, as if crucified.

Her hands moved to his face. "I love you," she breathed, letting the whispered words caress his mouth. Later, she thought it was as though she had breathed life into a marble statue, so still had he been, and so quickly did he act now. As her lips pressed tenderly into the sweet crescent at the edge of his, he moved, capturing her mouth with his own. His hands caught her to him. There was no prelude to his passion, no overture to the wild, haunting music plucking at her nerves. Like a tide it flooded through her, soaking every corner of her consciousness, and she opened before it like a desert thirsting for the rain.

One huge hand swept the hair back behind her ear, and he lowered his head to the curve of her neck, following it with a rampant hunger equal to her own. His mouth at the base of her throat ignited a desperate desire to put into words the passion for him that couldn't be contained, the words that would be gifts to him, like everything else she longed to give him, but only one that she knew seemed adequate, seemed to speak of the enormity of love, its beauty. That word was his name, and she whispered it over and over again, as his lips followed the path left free by her peasant blouse. Eyes closed, her senses throbbed with the sensation of the strong, curved teeth pressed against her shoulder. His warm mouth, the touch of his tongue drove her breath from her body, the fingers that twined in his hair convulsing in response.

She watched him return his attention to her face through a stupor of desire, offering her parted lips again to the demand hammering through him, melting into a sweet agony of surrender when he took them.

As the wall had been a bulwark to him, so suddenly his taut body seemed her only salvation. She clung to its strength, even as his hands, his arms drew her purposefully closer, the heat of his kiss draining her of everything but a frantic, molten desire. The fingers that clutched at him were shaking now. The moan he had drawn from deep inside her, reduced to a whimper, and at the moment when her legs refused to hold her any longer, he lifted her, moving away from the wall.

She saw the chamber through the eyes of a drunken person. Jumbled, a kaleidoscope of changing images: the flame of a candle, the face of a statue, the pin wheeling colors of the window above her, but all she needed to see was his eyes; all she had ever wanted to hear was the groan that escaped him now as he looked down at her lying on his bed.

Her arms that had slid from around his neck still reached for him when he sank beside her, and the sound turned to a soft growl. There was no trembling in the hands that held her.

Now it would end, and now it would begin: An end to the torment of their longing, the doubt that plagued him, threatening his hold on his humanity; the beginning of the bond's fulfillment, the joy that he deserved.

With the last fleeting thought, no more than a snapshot impression, came another, clear as crystal. Everything in her wanted to ignore it, wanted to feel only his hands gripping the small, capped sleeves of her blouse, his powerful leg effectively pinning her own. his mouth erotically claiming her ear, but the clarity of it told her it was the truth, and with some unfathomable resource she found her voice. "Vincent."

He stopped the attentions that had rendered her weak with desire, but he didn't move, and his warm breath in her ear made her tremble, even as she said his name again.

"Vincent . . . I need to ask you something before , . . before we go on," With trembling hands she stroked his hair, soothing him, loving him. "Is this the time and the place? Because if it is, I'm ready, and I'm happy that we're there, But if it isn't, if... something . . . about this is going to bother you later on . . ."

His face rose before her, eyes cloudy with desire and with a confusion that confirmed the truth of her instincts. She met them with a look of total trust, a look of love, willing the raw need to retreat. and it was retreating. The dark instinctual pounding that had invaded them both faded as he took in the scene before him, the scene he'd orchestrated, and with a gasp rolled away from her to lie on his back, his hand covering his eyes.

She fought to will the strength back into her quivering body, at last able to sit up, tucking her legs under her, and reaching for his other hand.

After a moment his head turned on the pillow, and he looked up at her. "Catherine?... What...?"

"What is it?" she said softly. "You don't remember?"

"I remember . . . I remember everything, but , . ."

"But you weren't quite yet . . . yourself?"

He sat up suddenly, surveying her with troubled eyes. "Catherine, you are sure? I did nothing.., nothing to . . ."

"I'm very sure, Vincent. You were gentle and loving, and you didn't.., cross any hidden boundaries."

"But it would not have stopped," he said almost to himself. "I would not have stopped."

"You did stop, Vincent."

"No . . . No, you did, Catherine. You had to stop it."

"It was my turn, remember?" She smiled her reassurance. "Vincent, I know how close that part of you was. I could feel it."

Again that look of abject horror, that she should have been touched by the darkness he rejected.

"It was powerful -- and seductive, but it couldn't control who we are. It couldn't win."

With every word of this conversation she became more convinced she had been right to interrupt what she had desperately wanted to continue, despite the quiet ache of longing that still remained. If it had gone on, if they had reached the pinnacle of their love, even with no harm done, he would have looked at her with that same unclear expression, questioned the validity of everything that happened. The joy would have been forever clouded. He needed to be himself- completely himself- at that moment, and she needed to prove to him that he could be.

"It has won, Catherine. More times than I can count."

"Has it? Has it really? I've never said this before, Vincent, because it seemed so hard for you to talk about, but you act as though that part of you is stronger, that when it's released it overrides who you are."

He swung his long legs over the bed to sit beside her, and the look he fastened her with was electric blue, uncompromising. "Catherine, you must not let love blind you to the truth. To do that would violate who you are. There are four men above, dead or badly injured. And there are more.., many more."

"But what kind of men? Vicious men, men without mercy or conscience."

"Like the one you glimpsed in me tonight. There is no difference, Catherine. A monster is a monster."

She knew it pained him to say these things, but he held her still with that forthright expression, determined she shouldn't rationalize or distort the facts. "And a monster makes no distinctions," she persisted. "A monster kills indiscriminately. But you, Vincent, you've never harmed anyone who wasn't a danger to others, who wasn't a direct threat to good people, to... what's right. That isn't a distinction made by a monster. It can only be made by a man. Even when the worst has happened, it's been a human being who had the ultimate control -- a man with a sense of morality -- of justice." She thought she was stating the obvious in an attempt to comfort him. but his expression made her wonder if he had truly never considered this perspective before.

It was a moment before he spoke again. "That does not make it right, Catherine. No man has the right to pass Judgment on others.., or to be their executioner."

"No," she said. striving to match his brutal honesty. "It doesn't make it right, but it does make a difference to us -- to you and the way you see yourself, to the fears you have about what happens between us."

He had dropped his gaze now -- to his hands. "You forget, Catherine. that there is someone I hurt -- not in the name of justice, but in the name of love -- someone who had done nothing to deserve it."

"Lisa." She had her own private thoughts about just what Lisa deserved, but admittedly they were colored by her own fierce protectiveness of him. It would serve no purpose to voice them now. Knowing his steadfast loyalty to the people he loved, her perspective on Lisa would only wound him. "Tell me, Vincent, what you were feeling with Lisa -- for Lisa -- that day, was it like what you felt with me tonight?" It was a question whose answer she dreaded, but she never could have anticipated the response it drew.

He smiled, and she heard the soft expulsion of a laugh, as he shook his head. "No." He turned to look at her. "Believe me, Catherine, it was not the same."

She liked the answer, but tried not to look too perversely pleased. "Can I assume it was a matter of degree?"

"Among other things."

"Then look how far you've come, Vincent. Even tonight with that other so close -- to both of us. I wanted so much to love you, to help you forget the horror, but still you were able to choose."

"It amazes me, Catherine, that you ever lose a case."

She smiled. "Well, I do, but I'm not going to lose this one."

"No, I don't think you will." A look of deep concern replaced the melancholy humor in his eyes. "You've been through so much tonight."

"Not all of it was bad," she reminded him softly. "Some of it was wonderful."

"Yes." He held out his arm, and she scooted closer, laying her head on his chest. "Some of it was wonderful. But even before . . . what happened in the park, I sensed a sadness in you tonight. Tell me · . . please."

She told him about the woman in the video tape and how her plight and that of so many others in the city had weighed on her. He listened in silence, cradling her gently, occasionally smoothing her hair with his hand or placing a comforting kiss on her forehead. By the time she had finished a tear was rolling down her cheek, She swiped at it, feeling a little foolish for being so emotional.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "I know it doesn't help to let things I can't change get me down."

"It's more than your concern for these people, Catherine, that is distressing you. I know that. There are things that can change -- that will change -- in time. I promise you."

"And some things that won't?" She looked at him trustingly.

'Never." He held her eyes for a moment, until the feelings that flowed between them threatened to overflow their carefully prescribed limits, and he let his glance slide to her tear-stained cheek.

"I can feel your exhaustion."

She nodded, smiling weakly. "And to think I came here tonight, because I had a tiring day and wanted to relax."

She instantly regretted the flash of distress her small joke lit in his eyes. "I don't regret tonight, Vincent -- except for what you had to suffer. I think we both learned some very important things."

For a moment she thought he wasn't going to respond. "Perhaps, we did," he said finally. "Catherine, you cannot go out through the park -- not tonight."

"And I can't go through my building. I'll have to find some other exit farther from home."

"You are tired, Catherine. The streets are treacherous."

"Then . . . what?" She felt the same thought tempting them both with its simple logic -- and complex implications and was relieved to see his small, ironic smile that matched her own. "I think that would be tempting fate just a little too much, don't you?"

"Perhaps it's Fate who tempts us, Catherine. Please, you're welcome to stay -- to use this chamber. There are other places I can go."

"No, Vincent, I don't want to stay here without . . . This is your room. I'm the one who should find somewhere else." She had slept, quite comfortably in this bed before, but now, after everything that had happened, the thought of lying here without his strong arms around her was disconcerting. She doubted she'd be able to get a wink of sleep for reliving the sense of him next to her.

She could see he understood it was not merely good manners that made her refuse the offer. "There is the guest chamber you used before, if you would be more comfortable there."

"That would be lovely, Vincent. Are you sure Gillian isn't staying in it?" They had risen from the bed and started for the entrance, her hand in his.

"Gillian moved into the old room she once shared with her mother. She said the memories there were happy ones."

"And it just happened to be vacant? Your world always turns out to be bigger than I thought. There must be many chambers I've never seen. "

"Our numbers increase, Catherine -- slowly. People abandoning the world above, children born, and there are always those who need more room. Kanin has been working on a whole series of chambers two levels down."

"Children actually born below to grow up here." she reflected. "Some of those same families might be living in cars or on the streets above. I wonder if they appreciate how lucky they really are." When they came to the door of the guest chamber, she knew he would leave her and added. "I know how lucky I am. Vincent, and I do appreciate it -- every minute of every day. "

"So do I," he said softly. "I think you'll find everything you need here."

"I'm sure I will. Would it be possible for someone to wake me --around six? I have to go back and change before I can go to work."

He nodded, giving her a look that made her feel as if he'd stroked her hair, kissed her cheek, though already he was retreating into the tunnel beyond. "Sleep well, Catherine."

As she prepared for bed in the silence of the cozy chamber, it comforted her to note that it was not the long hours of grief, the awful, futile wishing that her father was still alive, that lingered here. What spoke to her here was the memory of Vincent's steadfast presence, soothing her. loving her, and the healing vision of her father telling her he understood.

She fell quickly into an exhausted sleep. Not sure what had waked her, her eyes opened to the sight of tall leather boots, following them upwards to a lovely cup and saucer, dwarfed in a familiar hand, and upwards still, to his face, looking down at her with the expression that haunted so many of her dreams.

"I thought you might like some tea before you go."

"You're my wake-up call?" she blinked happily, pushing her tangled hair behind her ears and scrunching up the pillow, so she could sit against it, as he handed her the cup. "This is the nicest way to wake up I can imagine.., almost."

He nodded, eyes smiling. "I wanted to see for myself that you were well before you left."

"I'm fine, but you, Vincent... are you.., is it...?"

"It is past. Catherine," he said quietly, and she sighed inwardly when he didn't add "for now."

"Is the invitation still open for this evening?"

"At seven," he confirmed. "Catherine -- "

"No, I won't come through the park. I'll find another way don't worry."

"'How can I not worry? Every moment that you are --"' He stopped himself, and she sat staring at him, willing him to go on. "I should let you get ready. Take care, Catherine, until tonight."

She watched him go, wishing she knew what he had been about to say and why he thought it better not to say it.