Chapter 2
"But he’s dead; Vincent killed him," she gasped, recalling the painful scene of Vincent killing the man he thought was his father. Later, after talking it through, he had realized that even if the Man had not known that it was Paracelsus masquerading as Father, the Other had.
"Is he? His body just happened to disappear, and your description of Vincent’s demeanor is consistent with that produced by a new drug, paxena, that has plagued the city for the last two years. It seems that those that use this drug are extremely susceptible to suggestion and eventually end up not caring about anything."
Catherine shook her head. "Vincent would never take drugs, not after all that happened when Paracelsus gave him the psilocybin."
Returning to his chair, Peter took her hand in his. "Not willingly, no. But what if it was slipped into his food or drink?"
Horrified at the thought; nevertheless, she brought it up, "But that would mean that there had to be a saboteur planted by Paracelsus to be able to do that."
"Well, that isn’t past the realm of possibility, is it? Was there anyone new in the community about the time that all this started?" he asked.
She shook her head then her eyes widened and she gasped, "It couldn’t be. She grew up in the tunnels and was friends with Vincent. Serena! She would give Vincent and me cups of tea when we visited her, and she’s the one that he said that he loved." The words she uttered left a bitter taste in her mouth.
"Serena? She left kind of under a cloud, if I remember correctly, but she and Vincent were good friends, and I imagine that he could get Father to forgive her and accept her back into the community especially if, as you say, she had just lost her husband and child."
"Oh god, it has to be she. She’s the only new or returning member that I know of," she replied, amazed and angry. "We befriended that . . . that _woman_," Catherine spit out the word, "helped her fit into the community. Father had his reservations, it’s true, but Vincent talked him into letting her return. And then to have her take him away from me. I can’t wait to get my hands on her." Her green eyes glittered coldly, and Peter didn’t envy Serena when Catherine got hold of her.
Getting control of her anger, she began to think of ways to reclaim her lost love. "Let’s go to bed, Peter," she said, determination ringing in every word. "Tomorrow I want to start looking into her background." She got to her feet, feeling better than she had in a long while, and went straight to bed to sleep soundly at last. After locking up, Peter followed her upstairs.
Next morning she was standing in the doorway of the New York Public Library impatiently waiting for it to open. As soon as it did, she hurried to the research department and procured back copies of all the New York daily papers for the date of the supposed fire. Nothing. Checking a week previous and a week following, she still found nothing.
Going to the marriage license office, she flashed her outdated D.A. credentials, dazzling the clerk, and searched vainly for a copy of Serena’s marriage license. By checking death certificates, she did find that Serena had had a child, a daughter with no known father, but the child had died of SIDS a month after her birth. The woman was not what or who she seemed.
Catherine was suddenly furious. What had that woman done to Vincent? Had she hooked him on this new drug? If so, was he still addicted and was that the reason Peter could not get in touch with his friends Below? Could Paracelsus have used this method to gain control of the world Below? He was capable of anything in his quest to regain what he considered rightfully his. Fearfully, she wondered what had happened to Father, Mouse, Jamie, and the rest? And the children. They would suffer the most. She blamed herself if anything had happened to them; she should have stayed and fought, if not for Vincent then for her home beneath the streets of New York. She had to find out and the only way to do that was to take her courage in her own hands and brave the darkness of the tunnels without Vincent’s comforting strength.
Searching through dusty and old records was thirsty work and she was hungry to boot. Finding a nearby diner, she settled into a rear booth with coffee and a large Danish. She had the glimmerings of a plan in the back of her mind. To put it into action, she would need to go to the City Planning Commission’s Office of Maps and Records. She needed directions and the general layout of the tunnels between the docks and the home tunnels. Later, poring over the maps, she drew a haphazard lay out–drafting was not her specialty–of the path from the docks to the Hub. At least she had a general idea of the direction in which she should go.
Peter would be in his office by this time; so she dashed over there after leaving the Maps and Records Office. Demanding to speak with him immediately, she was not the model of courtesy as she stood tapping her foot restlessly. At last, unable to curtail her impatience, she scurried around the appointment desk and into his office. The receptionist, a plump, little redhead, trailed after her, breathlessly maintaining that this wasn’t allowed, that the doctor was busy. As Catherine opened a door to go look for him, she barged right into him. "Peter," she gulped, "we’ve got to talk. I’ve found out about Serena."
"Cathy," he complained, "I’ve got patients."
"I know, but this won’t take long. I’ll be out of your hair in no time."
"Ok," he grudgingly agreed as he closed the door. "Tell me what you’ve found out."
Catherine related all the information and then said, "I’ve got to find out what has happened: if any of our friends are still alive down there. I’m sure Vincent is. Even though he withdrew from me, I never did from him. I’ve always felt a faint glimmer of his life. It’s getting fainter, but I thought that it was due to our separation. He’s getting weaker and will die if I don’t find him. I’ve got to find him. He needs me," she declared, grabbing Peter’s arm, almost bruising it with the strength of her emotional grip.
"You love him still?" he asked, knowing the truth before she answered. It was in her eyes: the fear and longing for him.
"Yes, forever."
"Good girl," he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "What are you going to do?" Peter continued. "How are you going to get past those nasty guards? They’re dangerous."
"I know of a threshold that only Vincent and Mouse know about. It’s in the docks."
"That’s a dangerous place to be, especially at night."
"I know, but it’s the only safe entrance. It’s a long way from the Hub, and I hope that Paracelsus doesn’t know about it." By now she was pacing the floor, outlining her plans to her old friend. "When I leave here, I’m going to buy a lot of camping equipment and a gun or two."
"A gun?" Peter cried. "You know Father’s ideas on having a gun in the Tunnels."
"I’m well aware of his beliefs, but this time Paracelsus will not live to plague us again. I’m going to make certain of that." The cold glint in her eye convinced Peter that she meant every word she had said. She had changed; she wasn’t the sweet innocent that believed only in legal niceties anymore. She would do what she had to.
************
At midnight, Catherine was sitting in Peter’s car checking out all her equipment, making sure that she had what she needed. That afternoon she had bought a backpack, ropes, chalk, a compass, warm clothing, strong hiking boots, packets and packets of dehydrated food, a flashlight with several batteries, two lanterns and fuel, and last but most important, a gun with several clips of ammunition. She had forgotten a canteen, but Peter had found one for her in among all the odds and ends in his attic. Bestowing a tight but determined smile on him, she turned and said, "Everything’s here. I’m ready."
"You’re sure this is the right thing?" he asked worriedly.
"There’s no one else to turn to, Peter. It’s something I have to do alone."
"What about your fear of the darkness?"
"I’ll just have to concentrate on Vincent and the world Below. Don’t worry. I’ll do it if it kills me," she answered, stuffing her hair under the black ski cap that matched the sable clothing that she wore.
Taking her small body into his arms, he said, "That’s what I’m afraid of, honey. Be careful, please. Your father will kill me--if I get to heaven--if anything were to happen to you."
"Oh, you’ll make it to heaven, all right," she said, chuckling. "You’re a saint."
Ruefully, he shook his head at her.
"But I’ll be careful. Everything depends on me. I just hope I am strong enough to pull it off." Taking a deep breath, she said, "Well, here goes." Kissing him lightly on the cheek, she stepped out of the car, stuffed the guns into her pockets, slung the filled backpack over her shoulders, took the flashlight and, with a jaunty wave of bravado, disappeared into the midnight darkness.
As she walked away from him, he thought that she looked like a child playing commando, but he knew that her errand was one of deadly seriousness. Peter sat there for the agreed upon half-hour and, when she didn’t reappear, started the car and drove home. /Take great care, my little rescuer. I never knew that you had this much courage. Your father would be proud of you./ With a prayer on his lips, he slipped into bed and tossed and turned all night, too worried to sleep.
*************
Moving slowly and cautiously through the empty, dark warehouse, Catherine’s footsteps rang hollowly as she paced toward the tunnel entrance. Peering uneasily into the ebony darkness of the opening, she crawled into the tunnel. Moving gingerly, she began her search for the home tunnels. She squealed when something–a rat most likely–scuttled over her boot, startling her. Horrified, she stopped, listening intently for any sound that indicated the presence of another human being, that she had been discovered. She heard only the steady dripping of water somewhere to the left, and the rustling of rats moving through their dark domain. Taking a deep breath, she marked the wall and moved on farther into the grim, unknown tunnel. Constantly referring to the compass and her sketch, she pressed on deeper into the rock that was the foundation of the great city Above.
It seemed that she had been walking for hours, but checking the luminous hands of her watch, she noted that it was three in the morning. Snapping the cover of the watch closed, she rested for several minutes against the wall then opened a packet of trail mix, finishing it in a few minutes. She hated to take any time from her search but was wise enough–Vincent had taught her–to know that she needed sustenance and water to keep up her strength. Allotting herself fifteen minutes, she stretched out her legs and wiggled her toes. The backpack was heavy, but she needed everything that was in it, and so, when the fifteen minutes were up, she struggled into it and proceeded on her way after marking the wall as she had done at every juncture and every fifty feet.
Just as she was about to give up, thinking she had made a wrong turn somewhere, she heard a harsh, nasty laugh. Quickly dousing her flashlight, she faded into a branching tunnel, hoping that the man would not come her way. Squatting behind a rocky projection from the wall, she waited until the men–there were two of them–had moved off. She let go a sigh of relief and standing on wobbly, frightened legs edged into the main tunnel. It wouldn’t do to get caught. She had no doubts about what would happen to her. Ahead of her, she was able to make out the soft glow of dim light which the bright beam of her flashlight had obscured. Holding onto the barrel of the light as if it was a weapon, she started in the direction of the dim glow. Someone lived here. The source of the dim light was several torches set in the walls as this was a junction of five tunnels. Arbitrarily choosing one, she began a systematic examination of the chambers that branched off the passageway. They were mostly storage chambers, and she recognized Vincent’s elegant handwriting on several of the crates and barrels. Against all odds, she was close to the home chambers. Weak with relief, she sank to her knees, whispering her thanks to whatever powers there be. Resting behind some boxes that were the farthest from the entrance, she took the chance to have a small meal. As she stood in the doorway preparing to continue, she heard the same men approaching. Swiftly she sank out of sight behind the crates. Listening intently, she heard them making derogatory remarks about someone. "What a fry-brain," one laughed. "Yeah, it won’t be long. Then we won’t have to feed him anymore: food or drugs," the other agreed. "Good riddance. I’m tired of catering to him. If it wasn’t for Serena convincing the boss to let him die slowly, we coulda been rid of that cat-faced freak a long time ago."
Oh god, they were talking about Vincent. He _was_ alive. Her feelings were right, but he must be in terrible shape if they were talking about him dying. The men passed out of her hearing. Had they just taken food to him or were they doing that now? Since the home chambers were in front of her, she was inclined to think the former. Retracing her steps, doubly vigilant, she crept back to the first tunnel that branched off to her right. She inspected every cave, cavern, or grotto until she came to the last one. As she flashed the light beam into the small, unlit cave, she heard a faint voice, rough from disuse, ask, "Who is there?" Afraid that she had been discovered, she snapped off the light and stood motionless until the pathetic voice came again, "Please, who’s there? May I have some water?" She turned the flashlight back on and swept the cave with its light. The room was empty but for a coarse, dirty pallet shoved against the back wall. A mound of stained, ragged cloths was piled in the middle of the bed. At least that’s what she thought at first until a thin hand covered with patches of straggly hair rose in supplication as the voice asked for water again. A sudden intake of breath shook her small frame. She had found him.
The momentary paralysis left her instantly, and with a cry of "Vincent," she sprang to his side. Fumbling with haste, she opened the canteen, raised his head, and gave him his first drink of water that day. He fell back on the pallet with a murmured thank you. Not accustomed to the bright light, he had automatically closed his eyes and did not see who was kneeling beside him. Whoever it was lifted his head and placed it in their lap. Cool hands caressed his forehead and smoothed his tangled hair from his face.
"Vincent?" He heard Catherine’s sweet voice utter his name, something he had thought he would never hear again. Was he so close to dying that he was having auditory hallucinations? Serena had laughingly told him that he would suffer the pangs of hell before he died. But oh, the sound of Catherine’s voice was like the song of the angels, and he began to cry. He had prayed that hers would be the last voice he would hear as he died. Cautiously he opened his eyes to the vision that was leaning over him. He knew at that moment that he must be dying. How he wished it was really Catherine holding his head in her lap, murmuring words of love to him and not the last dream of his life. He sighed and closed his eyes again. How Serena would laugh at him about this final dream of a love she had taken away from him. Whenever he was completely lucid, she had taunted him with the words he had said to Catherine during his last visit to her. It hadn’t been difficult for the woman to learn of his words and actions as he gladly related them to her, influenced by the powerful hold the drug had over him by then.
"Vincent!" the vision repeated, shaking him. It was imperative that she get him out of there as soon as possible, and she couldn’t do it by herself; she needed his aid. "Vincent! Wake up. I need your help; I can’t do it alone." She shook him harder. "Can you sit up?"
Catherine wanted him to sit up? He would try; he would always try to answer her appeals. With her help, he sat up slowly and opened his eyes to find her eyes boring into his. "Catherine?" he quavered. "Am I dreaming? Are you really here?" The tears streaming down his cheeks emphasized the wasted planes and angles of his face. "Forgive me, forgive me," he cried, "for hurting you so," and he tried to take her into his arms. They wouldn’t cooperate and still hung loosely at his sides.
"We don’t have time for that, love. We’ve got to get out of here," she struggled to her feet and attempted to pull him up. Even in his emaciated condition it was beyond her strength. Kneeling down in front of him, she took his wasted face in her hands, staring intently into his dull azure blue eyes filled with pain and loathing. "You’ve got to help me, Vincent. I want to be far from here when they discover that you’re missing." She bent her head to his and kissed him firmly on the lips. This wasn’t exactly the way she wanted their first kiss to be. He tasted of drugs and he smelled. To know that he was filthy and unwashed would shame him if he was in his right senses but now he didn’t care. "There that ought to get you motivated. Think of what you’ll be missing if you die or they kill you. I need you now, Vincent," she cried forcefully.
Her kiss merged the scattered parts of him into one whole person and seemed to give him the necessary strength to rise to his feet. Weaving back and forth, he stood on his feet for the first time since he had been brought to this cave. Patting him softly on the chest, Catherine praised him as she would a small child. Right now he wasn’t far from that state. "Good boy. Now, can you take a few steps for me?"
Whatever Catherine wanted of him, he would die trying to do it for her. Sliding one foot in front of the other, he neared the entrance and, breathing heavily, leaned against the stone arch with both hands. "Wait right here," she said. She returned to the pallet to gather her equipment and to make certain that nothing of hers was left behind. She wanted them to think that he had tried to escape and got lost in the maze of tunnels. Getting Vincent out of there was going to be one long nightmare, she knew, but if he could give her just a little bit of help, she was fairly confident that they would get away.
"You don’t have any restraints," she commented.
"No," he answered, gasping for air. "They didn’t think . . . that I had the . . . strength to escape. Paracelsus . . . tormented me . . . about my lost strength. Oh, Catherine . . . ," he sobbed, remembering the humiliation he felt as he watched his erstwhile lover gloating as Paracelsus taunted him, knowing that the drugged man had no strength left with which to reach him.
"Don’t think about that right now. Think about getting away from this hellhole. I know you can do it . . . we can do it . . . Together we can do anything." She reached up and caressed his sunken cheeks. What kind of people were they to treat him like this? The cruelty appalled her. She would make certain that nothing like this would ever happen to her loved ones again.
"Yes," he mumbled. "With you beside me, I can conquer anything." He laid his hand over hers then turned his head to gently kiss her soft hand.
That small gesture broke whatever remained of the shell she had built around her heart. Her heart swelled with the love she had buried for two years, but there were more important things to consider: such as getting him to a safe place where he could fight his demons and win, without the fear of recapture. "Come on, let’s keep moving. We’ve got to find a safe place before they discover that you’re gone."
Stumbling, stopping often to rest, she led him slowly, oh so slowly, from his captivity. It took them almost half an hour to negotiate the short tunnel from the cave to the first intersection. At the junction she had an exhausted Vincent wait while she scouted the area for any of Paracelsus’ followers. This section was silent, devoid of any sound, of voices . . . the outskirts of the living area. How Vincent must have suffered in this silence. The one, who needed the love and fellowship of his friends, confined in complete stillness with only his guilt to keep him company. She wondered sadly how he would live with his guilt, thinking he had betrayed his world into John Pater’s hated hands. She would face this terrifying unknown with him; she would never leave him again.
Cautiously, she inched him out into the main tunnel. Pulling his arm around her shoulder--the other arm he used as a support against the wall--she took the flashlight in one hand, and with the other, she grabbed his waist in a viselike grip and propelled him, shakily, into the larger tunnel. She knew they would never make it to the dock threshold, that they needed a hidden place far from Paracelsus’ prying eyes. "Vincent." They were resting after fifteen minutes of struggling to get-- maybe--a hundred feet. Collapsed against the stony wall, gasping for breath, he was lost in a world of pain and dulled senses; he hadn’t heard her. He was still living in a world that centered on one thing; the next dose of the drug he thought he couldn’t live without. "Snap out of it, Vincent," she said harshly. She had no time to coddle him. "I need you."
Ah, the magic words: Catherine needed him. He tried to focus on her, but his efforts wavered, and he had to use all his depleted strength to listen to her. He blinked at her, bringing her dear face into focus. "What . . . do you . . . need?" he managed to get out.
"Listen carefully, Vincent." She was compelled to continually emphasize his name to keep him with her and not off in some drug-induced world of his own. "We are between the home tunnels and the docks. Vincent! Did you get that?" He nodded slowly. "Is there some place near . . . ?" she continued. His attention had begun to falter again and she shook him. "I know it’s hard, but stay with me, Vincent. This is important. Is there a secret place, one that Paracelsus knows nothing about, that we can get to from here?"
Fighting exhaustion and the siren call of the last fix of paxena whispering to him that all was well and he need not strive so hard, he nodded. "The river with no name," he muttered so softly that she had to ask him to repeat it.
"Oh, that’s perfect," she cried as she hugged him. Vincent smiled; he had done something to please her. He loved her so much, and he had prayed for so long that she would come back to him, and now here she was sitting beside him, smiling at him. "But, Vincent, you will have to show me the way," she proceeded, "I’m depending on you. We’ve got to get out of this main tunnel." Pulling on his arm, she indicated that they should get up and start the grueling march again. Clumsily, he got to his knees and then with great effort to his feet. As before they stumbled on, this time a little farther. They rested again and, alternating periods of rest with periods of determined progress, crept through the dark corridors.