KALEIDOSCOPE  III
Cynthia Hatch

---

Part 3c

 "The woman is a charlatan!"

The accusation was directed to the living room at large, but a very vivid picture had fumed in her mind--of a determinedly eccentric character in a bright turban encircled by ceremonial candles. She doubted if her indignation would be quite so great if the woman hadn't presumed upon Vincent's affection and trust, using it to convince him of something preposterous.

Hold it, she told herself, sensing her anger had gotten out of hand. There was something specious in assuming he had been deceived. She had known only one person with the intellect and guile capable of leading him astray--and that was himself. What proof did she have that he believed it? What exactly had he said?

Calming herself, she plunked down on the sofa to review the facts. It had been a grueling week, as she'd known it would be. The Murdock trial was at last in full swing, and it had required total concentration, not to mention hours of catch-up every night as she delved through reams of paper for clues that could pin down the issues rallied in court that day. It was a dry case, as many of them seemed to her lately, less concerned with living, breathing people than with endless documents--lives lived on paper. The time spent with witnesses seemed minuscule in relation to the hours of fighting through a jungle of words and legal clauses.

She missed that part of the investigative work--dealing with people, drawing them out, sensing so closely their needs and fears and machinations. Once the cases came to trial, the participants themselves became pawns of legal maneuvering, and that held true whether they were suspects or victims. Their humanity, as much as it might be expounded upon in court by attorneys trying to wring from the judge or jury the sentiments that might help their cause, inevitably took a back seat to their status as symbols--guilty or innocent--before the cold, indifferent majesty that was the law.

Joe was right, she thought. I'm a people person. But returning to the work she'd done before was unthinkable. Weighing the good she'd done in that capacity against the ever-present possibility of violence left no doubt in her mind. It had taken her long enough to see that the balance wasn't equitable. Why? 

Blindness, came the answer. Blindness to the cavalier way she had accepted Vincent's willingness to help her out of situations that would have left any other investigator foolish enough to dare them, lying dead in the street. She had no wish to travel that road again. She wouldn't pull him into it, nor herself. Strange, how she had begun to value her own life more highly--maybe because she had so much to live for, and she had only to envision a life without Vincent to know what it would do to him if she should die. That was reason enough to avoid putting herself in jeopardy.

All week, the trial had kept her occupied, helping to keep to a minimum the longing to be with him that was an unceasing fact of her existence. Her summation would take place tomorrow. It was vital to this case that she was more than anxious to put behind her. And it needed more rehearsing, but try as she might, she had been unable to ignore the grinding need to see him. Finally, she had made a mental deal with whatever powers decided these things. She would forego the winsome urge to love him physically, to know the deep reward of his ability to express love totally and the sense of his own humanity that she could feel strengthening him with every encounter. No, she would be happy, feel immeasurably blessed if she could just see his face, just hear his voice for one priceless minute. The bargain had been struck several times when, miraculously, there had come a tapping on the French doors.

She opened them flying into his arms, and he crushed her to him. "Catherine, I have felt these days like centuries . . . like eons apart."

"Me too," she gasped, fluttering soft, eager kisses over his cheeks, his eyes, finally grabbing one huge hand and pressing her lips to it fervently, ever mindful of the deal she'd made with fate.

"I can only stay a moment."

"It doesn't matter. It's enough. I'm so glad you came."

"How could I stay away? I felt your longing."

"And it's worth just a moment together?"

"A moment with you, Catherine, is worth a lifetime of pain."

"You haven't been in pain, have you?" she asked quickly, though she was reasonably sure she would have known if he had been.

"Only the pain of being parted from you. Is the trial going well?"

"Pretty well, I think," she said cautiously. "This foundation that Murdock was a part of has far-reaching consequences. It was funded originally from a large estate, and for a while it was strictly on the up-and-up. People were attracted to the work they did. Donations rolled in, and that's when Murdock began to siphon off a sizable amount for himself. It's taken a lot of tripping down the paper trails to separate the legitimate grants from his bogus ones."

"But you have been able to do that?"

"Piece by piece. Believe me, Vincent, it hasn't been easy. How about this? A grant--of several thousand dollars--to a group of graduate students to determine whether most of the chewing gum stuck under restaurant tables is sugarless or not."

"That's extreme, Catherine."

"Not only extreme," she grinned, enjoying his expression, "but that one turned out to be perfectly legitimate. You can see what we're up against. But what about you? Why are you in such a hurry to return below?"

"The couple you spoke with--the Duffys. Kanin brought them below yesterday, and tonight there will be an informal gathering to introduce them to the community."

"Oh . . . I wish I could be there."

"So do I. So does everyone, but I know that you have work to do."

"I do, but what else has gone on? Is Toby's rash better? Have there been any more intruders? Are you still working on changing the routes?"

"Yes, no and yes," he said carefully. "And already there have been comments on the improvement in the library. William told me he was amazed to find so many cookbooks that he never knew we had."

"I hope he wasn't looking for another pumpkin recipe."

"No, mercifully the pumpkin supply has been depleted."

"Do you have any idea how desperately I love you?"

"Desperation is for those without hope, Catherine. My love is yours . . . always."

She savored that one for a moment. "The trial will be, for all intents and purposes, over tomorrow. Do you think there's a chance that I can come below this weekend . . . that we can go back to that secluded cavern?" She knew she was tempting fate and the bargain she'd struck, even as she said it, and the indefinable change in his demeanor told her she would suffer the consequences. "What, Vincent . . . what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he assured him, soothing her with the same hands that could drive her to distraction, "it's only that I noticed something strange today."

She leaned back to look at him expectantly.

"There was a collapse in a seldom used tunnel beneath the Chamber of the Falls. I had gone with a work crew to clear the passage, and on the way back we passed through the chamber where you and I emerged that night."

"And?" she coaxed with the sudden conviction that she was not going to like what she was about to hear.

"And there was no sign of the opening . . . none. It had simply vanished." 

"Did you examine the rock? Did you look for a crack?"

"It might have struck the others as strange, Catherine, if I had suddenly stopped to study an anonymous wall."

"You're not saying that there was some kind of hocus-pocus involved?" 

"Catherine, I must go. If Narcissa's cavern no longer exists for us, we still have this balcony . . . your apartment. No power on earth could keep me from loving you."

"Kiss me good-bye," she pleaded. "Just once."

He did, managing to telescope a great deal of intensity into a quick exchange. "I love you, Catherine."

He was gone, and it was only as she had walked through the doorway, remembering to send a prayer of thanks for the incomparable joy of even so brief an interlude, that his words began to rankle. Gone? The opening in the rock was gone? The thought was incomprehensible, as was the possibility that he was wrong about it. Was she supposed to accept that their night of intimacy had been only an illusion, conjured by a crafty old woman?

Uh--uh. She had slammed the doors with more force than was strictly necessary. Did he believe that? Granted, he was far more predisposed to accept the unexplainable than she was, but she knew it had happened, if she doubted the memories, too potent for dreams or fantasies, there was the very practical fact that muscles, long unused for anything remotely so interesting, had still ached sweetly only two days ago. And she hated the thought that he might disbelieve it.

Finally, she took the resentment that welled at the thought of Narcissa's wily influence and turned it with a vengeance against P. Branham Murdock. No way was he going to wriggle out of this one. People who played with other people's trust deserved to pay the price, and he was going away for a long, long time.

****

On Saturday, she slipped into the tunnels unannounced, breathing a sigh of relief as her foot contacted the solid ground beneath the ladder. Relief from what? She wasn't entirely sure. She only knew that she felt a degree of relaxation here, a sense of belonging quite apart from her abiding love for the one who roamed its labyrinths.

A careful lid had been placed on her emotions. She'd been able to do that before in much more difficult times. Today it was simply that she had a bone to pick with someone, someone to whom she had no obligation of trust, as Vincent clearly did, and she didn't want to involve him. The route skimmed the periphery of the populated tunnels, spiraling quickly downward. She harbored no illusions that it would be easy to find the chamber they had visited just a week ago, taking most of her clues from the umber rocks that predominated in the area near the catacombs. They told her she was in the ball park, but no doubt several ball parks could fit easily into the maze of tunnels where Narcissa made her home, and it wasn't long before she resorted to the chalk she'd brought, trailing a bright pink line along the walls as she passed, following it back again when unfamiliar terrain--or a deadend--told her she'd taken a wrong turn.

When at last a fluttery light, glowing on the rocks ahead, told her that the search was over, she paused, wondering if it had been foolish to do this on her own, but her anger at the woman's duplicity--when Vincent had given her his friendship--spurred her forward, and she moved with decisive steps into the bizarre chamber.

Narcissa's back was to her. She stood humming a tuneless little song, rubbing her hands together, releasing some substance that crumbled, multi-colored, into a carved wooden dish on the floor. Nevertheless, her voice was curiously self-satisfied as she called over her shoulder. "Come in, child. How good it is for you to visit your new friend so soon . . . and where is Vincent?"

"I don't know. I wanted to talk to you myself."

"Talk then," her hostess decreed and turned with a knowing smile. "No one will hear you in this place but the dead . . . and the one who moves among them."

Oh, yes, her colorful attempts at intimidation were very deliberate, but Catherine wasn't impressed. "When Vincent and I were here the other night, you told us to go back another way--through an opening in the rock right over there." She gestured toward the rim of the cave where the jutting pillar had been and tried hard not to register the fact that no such formation stood out now. The wall was pleated with great vertical masses of stone, but none of them protruded far enough to conceal an opening.

"And . . . you went," Narcissa reminded helpfully, as if she might be counseling an amnesia victim. "What you found there--was it pleasing to you--to you and to Vincent?"

"It was . . . very pleasing. I had fully intended to thank you for that."

"Like a dream," Narcissa expanded, "a dream for two lovers who walk the different paths. So often apart. So often alone, longing for each other." Her voice had grown mournful, her face tragic, as she warmed to her story. "What can they do? Only in dreams can they be together . . . until they seek help of the wise woman, one who can grant their wish, make their dream come to life for one night."

"It was the answer to a dream, but it was also very real."

"Real, child?" The word might have been foreign to her.

"Yes, the rocks were real rocks, the water was real--and wet. It was not an illusion, and it certainly wasn't conjured up by any kind of voodoo."

"Are you ill, child? Here . . . sit." Narcissa indicated a brightly woven rug nearby. She looked genuinely concerned.

"I'm quite all right," Catherine persisted. "I just don't like seeing Vincent manipulated into accepting a real event as the product of some magic spell."

"Who has told him this?" The small body swelled with indignation, and Catherine blinked at her, confused.

"Who? . . . well, no one, but he saw for himself that the passage in the rock--the one where we came out that night--wasn't there."

"And he thought this meant that what he had seen was an illusion? Bah! I don't believe you. You should know him better than that--your Vincent. He would never be so foolish. Has he said he believes this nonsense?"

"No, not exactly . . ."

"I will tell you who believes it," the woman said with a sly smile, wagging an accusing finger in Catherine's direction. "It is you . . . you are very much afraid that you believe it."

"I don't believe it," she protested. "Are you saying that the cavern was real?" 

"What else would it be, child? Do you think my magic is so powerful I can call forth rocks and rivers and waterfalls?" Narcissa chuckled. "Your imagination is too strong."

Catherine had given up protesting that she had never believed any such thing. "Then I don't understand. Where is the entrance? Where is the exit?"

"Gone," the woman shrugged indifferently. "Closed."

"How?" But even as she asked the questions she thought of the myriad false wars and secret doors that were a staple of the tunnels. "You mean, the openings have been sealed up again--by some mechanical means?"

"In your world such things may speak of magic, but they are children's toys. They do not concern me. It was good that you and Vincent have time together . . . time to learn, to know what it is that binds you close, to feel its power."

"But if you thought that, why close them up again so we couldn't find our way back?"

For a moment she thought the woman wouldn't answer, though her mind was clearly working behind the eerie eyes. Catherine had the disturbing thought that she was expected to supply the answer herself and wondered if she was falling some crucial test.

"What . . . is your vision?" Narcissa said suddenly. "What do you make of this gift you share? Do you think it is only something to be pursued in the shadows . . . stolen moments hiding your light from those who would thrive in its warmth? Then you know nothing, child--nothing."

"That's not what I want." Catherine said slowly, beginning to suspect that she had underestimated the woman's canniness. "I don't want to hide. I don't want to live for mere moments. I want . . . I want Vincent and I to be together."

"Then . . . you have no need for secret caverns."

"It's not that simple, Narcissa. The choice has to be both of ours, and so far Vincent hasn't said a word."

"What is this word--so powerful it can transform lives forever?"

"Nothing specific, nothing earthshaking . . . maybe 'stay'?" she offered weakly.

"Oh, and you think this is a small word? An innocent word? It is not. It is steel. And you expect one such as Vincent to chain you with it? Then you do not know him."

She turned away abruptly, squatting before the dish she had been preparing when Catherine entered, ignoring her visitor completely. Manners did not seem to hold a particularly exalted position in Narcissa's repertoire, not surprising perhaps in one so solitary, but she tried to remember her own as she accepted the dismissal.

"I appreciate what you did for us--very much, and I'm sorry if I seemed ungrateful, coming here and accusing you," she said as she moved toward the entrance.

Throaty laughter floated after her down the rugged corridor. It was, she thought, unmistakably Narcissa's version of "I told you so."

The journey back was easier. Deep in thought, she took little note of her surroundings, but an unconscious recording of the route or a deeper intuition kept her on the right path, until she rounded a junction near the lower occupied chambers and caught her breath.

He was leaning against the wall, arms folded in quiet contemplation. His smile was gentle, as he turned at her approach.

"You were waiting for me," she said softly.

"I would wait for you forever." He took her outstretched hand and didn't comment on the fact that this was hardly her usual route.

"I went to see Narcissa." She felt his curiosity--and his patience. It struck her that if she chose not to tell him about her visit, he would respect the choice and never question her at all. "Vincent, the place we went that night wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't just the product of some hypnotic trance or trick."

"No."

"It was perfectly real."

"Yes."

He regarded her with the total absorption that had held her in thrall since they'd first met. He had a way of making her feel as if everything she said was worth listening to, even fascinating, but she sensed that he was expecting her to make a point--one she thought she'd already made.

"You never thought it was anything but real did you?" she said at last. 

"What else would it be?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe you'd accepted some other explanation."

With a sheepish laugh she nestled against him. "Forgive me--I think meeting Narcissa spooked me a little bit."

"I'm sure that wasn't her intention." His mouth briefly skimming her hair was a reminder that he was there for her whatever offenses--real or imagined-- might trouble her. "Her methods are strange, Catherine, but she has a good heart."

"And she was right about one thing--I was angry when I went to sue her." 

"But not anymore."

"No . . . disappointed maybe. I would have liked to return to the waterfall cavern again, but if she's gone to the trouble to seal it up, we're obviously no longer welcome there. Have you thought about why she might have done that?"

His arms were around her now. One hand lightly caressed her shoulders. "Perhaps it has special meaning to her--to her rituals. She may be unwilling to share it for more than a night."

"I don't think that's it. She implied that she didn't exactly approve of our stealing moments together . . . that we ought to be . . . looking for some other way."

Was it her imagination that he held her less tightly? Was the cautiousness she felt a manifestation of her new sensitivity to his emotions? "Catherine, each moment we are apart seems forever, but the times we share are eternal as well. No one outside ourselves could know what we feel . . . or judge their value to us."

What he said was true. She had felt it from the beginning, and they had agreed that their time together could not be measured by ordinary means, yet his answer was not as direct as it might have been, and she took a deep breath. "Vincent, remember when we talked about going in circles? How we couldn't make any plans, because we didn't know the limits of our love--and we were afraid to test the limits when our plans were so uncertain? Well the limits have been tested."

"The limits . . . " Blue eyes looked down into hers, as if he were seeing beyond her face into her soul, into the single boundless spirit that they were together. "The limits do not exist."

"No," she whispered with a smile. "They don't . . . so shouldn't we be considering . . . our options."

"The options, as you call them, haven't changed, Catherine. We spoke of this the night you came to tell me of Sam's death. Whatever changes might happen between us, we are still part of different worlds. Our obligations remain the same. Your acceptance is all I ever need--more than I ever dared hope for--but it hasn't altered the way others in your world would regard me."

"I know. Until they open their minds and hearts to what's important I'm afraid the people of my world are destined to remain in big trouble--about a lot of things--but even if they did accept you, Vincent, it would never occur to me to ask you to be with me up there. You have a vital role here . . . the love and the dependence of all these people. I can't imagine the community existing without you, but there are other possible choices."

"Are there?" His voice was very soft, his manner particularly gentle. It reminded her suddenly of the way people behave when they fear someone they love is about to be hurt. "Catherine, our time together is precious to me--you know that--but if you are thinking that somehow you should spend more time with us--"

"Move down here," she supplied, searching his face, eager for this conversation to progress to a place where she could understand his attitude.

His sharply indrawn breath told her that hearing the words had jolted him, though she was sure the concept was already on his mind. "It isn't realistic. The journey above is an arduous one. To do that twice a day with your already tiring schedule, to be mysteriously out of touch with those who would need to reach you, the need to--"

"I've considered all that," she said, and although he seemed to be marshalling the facts against her, she couldn't help feeling gratified at the knowledge that he had explored the possibility himself. "And there's a far more important factor. I realize that many of the people here, especially the children--do go above frequently, but never routinely. Any regular schedule like that would be dangerous to your security. I know that--especially for me.

"I deal with a lot of unsavory characters. Vincent--the kind of people who would use your secret for their own ends if they stumbled on it, and even if I was careful, there's always the chance that someone I work with--after all, they're suspicious by profession--would get curious enough about my unavailability to start investigating. I wouldn't think of putting your world in that kind of peril, Vincent. I wouldn't."

He blinked his surprise that she had argued against her own case and nodded wistfully. "I'm sorry, Catherine. We must be grateful for what we're given."

"But there's another choice."

"Another . . . ?"

She looked at him steadily, watching his face. "I could leave my job, leave everything and come below permanently."

There had been a part of her--however small--that had hoped against hope he would react with instant joy to the suggestion--even if he wouldn't broach the subject himself--that he would be thrilled at the offer. Instead, he dropped his eyes, and she felt the echoes of a real discomfort roiling through his body, though to all appearances he remained relaxed.

"Listen to yourself, Catherine," he said finally, meeting her eyes again. "You speak of leaving . . . everything . . . and you call it a choice. What you wouldn't ask of me, you would ask of yourself. . . simply because it is the only remaining possibility. What you would do that touches me, humbles me more than you can ever know, but where there are no other alternatives, such a sacrifice cannot be called a choice . . . I'm sorry, Catherine."

Her sense of dismay increased with the pain she felt clearly--his pain, though no hint of it was betrayed in his expression, his posture. It made her all the more determined to pursue the subject. A lot more needed to be said, but he had turned from her, facing up the tunnel, and she followed his gaze in time to see Kipper skid around the corner.

"They're here, Vincent. They just sent a message from the park entrance. Father said you were going to meet them."

"I will, Kipper. Thank you."

"Meet who?" Catherine asked.

He turned back to her with a small smile. "Surprise visitors, Catherine--someone I'm sure you'd like to see again. I'll be bringing them to Father's study, if you'd care to meet us there."

"Okay," she smiled, enjoying the pleasure she felt in him, the fun of a surprise. "But this conversation isn't over, Vincent."

"No," he said with an inflection she couldn't quite read. "I didn't suppose it would be."

She watched him stride away from her, cloak swaying gently with the walk no one else could ever duplicate, wondering if he'd thought, as he put it on, about the way it had been employed the other night.

She supposed she should feel discouraged. Here she had been waiting breathlessly for him to address the subject of their future. Not only had he refused to do it, but he had turned aside her own efforts to force the issue. Still for so long their relationship had been rife with pitfalls--with fear and doubt and feelings repressed on both sides. Now there was only a clear and shining reality between them. If there was disagreement, it came only from their passion to do what was best for each other, and that, she was convinced, would ultimately turn out to be one and the same thing--always.

"Miss Chandler!"

She looked up and at first didn't recognize the man coming toward her. He was dressed in typical tunnel gear--a patched jerkin and thick boots, secured with strips of leather. He carried a covered dish, and a baguette, wrapped in toweling, was tucked under his arm. "Bill--it's nice to see you here. You look like you already belong."

"Yeah," he laughed, a little self-consciously. "It seemed kind of weird at first--the clothes they wear down here, but, I'll tell you, they're really comfortable. I'd shake hands, but I don't want to spill this stuff. God, it smells good. That William is one hell of a cook."

"Do you think you're going to like it here?"

"Everybody's been great. Miss Chandler--"

"Please--call me Cathy."

"Okay, Cathy. I'm glad I ran into you. I was wondering how I could get a chance to thank you. Kanin said it was your doing--getting us into this place. It's hard to take it all in--one surprise after another. Do you live down here?"

"No, I'm just a helper, a friend. How's Sandy? Is she happy with the arrangements?"

"It seems like heaven--to both of us. We've got our own room--chamber, they call it. Do you know what it's like to finally have some privacy when you haven't had any for so long? It's one of those things you take for granted until it's gone."

"I can imagine," she murmured.

"The whole things furnished. There's a great old carved bed with a feather mattress. That's where Sandy is now."

"She's not sick, is she?"

"No, she's fine. She's just so thrilled with finally being warm and comfortable. I told her I'd bring her dinner in bed. After the way we've been living that seems downright decadent."

Catherine smiled. "I won't keep you then."

"Oh, she won't mind waiting. She enjoyed herself today--learned how to make candles of all things, and one of the women lent her a book. It's been ages since either one of us has had the luxury of reading."

"That's a favorite pastime here. I understand you had a chance to meet everyone."

"A lot of them, yeah. There was a kind of party in Father's study--now there's a fascinating character. I'll bet he has some stories to tell."

"And he'll tell them," she assured him with a laugh.

"We'd already met some of the other residents. I worked with Kanin that first day, helping to shore up a wall that had been eroded. It felt good to be doing something with a purpose again. I think the real reason they brought us together that night was to meet--" 

He broke off suddenly, as if afraid he'd said too much.

"To meet who?" she prodded gently. "Vincent?"

"You know about him? You've seen him?"

"Yes, I have."

"Well, I'll tell you. I hadn't seen anything like that since I crawled out of the bottle. It scared the crap out of me when he walked in the room, but it was obvious everybody else was glad to see him, and when he opened his mouth and this cultured voice came out . . . I thought I'd seen everything--living on the streets--but nothing prepared me for him. Poor Sandy just stared at him. She said later, she felt really bad about that--that she hoped she hadn't hurt his feelings." 

"Vincent's very understanding about that sort of thing."

Bill nodded as if already he sensed as much. "He came over and shook my hand, like it was the most natural thing to do, and he made me feel like it was, although he's got fur on his hands, Cathy--and claws."

"I've noticed."

"Well, he sat down, and I don't know how it happened, but he hadn't been there ten minutes when both of us were spilling our guts to him about everything we'd been through. He didn't say much, but there was something so easy about it, and afterwards I felt better--like I used to when I was a kid going to confession. And then somebody said something about Steinbeck, who used to be a real favorite of mine in the days when I thought I'd be writing something besides ad copy, and it turns out Vincent's read everything he ever wrote. I remember pausing in the middle of all this and thinking--a couple of days ago I was scrounging for food in a trash can, worried sick about how to protect my wife from the crazies up there, and here I was sipping tea and enjoying a literary discussion with a guy that looks like something out of mythology, and the odd thing was I felt really comfortable."

"Vincent has a way of making people feel at ease. Have you thought about taking up writing again?"

"It's always been my dream, but I believe in paying my debts. This place is a godsend for us--to know my wife is safe and comfortable. I plan to work my butt off, Cathy. Sandy will too--to make sure nobody regrets letting us in here."

"I'm sure you will . . . but the other--you'll find that's highly valued here as well."

"What--writing?"

She nodded. "And dreams."

"Well, I better get going before this cools. Later on I'm hooking up with one of the other guys to try my hand at sentry duty. I'm glad I got to see you, Cathy--to thank you. I know Sandy will want to thank you too. Will we see you again sometime?"

"I hope so, Bill, I definitely hope so."

She smiled to herself as she went on. If they were entrusting Bill with sentry duty, Father must think her instincts had been justified. At least he would have no reason to rebuke her for recommending the Duffys. In fact, it was the first thing he commented on when she entered the study.

"I'm very grateful to you, Catherine. Bringing the Duffys to us, I'm sure, will be a good thing for all concerned."

"It was Kanin, Father, who sensed that. I only tried to make sure they wouldn't pose a danger to you. Vincent said someone is coming down--someone I'd like to see again?"

"But he didn't tell you who it was? Then I won't spoil the surprise. They should be here any minute."

And it was a surprise--one that brought an instant rush of delight and a wide smile as the couple appeared in the entrance. There was a definite look of quiet pride on Vincent's face as he followed them into the study--Laura, flushed with a healthy glow and a new air of self-confidence and Jerry, looking slightly stunned as he tried to take in the scene around him.

Father hurried to embrace the girl with a paternal enthusiasm she had seldom seen him demonstrate toward anyone but Vincent, and then it was her turn, and she was laughing and hugging Laura who laughed as well, her dark eyes bright with happiness.

"I didn't know you'd be here, Cathy," Jerry said. "It's good to see you again." 

"It's great to see you. You're married now, I understand. Congratulations." 

"Laura has written to me--many times." Father explained, as they jostled into seats around the desk. "She wanted very much for her husband to see where she grew up--to meet her family, as it were. It seemed to me it was time."

Laura sat holding unself-consciously to Vincent's hand, radiant at seeing those she loved most in the world together for the first time. She only let go in order to launch into exuberant conversation, her hands flying like eloquent birds in the language that Catherine regretted she'd never had the time to learn. Father, too, strained to follow her signing, and she thought he must feel, as she did, the need to focus on Laura herself though both Jerry and Vincent were adept at translating the words almost as fast as her nimble fingers signed them.

They were living upstate. Jerry had signed on with a police department there, and Laura was working with hearing-impaired children at a local school. Their happiness needed no translation, nor did the gesture she made now with a look of shy excitement. Even Catherine could not mistake its meaning--the age-old pantomime of rocking a baby in her arms.

The little group exploded in another display of affectionate congratulations, and she noted the tenderness with which Vincent embraced the girl again, kissing the dark head reverently, as if she had become the fragile guardian of life's most precious secret. The sight stirred in her an immutable happiness that reached beyond the joy of Laura's pregnancy--to something yet to come. His eyes met hers, understanding only the feeling, not its origins, and she smiled.

"You want to have the baby here?" Father was saying.

Laura's nod was passionate.

"It's very important to her," Jerry explained. "This place means so much to her--and the two of you. As soon as we found out about the baby, she started talking about how much it would mean to have it here, surrounded by love, instead of in an impersonal hospital. Is that a possibility? She told me you're a doctor--a good doctor."

Father was clearly moved. "There were tears in his eyes as he said, "It would be an honor to bring Laura's child into the world--Laura's and yours, Jerry. I see no reason why it couldn't be arranged, providing she receives regular prenatal care, and no complications are indicated."

"The doctor says everything's fine, so far."

Catherine understood then why this visit had been restricted to a select group, and she felt gratified that she had been included, but having shared the good news with those most important to her, Laura was anxious to see other friends, and she asked shyly if she might collect some of her belongings that had been left behind when she went above--children's things that seemed superfluous to her new life as an adult, but which now took on a special meaning.

"Everything is here," Vincent assured her, large hands moving with perfect grace, "just as you left it. I'll be happy to help you find what you need."

Laura nodded happily, and it struck Catherine that the girl had never heard that deeply, melodious voice. The gentle strength of the man she clearly adored had always been expressed to her by hands that most would see only as brutal weapons. What a dichotomy you are, she thought, gazing at him, wondering how love could burn this deep and long without eventually consuming the mere flesh that contained it.

"Catherine," Father was saying. "I'm sorry to disturb your. . . uh . . . concentration, but while Vincent is helping Laura, I'd like to invite some of her particular friends to join us. Would you mind making Jerry feel at home, until we return?"

"No," she said quickly, blushing, "Jerry and I are old friends. I'd like the chance to talk."

"Very well." He rose, putting one arm around Laura who was once again clutching Vincent's hand.

"We won't be long." Blue eyes looked deep into hers as he said it, and she heard the other words--the words of love--as clearly as if they'd been spoken as well.

"This is some place," Jerry shook his head when they were alone. "Laura's been preparing me for it for a while now--and for Vincent--but seeing it is something else again." Catherine smiled. It was the second time tonight she'd watched someone try to express the amazement she herself had once felt such a long time ago. "Tell me starlight, Cathy--do you think it's a good idea--having the baby down here? I know how much it means to Laura, but it seems a little. . ."

"Primitive?" she supplied.

"Well, yeah. I know everybody's hearts in the right place, but what if something should go wrong? I can't believe the facilities are exactly state-of-the-art."

"If Father thinks there's any need for concern, Jerry, he won't hesitate to insist that you go somewhere else. He's an excellent doctor, and a very conscientious man. If it makes you feel any better, one of his closest friends is a prominent obstetrician--above. He comes here often, and I know he can be relied on to help if something out of the ordinary should occur."

"Out of the ordinary," Jerry repeated, scanning the candle-lit room. "I knew Laura was special from the moment I met her, but I never really understood what made her that way."

"Vincent would tell you it was Laura herself--not the place where she grew up."

He shook his head. "I hate to think what might have happened to her, if she hadn't been brought here. He's really something, isn't he?"

She didn't have to ask who he meant. "Yes, he is."

"Laura said that you and he . . . I'm sorry--that's none of my business." 

"Would it shock you?" she asked, suddenly curious as to how a sympathetic outsider might view the situation.

"Not after meeting him. Not after everything Laura's told me about him. I could feel it when we were all sitting here--like there was some kind of connection between the two of you, even when you weren't looking at each other."

"Really?" That was quite a statement coming from a pragmatic police-type like Jerry. No wonder Father was giving them a hard time. She remembered that she was supposed to be entertaining Jerry, that she was the designated hostess here, a fact that didn't fail to score a point of gratification in her heart, and she began to ask him about his work and fill him in on mutual acquaintances in the department.

The "particular" friends Father had mentioned seemed to number in the dozens. They entered in a steady stream, all fussing over Laura who had returned with a heavily laden Vincent. Catherine was afraid that Jerry might feel left out--like a man attending his wife's high school reunion, largely redundant except as an object of curiosity--but he was greeted with considerable warmth and the avid interest of expatriates meeting someone from their native land. The chamber was soon filled with conversation and laughter, which was the only cue needed for William to appear with refreshments. What had begun as an intimate homecoming was now unmistakably a party.

"It's quite a celebration." He had slipped up quietly behind her and now captured her fingers surreptitiously. She tried to appear casual, nevertheless leaning subtly into him, smiling into the room.

"I love it here," she said, unable to resist letting him know that she hadn't forgotten the question at hand.

"It can be wonderful," he agreed mildly. "There will always be a warm welcome for those who are part of us--even if their paths lead somewhere else."

"Paths go both directions, Vincent. I spoke with Bill Duffy tonight. He and Sandy are clearly thrilled to be here. They've found a home."

"Their lives had been taken from them above. They were unable to take a meaningful part in the world around them."

"So basically, they had no choice. Is that the only valid reason for becoming part of the community? I thought you were so fond of choices."

"Only true ones, Catherine."

She was more than willing to tackle the nature of truth, but Jerry was headed toward them, and she squeezed Vincent's hand instead.

"This has been a terrific evening, but Laura looks a little tired. I think I should get her home."

"Not all the way to Kingston?"

"No, we're staying with my brother in Brooklyn."

"You're welcome to spend the night here," Vincent offered, and she smiled inwardly at the irony that made the invitation simple good manners, while the prospect of spending the night here herself would require advanced diplomacy worthy of the U.N. 

"Thanks, Vincent, but my brother's expecting us. I guess Laura knows the way out."

"Catherine and I will walk you back."

It took longer than expected for the visitors to extricate themselves from a crowd that undoubtedly considered themselves family. Laura had been part of them for so long and gone so quickly. It would be many months before she returned to have her baby, and everyone seemed to have some last minute piece of advice. Jerry had been pulled aside by Father who was seldom at a loss for words, and it was left for Vincent to act as interpreter.

Catherine was content to watch from the sidelines, telling herself for the thousandth time that the breathtaking figure dominating the room was real. Not only real, but by some inscrutable master plan in the cosmos--hers. She supposed it was a childish game, but so viscerally pleasing that she couldn't resist playing it. The pleasure sprang not from any doubt, but from the sheer thrill she felt every time she considered the truth of it.

They had taken their spiritual journey, with courage and with care, to its shining goal. Nothing could change that now. No power on earth could separate what pure truth had melded into one. Vincent had been right, as usual. It was the rest of their lives that hadn't changed, that hadn't magically rearranged to allow for their sharing the basic privilege of everyday life together. After the perils of their emotional journey, a little thing like rearranging the rest of the world didn't faze her, but now the rest of the world had Vincent as an ally, and that was daunting.

Her efforts to shake him had been spectacularly unsuccessful. She thought she'd never known anyone so intractably stubborn when he was sure he was right--anyone, that is, except herself, and she was not giving up. The very factor that told her his resistance would be formidable gave her hope.

He had to resist, had to curtail her slightest effort to approach the subject of moving below for the simple reason that he wanted it as desperately as she did. Wanted it, but would refuse with his last breath to accept it, if it meant she was compromising her own life. Narcissa had been right--he would never speak a word that might chain her to him--a magic word, a simple word like "stay," but she felt its presence in him with all the certainty of a bond whose first unsteady powers she was just now testing for herself. His inner strength, so long dedicated to the horrendous task of maintaining the balance in his divided nature, had been freed to bear down inexorably on that potentially dangerous word. No, it wouldn't be easy to make him say it.

But she remembered, too, the night they had carved the pumpkins, when he had said he would never presume to interfere with any choice she made about her life. Gotcha, Vincent, she thought with a jaunty little burst of optimism. The challenge was to convince him that it was a rational, carefully thought out choice to share his life and not just the pervasive hunger to share his bed.

Realizing that he was watching her with a perplexed expression from across the room, she flashed him an enigmatic smile. It was going to be an interesting battle of wills, but she had no doubt who the winner would be--their own mysterious destiny, the bond, the power of the love they shared. It had determined every glorious moment of their triumph so far, and it would, in the end, determine the rest.

Jerry and Laura had at last completed their good-byes. They gathered up a basket of dolls and knickknacks from Laura's childhood as she hurried to join them, falling into step beside Vincent, and the four of them set out toward the Central Park threshold.

The conversation never stopped, Laura insisted on walking backwards much of the way, her hands flashing various anecdotes about the children at school, the apartment that she and Jerry were still decorating, plans for the baby. It was up to her husband to make sure she didn't stumble and to Vincent to keep up with the stream of things she was anxious to tell them before they had to part again.

They had reached the upper tunnels when Vincent halted abruptly, listening, and she realized that some tappings, among the almost constant flow of metallic chatter, had jumped out, forming themselves into a coherent pattern, one that obviously did not bode well.

"Forgive me," he said quickly, and whipped around, running back the way they had come before any of them could say a word.

"What--what's happening?" Jerry asked.

Laura had signed the word for trouble, while Catherine still struggled for her voice. She felt choked with fear, her heart racing, as his must be, as he sped toward--what?

"What can we do? Should we try to help?" Jerry was a man of action, but he was out of his depth here, unsure of the basic ground rules.

"It's all right," Catherine assured him with more confidence than she felt. "Chances are it's nothing. There have been a lot of false alarms lately with transients moving close to the hidden entrances. They have to be very careful, and Vincent feels responsible for a lot of that. He'll be fine."

Laura had apparently caught the gist of what she was saying. She nodded emphatically at Jerry. No doubt the beloved hero of her childhood must seem virtually indestructible to her.

"Maybe we should wait here with you, until he gets back," Jerry said.

"No, really. You go ahead. Laura needs plenty of rest right now."

She hugged them both good-bye, watching them disappear around the corner ahead before she sank back against the wall and tried to decipher the messages whirling enigmatically on some instinctive level of her awareness. They must be pale echoes of his own, but how to interpret them--the rush, the turbulent tangle that made her gasp, the cold, sinking sensation? But no pain. She was sure, no pain, and she could sense his presence deep within her. Whatever had happened, he was unhurt. She took a deep breath, wondering if, in fact, anything had happened at all. What she was feeling could be merely her own anxiety for his safety.

It occurred to her that she had no idea where he'd gone. It was useless to search for him, but she wasn't leaving here without knowing what had taken place, and feeling calmer, she turned to head back toward the central tunnels.

Halfway there, a figure staggered toward her out of a dimly lighted side tunnel, and for the second time tonight she recognized Bill Duffy.

She ran toward him, fear clutching at her again as she saw the gash on his forehead. His face was ashen. "Bill, what happened? Where's Vincent?"

The man gasped and leaned back against the rough wall. "Vincent . . . Vincent's okay."

Relief pried the fingers of fear from her nerves, and she drew a Kleenex from her pocket, pressing it against the wound. "But you're not. You need to have Father take a look at this."

"I will . . . just give me a minute . . . to catch my breath."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Man, oh, man . . . what didn't? I was going to join up with this guy named Richard--to stand sentry duty down under mid-town. He wasn't there yet, and I heard noises on the other side of the door. I wasn't sure what it was, so I just laid back in the shadows, hoping somebody wasn't going to come through it with anything bigger than this stick. But I remembered the drill and tapped out a message like Pascal showed me. Then I started feeling kind of stupid--the boy that cried wolf, you know--and thinking I'd probably sent out the alarm for nothing.

"About that time the door actually opens and in come two girls. I don' know their names, but I remember them. I know they live here. Now I'm really embarrassed. I'm hoping that Sandy and I don't get thrown out on our ear for raising a ruckus over somebody who belongs here coming and going. And then I heard the scream. The two girls holler 'Brooke' and start to go back through the door, but I jump out and tell them to get the hell away--back here. Then I run through the entrance and there's this big biker-type with a third girl. He's got her up against the wall, and he's ripping at her clothes."

"Oh, God--is she all right?"

"I think so," he gulped. "I run at the guy. I mean, I don't know what else to do, and I let him have it with this cudgel thing right across the Mohawk, but he's a big guy--with a skull made out of rock. He just brushed me off, and I hit my head. It was like a nightmare. I could see him turning back to the girl who's crying and struggling and she's not much more than a kid really--terrified. He's got a thing like a straight razor in his hand, and I can't move."

"It must have been awful for you," she said, feeling suddenly that she could finish the narrative herself.

"Worse for her. I kept trying to get up, but it was like I wasn't really there. Just enough of me to see what was going on, and then all of a sudden there's this sound--like the lion house at the zoo when it's feeding time--and this huge shape flies out of the darkness, knocks the guy over like a freight train. And I see . . . I see that it's Vincent--only he's mad--man, is he mad--and he picks him up and hurls him twenty feet like he was a whiffle ball. After that, the scum didn't move a muscle."

"What happened then," she asked softly, swallowing back the emotions that clamored for attention.

"Well, the kid--Brooke--was crying, saying how sorry she was and Vincent was holding her. When he saw she wasn't hurt he handed her over to the other two girls and told them to take her to Father and tell him what happened. Oh, Jesus . . . it was horrible."

"I know. I'm sorry you had to see that. It must have been a shock." She wondered vaguely if the Duffys would want to stay now, if what Bill had seen would change irrevocably his impression of this world--and of Vincent.

"I don't mean what Vincent did to the guy. He had it coming--and a lot worse in my opinion. It was what happened afterward, watching the look on Vincent's face when they'd gone. He's a real tender-hearted type, you know--you can just tell, and he looked sick about what he'd had to do. I really felt for the guy."

Bill Duffy had just risen several points in Catherine's estimation, even as she tried to fight down the relentless sadness on Vincent's behalf. "Where is he now--do you know?"

"Vincent? No, I don't know. He didn't even see me there at first, and when he did, he just said how I'd done a good job--getting help in time, and he told me to get to Father, too."

"Then that's what we'll do," she said with a forced smile. "Are you okay, now? Can you walk?"

He could, although he was clearly grateful for a shoulder to lean on. She gritted her teeth, wishing their pace wasn't so necessarily slow, anxious to find Vincent.

Brooke was still in the hospital chamber, saying over and over again how sorry she was, while Mary sat patting her back and Father regarded her with grim disapproval.

"We went to the movies," the girl said tearfully, when Catherine asked how she was. "It seemed like fun--and harmless. There were three of us together. Only when the others went through the door, that awful man grabbed me."

"And you told no one where you were going." Father's voice was accusatory. "All three of you might have been murdered up there, and none of us--none of the people who care about you--would ever have known what became of you. Does that seem harmless to you?"

"The child's sorry, Father." Mary insisted. "She knows now how serious the consequences can be. You needn't make her feel any worse."

Catherine thought they had the good-cop/bad-cop routine down to a science, but Father turned his attention to Bill, and after a few minutes announced that stitches wouldn't be necessary, though he suspected a slight concussion and didn't want the man out of bed for a good twenty-four hours.

"Do I have to stay here, Father? Can't I go back to my own chamber? I don't want Sandy to worry."

"That will do, as long as you promise to have her keep an eye on you. I hope, Bill, that you don't assume this sort of thing is our regular initiation rite into the community. I assure you such occurrences are blessedly rare."

"I'm just sorry I couldn't be more effective. Are you sure the sentries shouldn't be armed with something a little more lethal--like guns?"

"Quite sure," Father said. The emphasis with which he snapped his medical bag shut seemed to say that the subject was closed as well. "Catherine, may I see you a moment?"

She had felt duty bound to see this through--make sure both Brooke and Bill were all right before pursuing her real goal. Now she joined him in the doorway, already anticipating the question behind his worried frown.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No . . . but I'm sure I can find him, and I'm not leaving here until I do."

"Good . . . good. You realize he's not always amenable to talking after. . . after something like this."

"I know, but things have changed, Father, I hope that's one of them."

"I hope so, too. Dear Catherine," he added suddenly and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "Good luck."

"Thank you, Father," she said, and knew she was thanking him for more than the encouraging comment.

Out in the passageway, empty now of all signs of life, she willed her mind to clear, focusing on the part of her that she shared with him, however much he might try to thwart it under the circumstances. After a moment, she began to move forward, slowly, lest she misinterpret the small nudging that was scarcely more a whisper in her soul.

When at last she came to the Whispering Gallery and saw him standing in the middle of the crude bridge, staring into the abyss below, she couldn't help feeling a bit surprised. There was about him so clearly an aura of isolation that she wondered how the nascent feelings could have led her so unerringly to where he was. It had always been there at times like this, she thought--an almost tangible shield between him and the people he cared for. Now she could almost see it.

He hadn't stirred, didn't register her presence in any way as she moved cautiously out onto the span that, in truth, always made her a little nervous. In the past his arms around her had provided the only stability she needed, but tonight she would have to do it on her own, and she did without a moment's hesitation, stopping a few feet from where he stood, turning to look out on the fearful chasm below.

"I thought you had left with Laura and Jerry," he said after a moment.

No, you didn't, Vincent, she corrected inwardly--that's what you wish I'd done. "No, you didn't," she said aloud.

The hint of a smile paid more tribute to her shrewdness than to humor. "No. . . I didn't." He continued to look down into the misty gulf rather than at her, but each second in which he didn't actually ask her to leave counted as a triumph and a gift. "It happened again tonight."

"Yes, I know."

His silence seemed a palpable force, ringing off the far walls of the vaulted cavern, smothering even the transient voices from above that usually floated wraith-like through the yawning space. There was only the creaking of the planks beneath their feet, the groan of old timbers, and at last she said. "The man had to be stopped, Vincent."

"I know that."

If she didn't speak at all, he might tolerate her presence. He might accept the illusion of isolation provided by her stillness and forget to demand physical exile as well, but it would solve nothing, clarify nothing. "Poor Bill," she said.

"Is he all right?"

"Yes . . . He feels bad that he failed to help Brooke."

"He mustn't blame himself."

"No--no more than you should blame yourself for succeeding."

"How is Brooke?"

"She'll be okay. She wasn't hurt, only ashamed that their little escapade brought this on."

"People should be able to go where they please without fearing for their lives."

How quick you are, she thought, to let everyone else off the hook. "If I had been there--if I'd had a gun, I wouldn't have hesitated to shoot."

"To kill, Catherine? That's not even the policy of the police, much less yours."

"No," she said, thinking whatever else she did, she must not stray from the truth. "But that's not always something you can control in the heat of the moment."

"What else did Bill say?"

She knew he was wondering--as she had--if the man had been permanently alienated by what he'd seen. For a moment she considered telling him how sympathetic Bill had actually been, but she knew he would flinch at any hint of pity. "He said the attacker had it coming to him--and a lot worse." She closed her eyes for a moment. It must be some kind of record. He still hadn't sent her away. Whatever happened now, it could count as progress.

He straightened up suddenly, and she could have sworn that the rickety span teetered with the motion. He looked suddenly gigantic to her, as if the long breath he drew were causing him to expand before her eyes. Resolve was evident in the line of his massive shoulders, in the determined gaze that refused to meet her own. "Catherine, would you . . . do something for me?"

Here it came, and she comforted herself with the thought that it had taken him a long time to say it, that it was obviously excruciatingly difficult to do so now. "What?" she asked.

"Would you be willing . . . " His voice was fast descending to a whisper. She had to strain to hear it. "Would you . . . put your arms around me?"

Her breath rushed out, replaced by a swell of tears that almost choked her. "Oh, yes," she whispered, closing the distance between them, heedless of the complaining boards beneath her feet. "Yes . . . always, yes," she breathed against his chest, holding him as if she would never let go, as if her slender body could support the massive weight of him--and of the burden he bore--by virtue of love alone.

His arms came around her, the golden head sank to her shoulder, and they stood for a long, long time swaying on the fragile span that dared to defy the emptiness.