THOUGH IT WERE TEN THOUSAND MILES
By Joan Stephens

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Chapter Five

After leaving James, Vincent walked through the rolling plains until early dawn began to lighten the east.  Then he found a small hollow and bedded down for the rest of the night, awaiting the morning.  He figured that he had walked about twenty miles and had encountered absolutely no one.  As always, just before sleep claimed him, he listened to the bond to be sure that she was still safe, that Gabriel had not harmed her.  She was asleep and his love crossed the long miles to settle around her heart, keeping her reassured that he was on his way to her.  The wind whistling through the sage brush lulled him into a restful sleep where he dreamed dreams of Catherine and his child.

The country he was passing through consisted of rolling plains with few trees and these only where there was a source of water.  As there were few places to hide, he traveled mostly at night, skirting the occasional ranch house hidden in the hollows of the plains. 

About a week after saying goodbye to James, he was trudging down a dusty gravel road in the early morning dawn before finding a place to sleep.  He came upon a small grove of cottonwoods, and finding a large depression between the roots of one of the trees, he settled down for a much needed rest.  Before he dropped off, he thought of all he had seen the past few days and nights.

The prairie held its own beauty and majesty.  Paint brush, columbine, ground morning glories, and a plant that had huge white, bell-like blossoms grew in the hollows of the land and in among the buffalo grass.  The ever present wind moved over the undulating landscape, whispering its tales of bygone days through the fragrant sagebrush and juniper trees.  If only he understood the language of the wind, what stories he could hear.  Magnificent rain storms had awakened him more than once as they rolled over him, stunning him with the force of their rolling thunder.  Dazzling white flashes of lightning almost blinded him with their brilliance.  During one storm he was even pelted with quarter sized hailstones.  Clouds were so low that they seemed to walk on wispy legs across the land.  The night sky was ablaze with brilliant points of light and higher than he had ever seen it.  He was treated to the beauty of falling stars and, wonder of wonders, the northern lights.  He had never seen anything so beautiful, other than his beautiful Catherine, and he wanted to pluck one of the stars from its bed of ebony velvet and keep it in his pocket to give to her when next they met. 

Mule deer, wild turkeys, sage hens, badgers, porcupines, ground squirrels, prairie dogs, and the ubiquitous antelope as well as herds of cattle and horses and flocks of sheep roamed the open prairie.  Golden eagles, hawks, even a bald eagle soared in the sky, and the meadow larks sang him to sleep in the morning.  Many a day one or more of these animals had  awakened him, but today he thought he would sleep so soundly that that wouldn’t happen.

Lying beneath the huge, old cottonwood, he watched through the canopy of fluttering leaves as a hawk sailed lazily on the warm summer updrafts of this beautiful, sunshiny day.  He decided that he liked Wyoming.  He liked the solitude, the wide-open spaces, the wind whistling through the grass, the smell of the sage, the high blue sky, and the ebony nights with the stars so close that he felt he could reach out and touch them.  A land of wonders.

Closing his eyes, he went through his morning ritual of sending his love to Catherine and his child.  She was still sleeping soundly, but he knew she would awaken with the knowledge that he had been there in her heart.  It comforted him to know that she was alive and well and that the baby was thriving.

That evening at twilight, as he was marching down a dusty, gravel road, his mind a few thousand miles away, he was rudely brought back to earth when he heard a throaty growl in front of him.  A large, black, gray and white Australian Shepherd, blue eyes glaring at him suspiciously, was planted firmly in the middle of the dirt road, barring his way.  They stood there eying each other until the dog dropped to its belly and inched up to the strange smelling man.  He knelt in the dust, stroking the dog’s head and ears, and when she rolled over onto her back, he rubbed her belly, making her tail wag in ecstasy.  A sharp whistle brought her to her feet and caused Vincent to freeze.  “Go on now,” he urged her.  “Go on.”  With her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth, she gave him a big doggy grin and bolted out of sight.  Hoping he had not been seen, Vincent hurriedly left the area.

                                                  ************************

She had won again; the houseboy was no match for her, making her long for a better opponent.  After Vincent had been sent away, she had decided to act and think as if their lives would return to normal; so, she decided to surprise him by learning to play chess.  The doctor had relayed her request to Gabriel.  Sometimes, she felt that the doctor was her only ally, if you could call him that for he was far too frightened of his employer to do much. But he did try to ease her loneliness as much as he could, not for her benefit, but because he knew the child would fare better if she was under less stress.  And unknown to her, she had badly frightened Gabriel the morning that she woke up to find Vincent was gone.  This was another reason she had to die, he had momentarily lost control of the situation, and he would take great pleasure in doing it himself.  He tried to maintain a delicate balance in their relationship, letting her have what she requested but, also, letting her know that it was only to keep the baby healthy.  With that in mind, a few days later Pope brought her an ornate and expensive chess set: an antique, another statement by Gabriel of his wealth and power.

She had studied and learned all the moves as best she could, playing against herself.  Playing against the house staff was too easy.  Shelving the chess set, she set it aside until she could find a worthy opponent.  If not chess, what?  A journal!  She would write their story for their child to read.  Aware that Gabriel would read it, she carefully worded it in the hopes that he would not figure out where the tunnels were.  Putting it all down on paper showed her how wonderful and miraculous was their love, and she felt so close to Vincent when she was writing.  There were times when she felt that he was hungry, tired, or lonely, and she wished there was something she could do to help him.  But all she could do was send him her love and confidence.  “Be well, my love, be safe.”  She sent thoughts of love and strength to him.

                                                       ************************** 

Father had just returned from one more fruitless, unproductive meeting in Joe Maxwell’s office.  There was nothing new on either Catherine or Vincent’s disappearance but there was one new development.  Elliot Burch had been brought into the search.  Father was none too happy with this since he wasn’t sure how much Burch could be trusted.  He had been ready to take Joe into his confidence, but now he decided to wait a little longer, to see what happened.  In the mean time, he missed his son terribly and, for that matter, Catherine too.  Every night before he fell asleep, he breathed a prayer to whatever gods there were to keep the two of them safe and to bring them home soon.

                                                        *************************

People always disappointed him.  Why did they always think they could outsmart him?  He had yet to find one who could, certainly not Moreno.  Gabriel had had a final confrontation with Catherine Chandler.  In no uncertain terms, she had told him that she had given the notebook to Moreno.  What he had done with it after that she didn’t know, and as far as she knew, it was complete with no pages missing.  The dark man was inclined to believe her now.  She had no reason to lie, not at this time.

He sat, fingers steepled, watching her on the monitor.  She had been under surveillance for so long that she had forgotten the camera was there, never glancing at it anymore.  The child was growing steadily.  They are the perfect parents for my child: strong, courageous, fierce, he thought, then he pulled himself back to the present.

So . . . Moreno had lied to him.  He had a reason for keeping that book, and it was not for Gabriel’s benefit.  This action spoke volumes to him.  Moreno was beginning to think he was smarter than Gabriel.

He had let this business of the child distract him from the necessity of finding the book.  No longer.  The doctor could take care of Catherine Chandler; he would take care of John Moreno.

                                                     ************************

July 4^th, Independence Day, was hot and muggy, too uncomfortable to be outside.   Independence Day.  What a laugh.  Independence was for others, not for her.  She watched the news showing people at the beach frolicking in the ocean waves or floating in backyard pools, barbecuing, playing pick up baseball, or just relaxing in a local park soaking up the sun.  And she was lonely.  It was all so hopeless.  Anxiously she wondered, Where was Vincent?  She could feel him getting closer, but it seemed as if he moved at a snail’s pace.  With the way the baby was growing, he would need to be here by October.  She was beginning to think he wouldn’t make it.  That night she curled into a fetal ball and wept dispiritedly into her pillow.  The crying session was cathartic, just what she needed, and as she fell into an exhausted sleep, the words he had recited to her from Robert Burns’ poem came back to her; ‘And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile.’  He always kept his promises, and she awoke the next morning with determination that she would never let something like this happen again, that she would be strong, optimistic, looking forward to the time when she and Vincent would be reunited.

She was ashamed of herself for losing faith and sinking into depression.  Her captivity was nothing compared to the danger and trials that Vincent faced.  Now that the depression was gone, she could feel him nearer than ever.  From that dark period of her life, she took courage.  Even then she was ready to fight, to carry on, to be the woman Vincent deserved.  It was the lowest point, but also the defining time of her life.  She learned what she was truly made of, and she would always think of July 5^th as her Independence Day.

The baby was very active, developing quite rapidly, and he seemed to love to kick her in the side.  She was four and a half months along and already he was as large as a six-month fetus.  Hers was not a normal pregnancy.  She wondered if Vincent had developed the same way.  She was sure his birth process must have been different from that of other children.

Oh Daddy, she thought, I’m having a baby.  Vincent’s baby.  I dreamed of this for so long.  I prayed, but I wasn’t sure we could.  Pray for us, Daddy.  We need all the help we can get.  I miss you.

                                                             **************

She continued to write their story.  Sitting back in her chair, legs stretched out in front of her, she read the beginning again . . .

My dearest child,

                                                 This is my gift to you.  I can’t give you any special abilities like your father can, I am an ordinary woman, but I can bequeath to you the ability to love and this: the story of your father and me.  The story of how you came to be.  It all began the night of April 12, 1986 . . .          

                                                       **********************

It was well into July and he had crossed into Nebraska early in the month.  His food was fast running out, and to stretch his meager fare he was reduced to stealing what he could find from the farmhouses that were randomly set down in the middle of fields of corn and wheat that seemed to stretch for miles.  The countryside had slowly changed from the rolling prairie of buffalo grass and sagebrush to huge fields of wheat and corn.  Here everything was tamer than in Wyoming.

He was missing Catherine desperately.  There was an empty place in him that only her presence could fill.  A few days ago he had felt her depression.  She had momentarily lost her trust in their future, but the next day she was filled with renewed courage and strength.  She had found her path again and would never stray from it.  He had never loved her more than he did at that moment.

When he had crossed the North Platte river, he had spent the day on the riverbank, hiding in the cottonwoods that lined its shores.  He had found an old rusted fish hook and some line and was able to catch a few fish, using worms and nightcrawlers that he had dug from around the roots of the cottonwoods.  He had smoked the fish in the way he had once read about, thankful for his insatiable curiosity, then continued on his way.

Generally, he headed to the east, only changing direction when he was forced to.  Traveling parallel to US-34, he passed through Iowa.  The farther east he went the denser the population became and he had to be more careful and find secure places to sleep during the day.  Often he found an old barn or shed to bunk in.  Many a day, he thanked the Nez Perce for giving him a blanket to wrap up in and he sorely missed his cloak.  He found out that Iowa consisted of many farms, not as big as those in Nebraska, and many small towns.  He skirted the larger towns and cities, only venturing near the small ones when he needed food.  He knew now, at first hand, what it was like to be homeless.

He came upon a find near Mt. Pleasant in a camping site filled with weekend campers.  The coolers that sat outside the tents and travel trailers were full of food.  In the wee hours of the morning when he was least likely to be seen, he took what he needed, feeling only a little guilty.  Silently he thanked the unknown campers and was gone in a matter of minutes.  With this excursion, he discovered that camping areas were the best places to find food and shelter.

During the middle of August, he crossed into Illinois.  As he headed east paralleling IL-17, he was able to find many campgrounds.  The weather was warm and dry, drawing droves of people to enjoy the outdoors as he would have if not for the necessity of reaching Catherine as soon as possible.  Vincent understood now her love for the forest and lake of her childhood, and promised himself that when he and Catherine were reunited–he would consider nothing else–they would go to her family’s cabin in Connecticut.  He stayed close to IL-17 until he reached Indiana.  So far he had been able to find places to hide and, moving like a wraith through the night, had not been discovered.  There were a few close calls, especially one night when a camper came upon him in the act of taking some food.  Vincent fled with bullets flying around him.  The camper had quite a tale to tell when he returned home.

                                                       *********************

“What has happened?” Jacob Well’s asked, shaking Joe’s hand.  An hour ago Kipper had given him a message from Joe saying there was a new development in the case and to see him whenever it was convenient; there was no rush.  That piqued Jacob’s interest and here he was sitting in that uncomfortable couch that squatted in front of Joe’s desk.

“You remember the book Cathy said she had given to Moreno?” Joe asked as he returned to his chair.

“Yes, it started all this.”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry about that.”

Waving an understanding hand, Jacob waited for him to continue.

“Well, Moreno had it, but not anymore.  Elliot’s man, Manning, has liberated it from Moreno’s desk safe.  Elliot has it and is trying to break the code.  If we can do that, we can find out who is behind the kidnappings.”

Father leaned heavily on his cane.  “These last four months have been a nightmare.”

“Yeah, I know; I’ve never been more frustrated in my life,” Joe responded.

Jacob made a quick decision.  “Joe, I’m going to do something that I might regret, but I think it is time you know exactly who you are looking for.”

Puzzled, Joe frowned at him.  “That’s a strange statement to make, Mr. Wells.”

“I know, and please call me Jacob.”  Joe dipped his head, agreeing.  The older man continued, “Catherine made a promise to me and my world never to reveal what she knew to anyone, not even to her father.”  Joe’s eyebrows shot up and he braced himself for what would come next, wondering why she would have to make a promise like that.  “She trusts you, so I am going to trust you also,” the old man added.

Intrigued, Joe leaned forward, his arms resting on his desk.  “Cathy had her secrets, that’s for sure.  And it all had to do with you?”

“And Vincent.”  Jacob shifted uncomfortably.  He was taking a big step: one that was irreversible.  If he had misjudged this man . . .   “Can you meet me in the basement of Catherine’s apartment building this afternoon?”

“Just say the time,” Joe answered eagerly.  He was about to discover the mystery that surrounded Catherine Chandler.

                                                       ************************

Just as he was leaving, Moreno called him into his office.  “How are you doing on the Chandler case?” he asked.

“Not very well,” the young ADA answered evasively.

 “How many men do you have on it?  Twenty?”  Moreno leaned back smugly in his char, clasping his hands together over his stomach.

“That’s about right.”

“It’s been–what–around four months now?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s time to get on with our other cases.  I’m going to cut back on the number of persons working on this one case.”

Indignantly, Joe shot back, “John, she’s family.  We don’t turn our back on family.”

“Joe, she had already left the office.”  Moreno’s voice dripped condescending patience.

“I don’t care; she’s family.”  Joe’s voice was rising, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.  Trying to calm himself, he turned away from the man behind the desk and stared out the window.  What he heard next almost drove him over the edge.

“Regardless, I’m cutting it back to three men.  And, Joe, I don’t like the way you’re looking.  You’ve been working too hard and not taking care of yourself.  I want you to take some time off.”

“John!  I’m all right,” Joe stated, aghast at the suggestion.  “I’m perfectly fine.”  Planting both hands flat on the desk, Joe leaned forward, glaring at his boss.

“Nevertheless, you will take some time off, starting now.  I’ll let you know when I think you’re ready  to  come back.”  There was a ring of finality in his voice.

“Don’t do this, John.  Please!  I’ll work on Cathy’s case on the weekends and at night.  But don’t do this to me.”

“It’s for your own good, Joe,” Moreno stated with offensive satisfaction.  There was something in his eyes that disturbed Joe: a look he had never before seen there.

“I’ve trusted you for years, John.  I’ll never forgive you for this.”  He slammed the door as he stalked out.  Heads turned and watched him stalk into his office, slamming that door, too.  More furious than he had ever been in his life, he threw his stuff into a box and, with a rigid back, marched out of the District Attorney’s office that he would return to one day in triumph.

Contentedly, Moreno leaned back in his chair.  That was one problem taken care of.  Gabriel should be pleased with his solution.

                                                        *********************

Later that afternoon Joe found a young boy waiting for him at the appointed time and place.  “Hi.  Are you Joe Maxwell?” he asked, squinting up him through coke-bottle glasses.  Joe nodded.  He would have taken the boy to be a child of the streets but for the fact that he and his clothes were spotlessly clean.  “Father asked me to bring you Below.  Follow me,” the boy said as he turned to an open door that led to the sub-basement and slipped into it.  His head popped back up and he said, “There’s a ladder just below the opening so be careful and don’t fall.”  He eased out of sight and Joe cautiously followed, feeling for the rungs and finally stepped into a world he never knew existed.

“Here he is, Father.” 

Jacob Wells was dressed as strangely as the boy in well-used, patched clothing, making him look as if he had just stepped out of a medieval novel.  “Thank you, Eric.  Now run along.  I’ll be right there.”  Leaning on his cane, he turned to the puzzled young man.  “Welcome, Joe.  Come with me and I’ll show you my world.”

“Your world?”

“Yes, there is a whole world down here that most people don’t even know exists.  Vincent’s world and now Catherine’s as well.  This is the secret Catherine kept from you.  This world is separate and distinct from the world Above.  We have our own laws and government.  We take care of each other.  Catherine was brought here by Vincent the night she was attacked and brutally slashed.  She has been a member of our world since then.”

“I knew she was hiding something but this–wow!”

“Let me show you how we live and what we do.”  Jacob indicated the tunnel to the right with his cane and turned in that direction.  He led the astounded young man through a maze of tunnels, and soon they began to meet people who spoke to the older man, calling him Father as the boy, Eric, had.  As they passed by, they eyed Joe suspiciously.  The tunnel patriarch showed Joe all the levels of his world: the living quarters, the school rooms, the chandlery, the communal dining chamber and kitchen, the various workshops, but saved the Great Hall for last. 

Thoroughly impressed at how well they lived with so little, Joe asked about the children they had encountered on their tour.  They had touched him with their courtesy and cheerfulness.  “Where do they come from?”

Smiling reminiscently, Father answered, “Most come to us from the streets.  Some are born here.  Some leave, some stay.  We give them the love, care, and education that they wouldn’t get in your world.”

Leading Joe into the Great Hall by a back door, Father brought him to the bottom of the gallery stairs.  “This is where we hold our festivals and parties, where we have our joyous times.”

Joe looked around the huge chamber, noting the large trestle tables pushed against one wall, the chairs stacked beside them, the wagon wheel candelabra, and lastly the tapestries that hung on the wall behind the gallery.  In the dim light they were difficult to make out, as they were so old that the colors had faded to a rich antique hue.  But at the foot of the stairs was a painting so arresting that it took his breath away.  It showed Catherine in the arms--Joe could think of no better words to describe him–of a man/beast of imposing stature and in a strange way . . . beautiful.  High intelligence gleamed in his eyes.  And Catherine . . . well, she had the look of a woman fulfilled by a great love.  The man/beast held her gently as she leaned back into his body.

“Is that Vincent?” he asked in awe.

“Yes, now you know why I have been so hesitant about telling you of him.”  Father watched Joe intently for his reaction.

Blowing out a sigh, Joe said, “He certainly is special.  Is he as strong as he looks?”

“Yes, but he has the most gentle soul and loving heart of anyone I have ever known,” Father answered lovingly.  “Otherwise, Catherine could not love him as she does.”

“He’s the one who’s been protecting her,” Joe exclaimed as the pieces of Catherine’s puzzling life fell into place.  “That explains a lot.”

Sadly, Father nodded.  “Yes.  Will you keep our secret?  If you don’t, you will ruin more lives than Catherine’s.”

Captivated by the painting, Joe couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.  “Yeah, sure,” he said distantly, “I’ll keep your secret, but I want to talk with Cathy and Vincent after we find them.”

“Thank you, Joe.  You really think we will find them?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You’re a good man.  Catherine couldn’t want for a better friend.  Will you stay for dinner?  We have the best cook in town.”

                                                           ************

After bidding Jacob a good night, Joe decided to stop by Diana Bennet’s apartment.  That morning he had had coffee with an old friend of his on the police force.  He had been complaining to Nick about the lack of evidence in Cathy’s disappearance.  Nick had asked him if he had heard of a woman detective in the 2-10 division: the special crimes division.  He suggested that Joe get in touch with Diana Bennett, one of the best.  So, here he was late at night buzzing her apartment.

“Who’s there?” her voice issued tinnily from the speaker.

“Joe Maxwell, DA’s Office.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

The freight elevator ground to a halt and a small woman, slender with long auburn hair that at the moment was caught in a long braid that hung down the middle of her back, stepped out.  It was obvious that Joe had gotten her out of bed as she was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.  Not beautiful, she was striking and many heads turned to look at her.  She stepped close to Joe.

“Diana Bennett?”

“Yes,” she replied, eyeing him curiously.

“Sorry if I woke you, but I can’t wait any longer,” he apologized.  “You’ve heard about Catherine Chandler?”

Slowly she answered, “Yes,” knowing what he would ask of her.

“Are you as good as they say?” he demanded.

“I’ve had my share of wins, maybe more than most.”

“Ok. I want you on the Chandler case.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I can’t; I’m already on a case.  A little girl kidnapped, no ransom.  I only work on one case at a time.”

“Couldn’t you make an exception this one time?” he pleaded.  “I really need help.  Hell, I’ve even got Elliot Burch working on this one.”

“No, Joe, I can’t make an exception.  I need total concentration when I am working on a case.  I’m sorry.”  Stepping into the elevator, she pushed a button.

Defeated, he said, “If you change your mind, let me know.”

                                                           ********************

Night had fallen.  Vincent was gathering what few possessions he had into his old backpack.  The campsite he had spent the day in was small and uncared for and had been empty when he arrived.  He had spent the day sleeping in a scope of bushes, but now it was dark, a moonless night, the kind he liked for travel.  He had slept later than he planned but he was tired and road-weary.  As he readied himself to start out once more, he heard a muffled cry.  He tensed, waiting to see if he had been seen.  There was another cry.  He started to leave when a piercing scream rent the night air.  It was the scream of a woman in abject terror.  Running toward the sound, he spotted a small tent.  By a small fire, a young man, obviously dead, laid in a pool of his own blood.  A short distance away a young woman was struggling with a short, stocky man who held a knife to her throat.  He had ripped half her clothes off.  Without a thought, Vincent let out a great roar and launched himself at the rapist.  The struggling pair turned startled eyes toward him as Vincent yanked the man away from the girl.  Whimpering, she scrabbled back, away from the conflict.  The rapist struck out at the infuriated  two-legged beast who bore down upon him, hoping to cut him with his knife.  Vincent lashed out at him, and he dropped to the ground dead, his throat torn out.  Quickly reining in the beast, Vincent turned to help the girl.

She was so frightened that she could hardly speak.  “P-please . . . d-don’t . . . hurt . . . m-me,” she begged as she tried to pull her torn clothing together with fingers that didn’t want to work.

In his softest most persuasive voice, Vincent replied, “You have nothing to fear from me.”  He searched in the small tent for a blanket or something to cover her.  Finding two sleeping bags in the tent, he gave one to her, saying, “I will not harm you.”  Then he covered the young man’s body with the other one.

Wrapping the sleeping bag around her as best she could, she started to cry, deep racking sobs.  “Is Stan dead?” she asked through hiccupping sobs.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he answered.  Hugging her knees to her chest, she shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what had happened to her.  Vincent asked, “Are you all right?  He didn’t hurt you?” 

“No, I’m ok.”

“You need to call the police.  You need medical assistance.”

She looked up at him with enormous, swimming eyes.  “Can’t you do it?”

“No, I must be gone before they arrive.”

“Will you stay with me a while?” she pleaded.

“As long as I can.”  Tentatively, he moved toward her.  When she didn’t flinch, he took her gently into his arms and comforted her.  “What is your name?” he asked.

“Belinda,” she whispered, leaning into the comforting arms of the strangest man she had ever met.

“That’s a lovely name.  What were you doing out here in such a secluded place?”

“We had just become engaged and came out here to celebrate.”  The sobs increased as she thought of her young man lying under the sleeping bag.

He rocked her until at last she was calm and he felt that he could leave her.

“I must leave,” he said.

“Will you walk with me to the nearest telephone?  It’s at the entrance.  Then will you stay with me until the police come?”

Agreeing, he accompanied her to the entrance.  After the phone call and as they were walking back to the campsite, she said, “Thanks for saving my life.”

“I wish I could have saved your young man.”

“I do to,” she said with a catch in her throat.

They sat by the fire, waiting for the police.  When they heard the sirens, he stood up and looked down at her.  “You will be all right now.  Goodbye.”

“Yes, I know.  Goodbye.” 

As he moved toward the darkness, she called after him, “Who are you?”

“A weary traveler,” he replied as he walked into the night.