WFOL 2016
BBTV Round Robin

(Chapter Index)

Chapter 8

by Cindy Rae

 

Leaning her arms against the tiles, the hot water pour down her back, Catherine wept a little, letting the steaming flow of the shower mix with her tears and take them down the drain.

Face it.  You are alone.  You are not one of them.  You are never going to be one of them.  You can visit.  You can stock the pantry.  You can pass off new things as old cast-offs, and you can even help fix things so Jane can be the custodial caregiver of Tessie, Jimmy and Hannah, but you can never be one of them.  Because you aren't.

And as the warm water flowed, and the tears flowed with it, Catherine wanted to call back her sorrow, knowing Vincent would feel it, and feel somehow that he must address it.  That they must do what they'd done before, when she was miserable past despairing, and despairing past hope.  They'd argue some, or, maybe even worse, they wouldn't.

She'd go off somewhere and recharge her batteries for a few days, until she decided she was game enough to keep going.

After all, there was always something that needed doing, and her to do it.  Like now.

She reached for her towel and mechanically set about drying off as her mind began to sort through how she could best help the four new "tunnel" children.  Jimmy was legally Sam's grandson.  Perhaps he could be called on to help.  Though he didn't have much financially, he was a blood relative.  She had no idea what Jane's aspirations were, but she was a legal adult, with Tessie old enough to apply for emancipated minor status if she wanted to, and could be helped to it.

Cathy tiredly tugged on a pair of brown slacks and a warm sweater, sorting through a mental list of phone calls she had to make.  She had no idea if any of the kids had been in school prior to their getting tangled up with Mitch.  She had no idea if Father was entertaining the idea of simply taking all of them in, though that was at least one distinct possibility.  She had no way of knowing if Jane was amenable to that idea - Jane, who had been closest to Mitch, and who was mistrustful of the tunnel dwellers.

Oh, and of course, since she wasn't part of the Council, she had little way to find out anyone's intentions until someone deigned to tell her. 

Catherine struggled to let go of her bitterness so she could keep a clear head.  The kids needed her, even if nobody else did.

The mental list became an actual one as Catherine began to jot down a “to do” list on a yellow legal pad.

She sat on the sofa, rubbing the space between her brows, aware of how very tired she was, even as she was unaware of how very much she was behaving like the abuse victim Isaac had described to Vincent.  Give.  Give some more.  Give until you're run down from it, until it hurts.  Hope that, at some point, it will be enough, enough to turn things around between you.

And perhaps the most damning sentence of all:  Shouldn't I be trying to sort my life out more than Jane's?

How long had it been since Catherine had felt her life needed "sorting out”?  Since her visit to Nancy Tucker's?  Since her father's passing, maybe?

It was a testament to her fatigue that his rap on her windowpane was actually an unwelcome thing.

The gauzy curtains revealed the outline of his familiar, broad-shouldered shape.  Not now.  I just can't, right now, she thought, heading over to where his caped and hooded figure stood back from the doors.

She was shaking her head even as she flipped the lock.

"I really don't want to--"

"It really don't matter what you want."

The door flew out of her hands and the hood and cape fell away, revealed as an old hooded trench coat and a blanket, the latter of which dropped to the floor as a stubble-bearded Mitch Denton entered her apartment.  He had Catherine in a chokehold before she could even process that it was him.  He'd counted on the element of surprise, and used it to his full advantage.

"They're still missing a knife," Mitch said, pressing the tip of a very long one to her neck.  "And if you make one move I don't like, I will shove this one in your throat."

 Her hands were on his forearm.  It was steel, and wouldn’t budge.  "How did you even--"

"If he can, I can.  You think he's the only one who knows how to ride up the outside of an elevator?"  Mitch asked with a sneer.  He stunk of body odor, and something beneath that which was even more vile.  Catherine realized it was his natural smell, one he used to cover with expensive cologne when he was shaking down the docks.

"Move," he ordered, shoving her toward the door.  "I don't feel like being here when he comes in, like I got a feeling he's gonna."

Of course.  Mitch might not know about the bond, but he knew about Vincent's connection to Catherine, and about Vincent's strong sense of empathy.

Catherine tugged on boots, trying to stall.

"What is it you want, Mitch?  Because whatever it is, I don't have it."

He tucked away the knife, but showed her a gun, just to make sure she knew he had it.  Then put it back in his pocket and kept it pointed at her.

"This stays trained on you.  I don't like anything, I shoot the nearest bystander.  Then you," he said, not answering her question.

"I have a car in the garage," she said, hoping to lure him there.

"Sure.  ‘Cause I want to be in a parking garage.  Out!"

He shoved her through the door and out into the hall.  They were down the elevator and through the lobby doors before Vincent could reach her building.  With the casual air of a pair of New Yorkers out for an evening stroll, he kept the gun pressed to her side as he walked her literally out onto Park Avenue.

The lights, the traffic, the street itself - it was a blaze of humanity, cars and night-time pedestrians.  Mitch kept his hand on her elbow and forced her across the street.

"The woman holding her kid by the hand is the one I'll shoot." He nodded toward a brunette in her thirties who was holding tightly to her young son's hand as they waited to cross.  Catherine nodded that she understood.

They walked a few blocks down, Mitch keeping an eye out for Vincent, or any other tunnel dweller he knew.  When they reached a storm drain, he sent down a bottle with a note inside.

"What was that?"  Catherine couldn’t resist asking.

"My ransom demand." Mitch chuckled to himself.  The sound had an ugly tone.

Tall and broad as ever, his hair sported a red rinse but was still combed in the slicked-back style he favored. Mitch kept them both in very public areas, and well-lit ones.

"Mind what I tell you and nobody has to die.  Well, nobody but Vincent.  And even that can wait for another day."

Catherine knew when she was being played. "Considering the last time I met you I ended up shot in the back, there's really only so much faith I'm going to put in that."

Mitch cracked a smile.  "Yeah.  About that.  Hurt much?"

Catherine shrugged, trying not to rise to his bait but answer him just the same. "My shoulder blade aches when it rains.  And they are not going to pay anything to get me."

He was heading them toward a diner that was crowded with customers and ablaze with lights.

"We're going in."  His words were terse, and he kept his hood up.   "You order coffee.  You don't need a menu or to jaw with the waitress.  Piss me off and the cashier gets it right between the eyes... honey." He purred the last word, holding the door open for her so she could precede him, and the woman near the door could hear the endearment.

"Counter or booth?" the waitress asked, brandishing menus.

"Seat near the back, and we're just having coffee," Mitch said. 

Catherine felt the gun at her back, as he stayed close. In despair, she looked around the very crowded room.  Orange leatherette seats were full of potential targets for Mitch.  Children, couples, a few solo diners - one in a hospital uniform, one in a jogging suit.  All were oblivious to the mayhem that had just entered their space.

Sitting in the back booth, Mitch sat beside her and shoved her close to the wall, keeping the concealed gun in the pocket of the trench coat and keeping it pressed against her.  The waitress brought them two cups of coffee and left, sensing by Mitch's demeanor that her presence was unwelcome.  There was clearly no tip to be made either.

"What is it you think is going to happen?"  Catherine asked him.  "You know they haven't got any money to pay for me."

"I think I'm going to get my kids back.  Some of them, at least,” Mitch said.

Catherine fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Of all the things you really don't want, I would think--"

He turned toward her and leaned in so hard the butt of the gun dug in.  His face was a fraction of an inch from hers.  To a casual observer, it would look like he was moving in for a kiss.

"Nobody pays you to think.  Honey."  He purposely blew out on the "h," blowing his fetid breath into her face.

The napkin canister was made of metal.  She could swing it at his head and pray for the best, but he was pushing her so one arm was pinned against the wall, and the other was pinned a good bit by him, and the narrowness of the bench.

"I just saw a foolish thought cross your mind.  Hate the old man with the baseball cap, do you?"

"He'll hunt you down."

They both knew who "he" was.

"After he gets on an airplane?  See, I'm kinda thinkin' 'No.'  I'm kinda thinkin' I get what I want, and I'm either driving a Mercedes in broad daylight to any city but this one, or I'm on a plane to where they don't have extradition."

Mitch checked his watch.  "Should be any time now."  He leaned back, casually shoving the cup away.

"I thought you wanted coffee," she prompted.

"If I drink it, the waitress comes back for a refill.  How are my kids?"

He stretched his legs out, appearing casual.

"They're being cared for.  But you know that.  Which ones do you want?" she asked, afraid she already knew.

"Janey and Hannah.  The boy don't know nothin', and Tessie's only good for braidin' hair."

"That 'boy' is your son, Mitch."

Mitch shrugged.  "Yeah, maybe.  Maybe not.  Molly had a thing about opening her legs." 

He squeezed Catherine's knee under the table for emphasis.  It made her skin crawl.

"Why Hannah?"  She forced the question out through gritted teeth.

"Because no place the other kids told me about panned out.  That leaves the whiny brat.  Process of elimination."  He let go of her knee.

"Why Jane?"

"Because she's smart like me, and tough like me.  And you ask way too many questions for a woman with one foot in the grave."

Catherine's smile was forced, and faked.  "And here you said we were all going to make it out alive."  She turned a little, as much as the crowded space would let her.

"Mitch, you made a mistake.  They are not going to trade even one of those kids for me."

Mitch scoffed openly.  "Oh, I think they will.  I think come morning, when a certain nobody can't do squat, they will either bring me my kids where I say, or find your body there.  Someplace nice and public.  Away from the park."

Catherine shoved her own cup away.

"It has nothing to do with where we are, Mitch.  It has to do with who I am.  They are never going to give those kids to you.  Because they know I wouldn't want them to.  And because ... I am not one of them."

It was on the tip of his tongue to refute her.  Or possibly just stomp the hell out of her foot.  But the trouble with being a con was that you knew when you were being conned.  And she wasn't conning him.

She was telling the truth.  Or at least, she thought she was.

"No?"  He raised the arm without the gun in it and settled it along the back of the booth, bending his elbow and bringing his hand up so his fingers could toy with her bangs.  "Don't think so?"  He was shrewdly trying to maintain the casual air.  "Then why, do you think, did Vincent kill all my guys after I shot you?"  He knew he hadn't miscalculated.  He knew she and Vincent were a couple.

"We're all but done."

Again, it jarred him that she was telling the truth. 

It jarred Catherine, as well.  "Hell, he'll probably thank you for ending it quickly."

It was an overplayed statement, and she didn't mean it.  Or at least, part of her didn't.  She was conflicted, and he could use that.

"Trouble with lover boy?  Oh, yeah, I forget, we're talking about Vincent."

She sensed Vincent, sensed his frustration.  She couldn't feel if he was near.  But she could feel that he was... terrified.  Terrified and trying not to be.

"We can't sit here all night," she reasoned.

"Open 24 hours, and the manager is an old cell mate of mine.  So we can, actually."  He moved the salt and pepper shakers around.

"Are you going to cut him in on a share of the diamonds?"  Catherine asked, wanting him to know she knew.

Mitch winced at that, and clearly didn't like it.  "I might throw him one of the smaller ones."  He checked his watch again.  "They have fifteen more minutes to send one of the women with the answer I want.  Then I set up the time and place where we swap, and we're done after that."

Catherine didn't think she wanted to know what he meant by "done."

"Jane idolizes you.  Why?"

"Shut up.  I'm tired of talking."  He set the heel of his foot on top of her toes, for emphasis.

Customers came and went, Catherine praying no one she knew would come in.  Stay away.  Stay away, she sent to Vincent, hoping he understood her message, even if they didn't communicate in words.  Was “stay away” a feeling?  She prayed it was.  She scanned the faces of each incoming person, dreading the moment she might see Olivia, or Rebecca, or Mary.

"Whoo!  It is a chilly night out there!"

The big black man in the stocking cap entered the restaurant, and garnered barely a notice from anyone but the waitress.  Catherine willed herself not to start.

Oh, Lord.  Isaac.  Did Mitch know who Isaac was?

Catherine's brain scrambled.  Isaac hadn't come into the community until well after Mitch had shot her.  Though the children like Tessie might recognize him, since she ventured up to steal, Catherine was willing to bet that Mitch had no idea just who Isaac was, or what he was capable of.  Apparently, Isaac was willing to bet on that, too.

Isaac staggered down the aisle, acting a little drunk.

"I mean, a little of the hair of the dog to keep you warm, know what I mean?"  He patted a small flask in his breast pocket.

Jeans, an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a black t-shirt, no place to hide a gun unless it was tucked in the back of his waistband, a risky move considering how loose the shirt was.  He looked common.  Harmless.  Like a lush, or some guy who’d had a few too many looking for a place to get warm or sober up.

Mitch dismissed him with a glance. 

Cathy tried to keep Mitch's focus on her. "Janey fought to keep them together before she found you.  She isn't going to let you split them up.  What will you tell her if she insists on bringing the other kids along?"

Isaac had hold of the menu, moving closer to a booth near them.

"You might wanna get another seat," Mitch warned when Isaac got too near.

Isaac turned an unfocussed-looking eye on his prey.  Mitch's left arm was still up around her shoulders, and weaponless.  That meant the knife or, more likely, a small caliber gun was under the table, pointed at Cathy's side.

"Yeah... ri-ight"... ‘cause... ‘cause you got this, this lady here."  Isaac gestured, showing his empty hands, to further the illusion that he was harmless.  "And ladies is for private."  He took a step closer, slurring his words a little as he pretended to admire Catherine.  He watched her hand slide infinitesimally closer to the napkin holder.  Good girl.

"Yeah, ladies is for private.  Back off,"  Mitch said.

The tone held a clear warning, and Isaac knew to stop his advance.

"Hey, 'sall right, my man, 'sall right."  He tilted his head to the side.  "Hey, don't I know you from Riker's, brother?"

Mitch was wanted, hence the dye job and growth of beard to disguise his jawline.  The statement had the desired effect.  Mitch's arm shifted a little under the table.  Isaac now knew the gun was likely pointed at him.

"I ain't your brother,” Mitch said, emphasizing the last word sarcastically.  “And you go sit down before I put a hole in you."

Cathy's voice, near Mitch's ear.  "Please, just do what he says!"

And though the words were right, the proximity to his eardrum and the adrenaline pumping through a nervous Mitch caused him to twitch his eyes back toward her, just for a second.

It was all the time Isaac needed.

***

 

 

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