Chapter Two
Bad Dreams Between Two Awakenings
That night the dreams began: shadowy, surrealistic, of a faceless, nameless woman calling him, searching for him. He knew her but could not see her face nor remember her name. Something in him called to her, yet she seemed not to hear.
A few days later Catherine’s dreams were of a different nature: horrible, blood-soaked, brutal dreams full of death and mayhem. She woke several times during the night, each time shaking violently and sobbing. Where were these dreams coming from? Could they be from Vincent? If so, why would she dream these nightmare visions? Exhausted, she fell back on her pillow, sleeping soundly until her alarm woke her. Groggily, she reached over and turned it off. Her first thoughts were of Vincent, wondering if there would be any news of him today.
She dragged her weary body out of bed, padded in to take a shower then stood in front of her open closet staring at her clothes. She backed up until she bumped against her bed, thinking, "I can’t do this," as she lost her balance and sat down with a plop. "I should be searching for Vincent but . . ."
Starting to sob, she fell over on her side, burying her face in her pillow. She wept heavily for several minutes then forced herself upright and, putting her hands on her knees, levered herself to her feet. She walked back to the closet and selected a dark blue pair of slacks, a white long-sleeved blouse with lace around the high neckline, a light-blue sweater vest topped off by a navy blue belt, and a pair of navy blue pumps that matched her belt. After dressing, she went to the small, compact kitchen to fix some kind of breakfast. What? She didn’t really care. The coffee was too strong and the toast was burned. On top everything else, this was too much, and she threw both the coffee maker and the toaster into the waste can. She’d get new ones before she ever used them again.
Carefully she checked her makeup since she didn’t want anyone to know she had been crying. Approving what she saw, she left for work.
When she arrived, she braced herself for the barrage of question she knew she would have to face. Most of all, she dreaded facing Joe. She fielded the questions on her way to her desk, answering as truthfully as possible. Spiritually weary, she sat behind her desk, picked up a pencil, and began to doodle on a large yellow legal pad. She couldn’t seem to focus her thoughts, and looking up, she saw Joe beckoning from his office doorway.
Sighing, she laid her head against the sofa back as she sat down. Concerned, Joe asked, "Are you sure you should have come back so soon?"
"I’m fine, Joe. I just didn’t sleep well. So many dreams, nightmares." Why was she telling him this? She didn’t know but couldn’t seem to stop. "Dreams I never dreamt before. Ugly, violent dreams. I don’t where they came from."
Half sitting on the corner of his desk, Joe said, "Maybe it has something to do with your illness."
"Maybe."
"See your doctor, ok Cathy?"
Smiling at his concern, she agreed.
"Anyway, what I called you in for is to tell you there was a murder last night that might interest you."
"Oh?"
"Remember the subway slasher?"
"Yes." She sat up interested.
"It seems he’s back in business."
"No!" Her heart sank.
He handed her a packet of black and whites that showed the violence of the man’s death. Feeling physically ill, she handed the pictures back to him.
Returning to his desk chair, he leaned back, observing her obvious discomfort. "You all right, Radcliffe? You look a little green around the gills."
She nodded that she was all right. "They’re so graphic. Who was killed?"
"Sammy Spinoza, one of the city’s top drug dealers and one of the last three old-timers from the good old days," he added sarcastically.
"I’m glad he’s gone, but what a terrible way to go."
"Yeah, you can say that again. He was literally shredded, torn limb from limb."
Inwardly, she cringed. "Any clues? Where did it happen?" It helped to focus on the details.
"In the alley behind his nightclub. It happened so fast that there were very few shots fired. Four dead men. Whoever did this must have the agility of a cat." He shook his head at the manner of the killing.
Joe’s words fell like hammer blows on her heart. Hopefully, she asked, "Do you want me on the case?"
"Not yet. Let’s see how it unfolds."
"Ok."
He sat forward with a thump, "By the way, do you have the Harrison deposition done yet?"
Relieved by the change of subject, she stood up and started for the door. "No. I was working on it when I got sick."
"Ok, try to get it on my desk before you go home."
"Will do. Thanks, Joe." She fled to the safety of her desk, sinking into her chair with a feeling of desperation. She needed time to think. Was it possible? Could it be Vincent? Not the Vincent she knew. She needed to talk with Father.
*
At the first stroke of twelve, she was up and out of her chair. On her way out, she ran into Joe coming to talk with her.
"Where you going, Radcliffe?"
"Lunch," was her short reply.
"I thought Sammy was here?"
"Didn’t have what I wanted."
"Oh." He wondered why she was in such a hurry. She had her secrets, that one. "Hey, I need to talk with you when you get back."
"Ok. Be back in an hour."
*
Father was waiting for her at the court house threshold. Joe would have a coronary if he knew that there was a secret entrance there to the tunnels under the city.
"What is it, Catherine? I came as soon as I got the message." He was leaning on his cane, getting his breath back. It was a long walk from his chamber to this part of the tunnels.
"I have news, Father, but I’m not sure if it’s good news," she replied.
She looked so forlorn that he took her in his arms, gently patting her back. "Tell me anyway."
"There was a murder last night, and it was committed in the same manner that Vincent has used to defend me or the tunnel world."
"Are you saying that it is Vincent who did this thing?" Father asked in a shocked voice.
"No! No, it’s just very similar." She began to pace, thinking better while in motion. "The wounds are similar but that’s where the similarities stop. This was a vicious attack with damage done after the deaths. They were torn limb from limb. Vincent doesn’t kill that way. The beast may take over but Vincent is still there to keep him from inflicting too much damage." She paused in her pacing, bowing her head in thought, "But if it is Vincent, what would cause him to do such a thing? It just doesn’t make any sense."
"It can’t be him. He would never do anything like this." Leaning heavily on his cane, he asked, "Who was murdered?"
Catherine shrugged, "Just some scummy drug lord. No great loss. But it makes me wonder if a new hit man is in town, and this is his method of operation: to kill and to terrify."
"That must be what has happened. Vincent would have no reason to kill someone like that. They are no danger to us." He let out a sigh of relief.
"For a moment I thought we had found him. I’m sorry, Father, but I’m glad it’s not him. We’ll find him yet," she said with bravado.
He nodded glumly and turned to leave. "Come see me tonight. I need some cheering up."
"I will . . . as soon as I can."
*
She opened her desk drawer, dropped in her pencil, closed the drawer, and gathered the papers together. Pushing back from her desk with a heartfelt sigh, she stood and walked to Joe’s office. She laid the papers on his desk.
"Thanks, Radcliffe," he said, a smile lighting his face. "How are you feeling?"
"I’m fine, Joe. Really."
"Good. Where were you going in such a hurry at lunchtime?"
"To see the father of a good friend of mine. He’s worried about his son. He’s disappeared."
"Anything I can do?"
"No, but thanks for asking. If there is, I’ll let you know. Good night, Joe." Bestowing a warm, friendly smile on him, she left for the day.
"Night, Radcliffe," he answered.
*
After leaving the office, she went directly to Father’s chamber. There was no further news of Vincent. As they sat over the private dinner that Father had arranged with William, they talked about what could possibly have happened to Vincent, consoling each other and trying to raise the other’s spirits.
Later, before retiring for the evening, she went out on the terrace. She felt so close to her love there. It was their private place where their two separate worlds met and merged. She shivered as she leaned on the low balcony wall, looking out at the bright city lights, wishing he was there to warmly wrap her in his cloak and his love. "Be well, Vincent. Come back to me," she breathed on the night air.
*
He was stalking down a tunnel when he heard a woman’s voice say, "Be well, Vincent. Come back to me." With a snarl, he spun around, an upraised clawed hand ready to lash out at whoever was behind him. Only there was no one there. He shook his head wildly. He had heard someone. Who was this woman? The voice seemed curiously familiar, but he couldn’t see her face. Maybe he should ask Father about it, but he was singularly reluctant to ask him. He would keep it his secret for now.
He continued on to his session with Father who was telling him stories about his past. The stories about being the strongest and fastest of his playmates, how he made them all fear him, and how they feared him to this day pleased him immensely. Father’s descriptions of the blood and mayhem made his blood lust rise, and he wanted nothing more than to find someone to maim or butcher. Maybe Father would send him out on a hunt tonight.
Father was waiting for him in his chamber. There would be no stories tonight; Father had a specific task for him: to track and locate a certain Myron Levinski, the next target. He would be told when it was the proper time for the deed. Disappointed, he did as Father commanded and reported back to him that he had found the quarry and the perfect spot for his death. On hearing Vincent’s report, Father smiled a tight little smile. "Go, sleep now, my son. We’ll talk later. I have work to do."