KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

---

PART 20

The kidnapper -- the man who might become a murderer at any time -- did not keep business hours, and neither, Catherine felt, could she. The street investigation was a haphazard undertaking. The people they most needed to talk to could not be found at a fixed address. They had to be ferreted out of the alleys and condemned buildings that were their homes, and their innate distrust of authority made them hard to find and harder to question. There were never enough bodies to do the work, so she spent much of the weekend walking an ever widening area around the soup kitchen, talking to everyone she could.

She found one woman who admitted to knowing Roberta and to having taken her along, for a much needed meal, but she knew little about her -- only that she seemed a little tetched." She hadn't seen her for weeks before the abduction. Other investigators had garnered similar reports from people who had passed her in the aimless meandering that constituted life for the homeless. But beyond her name, and references she had made to a hospital, no information that might help the case was forthcoming.

On Monday the task force met again, pooling their sparse and largely redundant data. As she was leaving the conference room, Special Agent Greenwald sidled up behind her.

"I hear you paid a visit to Gladys Hopper."

"Someone needed to," she answered, perfectly aware that she'd had that particular lead before he did.

"You know they're breaking code down there. The fire marshal would be real unhappy to know they've gone into the hotel business."

"I wasn't aware that the fire laws were a federal matter."

"Oh, they're not," he assured her. "But knowing how conscientious you are about your job, I thought you should be aware of it -- you know, so you could make sure the laws are upheld. See you later, Ms. Chandler."

She nearly plowed into Joe in her abstracted trek back to her desk.

"I give up," she announced to his confusion. "You were right the first time. The man needs a good punch. Only let me do it, Joe --please."

"Can I take a wild guess that we're talking about our friend Albert? What's he done now?"

"Never mind -- it's not important." She shook her head, sloughing off the irritation, knowing the work required all her attention. "I shouldn't let him get to me."

"Okay," he said eyeing her doubtfully. "There's a report on your desk from Mental Health Services -- could be an ID on Roberta."

It was, but, as she had feared, the report didn't give them anything new to go on. She had been picked up a year ago in another city and sent to the state facility there. They had established that her last name was Gomes, that she had worked as a waitress in several towns on the East Coast and that she had no known relatives. It was unlikely that anything in her unremarkable past could be connected to what had happened to her now.

There seemed little recourse to finding the criminal, short of a house-to-house search of the entire metropolitan area, and the week wore on without the fleeting hopefulness of a new lead. Only the tedious process of questioning and filtering through records with a fine-toothed comb occupied the long hours.

No doubt the tension of the case was responsible for some of the state of mind that made her jump at the slightest sound and feel suddenly tearful over some frustrating holdup in her inquiries. It was more than that, she knew. She felt as if every nerve had been exposed -- not by the rigors of the job or the proof of the random madness that existed in the city -- but by the gentlest of emotions, by the love that had for so long brought her only peace and satisfaction and now was intent on demanding more.

She had thought that this time away from him might ease those feelings and allow the incessant heat that billowed around them to cool, but the feelings were still there, exacerbated by the denial of seeing him, of talking to him. The serenity they'd always shared seemed smothered, while the longing went on unabated by time or distance.

And the dreams. The dreams didn't help, though she clung to them, wanting them to go on forever. Dreams in which he surrounded her with the radiance of his love, with all the erotic power inherent in every line of him released, and she lost herself in the glory of it -- of him, only to wake with the longing still threatening to undo her.

So on Wednesday, when Joe approached her desk. and she nearly started out of her seat at the sound of his voice, she was ready with an excuse. "It's this case, Joe -- not knowing if any minute we're going to find that poor woman or the painting or both blown to smithereens -- it's just getting to me."

"Are you sure that's all it is? If we're taking bets on what's going to blow first, my money's on you, Radcliffe."

"I'm sorry. Have you got something to tell me that will change all that?" She looked hopefully at the afternoon edition folded in his hand.

"I seriously doubt it. Boy, can you pick'em. Your friend, Stark? He's just come out and offered himself as a hostage in exchange for Roberta Gomes."

"You're kidding," she said, staring at him. "You're not kidding."

"Hey, could I make up a thing like that?" He tossed the paper on her desk. "This guy will do anything to get his picture in the papers. I figure next he'll probably streak a Mets game -- or climb up the Empire State Building and start pounding his chest. You gotta hand it to him -- he never misses a bet."

She cast an incredulous glance over the front page story. "Well, you said we needed publicity, Joe, and he's certainly giving us that. Maybe we'll get some response from the kidnapper."

"Yeah, well, if he's smart he'll stick with the hostage he's got. Can't you picture Stark tied to that chair, mugging at the video camera for all he's worth?"

"Joe!"

"All right -- bad joke -- if you don't keep a sense of humor about these things they'll drive you around the bend, Radcliffe, and from the look of you, you're coming out of the straight away right now."

Stark's latest publicity triumph lasted all of twenty-four hours, and then disaster struck -- not the genuine disaster they had all been fearing and half expecting, a minor one compared to the threat to a life or an irreplaceable masterpiece, but a fatal one to the mayoral hopes of Byron Stark, and one that many cynics claimed was just retribution.

Actually the words bandied about in the press -- at least that on the other side of the political fence -- tended toward 'a dose of his own medicine, "measure for measure," "an eye for an eye," and "tit for tat," -- all phrases she thought would have delighted the seven-year-old Vincent. but seemed like cheap shots under the circumstances.

The truth was she felt a little sorry for Byron. He really had to have been prepared -- at least a little bit -- to risk his life, however dubious his motivations. He couldn't have counted absolutely on the kidnapper's refusing his offer to become a hostage, but that's what happened, and with devastating effect.

It was Thursday when the next video tape was found --unpostmarked.

"I thought the lobby was under surveillance," she said, when Joe showed it to her.

"It was, but not the elevator. Come on, Radcliffe, let's watch some TV."

At first it was difficult to tell what was wrong with the painting, though something clearly was different. Then the camera zoomed in on the face of the woman at the window, altered somehow, the realization causing her heart to skip a beat. Gradually, it became apparent that another face had replaced the pensive one usually seen under the white head-dress -- the smiling visage of Byron Stark. The camera panned to the figure in the chair. Grotesquely. a bag had been placed over her head, and on it was glued the familiar campaign poster image. Even more grotesquely, an unseen hand swept the bag away, revealing Roberta Gomes grinning vacantly into the camera.

The usual distorted whisper could not hide a note of manic glee. "Now what would I want with a two-bit politician when I have a half million dollar painting? Or is it the woman that's worth a half million? You people can't seem to make up your minds. Better decide by Wednesday, or I'll have to choose the button myself."

It was true that the poll being run in the tabloid had seesawed back and forth. Editorials in the more responsible papers -- or at least those that had nothing to gain from the game that was giving their competitors record rack sales -- pointed out that the figures were meaningless, that there was an element of society who enjoyed calling in, driving up the total of the more outrageous choice, although which one that might be was hotly debated among the more radical columnists.

At her stricken look, Joe laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Come on, Cath," he said gently, "at least the woman doesn't look like she's been hurt. She doesn't know what's going on."

"It's still obscene, Joe -- to see a human being treated that way -- like an object." Her frayed nerves had sent tears very close to the surface. "Does this have to be shown? It won't serve any purpose. Can't we just release the gist of what was said?"

"The gist? No. We'll have to give it verbatim, but you're right there's nothing to be gained from the public seeing the tape."

But the public did see the tape, courtesy of a television station that had received a copy and aired it before the request came down to squelch it. The images were picked up by the rest of the media who proceeded to have a field day.

"Poor Byron," she said on Friday morning. "Whatever you think of his tactics, Joe, he's a basically decent man, and he's going to lose everything."

"What? Just cause some bona fide lunatic makes a crack about him?"

"You know better. Image is everything to someone in his position, and already he's not only being ridiculed because his publicity ploy backfired -- he's the butt of a lot of jokes. Did you see the editorial cartoons this morning? I don't see how anybody can laugh after seeing Roberta Gomes treated that way."

"Hey, Cathy -- I agree with you, but you gotta know that a lot of it's kind of nervous laughter. You know -- like when you're embarrassed for somebody, and you don't know how to act? Besides, it's a relief to a lot of people to see the woman's all right. Don't go thinking everybody out there is heartless." He threw his hands up. "Jeez, would you listen to me? Aren't you the one usually giving me this kind of lecture? What's the trouble, Cath? Are you sure you're not the one who could use a vacation?"

"Maybe.' she said, pressing her hands over her eyes, "a long, long vacation."

That night when she arrived home, there was a note on the balcony. The very sight of it began to calm her turmoil, even before she'd picked it up and read the words: "The clarinet as been tamed. We have high hopes for the violin. A recital tomorrow at seven." She brought the signature to her lips, feeling like a cooling balm was already soothing away the residue of a hectic week.

She didn't go into the office on Saturday, but still she worked, spending hours on the phone and using the rest of the time to go back over the notes taken in the beginning of this case. Time was running out. None of the avenues they had explored had brought them any closer to the man they sought. All she could think to do was go back and start from scratch, try to find something they'd missed, however, unpromising. To do nothing was unthinkable. By late afternoon the mass of data seemed to be doing little but tiring a mind that kept going in circles, and she decided to give it a rest by preparing early for the evening below.

To do so was a pleasure in itself, knowing that her careful attentions to her appearance would be for him. Once ready, however, the prospect of waiting for the appointed hour to come around proved too much, and she decided to go down ahead of time. Maybe spending a little while, just basking in the peaceful ambiance below, adjusting to the slower pace that she sorely needed, might prepare her a bit for that first sight of him. With the state of her nerves, she didn't trust herself not to burst into cleansing tears the moment he spoke to her, and the last thing she wanted was to be a burden. The first thing she wanted wouldn't ease the situation either, she admitted to herself ruefully. Best to strive for a little calm before they met.

The tunnels beneath her building were quiet, but as she approached the busier passageways, the sound of muted voices broken by an occasional trill of laughter piqued her curiosity, and she followed the sound of them down a bypass to one of the abandoned concrete storm drains. Several children were scratching away at the walls with colored chalk.

"Excuse me," she called, "is it okay for a grownup to come in?"

"It's okay," Nathan offered by way of recommendation, "she's not too grown-up."

The others greeted her, smiling, and returned to their efforts. She wasn't sure which delighted her more -- the spontaneous affection that had shown in their guileless faces, or the fact that they accepted her presence, as though it were natural that she should be here.

"What do we have here -- another painted tunnel?"

"Uh-uh," Kenny explained. 'It's gonna be a museum -- like the ones up top."

"Only none of the pictures can get stoled," Willy added.

"Somebody could erase 'em," Nathan reminded him.

"Ah, who'd do a thing like that?" Kenny gave him a contemptuous look.

Who indeed, Catherine thought. "Is it okay if I have a look, or do I have to walt for the grand opening?"

"It's okay, if you don't tell, cause they're not finished yet."

She smiled to herself, as she paused before each one, giving it her respectful perusal. She and Vincent would have their museum visit yet. She wondered what he'd say about that one.

Toby was grinding away with fierce concentration, his tongue imitating the motion of the chalk. He seemed dedicated to this particular feature of his work, probably because it was the easiest to reproduce most accurately, and, she had to admit, it had certainly held the key to the picture's subject for her. Toby had drawn a figure whose yellow hair was fast reaching alarming proportions. What still hadn't revealed itself to her was the nature of the huge ball-like object held over his head.

"That's a wonderful picture of Vincent," she assured him, "and he's holding something . . . carrying something."

"Yeah, he's carrying William."

A chorus of snorts and giggles ricocheted down the line of artists.

"Come see mine, Catherine," Molly implored. "See, it's a mother and a father and a little girl."

"So I see, Molly. The little girl looks like you."

"It is me -- and that's my pretend mommy and my pretend daddy."

Catherine gave her a swift hug, not trusting her unbridled emotions to stay out of sight. The picture was so like those drawn by children Molly's age above, except that a round, glaring sun was conspicuously absent.

"I wanted some green, but there isn't any," the child said regretfully.

"Were you going to make grass?"

Molly looked at her and giggled, as if she'd made a Joke. "There's no grass in the tunnels. I wanted a green dress for the little girl -- like mine."

"Well, you know what? We can make some. Would you like me to show you how?"

At the enthusiastic nod. she knelt down and began to rummage through the battered tin pail that held the artists' supplies. It was depressingly long on brown and black, and she added another gift to the list she was tallying in her head. At last she came up with blue and yellow, showing the little girl how to blend them, and Molly set diligently to work.

"You draw some too, Catherine. Put something in my picture."

"Are you sure? What would you like me to draw?"

"I don't know," Molly shrugged. "A surprise."

"Okay." Secretly, Catherine suspected she had found her peer group as far as artistic ability was concerned, but that knowledge gave her a freedom from self consciousness about her efforts that she hadn't known since elementary school, and she was soon deep in the enjoyment of it, kneeling on the tunnel floor.

She had actually lost all track of time in her concentration, when Toby spoke at her ear. "That's really good, Catherine."

"Well, thank you. Toby." The compliment genuinely pleased her. coming so long after the last really sincere one she'd garnered --probably in the fifth grade. She sat back observing the little crowd of figures she'd conjured, dressed in her best interpretation of tunnel garb.

"Who are they?" Molly asked. "who are all the people?"

"Those," Catherine explained, pulling the child onto her lap and hugging her close, "are all the people that love the little girl -- very much."

Molly beamed, pressing a loud kiss on her cheek, and Catherine became suddenly aware of a new emotion mingling among the array of bright sensations she felt here. She looked up to find Vincent standing in the doorway, watching her. For a moment his eyes held hers, and the feelings they conveyed blended with her own. but then he looked beyond her to where the other artists had paused in their endeavors.

"Have you forgotten that you have other talents . . . and that there are people waiting anxiously to bear them?"

"Omigosh!" The three musicians, late for their own performance, tossed the pieces of chalk into the waiting bucket and raced out of the tunnel.

Their departure caused a chain reaction, accompanied by cries of "supper,' and soon the passage was empty of small voices, only the vivid images of their imaginations left behind. The loss of Molly's warm weight in her lap seemed a burden in itself. She remained where she was. and Vincent crouched down beside her. his arms resting on his knees.

"You have a gift. Catherine."

She knew without asking that it wasn't the art he referred to. and she shook her head. "I'm the one that got something here. Vincent. It's been a hellish week. This is the first time I've been able to relax and forget everything. It's a wonderful thing to look at the world through the eyes of a child -- it brings back that feeling of simplicity."

"You're tired." He reached out to caress her cheek with his thumb. When he pulled it back, it was an alarming shade of purple.

"It seems like I'm always tired lately -- what?" She swiped at her other cheek, and her hand came back smeared with brilliant pink. "I must look like a mess."

"You look beautiful . . . colorful . . . perhaps ready to go on the warpath."

"I don't think I've got much fight left in me."

"Come then." He stood, offering his hand, pulling her into the shelter of his arm. "The concert will be delayed. We'll have time to get you some tea. and you can tell me what's exhausted you so."

It was only a short distance to Father's chamber, but she felt herself reviving with every step. with every breath she drew, so close to his side. They had almost reached the entrance when Willy plummeted down the passageway to tug at Vincent's tunic.

"We were going to eat and the pipes went bang, bang and Mary knew what it said and she told us and she said I could tell you!”

"That's fine, Willy." Vincent looked at him expectantly, but the little boy stood silent, puffed with pride, and after a minute, Vincent let go of her to seek eye level with the smiling little face. "Do you remember what the message was?' he prompted gently.

"Oh." Willy looked stymied, as if this part of the responsibility hadn't occurred to him. He screwed up his face in concentration, his button nose almost touching Vincent's, and she found herself suppressing a giggle at the unlikely picture they made -- the wild, tawny head and the tiny one with its black hair in a bowl cut, the two of them staring fixedly into each other's eyes, hoping for inspiration.

Don't worry about it, Willy, she comforted him inwardly. He looks at me like that, and I forget everything too.

 “A duck!” Willy exclaimed in sudden triumph.

 “A duck?”

This time it was irrepressible. Never had she seen such a blank look on that expressive face, and a chuckle escaped her, rolling off the tunnel walls.

"What kind of a duck?" he said patiently, ignoring her lack of  sympathy or his plight.

Willy thought a moment. “It was an ag... an agwee.”

“An  agwee.” He still looked thoroughly mystified, and the conversation was so bizarre,
that the chuckle gave way to a full-blown laugh, rich and largely unappreciated, as he tilted his head to look at her with a great deal of expressiveness, but she couldn't stop it. Somehow the fact that he managed to look so dignified, even under the most comical circumstances, tickled her even more.

"Uh-huh, that's what Mary said -- an agwee duck."

"An agwee du-- . . . the aqueduct -- What happened to it, do you know?"

"I think it's broke."

"Thank you, Willy. Tell Mary you've given me the message and that I'll take care of it.”

"Okay!" Willy ran off, flush with his new status as a messenger.

The laughter had died in her throat, and she clutched his arm as he stood. "Is it serious, Vincent? Is something being flooded?"

"No." He covered her hand with his own as he turned toward her. "It isn't serious. We were merely testing a small portion for the grade, but I should see to it. Do you mind?"

"No, I'll go on inside."

He turned to go. Perhaps it was some mischievousness among the grab bag of emotions continually surging near the surface these days, or perhaps her time with the children had unlocked a childish impulse, but she couldn't resist calling out to him, "Vincent, be careful of the duck. They can be vicious if they're provoked --especially the agwees.'

He stopped, turning slowly back toward her, and she thought, whatever was going to happen now would be worth it, just to have seen the poetry in the way that incredibly supple body moved.

"Provoked?" He was bearing down on her, managing to appear ten feet tall, fixing her with all the intensity of which his blue eyes were capable, and that, she had to admit, was a lot. Still, she couldn't miss their sardonic gleam as he said with deadpan seriousness, "Did I mention, Catherine, how good it was to hear your laugh?"

"No, I don't think you did." She gave him her most innocent look. chin tilted, wishing she could keep the corners of her mouth from twitching. "You can tell me now, if you like."

"No," he said, "not in good conscience. To laugh at a child who is trying his best --"

"Oh, I would never do that," she interrupted earnestly, touching her fingers to his lips now so tantalizingly close to her own. "I wasn't laughing at the child, Vincent... believe me."

She looked at him, wide-eyed, their faces almost touching now, as close as his and Willy's had been, but then Willy couldn't have appreciated the privilege half as much as she did.

"Catherine, I am beginning to believe that you were not always angelic as a child."

"It's true," she said penitently. "All I can do, Vincent, is ask you to forgive me." His lips were so close now. She could feel his breath mingling with her own.

"I intend to, Catherine, but agwees are impatient creatures. I must attend to ours."

"More impatient than me?" she murmured, hoping he'd be unable to resist the invitation she was blatantly offering him.

"Catherine," he said, diverting the hoped for kiss onto her forehead, "you have the patience of a saint. We both know that."

He turned on his heel and strode down the passage and out of sight. "I don't want to be a saint," she protested into the ringing silence of the tunnel.

She was surprised on entering Father's study to find it empty. Apparently, word had gone out that the recital had been delayed, and she sank into one of the chairs near the desk, the one next to Vincent's. She was checking his for visible signs of repairs when Gillian tripped into the room.

"Catherine, hi -- it's nice to see you again." She came to sit --logically -- in the chair next to hers, though Catherine couldn't help a feeling of dismay as she did so. "Where is everybody?"

"I think some of the musicians are a little behind schedule. They need to have their supper."

"Oh, well, that's good. It'll give us a chance to chat. You look tired. How about a cup of Father's tea? I'm sure he wouldn't mind sharing it with a couple of hard-working women." She was already up pouring it, and she brought them each a cup, pulling her legs up under her.

"Thanks, that does taste wonderful. Where do you get all your energy, Gilllan? I've had a rough week, but it's mostly mental fatigue. You must have to do a lot of physical labor."

Gilllan laughed. "Everybody thinks that, but it isn't true. When you're as petite as I am, there's not much you can do in the way of the grunt work. It's mostly figuring things out -- just like your job."

"And you figured out a way to make Mouse's aqueduct practical?"

"Eventually -- probably -- we're testing the first prototype now."

"I'm afraid something went wrong with it, Gillian" Catherine said, not relishing her role as the bearer of bad news. "There was a message on the pipes. It's being taken care of."

"Damn," Gillian said good-naturedly. "Well, we were pushing it pretty hard where we had it. We'll try it again tomorrow, and by the way, you can call me Jill."

"Oh, I'd just heard Father and... Vincent calling you by your full name. I thought maybe you preferred it."

"It always sounds a little too sophisticated for me," she confessed. "Father uses it because.., well, that's just the way Father talks. He's one of those people who's more comfortable with formality, and it suits him. And Vincent does it . . . you know why I think he does it?"

Catherine shook her head. "No, why?"

"I suspect he's trying to give me a bit of dignity. He always called me Jill when I was a kid, and I think he's trying to show that he recognizes I'm a grownup now, even if I don't necessarily look like it -- or always act like it -- to give me a little respect. I'm not sure about that, but it's the kind of thing he'd think to do. I don't really care what the reason is. When he says your name, you just gotta think --the more syllables the better."

"Why do you say that?" Catherine's cup stopped halfway to her mouth.

"Well, that voice -- I mean. is it to die for or what? He can make a girl's toes curl just asking her to pass a socket wrench. Don't tell me you've never noticed that?" Gillian gave her an incredulous look that Catherine was sure had nothing on her own.

She honesty couldn't think of an appropriate response. Of course, she'd noticed, and it was a fact, wasn't it? It was just that no one else had ever commented on it before. "You're right," she said finally, "he does have a lovely voice." She thought the comment made her sound like an elderly maiden aunt, though Gillian was only a few years younger than herself.

"You and he are particular friends, aren't you?" Gillian's wide grey-blue eyes still looked at her with open interest. "He was so anxious for me to meet you. I just figured you two must be pretty close, and then there's Mouse. He talked about you a couple of times and called you 'Vincent's Catherine.' "Of course, he also talks about Arthur's alarm system, and that's only because Arthur apparently nibbles on the wires."

She took a sip of tea, and Catherine waited in stunned fascination, half expecting her to ask what Vincent might have been nibbling on.

"I'm sorry, Catherine. I know I'm not the world's smoothest conversationalist. It's the engineer in me -- no imagination, I guess. Just a curiosity about how everything works."

It was impossible to take offense. The woman was simply very open, very candid, and Catherine smiled. "Well, if you ever figure that one out, please let me know. Has this place started to feel like home again? Are you getting acquainted?"

"It would be easy for anyone to feel at home here. I think I've met just about everybody by now, and we seemed to hit it off okay. They've been very receptive -- except for that Jamie. She seems like a nice kid -- a smart kid -- but she doesn't act like she trusts me somehow."

"Jamie and Mouse have always spent a lot of time together. She may be feeling a little left out now that he's working with you."

"Oh, well, that's easily mended. I'll Just ask for her help. She's not afraid of a little hard work, is she, or of getting her hands dirty?"

"Jamie? No." Catherine assured her with a laugh.

"You know what I really love?" Giilian enthused. "I love having all these kids around -- to have fun with, to teach things to. I'll never be able to have children myself, so it's like having a ready-made family."

"I'm sorry," Catherine said, instantly sympathetic.

"Oh, it's okay. I've lived with that knowledge most of my life, and I won't say I wouldn't have liked to have some of my own. but being here with so many of them who could use attention, well -- it just doesn't seem like an issue anymore. How about you, Catherine? Are you strictly a career woman, or would you like a family someday?"

"Under the right circumstances." she said, nodding, "I would, yes, but then who can tell how things are going to work out, whether what we wish for is possible."

"That's for sure. In a way I'm probably lucky, knowing all along I'd never be a mother. It never got my hopes going in that direction."

Gillian's frankness prompted her own curiosity. "Was there anyone special above -- a man?"

"If there was, would I be here?" Gilllan grinned. "There was for a while. His name was David, and we met in college. We were pretty serious for a long time, but then he got really hot on the idea of carrying on the family name -- Winkenbruger -- if you can believe it. So..."

"Is that one reason you decided to come back down?''

"No, not at all. That ended a couple of years ago. Nobody else that serious came along, and after my mom died, there just didn't seem any reason to have to stay above. Engineers are a dime a dozen up there. Down here I knew I could help make a difference. I guess everybody likes to feel needed." Catherine nodded her agreement, suffering the unbidden thought that lawyers were a dime a dozen above too, and down here about as useful as another leaky pipe.

The chamber had begun to fill up with people. The children. looking newly scrubbed, arrived with their instruments, but still there was no sign of Vincent. Dire thoughts began to creep into her imagination. What if his assurance -- that the problem of the broken aqueduct wasn't serious -- had been merely his way of quelling her concern -- she who had made light of the whole situation, teasing him as she'd never dared to do before. What if he was lying somewhere, injured, with the sound of her mischievous laughter ringing in his ears? But she felt nothing disturbing in their bond, and Gillian had dismissed the news of the experiment's failure as no more than a minor annoyance.

"Mary. do you want some help with that stuff?" Gillian was already unfolding herself, ready to leap up, but Mary set the large basket of popcorn on the desk and waved her back.

"I have more than enough help. The children seem to come out of everywhere when there's popcorn to be served. I'm not certain how much of it will actually arrive here from the kitchen, but there's no shortage of willing hands. You just sit back and relax."

"I remember that smell when I was little, wafting down the passageways." Gilllan popped a handful into her mouth. "It probably beats the pipes as a surefire way to get everybody's attention."

Catherine barely heard her. Her own attention was riveted to the doorway, where at last he had appeared, pausing now. head lowered, listening to Pascal. He had changed his clothes -- fawn colored trousers, a creamy flowing shirt, and a vest of rich chocolate brown. His hair had been brushed to a golden gleam, and it poured over his shoulders like honey. The effect was altogether delicious.

He came lightly down the little stairway, quickening her heartbeat with every step, only to be tugged away to the other side of the now crowded chamber by a group determined to draw him into their conversation. Still, it seemed his presence filled the chamber, as it did her heart, and she released a long, silent sigh.

"God," Gillian said at her elbow. "Can't you just feel the temperature jump when he enters a room? It kind of screams at you, doesn't it?"

"What does?" Catherine asked thickly, suspecting that she didn't really want to hear the answer.

"Those vibes he gives off -- that dropped virility -- kind of like 'this is it, girls. I'm the sexiest thing you're ever going to see, and there's not a darned thing you can do about it.' It only makes it worse that he's not doing it on purpose. He hasn't a clue. It's enough to drive any woman with a hormone to her name a little crazy."

At Catherine's stupefied expression, she paused in the act of flipping another piece of popcorn into her mouth. "I'm sorry. Did I shock you? I know I get carried away sometimes. It just seemed that with you being a topsider and all . . . but I guess you don't think of him that way either."

"What do you mean -- 'either'?"

"Well, it just cracks me up that the women down here seem immune to him. He was pretty spectacular when we moved away from here, but now , , . now, I'm not sure there's a word for it . . . and still everyone just takes him for granted."

In for a penny, in for a pound, Catherine thought, plugging ahead. "Why do you suppose that is?"

Gilllan paused to finish off a mouthful of popcorn. "I think part of it is that most people here have known him all his life -- or all of theirs. He's family -- that cute little kid they watched grow up or the big brother they run to with their troubles. They just know him in a different context, and to think of him otherwise would be sort of, I don't know -- incestuous." She threw her a nervous glance, as if afraid the word might have caused offense.

She's got me pegged as a prude, Catherine thought ruefully. This family bit was going to be the death of her. She wondered what Gillian would think, if she was to match her candor with her own --tell her a little of the fantasies that plagued her day and night -- wild, beautiful, tormenting images of just what she'd like to do to him, of what he might do to her, of what they could do together. The thought brought the blood rushing to her cheeks, further solidifying the somewhat skewed impression her new friend was forming of her, and across the room, Vincent paused in his conversation to throw her a curious look.

"I am. I am shocking you. You probably went to a girls' school, huh? One of those places where they warn you about how crude the rest of us are?"

Now that was the kind of remark that ordinarily she would find offensive, but coming from Gilllan it was no more than a simple observation, and she found herself laughing. "I'm not shocked --really. Go on with what you were saying."

"I just think that's part of the reason that women here don't act on the vibes. And the other reason, I think, is the way Father always treated him. He absolutely doted on Vincent, anybody could see that, but he went to great pains to set him apart, to never let him -- or anyone else -- forget that he was different."

"Don't get me wrong. I adore Father. He's the only one I ever had, and he's a truly brilliant and compassionate man, but I think he's a little squirrelly on the subject of Vincent. I know he saw himself as the last line of defense between this unique, sensitive little boy and the cruel world, that he wanted to protect him, and no doubt he did. Who knows what fool thing Vincent might have gone and done years ago -- that could have destroyed him -- if Father hadn't kept such a tight grip on the situation. But to do that he stuck him with such a -- a taboo that the poor guy's practically got a moat around him. He didn't deserve that."