Part 6
By Joan Stephens
Paracelsus stared deeply into the abyss--an abyss as black as his soul’that lay at his feet, reflecting on his latest plan to reclaim Vincent and return him to his natural state. It was finally time to loose Gilbert Smit into the upper world again. After his release from prison on Christmas day, Smit had immediately made his way to Paracelsus’ world and was even now occupying a cavern not far from where Paracelsus stood. He had picked out the next victim for his very apt pupil’an intern at the offices of Hastings, Hastings, and Gonzales, named Joyce Romer. Smit was getting restive and needed a diversion to keep him satisfied until it was time to bring Catherine Chandler into the scheme.
The January fourth headlines screamed, ‘JUDGE AND JURY KILLER RETURNS.’ One of the newspapers had facetiously given the killer that name. Joyce Romer had been found by her roommate in her bed mutilated as all the others had been. Joe and Cathy had immediately made their separate ways to the crime scene. Cathy could not become inured to this type of killing as it struck so closely to home; she was a lawyer and she was female. After surveying the scene, they returned to the office.
Back in his office Joe dispiritedly plopped into his chair, and Cathy fell into the old leather couch. Leaning back, he said, "Well, the other shoe finally dropped. I knew he’d pick up where he left off. I wonder where he’s been?" Joe pondered. "God, we’re overdue for a break."
"Wherever he’s been, it’s kept him off the streets for a year. Six women are still alive, thank god. I wonder what Adele thought when she read the news; I think I’ll call her. See you later, Joe."
Rising gracefully from the couch, she returned to her desk and dialed Adele’s number. She didn’t get the chance to talk with the older woman as Susan told her that she was on a cruise. The past year had taken its toll of her mother’s emotional strength. Cathy spoke with Susan for a few minutes, telling her what progress they had made in the investigation, which wasn’t much, but that she would keep the family informed of anything new. Thoughtfully, she replaced the receiver on the cradle wondering how she was going to tell Vincent of this new complication.
Meanwhile that break Joe had been praying for was about to happen. Maybe it was due to his incarceration or to his arrogance’all serial killers believe they are smarter than the police’but the murderer had made a serious mistake. Joe immediately rushed to Cathy’s desk after Greg Hughes had called and given him the news.
Grinning excitedly, he informed her, "I just got a call from Greg. We’ve finally got a break in the case, Radcliffe, big time."
Her desk was littered with reports, depositions, and autopsy findings of all the victims. His one-time investigator had been a very busy woman this morning. Going over Diana’s file for the umpteenth time, she didn’t quite hear him. "What’s that, Joe?"
"I said we’ve got a break in the case."
Now he had her undivided attention. "What?" she demanded.
"A fingerprint, kiddo. A single, complete fingerprint. Out of all the ones that were there, it can’t be accounted for." He positively glowed with elation.
"Oh, that’s wonderful!" Cathy exclaimed as she exchanged high fives with him. "At last! I was beginning to think we would never get a break."
"Yeah, me, too," Joe agreed, sitting on the corner of her desk. "Greg says that as soon as they get a match he’ll call me. Now all we’ve got to do is wait. Maybe, we’ll get this guy yet."
"I certainly hope so. A lot of women in the legal field will rest easier when we do," she said confidently.
"Keep on top of it, kiddo. I’m going to tell Moreno about it." He bounced away from her desk in the direction of Moreno’s office.
Cathy bounded out of her chair and headed for Edie’s cubicle. She had to share the news with someone and who better than someone closely involved.
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Impatiently’expectantly’they waited. Just before they were to leave for the day, Greg called Cathy to give her the news. She immediately set up a conference call with Joe. They had identified the killer. Joe inhaled sharply. "Are you sure, Greg?" he asked, needing reassurance.
"Couldn’t be surer," the excited detective answered positively. "It’s one Gilbert Smit, a.k.a. Dutch."
"Do you have an address?" Cathy asked. As soon as Greg had told her whom the fingerprints belonged to, she had grabbed her coat and was shrugging into it while talking with him.
"Yeah, sure do. Even got a mug shot, and he was just released from prison. I s’pose you want to go along?" he asked, the grin in his voice readily apparent.
"You’re damn right," she shot back.
"Ok, I’ll pick you up in ten minutes," he promised.
"Make it faster than that. I’m on my way now."
"Ok, pick you up in front. Joe, you coming?"
"Nah. I’ve got a meeting that I can’t get out of. Cathy’ll keep me posted." Smiling smugly to himself, Joe hung up.
Cathy had slammed the phone down and was halfway out of the office. "Bring ‘im back alive, Radcliffe," Joe called after her.
As she sped by Edie, she informed her with a slap on the back, "We got him, Edie. Diana’s killer."
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Five minutes later Greg pulled up in front of the municipal building followed by two patrol cars. Cathy hopped into the front seat, returning the broad grin that was Greg’s greeting.
"Hi ya, Chandler. Good news, huh?" he chortled. "There’s a copy of his mug shot in the envelope there."
As she pulled the photo from the envelope, her heart somersaulted in her chest when she saw the face. Suddenly, she could see him straddling her, holding that wicked knife, as the headlights illuminated his face.
Glancing over at her, the burly detective noticed the color drain from her face. "What is it, Chandler?"
"This is the guy that attacked me," she said with a shudder.
Flabbergasted, he said, "It is? My god, Chandler, were you ever lucky."
"In more ways than you know, Greg," she answered.
The apartment in the old rundown building may have been Gilbert Smit’s latest address, but he hadn’t been there for months. Dust coated everything. After processing the one-room apartment, they had to admit that they weren’t any closer to finding the man than they were yesterday. This address was used primarily as a mail drop. Terribly disappointed, Cathy interrogated the building super while Greg directed the police officers to go door-to-door with the mug shot they had of Smit.
Andy Kopecnyk, the super, was a little, wizened man of uncertain age. He answered her questions without a flicker of hesitation, saying that he hadn’t seen Dutch since he had rented the place to him. This year’s lease was about up and hadn’t been renewed yet. But he did identify Smit’s likeness. Disheartened, Cathy returned to the office.
Needless to say, Joe was intensely unhappy. After all these months, he had hoped for a speedy resolution to the case. He had the police put out an APB on one Gilbert Stanislaus Smit, Esq.
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Idling away an unusually warm January evening, Vincent and Catherine was alternately reading to each other from an anthology of world poetry. Snuggled together on the balcony, each wrapped in a blanket, they were sitting on his cloak. Catherine was in the midst of reading an Indonesian love poem when a stray gust of wind trailed a strand of honey brown hair across her lips. Unthinkingly, Vincent reached over and, with a gentle finger, tucked the lock of hair behind her left ear. A warm, tender feeling for her flooded through him as his fingers accidentally grazed her full lips. She was so dear to him, the best friend he had ever had. She raised inviting, luminous eyes to his; her lips parted, and he wondered briefly, Did he dare to kiss her? Then the ringing of the phone broke the spell. With an unhappy grimace, she said, "Excuse me, I’ll be right back." She smiled as she gracefully rose, and with the blanket still wrapped around her, she padded into the living room. Contentedly, Vincent watched her answer the phone. Her smiling voice changed into one of distress, and she slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. Alarmed, Vincent jumped to his feet, the blanket forgotten on the floor as he felt her unease.
Rushing back to him, she pushed him toward the balcony railing. "Go, Vincent, go. Someone is looking at us. I’ll meet you Below." Confused, Vincent vacillated then sprang over the railing, disappearing into the night.
Catherine hurried back into her apartment, closed and locked the French doors, and pulled the drapes. Grabbing her coat and keys, she bolted out the door.
Pacing nervously, Vincent was waiting for her at the threshold. How he always managed to be there before she arrived was beyond her. She pictured him flying down the side of her building. He was the most amazing man she had ever met.
"Do you know who it is?" he asked, leaning against the cold tunnel wall, suddenly chilled by the thought of someone stalking her. And he could not protect her during the day.
"I don’t know, but he knows about you. He even mentioned you by name. I got a strange phone call yesterday, but thought it was just a crank call." Anxiously she paced in front of him until he pulled her into his arms. She sagged against him, needing his strength once again.
"You must be careful, Catherine," he pleaded. "I can’t lose you, too. I couldn’t stand it."
"I’ll be careful," she agreed, then added, "but you can’t come to the balcony until he’s caught. It’s too dangerous."
"Come, stay Below where you’ll be safe," he urged.
"No," she replied emphatically. "I won’t let him scare me or control my life."
And so began two months of terror and foreboding for Vincent and Catherine. The Watcher, as she had named him, would have been instantly recognized by her. Gilbert Smit had been ordered to make her life a living hell. Paracelsus had planned well. Occasionally Smit would call when she was home but never often enough for her to discern a pattern. Mainly, he sent little gifts with warning notes attached to them or left messages on her answering machine. Every night Vincent kept vigil on her balcony. She was kept off balance by the randomness of the contacts and through the bond Vincent suffered along with her. Even though she had told Joe of the harassment, she knew she couldn’t tell him everything. Once again, she was alone with only Vincent to strengthen her resolve. And because of that, she asked Joe to assign Greg Hughes to the case. She knew she could count on his good judgement.
March the third dawned cold and clear. A beautiful morning but Catherine didn’t see it. She dreaded going into work, afraid of the news she would hear when she arrived. Sure enough, there had been another victim, a third year law student, Colleen O’Fannon. Joe was livid. Why couldn’t they stop this guy and where was he hiding?
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Worn out and frazzled, Catherine had finally begged off and left work at seven not her usual eleven p.m. After a refreshing shower, she slipped into a cream-colored negligee and peignoir. The thought of a warm cup of herbal tea took her into her small, compact kitchen. Lying on the counter was a beautiful, red rose in full bloom. A flash of anger seared through her as she thought of the danger Vincent had exposed himself to by bringing her a rose before full dark. Then her heart melted at his efforts to bring peace to her troubled soul. She buried her nose in the deep red petals, inhaling deeply the rosy redolence. Taking the flower and the full cup of tea, she returned to the living room, sinking into the comfortable love seat. With a deep, weary sigh, she rested her head against the back of the love seat. The cup of tea fell from her nerveless fingers, staining the light carpet as she slid into a deep, fathomless sleep.
A dark shadow glided up to the glass doors, opened them as he had that afternoon with his lock picking kit and, throwing her over his shoulder, exited through her apartment door and down the fire stairs.
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All day Vincent had driven himself, working until he was exhausted. He had to do something to keep from worrying about Catherine. It didn’t work but he had to try. When he finally returned to his chamber, he collapsed onto his bed, not even taking a bath, instantly asleep.
"Wake up," a harsh voice insisted. "Come on, wake up. Something’s wrong." The Other was frantically trying to wake him.
"Uh? What is it? What do you want now?" Vincent snapped. He sat up on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Something is wrong with Catherine. She’s asleep but she’s not in her apartment."
Still benumbed from his interrupted sleep, he mumbled, "Where else would she be sleeping but in her own bed?"
"I tell you, she’s not in her apartment," The Other persisted.
Finally beginning to feel his dark twin’s restiveness, Vincent began to pay attention. "If she’s not there, where is she?"
"Somewhere in that direction," The Other pointed to the left.
"Paracelsus’ domain is that way," Vincent hissed as his heart sank with dread
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Nestled in a cocoon of velvet darkness, Catherine was unwillingly drawn to consciousness by the irritating buzz of two men’s voices. One voice, sonorous, commanding, filled her with unease, while the other terrified her. She knew that voice, had heard it before.
Awakening fully, she shifted uncomfortably. She was cold, unable to move, strapped to a bone-chilling metal table. "Well, Gilbert, it seems our guest has awakened at last. See to her comfort, please." The unctuous deep voice washed over her as she opened her eyes to see a tall, thin man dressed in black, standing beside her. As her eyes traveled upward, they locked with deep, malevolent black eyes that stared back at her, unblinking. She shivered involuntarily. He leered an evil smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes’goggle eyes, cold eyes that reminded her of a predatory shark.
"Sure thing, P," the other voice answered. He didn’t know it but old P had some unpleasant plans for him. Paracelsus resented the cavalier attitude that his pupil took with him.
Swinging her eyes to the man standing beside the man in black, Catherine took an unwitting gasp. Her eyes widened in shock as she recognized the man, smiling so pleasantly at her. Now she knew why the voice sounded familiar. It was Gilbert Smit, the man who had attacked her and had murdered Diana and the others. Fully awake, she struggled against the restraints, panic-stricken. Oh god, oh god, he’s going to kill me. I’ve got to get away. Even in the extremity of her situation, she thought of Vincent. Oh, Vincent, I’m so sorry. I said I’d never leave you, but it seems I have no choice. Forgive me, my love, forgive me. Then, she realized that she was naked, and she was filled with disgust and shame as Smit took a step toward her. She closed her eyes and silently screamed, Vincent!!
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The Other howled and fell to his knees and Vincent staggered as Catherine’s fear hurtled through them like an arrow. For the first and last time, Vincent willingly turned to the darkness.
"Now . . . brother?" The Other sibilantly whispered, hastily rising to his feet, his eyes gleaming in anticipation.
"Yes, now . . ." Vincent quailed before the feral light shining in his dark twin’s eyes, and he fleetingly wondered if he would be changed for the worst, forever. But with Catherine’s panic came the knowledge that if he lost her he would no longer wish to live; he would die. He loved her more than his life, more than his fear of The Other. He would do what was necessary to save her.
The dark one stretched out a hand, but before Vincent could clasp it, he stayed the movement. "For Catherine?" he asked.
"For Catherine," Vincent agreed as he reached out to engulf the proffered hand.
The Other laughed in triumph. "At last, you know what love is." And was gone. There was no need for a separate existence; the love he and Vincent held for The One healed the breach caused by Father in his disastrous attempt to tame what he erroneously assumed was Vincent’s animalistic tendencies. How could he know it was only the normal anger and aggression’the typical biting and scratching--which is present in all young children that he had magnified out of all proportion.
There was no startling change in Vincent, only a darker light in his eyes. Catherine, who knew him best, would notice a little more catlike grace to his movements, but then, she had always considered him the most graceful of men. The biggest change was internal. Now there was power with knowledge, strength with compassion, and courage with intelligence. All the disparate parts and emotions that had made up the two halves of the man were now combined in one.
Silently, he slipped through the shadows, evading all of Paracelsus’ sentries. The closer he came to the place where she was being held, the stronger her fear coursed through him, and he knew who held her hostage. Unlike Diana, Catherine had willingly shared her craft with him. She valued his keen, analytical mind, and on more than one occasion, he had pointed out a flaw that would have resulted in a lost case. And it was also her painful duty to keep him informed of the progress or lack thereof in Diana’s case. She had told him that she knew who the killer was, and that he was also the one who had attacked her. Gilbert Smit held the woman he loved more than life, and he would pay dearly for that act.
He could feel her horror mounting and could almost see the maniac waving a knife in front of her horrified eyes. He could all but feel the anticipation and pleasure the butcher was getting by describing in minute detail what he had in store for her. But he could also sense the resolve beginning to form in Catherine that she would not add to his enjoyment by begging him to release her.
Vincent would die before he would allow Smit to harm Catherine, but he had to be careful. He could defeat one or two, even a handful of men in his present state, but a large body of men could stop him. Anticipating his meeting with the butcher, he thought of the great satisfaction he would feel when he destroyed him.
Stopping in the shadows outside a chamber lit by a bright, turgid red tinged light, he knew he was close. Catherine’s extreme panic almost incapacitated her rescuer. She was dangerously close to shutting down completely, retreating into that part of the mind that felt no fear, no pain, nothing. Through the bond he sent her reassurance that he was there and would save her. He hoped she heard him.
Glancing quickly around the edge of the entrance, he saw that she was strapped naked to an examination table. He fought down the rage that boiled up in him. Now was not the time for mindless rage. He had to plan how to save her. Smit stood over her, caressing one breast while tracing the knife around the other breast then up and across her neck down to the breast he had been fondling. Transferring his hand to her stomach, he rubbed and kneaded the soft skin of her abdomen. Pleasantly, as if holding a conversation with her, he said, "First, I will slice off this breast."
Vincent felt the anger return and he growled softly. As he took a step forward, he sensed another body in the room. The stench of Paracelsus’ evil aura told him who was watching Smit.
"Stretch it out, Gilbert," Paracelsus ordered. "I want to make sure that Vincent has enough time to get here." This time the evil one had sent a written message to Vincent by one of his followers. He could have used the pipes, but wanted only Vincent to come to the woman’s rescue. With the other woman, he had depended on the weakling’s vaunted empathic sense, but for some reason that hadn’t worked. He didn’t know that there was a bond between Catherine and Vincent and that Vincent had been on his way before the message had even been written. Making last minute adjustments to the heavy chain net hanging above the table, Paracelsus said, "When he is helpless and watches you slowly and methodically torture the woman, he will go mad and his dark side will be free to act on its own. Then he will be mine."
The driven and obsessed torturer was paying no attention to what he considered Old P’s ramblings, he was busy crooning a litany of atrocities that he was going to inflict on Catherine. Vincent shrank back into the corridor considering his plan of action, but as the torturer drew the knife down her abdomen, he left a stain of red on her body. The sight of his beloved’s blood so enraged Vincent that he abandoned himself to the red rage that he now knew was his own fury and not a separate emotion. All his plans evaporated as Vincent hurtled into the chamber and launched himself at Smit, striking him squarely in the chest with his booted feet. Reaching up, he grabbed and pulled down the chain net, twisting out of its way as it fell over Smit. He landed agilely on his feet next to a horrified and startled Paracelsus who had been watching the appalling scene from behind the examination table. Before the evil one could move, an enraged Vincent tore out his throat, leaving him to slump bonelessly to the floor.
Swiftly he turned to find Catherine’s eyes on him, brimming with tears of joy and relief. Quickly he released her bonds and gathered her bare body in his arms, overcome with relief that she was safe. Gently he pulled his cloak around her.
She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as if she was afraid he wasn’t real. "You came for me, you came for me," she sobbed, pressing against him, weeping.
Tenderly stroking her hair, he kissed the tears from her face. "I will always come," he vowed. "I love you, Catherine. You are my life."
She went rigid in his arms and drew back to scan his face. "Wh-what?" Her happiness warring with her disbelief.
He smiled down into her radiant, wondering face. "Yes, Catherine, I love you and only you. I need you, I want you and will never let you go. You are mine alone. Never again will I look back or deny what I know is true. You are my life, my heart."
As he pledged himself to her, her trembling hands wandered to his cheeks and pulled his face to hers. Just before their lips met in their first real kiss, she softly whispered, "I had given up hope that I would ever hear those words. I adore you, Vincent. I have for a long time." Gently she pressed her lips to his in a chaste kiss, joining their lives together forever.
"Are you all right?" Vincent asked as they broke apart. "Did he hurt you?"
"Just a little," she shivered, "but what he did to the others, he had planned for me. I was so frightened."
"Afraid to die?" He tightened his hold on her as she nuzzled her face into his neck.
"No. I was afraid I would never see you again, never see your beautiful face, never feel your arms around me, never hear you speak my name. I couldn’t bear it, to be separated from you." Convulsively, she tightened her arms around his neck.
"Ah, Catherine," he breathed as he realized just how deeply this incredible woman loved him.
Vincent wrapped his cloak more tightly around her shaking shoulders. "You’re cold," he stated.
"More than cold," she agreed, arranging his cloak warmly around her. She glanced dispassionately at Smit, sprawled motionless under the heavy net. "Is he dead?"
Reluctant to leave her side, he stepped away from her and moved the net aside then fingered the man’s limp wrist. There was no pulse; he was dead. When Vincent’s feet slammed into the man’s chest, either his neck was broken or his heart burst. Vincent knew that Paracelsus was dead, and he regretted neither one of the killings. With a sigh, he looked up at her from where he crouched beside the dead body. "Yes," he answered simply.
"Good." Her lovely voice resonated with cold contempt. "He can’t hurt anyone else." Silently they stared into each other’s eyes until she shivered violently and said, "Take me home, please."
Rising, he stepped over the lifeless body and gathered her into his arms. "Yes, my love . . . home." She nestled her head in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, and without a backward glance, he marched away from that chamber of horrors, holding the woman he loved safely in his arms.
Sadly, he looked down at her and apologized. "I’m sorry, Catherine,"
"Sorry? Why?"
"That I didn’t protect you from him."
"Oh, my dear love, there was nothing you could have done."
"Yes, there was. If only I hadn’t been so stubborn and admitted that I loved you."
"You weren’t ready; you needed time."
"It almost cost you your life and much worse."
"But it didn’t. I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m in your arms."
"Where you belong, my love." He squeezed her gently then threw his head back, laughing joyously. Enchanted, she had never heard him laugh so fully, she gazed at him adoringly then joined him, glad to be alive and loved by him.
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Striding easily, his most precious treasure resting lightly in his arms, he carried her home, the silent tunnels a testament to the loyalty of Paracelsus’ followers. He met no one in that dark domain. The gentle sway of his gait lulled her into a drowsy half-sleep. Nodding a greeting to all he met in the home tunnels, he stopped Mary when she approached him. "Mary."
"Good morning, Vincent. Is that Catherine?" she asked. "What’s happened?"
"Yes, it’s Catherine." He ignored her last question eager to get his love safely home. "Can you get her some clothes, please?"
Understanding his need to get Catherine to the safety of his chamber, she didn’t press for an answer to her last question, "Certainly. Shall I take them to the guest chamber?"
"No, my chamber," he answered.
"Good, it’s about time." She patted his cheek then hurried away.
What Catherine had endured had used up all her energy and she was exhausted. By the time he had arrived at his chamber she was sleeping, and he was in a quandary. Unwilling to wake her, he slowly settled into his large chair. For several minutes he sat, quietly looking at the serenely beautiful face of his beloved. The Other had said that he would know what love was when he loved Catherine. Silently he thanked him for his perseverance and devotion to her. She was indeed their salvation and the answer to all his doubts.
"Vincent?" Mary’s voice wafted into the chamber.
"Come in, Mary."
"How is she?" Mary knew something had been very wrong when she had seen him racing through the tunnels last night.
"She’s fine now. I’ll tell you about it later."
"All right. Shall I take your literature class today?"
"Please. And, Mary, thank you." She beamed at him as she left.
Rising, he walked to his bed and gently placed his love on the top of the quilts. As he removed his arm from under her head, she grabbed his hand. Even in the depths of slumber, she felt him move away from her, and her eyes flew open in dismay. "No, don’t leave me."
"I’ll never leave you, love. I was only getting a wet cloth to wash your face."
"Not yet. Sit beside me." He settled on the edge of his bed and took her hands in his. "Vincent? What happened that convinced you that you loved me?" she asked in a soft voice.
"I must confess that I thought I could only love Diana, that what I felt for her was all the love that I was capable of. But you kept assaulting my heart, and I resisted with all my might. When I almost lost you to Elliot Burch, I knew it was best for you, but I was so thankful when you broke up with him. I’ve known . . ." Candidly he gazed into her eyes as he confessed, ". . . I’ve known for a long time that I loved you, but I would not admit it to myself. If I did, The Other would have known, and I had to protect you from him."
"But why? He loves me. I’ve known that from the first moment I looked into his eyes."
"Father has always seen him as a threat to my humanity and has taught me to repress that part of myself."
Catherine nodded, understanding what happened. "So he took on a life of his own and fought for his right to live."
"Yes." He was silent for several seconds then inhaled deeply and said, "I have a confession to make, Catherine. I’ve kept something from you."
"That you feel what I feel?"
His eyes widened in shock. "How did you know?"
"There had to be some way you knew I was in trouble. And Father confronted me about the number of times I had put you in danger. He confirmed my conclusions."
"You never told me."
"I thought you’d tell me when you were ready. And you did."
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Upon hearing from Mary that Vincent had returned carrying Catherine in his arms, Father grabbed his bag and hurried to his son’s chamber. "Vincent? What has happened? Where did you go?" As his father entered, Vincent rose from sitting on the edge of the bed and exposed a disheveled Catherine. Anxiously the worried man scanned the tall form standing before him, looking for injuries that he had come to associate with any rescue of Catherine. And he had no doubt that that was what Vincent had done.
Shaking his head, Vincent said, "No, Father, I am all right but Catherine is hurt." He motioned Father to the bedside then moved aside still holding tightly to her hand.
Catherine looked . . . well, she wasn’t her usual polished self and looked worn and tired. Pale and drawn, she smiled wanly at older man. "Father," she greeted him.
He returned her smile. "Now, Catherine, where are you hurt?" he asked, shocked when she calmly moved the quilt, revealing her bare body. Expecting Vincent to react by turning away, he was further shocked by his son’s calm acceptance of her nudity. Something had definitely occurred between the two of them. She drew his gaze to her abdomen where he saw an oozing red line from her waist to her pubic hair. It didn’t look too serious, and as he cleaned the cut, his initial impression was confirmed. "It’s shallow so should heal just fine," he said to the pair. "Some antiseptic, a light bandage, and you’ll be fine, my dear."
"Thank you, Father," she said. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes as she thought how close she had come to never seeing this dear man again.
"Now, now, there’s no need for all that," he replied, not understanding her tears and gently patted the hand that rested on top of the quilt. Vincent squeezed her hand as he felt her feelings concerning Father. "Rest awhile, Catherine. Sleep if you can." Taking his physician’s bag, he turned to the doorway.
"We’ll talk later, Father," Vincent assured him.
"Yes, we will," he agreed. They most definitely would talk later.
"I should go Above and call Joe." With an unlady like grunt, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "Ooo, that hurt," she complained. Vincent handed her his own robe. When she put it on, it swallowed her, the sleeves hanging inches below her hands, and the body of the robe puddling around her feet on the floor. With Vincent’s help, she rolled the sleeves up until her hands were free. To her ardent admirer, she looked enchanting.
"You should stay in bed and rest for a few hours," her beloved suggested.
Shaking her head, she explained, "But that’s just it. If we wait too long, the authorities will wonder where I’ve been."
"True," he granted. "But do you have to tell Joe anything?"
"Well, of course," was her automatic answer, then she paused. "Don’t I?" she wondered.
"No."
"But that leaves everything hanging . . . unfinished."
"Are all cases solved?" he asked reasonably.
"No, but what do I tell Adele Bennett?"
"That chamber is close enough to the surface that someone--a street person probably, looking for a warm place to sleep--will find it and report to the police," he spelled out.
"Do you think it would work?" She was beginning to think it might.
"You know better than I, my heart."
Her eyes glowed with happiness when he called her that. But then her eyes darkened as she thought again of Adele Bennett, waiting to hear that the monster who had killed her daughter would kill no other mother’s daughter. Slowly, she shook her head, "I can’t. Too many people are waiting for the resolution of this case. Not only Mrs. Bennett but all the family members of the other victims."
"Yes, of course. I was only thinking of you, my love. You shame me with your compassion."
He ducked his head in chagrin.
With a gentle finger, she raised his eyes to hers, telling him, "Oh, don’t be ashamed, love. I love it that you worry about me."
"I always have, and I always will." He settled into his large reading chair and pulled her into his lap. She snuggled her head into his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck. Confidently, he pulled her in to him. "What do you plan?"
She outlined her plan, which he fine-tuned with ideas of his own.
‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘
Putting Catherine’s plan into action, Vincent engaged Mouse, Cullen, Winslow, and Kanin to build false walls and hidden doors between Paracelsus’s domain and the tunnel community. While the men were engaged in that, he led her back to the torture chamber, marveling at her courage in returning to that chamber of horrors, and, with a ragged blanket to cover her nakedness, guided her out of the tunnels into a cool March day. He waited and watched in a hidden doorway until she found a policeman and poured out her story. When a patrol car picked her up, he returned Below, hoping she could pull it off.
Catherine was taken to Bellevue Hospital where her wound was tended to; she had removed the bandage and washed off the antiseptic, causing the opening to bleed again. Joe was just a few minutes short of beating her to the ER. He agitatedly paced back and forth in front of the curtain-shrouded cubicle where she was being treated. When the curtain was pushed to the side, he barged in. "Cathy! Are you all right? What happened?" he asked frantically.
She told him all she could from the drug filled rose to her rescue.
"My god, Cathy, who was it? Where is he? Why isn’t he here?"
Acting as if she was reluctant to tell him, she said, "He doesn’t want any publicity. In fact, he made me promise not to tell."
"C’mon, Radcliffe, you can tell me. I need to know," he urged.
"I can’t, Joe. I gave my word," she answered.
"Just for me, kiddo. I won’t tell anyone."
For a few minutes she seemed to consider, keeping Joe on tenterhooks. At last she took a deep breath. "All right, but you’ve got to promise to keep it to yourself. Ok?"
"Ok," he eagerly agreed.
"You won’t believe this--I know--but remember the Subway Slasher . . . ?" Vincent had told her how he had put a stop to the Subway Slasher’s actions. Trying to catch him, Vincent had chased him onto a bridge over the Abyss. Rotten boards gave way beneath him, and he fell into the bottomless pit.
Astounded, he repeated, "The Subway Slasher? The guy that kills with claws?" She nodded. "Hell, he’s been quiet for over a year. Oh damn, I hope he doesn’t start up again," he worried.
"He showed me a way out of the tunnels. He saved my life, Joe." She began to quietly sob; Joe tried to comfort her.
"Everything is all right now." He patted her shoulder; he didn’t know what else to do. He accepted her story at face value since he had no reason to doubt her.
"Joe, let me be the one to call Mrs. Bennett, ok?" She wiped her eyes with the rough hospital tissue and blew her nose.
"Sure thing, kiddo. I’m sure she’d rather get the news from you. You gonna be all right? I’ve got to get back to the office." At her tentative nod, he said, "Good. I’ll tell Edie you’re ok. Oh, and take the rest of the day off."
"Just today?" she asked, her good humor coming to the fore. "Maybe, I should get attacked more often."
"Don’t say that, Cathy! Not even in jest, that’s scary," he admonished her.
Immediately contrite at her thoughtless joke, she said, "I’m sorry, Joe. I guess I’m just not thinking too clearly right now."
"Accepted," he said, then with a twinkle in his eyes, he added, "Besides, I need you; I can’t run the office without you."
Catherine’s chuckle followed him through the ER. "I love you, Joe," he heard as he went through the automatic doors. How I wish you did, he thought.
Catherine relaxed back onto the bed, releasing a long held breath. Joe had bought it. She hated to trade on his love for her--oh yes, she was well aware of his feelings--but it was necessary to protect Vincent and his world. Now came the long wait while forensics studied the chamber, the table and instruments of torture, the physical evidence, and the bodies. There would be more questions; she would find someway to answer them. The tunnel folk would be on pins and needles until the investigators left the tunnels. Then she would see that the tunnel entrance was sealed forever.
‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘
That evening, Vincent was waiting at the base of the metal ladder when she stepped down onto the tunnel floor. He pulled her in to him, bending his lips to hers, kissing her with joy, reverence, and gratitude plus a smidgeon of passion. He loved her so much, and the force of her love lit up the bond as it flowed from her to him. His large, furry hand encompassed her small one as he said, "Come, you are tired. We’ll spend the night quietly in my chamber."
Glowing with love and happiness, she exclaimed, "Oh, I can think of nothing I’d rather do. My weekend is completely free. I am yours to command." An impish smile bloomed on her face, "Lead on, MacDuff," as she followed his gentle lead.
Unaware that Vincent had a guest, Father sought him out for their much delayed discussion. Every time Father had approached him, he had been too busy or just leaving. He began to feel as if Vincent was avoiding him. The scene that greeted him as he stepped into the entryway rooted him to the spot. Several times he tried to speak, but his throat was so dry that no words came out. He swallowed convulsively a few times and found his voice. "Vincent! What are you doing?" he demanded, aghast at the scene before him.
Finishing a long, slow kiss, Vincent raised his head and looked at Father over his shoulder. Relishing his answer, he replied, "Kissing Catherine."
Whatever has come over the boy to answer him in such a flippant manner? Drawing himself up imperiously, Father stated, "We need to talk. Now!"
His unrepentant son smiled. "Yes, Father." The gleam of anticipatory satisfaction should have warned the older man that he was about to learn something he didn’t want to know. "Will you be all right?" Vincent asked, caressing Catherine’s cheek. "I will be back soon."
She nodded, her eyes sparkling with suppressed humor. "Don’t be too hard on him, love."
One last kiss and Vincent turned to his impatiently waiting father. Spinning on his heels’his arthritic hip protesting loudly’Father stomped back to his chamber followed by an amused son. Poor father, his cherished ideas were about to crumble.
Father began immediately, "What has come over you, my son? You know you can’t get too close to Catherine."
"No, I don’t know." Calmly, Vincent stood where he had stood many times before during his childhood’in front of Father’s desk, waiting to be chastised. He would not be scolded now.
Was he being purposely obtuse? "What if you lost control? Think, Vincent, think. She could be hurt. Face the truth."
Leaning forward with both hands spread flat on the desktop, he dropped his bombshell on his unsuspecting parent. "I have faced that truth. I have faced The Other and have accepted him. I am whole at last."
"But how?"
He shrugged, waving an unconcerned hand, "He and I both love Catherine and through her love became one."
"But what . . . ?"
"What does this mean to me?" Straightening, he paced to the other side of the chamber, facing toward the room that held his Catherine--safe.
Fascinated, Father nodded.
Vincent turned back to his beloved father. "It means I am a man. The man Catherine loves."
"You said you loved her only as a friend."
"Yes, I know." He bowed his head. "But for a long time now, I have been lying to you, to Catherine, and most of all to myself."
"And she feels the same?" Father asked, amazed at this turn of events.
"Yes."
"But I thought you loved only Diana."
"Yes, I loved her. But that love was comfortable, undemanding, like a pair of old worn boots."
"An odd simile, son," the elder observed.
Vincent nodded slightly, his mouth turned up in a small smile. "Odd but true, nevertheless." He felt he was putting it badly, but he wanted his father to understand. "The love I feel for Catherine rages like a fire through me, singing in my veins."
"Be careful that that fire doesn’t consume you." Father had loved like that and been consumed in the flames of a broken heart.
"It won’t," Vincent stated confidently. "It burns with the fire of passion but warms with the hearth fires of home. I have found my home, Father, my safe place."
There was nothing the older man could say: no cautionary words, no happy, accepting words seemed adequate; so, struggling with all that he had just heard, he fastened on a safe’to him’subject and asked bitterly, "Speaking of the woman, what dangerous situation did you rescue her from this time?" As Vincent opened his mouth to speak, Father stopped him with an imperious hand. "Don’t tell me. I really don’t want to know. How she can continue to trifle with your life and sanity after I warned her of the consequences is beyo . . ."
"Father!" his agitated son thundered. "It was not of Catherine’s doings. It was Paracelsus."
"Paracelsus?" Jacob Wells involuntarily shivered at the mention of his old archenemy. He had hoped that the problem of John Pater had somehow miraculously disappeared, but it seemed he had hoped in vain.
"Yes." The son that John Pater had coveted so keenly leaned forward intensely. "Catherine was caught in a plot to drive me insane. The serial killer I told you about was recruited by Paracelsus. It was all a plot to bring Catherine below, torture and kill her in front of me--there was a chain metal net to hold me--hoping that I would go crazy with grief and that The Other would become dominant. Paracelsus didn’t know about the bond and wasn’t expecting me so soon. I caught them unaware and killed them both."
At Vincent’s first mention of Paracelsus, Father had dropped, weak-kneed, into his chair. He listened, open-mouthed, to his son’s story. Shaking his head, he asked, "John is dead?"
"He will not hurt us again," was the flat answer.
"You’re sure. He seems to have nine lives, like a cat."
"I’m sure. I watched him die," Vincent answered with calm satisfaction.
Filled with dismay, the tunnel patriarch regarded his impenitent son. "Is this you talking or The Other? You seem strangely unaffected about killing two men."
"We are one and the same, Father, and it does affect me. I regret that I had to do it but there is no shame." He settled into his own chair. "They brought their deaths upon themselves by their own actions. The Other was right. I will do what is necessary to protect my loved ones. There can be no guilt in that."
"You always have, my son." With a sheepish grin, Father said, "It looks as if I owe Catherine an apology." He came to his feet with every intention of extending that apology that very minute.
Vincent stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Later, Father. Catherine and I have much to discuss." He cocked his head as if listening to something no one else could hear. "I believe she is asleep. If she is, I will watch over her til she wakes."
"You should rest too, my son. This hasn’t been an easy time for you, either." He reached across his desk to stroke the soft, golden-hued hair.
The love that Vincent felt for this man, the only parent he knew, glowed in his eyes as he stood then bent and kissed the older man tenderly on the aged forehead. "Thank you, Father. I just may do that." He swept out the door, leaving the room darker by his absence.
Vincent stood beside his bed, staring down at the lovely, peaceful, sleeping--she had lost her battle with fatigue--face of the woman he had fought so hard not to love. As he looked back over the last seventeen months to the first time he had met her, he admitted’at last--to himself that she had touched his heart even then. Theirs was a fated love. They would have found each other regardless of whom or what stood in their way. The force of his love staggered him. He had never expected to feel this way about any woman. As if he had called it to him, the enormity of her love met with his in a blinding convergence, merged, and became one all-encompassing love and passion. He sighed deeply, joyously . . . wearily.
He was tired. He could sleep in his large reading chair, but the bed looked so much more inviting. Besides, she lay in that bed, and he felt the sudden need to stretch out beside her and to sleep with her nestled in his arms.
When Father looked in on them later, he found Catherine resting comfortably in the arms of the man who loved her. "Ah, my dear, dear children, whatever will become of you?" he whispered as he backed out of the chamber.