I AM THE ANSWER
Part 3Joan Stephens
Catherine was meeting her father for dinner, and then they were going to see Cats. It had been several weeks since she had spent any time with him, and she eagerly anticipated her ‘date’ with him. When she saw the pile of case files on her desk this morning, she thought that she would never get through them, but here it was six p.m. and she was dotting her last i and crossing her last t.
"Hey, Radcliffe, don't tell me you’re finished with the work I gave you." Joe was leaning casually against the edge of her desk. "Can’t have that. I’ll just have to find some more for you to do."
"Oh no, you don’t." She glowered at him. "I have a date tonight, and I’m not going to be late this time."
"Another one of your party friends?" He loved to tease her about her dates, considering all of them to be what he called artsy uptown types.
"No, not this time. I’m having dinner with my dad, if you must know, then we’re going to see ‘Cats.’" She loved the abashed look that crossed his face.
Trying to save face, he gulped and scolded her; "Oh . . . well, it’s about time you spent an evening with someone who is worthy of you."
"I’m glad you approve," she quipped as she shrugged into her coat; the October nights were quite cool this year. She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek, and with an arch wave said, "See you tomorrow."
"Have a good time," he called after her, gently fingering the spot her lips had touched. He wished he had the courage to ask her out on a date, but she was way out of his league.
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After a quiet dinner at his club, and a rousing performance of the popular musical, father and daughter stopped off for a nightcap and conversation before parting to return to their respective homes.
"This was great, Dad. We should do this more often," she said, smiling her mother’s smile that still had the power to twist his heart. They were interrupted by the waitress bringing their drinks.
"I’m not the one who can’t keep appointments," he protested mildly, picking up the conversation again. Reaching across the table, he patted her hand which lay relaxed on the table. Charles Chandler was a tall, slim man with almost white hair, grey eyes, and a smile that lit his face when he looked at the lovely young woman sitting across from him.
"I know, Dad, but I’ve been swamped lately with all the cases assigned to me and trying to find the guy that killed Diana Bennett and Judge Sotherby."
"You could always come back to the firm," he offered, knowing that she would refuse.
She didn’t disappoint him. "No, Dad, I like it just where I am. I may gripe about the long hours and how hard it is to deal with the scum that walk the streets of the city, but I wouldn’t change it."
"I didn’t think you would, but I can dream."
Catherine laughed lightly and patted his hand. He would never change, and she hoped he never would.
Reluctant to break the happy mood, they lingered over their drinks until Charles checked his watch. With a frown he said, "Sorry, honey, I hate to break this up, but I’ve got an eight o’clock appointment tomorrow morning."
"Is it that late?" she questioned.
Grimacing unhappily, he nodded then drew her to her feet, tucking her arm under his. The lovely, crisp October night had become cold and misty with a light rain. Catherine convinced her father to take the cab that was idling by the curb, assuring him, "You go on. I’ll get the next one. I left my purse on the table." As he started to protest she said, "I’ll be perfectly all right." With a quick buzz to the cheek, she steered him into the back seat then returned to the cocktail lounge. The young waitress was just coming through the door with Cathy’s purse and handed it to her with a smile. "Thank you so much," Cathy murmured.
After tipping the young woman for her honesty, Cathy stood at the curb waiting for another cab.
Just as she was about to step into the one that she had flagged down, a rude and overbearing tuxedo-clad gentleman dashed from the club and into the waiting taxi. At her indignant, "Well!" he winked at her, saying, "That’s what woman’s lib did for you, lady," and slammed the door, leaving a seething, infuriated woman. Irritated by the man’s thoughtlessness, she stamped her foot in futility, seeing that there were no other taxis on the street. The nerve of the guy!
Oh well, she shrugged her shoulders. It was only a few blocks to her apartment, and she made a fateful decision deciding to walk home. She felt capable of taking care of herself. The self-defense lessons she had learned from the N.Y.P.D. gave her a false sense of security.
Confidently striding down the deserted street, she was roughly grabbed from behind and dragged into a dark, dank alley. Using the skills she had learned, she managed to escape from her attacker. As she began to run, he tripped her and fell upon her, pinning her down. Straddling her writhing body, he fought to hold her wildly flailing hands. "Look, lady, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Just give me your money. That’s all I want," he panted.
The rain, the cold, the problem with the taxi, her aching feet, and now this, was more than she could handle. She snapped. "No," she shouted as she fought back like a tigress. Suddenly, she froze as her mouth formed an ‘O’. An errant beam from automobile headlights had illuminated his face for a few seconds. She would never forget that face.
"What?" he growled. "You saw my face, didn’t you?"
Wildly shaking her head, she gasped, "No," and renewed her struggles.
He didn’t believe her for an instant. Calmly, he stated, "Sorry, honey, but I can’t have that," as he hit her as hard as he could, dazing her. Then, he began to methodically beat her until she was unconscious, pounding her head into the pavement. Why did they fight him? If they would only do as he said, he wouldn’t have to show them the error of their ways. Finally it penetrated his mind that she was not resisting him. With one last slap to her left cheek that left a long, deep ragged gash from the huge ring on his right hand, he got to his feet. Grabbing her purse, he rifled through it and was startled to find out that she was an Assistant D.A. for the District of New York.
As he eyed the unconscious woman lying at his feet, a thought surfaced from the dark recesses of his mind that held a vicious serial killer. A new opportunity had presented itself for his enjoyment, almost like a gift from heaven. It wasn’t the right time of the month he had already made his kill but who was he to question such an opportunity. She was a lawyer, and he hated female lawyers; he made them pay, oh boy, did he make them pay. An ugly smile crossed his face as he pulled a razor-sharp hunting knife from the scabbard attached to his belt. Lovingly, he drew his finger down the sharp edge, relishing the feel of the cold tempered steel. He ran the blade along the edge of her jaw that strong square jaw that infuriated him leaving a little nick here and there. Too bad she wasn’t fully conscious. He would have enjoyed her screams of agony. But he would have to settle for the sight of the knife cutting her tender flesh. As he raised the knife to begin, he heard laughter at the head of the alley. "Shit," he ground out. He better get out of here. But, damn, he hated to leave a prize trophy like her, but old P would sure be pissed if he got caught. He couldn’t leave her without having some sort of satisfaction. Hurriedly, he slashed aimlessly at her face, then kicking her twice in the ribs, he scurried away, leaving a motionless and battered half-dead young woman laying in the rain-dampened alley.
Vincent was far below in the Chamber of the Falls, contemplating his growing relationship with Catherine Chandler. He had succeeded through the months in dampening the growing connection that he had with her. The powerful manifestation of the bond, as he had come to think of it, baffled him. His empathic powers were an integral part of what he was. He had always been able to sense another person’s feelings when close to them, even Diana’s, but with Catherine it had grown to the point where he knew her feelings and felt her heart beating next to his. No matter what he did, he could not rid himself of this connection. He could only moderate it to the point where it was only a thin, fragile thread. As the bond weakened, the beating of her heart next to his became almost a memory, but he clung to that memory. And as day followed day with the bond still unbroken, he realized that he didn’t want it severed, afraid that it would be lost forever. He had even sought out Narcissa, who lived so far below and believed in spirits and demons. Perhaps she, with her arcane knowledge, would have some insight, but she only insisted that it was the spirits doing and that he tampered with them at his own peril.
Suddenly, he was nearly immobilized when he felt the onslaught of Catherine’s fear. From out of the shadowed reaches of his mind, the non human entity that lived within him--that he detested--roared forth taking possession of the body they both claimed and was soon hurtling through the tunnels on his way to save Catherine.
Exploding from the manhole into the shadowed, damp alley, The Other, as Vincent thought of him, hurled the heavy, iron cover into the air. He ignored the loud reverberating metallic clang as it fell to the alley floor fifty feet behind him. What did it matter if someone heard? Came investigating? He would take on the world to find her. Catherine was foremost in his mind. Where was she? With his extraordinary night vision, he searched the dark shadows. There! There she was. "No," he roared as he saw her unmoving body lying still and small in the misty rain. Looking around wildly, he could see no one to vent his rage on. He stood there, panting heavily, indecision rooting him to the spot. He shook himself abruptly. The Man! He would know what to do. Swiftly, he relinquished his control of the body to the other, revenge would come later.
Vincent staggered as The Other released control so suddenly. Disoriented for a few seconds, he caught sight of her motionless body and rushed over to her side, dropping to one knee. He gasped when he saw what had been done to her, his instant burst of rage almost equaling that of The Other, who whispered, Get her home safely, brother. Suddenly, the early evening mist of rain turned into a downpour. Quickly bundling her into his heavy cloak, he gently lifted her feather light body into his arms and hurried through the pouring rain, down the manhole to the safety of the tunnels. He gave no thought to the danger of the open manhole: of those that might fall in, of the open invitation to investigate, of outsiders finding their way into the home tunnels. Catherine was his sole concern. She couldn’t die; he wouldn’t let her. Never again, not like Diana. He would gladly face Father’s wrath to insure that she lived. Tapping a message on the pipes, Vincent asked Father to meet him in the medical chamber. The tunnel physician was waiting for him when he ducked through the curtain with his injured cargo.
"Who is this, Vincent?" he asked, his eyes snapping fire.
"Catherine Chandler."
The old man stared at him in utter amazement. "The woman investigating Diana’s murder?"
"Yes," Vincent answered, laying Catherine’s inert body on the examination table.
"How could you bring her here?" Father rounded on him. "She’s with the District Attorney’s Office."
With a deep, resigned sigh, he agreed. "I know that, Father, but she knows about me."
"How?"
"Please, Father, I’ll tell you later. She needs you."
With ill concealed displeasure, Father began. "Vincent, get Mary. I’ll need her."
Glad to escape his father’s wrath, Vincent hurried from the chamber.
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"Did you know the extent of her injuries?" Father asked an anxious Vincent. Mary handed the tunnel healer a packet of gauze to press against the wound in Catherine’s side.
"No, I didn’t take the time to examine her. I knew she needed immediate attention." He crossed to the table where Catherine lay and watched Father and Mary tend to her wounds.
"Well, from what I can discern, she took a terrible beating. She has a broken nose and cheek, a possible skull fracture with a possible concussion, several deep lacerations he must have been wearing a heavy ring and broken ribs. Apparently that wasn’t enough as he slashed her face in several places. This man meant to kill her. Why she isn’t dead, I don’t know."
"She’s a strong woman, Father," Vincent stated.
"She must be," Mary agreed, "to withstand this. This is really horrible."
Never looking up from his examination, Father said, "I want Jason to see her. He is more up-to-date on trauma than I am. Would you send a message to him, Vincent?" Jason Aragon, whose parents had been Helpers for many years, was an third year ER resident at St. Clare’s Hospital.
"Of course." Vincent sped from the room, leaving a preoccupied Father and Mary.
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When Jason arrived, thinking it was a tunnel emergency, he was horrified to find a well-known ADA lying unconscious on the examining table. "My god, Jacob, what happened?"
"You’ll have to ask her that when she wakes up. Vincent found her this way in an alley and rushed her here. You know her?" he asked the dark eyed physician.
"Yes, I met her at a fund raiser for the hospital a few weeks ago. She’s a lovely person and an excellent DA, I’ve heard."
"Well, I’m glad you’re here. Give me your honest opinion on her chances."
Aghast, Vincent turned to his father. "What do you mean her chances? Won’t she be all right?"
"To be perfectly frank with you, I don’t know. I’m hoping he will know more about it than I."
"She’s a healthy young woman, Father. Determined, I think." Jason finished his examination. "If we can pull her through the first few days, she should be all right."
"She’s got to be all right; I can’t lose another friend," Vincent said.
"You know we’ll do our best," Jason stated, squeezing the other man’s arm in reassurance.
Glancing up, with a needle and suture in his hands, Father fixed the young man with a searching scowl, "Jason, you know you can’t tell anyone, don’t you?"
"Yes, I know," the young doctor agreed, with a weighty sigh. "It’ll be hard on the family. You’ll send her home as soon as possible?" Knowing this would ease some but not all of his guilt.
"Oh yes," Father answered forcefully. "As soon as she can move, she’ll be sent home."
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Hours later, after Father and Jason had done all they could for her, Vincent sat beside his bed where Catherine lay in deep oblivion. He finally had what he had sought the last few months--silence. His sense of her was almost gone, and it frightened him more than he cared to admit. The realization raced through him that the feel of her heart beating next to his had become as necessary to him as his own. Once again guilt flooded over him, but this time it was much easier to push it aside, and he was able to concentrate on the small woman lying helplessly in the middle of his bed. Surely Diana would not begrudge the care he needed to give to this woman. Tenderly, he took the slender hand into his large, furry one. He stood and leaned over her, gently brushing his fingers over her bandaged face. "I’m here, Catherine . . . Fight. Strive for life. Don’t give up."
Through the night he could feel her slowly strengthen as the bond grew stronger. Around morning she started to moan, crying, "No, no," and thrashing around. He held her firmly by the shoulders to keep her from hurting herself. "Be still, Catherine. You have broken ribs."
Instantly she quieted. "Vincent? Is that you?"
"Yes," he answered, astonished that she recognized his voice. As if she could ever forget the voice she heard in her dreams.
"Where am I?" She grabbed his hand and held on for dear life.
"In my home," he said, soothingly.
"In the tunnels?" she innocently asked, feeling safe and sheltered.
In a strangled voice, he choked out, "Yes . . . how did you know?"
"Diana’s journal," she mumbled as she tumbled into a deep healing sleep.
Like a blow to the midsection, her words hammered into his mind. A sudden feeling of betrayal swept over him. Diana wrote of him and his home in her journal? How could she have done this? She had been asked to keep their secret. With a sinking feeling, he wondered who else knew. With Catherine deeply asleep, he couldn’t relieve his anxiety, and he didn’t dare tell Father. Impatiently he settled back in his wide, deep chair by his writing table, picked up his old fountain pen and wrote:
October 10, 1986
Catherine lays sleeping in my bed. I found her in a dark alley beaten almost beyond recognition. I could feel she was in danger, but I was so far Below that I couldn’t get to her in time to prevent the beating. I rushed her to Father, and he reluctantly took care of her. He sent me for Jason Aragon, and he assisted Father with her injuries. Jason and Father spent several hours repairing the damage done to her. She has awakened already and asked where she was. Agitated at first, she immediately calmed down when she recognized my voice. I was an anchor she could cling to in the darkness of her pain and fear. She let go of her fear and returned to the healing sleep she so desperately needs. In her own way she is as brave as Diana was.
Diana. Catherine said something that has disturbed me greatly. When she awoke, she asked where she was, and I told her she was in my home. She asked if it was the tunnels. Shocked, I asked her how she knew. She said she had read about them in Diana’s journal. Am I overreacting because I feel betrayed? How could Diana have put that in her journal? She knew how careful we must be. Was she so certain that no one would read it? Fearfully I wonder if anyone else knows besides Catherine. I have not had a chance to ask her. Somehow I don’t think she has told anyone. I pray it is so. When she awakens, I will ask her.
After breakfast Father came in and checked Catherine’s bandages, satisfied that the bleeding had stopped. He made his disapproval with his refractory son very apparent when he gruffly told him to make sure that she took the antibiotic that he left for her. "Keep her quiet and keep her warm," he growled as he stomped from the room.
For two days Vincent rarely left her side and then only to eat and take care of his personal needs. As best he could, he put aside his worry about the things that Diana had written in her journal. He could scarcely believe what Catherine had said, but in her disoriented condition she could not have lied. He wondered how many and who had read the journal. The unease he felt was his alone as he couldn’t tell Father. Reading, writing, caring for Catherine, her words echoed in his mind. Impatiently he waited for her to heal, occasionally waking her to give her a drink of water or to feed her some of William’s hearty broth, but she slept soundly, deeply until at last she began to stir. "Vincent?" She reached a hand out to him.
"I’m here," he answered, taking her hand into his.
"Why is it so dark in here?" Before he could answer, she began to panic. "My eyes. What did he do to my eyes?" Her hands tore at the bandages, trying to assess the damage.
Catching her hands in his, he assured her that her eyes were all right. "Father had to bandage them, that’s all, to cover all the wounds."
"What did he do to my face? It hurts." His heart went out to her; she was trying to be so brave.
"I’m sorry, Catherine, but he beat you unmercifully and tried to kill you." After a long silence, he finally asked, "Catherine?"
Gathering the shreds of her courage, she wove them into whole cloth and pulled that mantle of courage around her. With a shaky sob she replied, "I’m fine, Vincent. Truly, I am . . . just a little overwhelmed."
"I know you are, but I can tell that your courage is growing moment-by-moment." He squeezed her hand, and asked, "Do you know why this happened?"
"Yes, I was stupid and walked home," she barely muttered. "I have a terrible headache. I don’t want to talk about it now." She just couldn’t face her own stupidity at this time..
"We’ll talk about it later when you are feeling better."
"Vincent? Is she awake?" Mary stood in the entrance holding a tray from which tantalizing aromas wafted Catherine’s way. The smell of food would have had her ravenous if her head wasn’t pounding like a trip hammer.
"Yes, Mary. Come in." Mary placed the tray on a table next to the bed as Vincent introduced her to the young woman laying in his bed, then said, "Catherine, I am going to the hospital chamber to get some aspirin for you. Will you be all right?" he asked.
"Of course, she will. I’ll be here with her," Mary averred . "Go along. We’ll be fine."
With a smile in her direction, Vincent left the chamber.
Gently so as not to startle her, Mary touched the young woman’s arm. "I’m sorry that we meet under such unhappy circumstances, Catherine," she said.
Cautiously, she turned her throbbing head toward the sound of Mary’s voice. "Me, too. I’m glad to meet you, Mary. The food smells delicious."
"Oh well, William is a very good cook. Just tell him his food is delicious and you have a friend for life."
"I’ll try to remember that," her voice trailed away. The pounding of the unending headache was getting the better of her.
Ever sensitive to the condition of her patients, Mary quickly and efficiently took care of Catherine’s needs. Vincent returned with the aspirin and, carefully raising her head, gave them to her with a glass of water.
"I’ll return later and give Catherine a sponge bath," Mary said.
"Thank you, Mary, I would appreciate that," Catherine said.
Vincent took the bowl of soup from the tray and meticulously fed her spoonful by spoonful. "Do you like the soup?" Vincent asked.
"It’s good soup," Catherine agreed. Reaching up she rested her hand lightly across the back of his heavily furred hand as he guided the soup-filled spoon to her mouth. The trust and acceptance in that simple gesture flooded his lonely heart with joy and he thought, I will be your friend forever.
She is more than that to me," a voice in the dark recesses of his mind stated. I love her. "And I can only be her friend," Vincent replied. "Fool", the word echoed through his mind.
After she had eaten as much as she could, he took the tray back to the kitchen, telling her that he would send Mary in to bathe her. Then she could rest until supper and that he would not be far away. She settled back into the pillows with a tired sigh.
Vincent met Mary on her way to his chamber. "Father wants to see you, Vincent." She rolled her eyes, sympathizing with him; she knew that Father was extremely upset with him.
"Thank you, Mary. I’ll go right in."
An irritated and agitated tunnel patriarch stopped tapping his pen on his desk when Vincent bounded down the small metal steps. He fixed the tall, young man with a baleful look. "I think I’ve waited long enough to hear how this woman knows of you."
With a slight nod, Vincent agreed. "Remember the night I went to Diana’s?" Father nodded. "She found me there and forced me to show myself. She wasn’t repulsed or frightened by my appearance; she accepted me as I am, and she has kept my secret all these months."
"You simply cannot keep on doing this. The next stranger you bring here might betray us."
"Father, I know her. There is no danger; she will keep our secret."
"Humph! I certainly hope so." He tried another tack. "Do you think it is wise to become involved with another woman? She can only bring you heartache, my son. You are not over your grief for Diana. Be careful about starting a relationship so soon."
"Father! I have no intentions of starting a relationship with Catherine. If anything she will only be a good friend." Even as he said those words, he wondered how true they were. Already she was closer to him than any person in his life, including Father. He wondered, if Diana were alive, would it still be true? He became aware that Father was speaking. "I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t hear what you were saying."
"I said: don’t tell her about the tunnels, about our people, and when she leaves, make sure she can never find her way back here."
"I will be discreet, Father. Don’t worry." With a quick hug Vincent returned to his chamber. It was quiet and he could sense Catherine was sound asleep, feeling clean and refreshed.
Just as dinner was announced over the pipes, Catherine roused, stirring uncomfortably in the blankets. "Oh darn," she muttered.
Instantly alert, Vincent was at her side. "What is it, Catherine? Are you in pain?" Slowly she shook her head. "Thirsty?" Cautiously, she shook her head again. "What is it that is bothering you?"
In a little girl voice, discomfited, she sighed, "I have to go to the bathroom."
"Oh, is that all," he replied, a laugh in his voice. "I’ll get Mary to help you."
"It’s not that funny," she pouted.
"I know, but you frightened me. I was afraid you were in pain, and I have only aspirin to give you for the pain."
"Oh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you."
"Let me get Mary and then you can have some of William’s excellent chicken noodle soup."
"Ok." She could hear him move to the doorway, and she marveled at how acute her hearing had become. It would fade, she was sure, when the bandages came off her eyes.
In a few minutes Mary bustled in and tended to Catherine’s needs. Then Vincent returned with her dinner. "When will you eat, Vincent?"
"Later," he replied.
"Why don’t you bring your dinner in here and eat with me?" she offered. "We can be company for each other."
Through the bond he could feel her smile even though it caused her pain, and he thought Why not, it would be pleasant. "Excuse me, Catherine, while I get my dinner."
"Oh, good," she said happily, albeit with a grimace of pain as the headache flared.
In a few minutes he was back. They settled on a routine of two bites for him to one spoon of soup for her. Every time he took a spoonful of soup she would put her hand on his as he guided the spoon to her mouth. She had done this since the first time he fed her. After they finished and he had taken the tray back to the kitchen, he asked her if she would like him to read to her. With her assent, he began to read ‘Great Expectations.’
Catherine fell under the spell of his lovely satin and gravel voice and listened dreamily until she realized that he had stopped. "Why have you stopped?" she asked.
In a tentative voice he asked, "Catherine?" He hesitated, then rushed on, "Did Diana really write about me in her journal and about the tunnels?"
"Yes," she answered.
Now came the question he was afraid to ask. "Who else, other than you, knows of this world?"
"No one. I was able to rescue the journal before anyone else saw it, and I purged it from the computer. I am the only one that has a copy, and I will give it to you when I can."
He expelled a long drawn out sigh. "I was so afraid that Diana had compromised me and my world. I thank you for taking this burden from me. Father has always said that I trust too easily and that that will someday be my downfall."
"I don’t really think Diana thought anyone else would read her journal. She had it protected, but there is always a way to get into a computer file. I--truly--think that she wanted to be able to relive her time with you and what better way than the written word."
"That is the one issue we must constantly be on guard against--the inadvertent exposure of our secret. I thought Diana understood that."
"She did, Vincent. I’m sure of that, but she was in love and needed to revel in it. And she could tell no one. You must forgive her for her one indiscretion."
With a soul wrenching sigh, he agreed, "Yes, I must. But Father must never know of this. I would never hear the end of it. Thank you, Catherine, you are a wise woman."
Forgetting for the moment, she laughed slightly then she clutched her aching head. The pounding behind her eyes gave her a warning that she was doing too much, "You give me far too much credit, Vincent. I’m just a woman who wishes she had a love like that."
"How could a woman like you not have found love yet?" It was incomprehensible to him that someone like Catherine was still searching for love.
"Oh, I’ve had loves before or should I say that I thought I knew what love was. When I read the journal, I knew I didn’t even have a clue as to what real love was like. Everything I’ve had has been a pale imitation. Knowing now what true love is, I won’t settle for anything else."
Leaning forward, he needed an answer to his next question. "You think that she truly loved me?"
"Oh yes, she did, but I got the impression from her mother that she had been so hurt while growing up that she kept everyone at arms length." He nodded in agreement. Catherine continued, "She needed love, Vincent, but didn’t know how to accept it. I’m glad she had found you before she died."
"Yes, I had never loved a woman before her. I only hope I made her feel loved."
"Then you have a treat in store for you, Vincent, when you read what she wrote. I never knew that Diana could be so lyrical."
"I look forward to the reading then. Are you tired, Catherine?" he asked, bringing an end to the conversation.
"Yes, I am," she replied, fatigue becoming evident in her voice.
"I’ll get Mary and she can ready you for the night." He left and returned in a few minutes with the older woman in tow.
After Mary had tended to her physical needs and given her a change of nightclothes, she gratefully sank back into the soft bed. As she drifted away, she heard him say, "Sleep well, Catherine,
I will be here when you wake." His comforting words followed her into the realm of sleep
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Above Charles Chandler was slowly going out of his mind with worry. Where could Cathy be? What had happened to her? There was no ransom note. She had simply disappeared off the face of the earth (He was more right than he knew). If only he hadn’t let her talk him into leaving without her, but she was so intent on proving how strong and capable she was. He prayed her search for that proof hadn’t led to her death. No! He wouldn’t think of it. It just couldn’t happen. He felt so helpless.
Joe, on the other hand, had taken personal command of the search for his best investigator. God, he hoped it wouldn’t turn out like Diana, although it didn’t seem the same. Cathy had been seen walking on the street before she disappeared. As far as he knew, Diana had not even been abducted. He prayed that Cathy would surface, laughing at him for his concern.
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As Catherine lay healing in his oversized bed, Vincent invented games to keep her occupied: word games, number games, geography games. He quizzed her on books and characters, and they discovered that they had similar tastes when it came to the poetry that they read. And he read to her constantly. They spoke of their childhoods, comparing them. She told him what it was like to grow up in ease and comfort, never wanting for anything until the devastating pain of losing her mother. He spoke of the struggles and uncertainty of growing up motherless in the tunnels. They found to their amazement that the simple telling of their pain and loneliness brought a measure of comfort to them that had been lacking before. It was the sharing of a similar pain, and the acknowledgment of that pain to another that understood completely that healed their fractured hearts.
Catherine regaled him with funny and not so funny tales from her teenage years. She told him of her first crush on a summer camp counselor, her first date, her first kiss, her first love. She described the debutante ball where she was formally presented to high society. He told her how he had almost over night it seemed-- blossomed from a small, skinny kid into a tall, muscular young man, of the education he received from Father, and his crush on Lisa. They laughed long and heartily as he told her of his best friend, Devin, and of the trouble they were constantly in, then he sobered when he told her of the lost feeling and pain he had when Devin left and of Lisa’s rejection of his schoolboy advances. But he didn’t tell her of the grave illness that almost killed him. Not yet. He would, perhaps, tell her someday. He nodded in understanding as she told him about the young man, Steven Bass, that she almost married and of the men she had dated and was currently dating--Tom Gunther, in particular. In turmoil, she listened to him relate the story of his love for Diana and came to the conclusion that he would accept only friendship from her. When they finished, they knew more about the other than anyone in their acquaintance for they had even spoken about their dreams and aspirations. Never had either of them been able to speak so freely to another with the openness and honesty that they had with each other. They had become firm, lifelong friends and would remain so whatever befell them.
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Catherine had been Below for eight days and was almost well enough to return Above. The bandages had been removed from her eyes shortly after she had awakened, and the headache had slowly dissipated, but Father and Jason had wanted her to remain in bed until the pain was completely gone.
She was sleeping peacefully while Vincent was deeply engrossed in the latest Mike Hammer thriller, I, the Jury. A helper, who knew this to be one of his guilty pleasures, had sent it to him. While this was not a typical murder mystery, the brazen sexuality and ruthlessness of Hammer intrigued him. Fool, once again the word reverberated through his mind. Raising his head, he found The Other bending over Catherine, reaching a large taloned hand toward her.
"No," Vincent hissed. "Don’t touch her."
The Other froze, his talons a scant inch away from Catherine’s bandaged cheek, and slowly straightening, he turned to his antagonist. Anger sparked in the midnight eyes and in a deceptively mild voice, he asked, "Why?" Contemptuously he raised his chin. "I won’t hurt her, brother," he said with disdain. "She is the . . ."
"Don’t call me brother," Vincent snarled. A mocking smile twisted its way across the dark visage of that part of himself that Vincent detested. "Your hands," the man continued.
"My hands?" The blank look that replaced the taunting smile slid into a derisive grin. "Oh, I see . . ." Shaking his dark head, he said with a satisfied chuckle. "Then you have a big problem . . . Friend."
Vincent stared at him in confusion. "What problem?"
Holding his hands out to the man he hated and envied but needed, The Other answered triumphantly, "My hands are your hands."
Vincent blinked in shame as he realized the truth. He watched in frozen agony as the Dark One turned back to Catherine and with infinite care and gentleness moved a stray lock of hair from her forehead. He gazed at her tenderly, thinking he had never seen anyone so beautiful. He recognized her as The One. The One his brighter half was unaware of, but the one he had been waiting for all his life. He had first become aware of her when Narcissa had come to him in a dream during the time he was fighting the other one for control of the body they both inhabited. She had told him not to fight the bright one but to bide his time. That one day one would come that would unite them into a whole person. He had waited fifteen long years, coming to his counterpart's rescue time and time again, and now she was here.
"What do you want with her?"
"I love her," The Other stated.
"You don’t know the meaning of love," Vincent countered viciously.
Sadly, in a bleak voice, The Other answered, "Are you so sure, brother?"
"Stop calling me brother."
"All right, friend . . . or would ‘enemy’ be more apt. I love her."
"I told you I can only be her friend."
Exasperated, The Other retorted, "Oh, grow up. What you felt for Diana was puppy love compared to what we can have with this woman. Not that pale imitation of love you had with Diana."
"Say nothing against Diana. I loved her."
"You have much to learn of love, brother. Where do you think the bond came from? From my love for Catherine. I will protect her until my dying breath. This is a woman who loves deeply and completely. "
"But never with you," Vincent vowed.
Calmly the Darkness answered, "Oh, yes, with me. She will know me and love me."
"You will horrify and frighten her."
"I think not," he answered confidently. "There is an untapped wildness in her that calls to me. She is The One."
"The One?"
"Yes. She is our salvation."
"I don’t need saving."
"We both need saving, my enemy."
Catherine began to stir. "Vincent?" She snuggled deeper into the quilts.
"I’m here, Catherine." Releasing a breath of relief, he saw that the Dark One was gone.
"Was someone here?" she asked drowsily.
"No . . . no one. Just me." He couldn’t tell her of The Other. He couldn’t bare that part of him to her horror or worse yet--her pity. "Why?"
Half-awake, she turned her bandaged face to him and replied, "For a moment I felt so safe and protected . . . as if nothing could ever harm me."
"Nothing will ever harm you again," he promised.
"You’re right, brother, I will protect her." The dark, harsh voice rang in his mind.
Wriggling even deeper into the pillows, she contentedly murmured as she drifted back to sleep, "You always make me feel safe."
Vincent moved to her bedside and mimicking his darker half, he delicately traced the line of her soft cheek. "Oh Catherine, if I had met . . ." Abruptly he broke off the thought and returned to his chair.
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At last, the time arrived that Father had been waiting for; tonight Catherine Chandler would return Above. As he examined her one last time in Vincent’s chamber, he told her that she needed to see a plastic surgeon as soon as possible. He had done his best with the limited supplies he had on hand. But even she knew that she was not a pretty sight. She asked for a mirror, and when Mary reluctantly handed her the one she had brought from her chamber, Catherine stared in horror at the ruin of her face. She fingered several of the sutures wordlessly, touched her broken nose and cheek then looked up at Father with tears sparkling in her eyes and graciously thanked him for all his efforts on her behalf. With a gruff voice, he added that she was well enough to go home. Visibly shaken, she bowed her head then straightened her shoulders and said, "Yes, of course. The sooner I go back, the sooner I can see my doctor." Vincent felt all her pain and agony at the thought of going back Above to face the shock and horror of her father and friends when they saw the havoc of her lovely face. He knew that beauty for its own sake was very important in the society that Catherine moved in. She looked at him and gave him a weak smile. "Will you walk me back, Vincent?"
He nodded briefly, giving her a smile of encouragement, then held her coat for her to slip into and slung his cloak over his arm. Before they left, she hugged Mary and thanked her for her care. Then turning to Father, she said, "I will not tell anyone of this place, Father. Your secret is safe with me. Good bye."
"Thank you, good bye," he replied tersely.
"I will be right back, Father," Vincent said as he escorted Catherine from his chamber.
As they walked through the torch-lit tunnels, Catherine slipped her hand into his. Instead of pulling away, he gave it a squeeze and smiled down at her. He could relax; she was his friend. Their friendship had been sealed during these ten days that she had spent in his chamber. Catherine, on the other hand, was feeling more than a slight ache in her heart as she confronted the fact that he only wanted her friendship. That she would give him and so much more if he would but ask.
"Where are we going?" she asked. They stopped in front of a large freshly made opening in the tunnel. She could see the clean breaks in the bricks, and the rubble neatly piled to the side. A bright cone of light streamed from some unknown source just beyond the opening.
"The basement of your apartment building is behind that light. We don’t know where that light comes from, but it will light your way to the threshold door." He smiled at her astonishment.
"You mean I have direct access to the tunnels through the basement?"
He nodded. "Let me show you where the door is." He led her through the light to a set of metal rungs mounted on the basement wall, climbed the rungs and cautiously opened the door. There was no one in the storage area of the basement. He guided her up the metal ladder then through the door. He stood looking down at her for several seconds.
She raised troubled green eyes to his calm blue ones. "I’m frightened, Vincent."
"I know," he said softly, smiling at her tenderly. "You are taking the first step into a new, uncharted phase of your life."
Looking away, she sighed deeply. "I wish I had your courage."
"But you do, Catherine," he assured her. "I know you. It is there whenever you need it."
Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. "Thank you, Vincent. Will I see you again?"
He glowed with pleasure. She wanted to see him again. "If you wish it."
"Oh yes, I wish it. You’re my best friend, Vincent. My world would be empty without you."
Releasing him, she said, "Go now before someone sees you." And she shoved him toward the open threshold door.
"Good bye, Catherine," he said as he disappeared.
"For now," she added, closing the door and piling several boxes in front of the opening. Resolutely, she braced herself to return to her apartment and face the overpowering love and care of her father and friends.