To Hope Anew

Chapter Eight

"What do you mean 'don't worry'? No one has seen or heard from herin four days. I'm not supposed to worry?" Joe was very near toconsuming the receiver of the telephone he was strangling in hishand. Trying to rein in his Italian-Scottish temper to asemi-professional level, he instead threw a pencil across the room,narrowly missing his secretary, Andrea. She, by now, was used tododging her boss's legendary outrage at departmental and bureaucraticinefficiencies, and merely stood beyond range in the far corner ofthe room until it was safe to proceed.

"I was supposed to meet her on Monday... Yeah, yeah, I know shehas unorthodox methods when she's on a case... Listen... But... Iwant to know the minute she reports in; is that understood?... Fine."

The receiver was slammed into the telephone's cradle with everyounce of frustration Joe had been battling the past couple of days.He ran an anxious hand through his hair, thinking a mile a minute.Andrea was about to approach his desk, a sheaf of letters, folders,and court documents slipping from her arms, when her driven bosssuddenly blew past her. "I'm taking an early lunch, Andi. Hold downthe fort until I get back."

"But you need to see these briefs... And there's a letter thatcame by messenger here."

"Later," came the reply shouted over the shoulder of theretreating District Attorney.

It was happening again.

Joe knew it as certainly as he knew anything in his life lately:Diana was missing. Something had happened to her. She wasn't justburying herself in her work, trailing leads on her own withoutkeeping anyone informed of her whereabouts. Something had happened toher.

Why wouldn't anyone believe him?

First Cathy, now Diana.

He wasn't about to find himself identifying Sergeant Bennett'sbody in the morgue tonight. He hadn't been able to keep Cathy safe.He hadn't been able to find her through all the agonizing months. Itwasn't going to happen again with Diana.

Joe tried to clear his head as he rode in the taxi to her loft.Placing himself back into his investigator's mindset, he attempted tosort through the details he knew as best as he could:

On Saturday, she'd been preparing to visit Jacob and Samantha'sfamily. She had promised to meet him Monday. She never came to hisoffice, never called in to her captain, the one procedural protocolshe'd been forced to accept from her superiors.

Something had happened to her between Saturday and Monday. Shewasn't just involved in her investigations.

The cab pulled up to the building where Diana leased her loft.Paying the cabby an unintentionally large tip in his distraction, Joestood before the door of the building and attempted to collect histhoughts, let reason overtake emotion.

He was overstepping his authority, he knew. He had no searchwarrant, no rational reason to back up his thinking. At best, he wasopening himself up to a highly embarrassing situation ofover-reaction, or, at worst, criminal charges. But this was Diana,her disappearance he was contending with. He wasn't about to abandonhis concerns for her and stand on policy.

Since Cathy's death, Diana had been just about the only personbeyond family he had allowed to get close to him. There was nothingromantic about it, he knew. Cathy's loss had just about built ahermetical seal around his emotions, his heart. But Diana was afriend, a real and actual, trusted friend, someone he'd been able totalk to during his blackest moments, someone he could rely on fortruth, no matter what the cost. She drove him to distraction attimes, and he seriously questioned whether or not she inhabited thesame plane of existence as everyone else in the world did, but heknew she cared, deeply, about what she was doing with her life. Abouthim. He needed someone to care. And to care for. He'd be damned ifhe'd let anything happen to her now.

Joe's persistent buzzing at the front door finally ellicited anappearance by the elderly super of the building. Talking to himalmost made his blood freeze in its veins: the old gentleman wasconcerned about Diana's apparent absence from her apartment as well.He said a man had come around on Saturday evening asking about her,after she had left with the two children who were frequent visitorsto her home. Without a hesitation, the super let Joe into theapartment.

Once inside the light-flooded, plant-filled flat, Joe took a cuefrom Diana's own working tactics and stopped a long moment to placehimself into the apartment as he had been on Saturday. He surveyedthe living room and kitchen area slowly, minutely, attempting to noteany details that might clue him in to Diana's presentwhereabouts.

The baby stroller was folded and tucked neatly into a corner ofthe hallway. Toys and books were still piled into the laundry basketnearby the couch, and on a small chest of drawers against the wall onthe far side of the room. Joe came over to the brightly painteddresser and opened the drawers filled with baby necessities.

Diapers, both cloth and disposable, were carefully piled into onedrawer. Outer clothes in another were pretty much new, not showingsign of much laundering. That wasn't so strange. Everyone givesbabies new outfits to wear. For the most part, the clothes were basiclittle items, T-shirts, pants, socks. But in another drawer therewere some items that looked obviously made by hand -- a pair of longpants with heavy patches on the knees, a knitted pullover sweater.There was also a sturdy pair of heavy little sneakers.

So Diana had new and old clothes for the little boy sheoccasionally cared for, items for warm weather and coolertemperatures. There wasn't much to point him towards anything there,he conceded.

Moving to the kitchen proper, Joe saw that the glasses and dishesSamantha had served their snack from had all been washed and left todrain in the basket on the sink. There were no dirty dishes. Time hadbeen taken to clean up before they had left. Diana and the childrendid not apparently quit the apartment in a hurry.

Suddenly, Joe recalled the grocery bags Diana had been jugglingwhen he first met her on Saturday. They had been filled with freshproduce, mostly fruit. He remembered that neither Diana nor Samanthahad taken the time to unpack the bags while he was there with them.Nothing had been placed in the refrigerator that he'd noted.

Joe opened the appliance now, a little self-consciously. It waswell stocked with milk and juices, sandwich fixings and leftovers inplastic containers. But there were only a few pieces of fruit left inthe crisper drawer -- some apples and a bunch of grapes. The onlyfresh vegetables were a head of lettuce, some carrot sticks, and somesliced tomatoes in a small bowl.

Where had all of Diana's green grocery gone? Had they taken thebags of food with them, then, when they went? It appeared that theyhad indeed done so. That fact, and the older-looking, handmade babyclothes seemed to connect in Joe's mind. Was Jacob's family perhapsin need? He remembered Samantha's clothes had been spotless andsweet, but more quaint than common. And he'd never dreamed of Dianawearing the simple cotton shift that she had been on Saturday. Thoughit suited her time-suspended beauty to wondrous effect, it wasn'tlike anything he'd seen on a contemporary young woman lately, thatwas for certain. Did it, too, come from wherever the children werefrom?

The door to Diana's bedroom was ajar, just a few steps off thekitchen area. Looking into the room from where he stood, Joe feltuneasily as though he really was intruding on his colleague's privatelife without reason. Checking over the more public areas of her homewas one thing. Going through her bedroom was another. Still, theearnest young DA was not feeling any easing of the foreboding thathad taken hold of him. Diana would understand that anything he didwas the result of his concern for her well-being. And even if it allturned out to be an innocent situation that kept her absent from herhome, the worst he needed to fear was a tongue-lashing from her. Hewas used to that by now.

Pushing the door open fully, Joe stepped into Diana's bedroom,which wasn't so much an actual room as a space walled off from thelarger loft living area. A low bookcase overflowed with volumes bothliterary and modern. What looked like a wooden student's desk hadbeen improvised into a dressing table, with a mirror above it. Theplatform bed was neatly made up with a comforter in an abstractdesign of soft water-color tones, combining with some antique-lookinglinens on the pillows. A bed table held a generously sized lamp, avintage alarm clock, the latest John Grisham novel, and a small stackof mail. A large old wardrobe stood against the far wall. In all, theroom, like the rest of her apartment, seemed to really reflectDiana's complicated personality: many disparate details that somehowall came together for an attractive, functional and strangelycomforting, environment. The bedroom also showed no recent sign ofany male presence, he noted, almost in relief. He wasn't certain howhe would have felt if it had. Who was the man that had asked thesuper about Diana on Saturday? He obviously didn't have a key to theapartment. There were no photographs in the room.

Hesitantly, Joe reached for the pile of mail on the bed table andbegan sorting through it: There were several pieces of junkadvertising for credit card offerings and record clubs, a postcardreminder of an upcoming dentist appointment, a form thank you letterfrom a foreign children's charity noting a donation of $50, and oneother letter, postmarked from Massachusetts. Urged on by his growinganxiety, Joe slipped that last letter out of its envelope. A photodropped to the floor. He bent to pick it up. It was of a little girl,about five years old, being led around on a pony by a tall youngwoman with shoulder length deep auburn hair. The back of the photowas captioned, "Alex's first ride. County Fair, August 1990."

Joe smiled at the photo, despite his state of heart. He had alittle niece about the same age. His sister lived in Rhode Island,and he never could spend as much time with her and her family as hewished, aside from the large and noisy holiday gatherings at hismother's house.

Unfolding the letter, Joe began to read: "Hi, Sis. Needed to sendthis out to you before I forgot. You know I'll be a nervous wreck bynext week -- Alex's first day at kindergarten will be Tuesday. I'llgive you a call so I can cry on your shoulder long distance... "

Without continuing, Joe replaced the photo and letter into theenvelope, setting it back on the night table once again. He tappedthe top of the cloth-covered table with impatience. At himself. Forthinking the worst. Perhaps Diana was only overstaying a visit withher sister in Massachusetts. Or with Jacob's family.

Or perhaps she was in trouble and no one was bothering to takethat possibility seriously. Her captain was so used to her keeping toher own solitary work habits that he hardly questioned such acircumstance. As long as she kept giving the department herastonishing results in her investigations, he didn't worry what herhabits were.

With renewed conviction, Joe came over to the portable crib set upon the near wall of the bedroom. Once again he found himself thinkingthat she certainly was well-equipped to care for a baby.

And a young girl, too.

Beside the crib was a rolled up slumber bag in a bright floralprint, as well as a small teddy bear dressed in an apron made of thesame fabric. An old fashioned canvas bookbag rested beside thesleeping bag.

Joe picked up the bookbag and emptied its contents onto the bed.There were several colorful hair ornaments, a brush and comb, a smallbottle of spray cologne and a pocket mirror in one compartment.Besides the grooming accessories, Joe retrieved a tourist map of thecity, some ticket stubs and a guidebook to the Metropolitan Museum ofArt. On the front cover of the booklet, in neat penmanship, wereseveral notations: "Mary Cassett" "see Cloisters" and "Unicorns".

Samantha apparently enjoyed art museums. She had taken in some ofthe city's sights. Diana did say the children were not from the city.There was nothing strange about sight-seeing with a bright elevenyear old. The articles were returned to the bookbag.

Crossing the room, Joe opened the door to the wardrobe. The closetwas modestly filled with three middleweight, finely tailored suitswith both skirts and slacks, a couple of additional skirts cut longand neat, and a few neutral colored sweaters and shirts. The drawersheld several pairs of sweat pants, tee shirts and jeans. Everythingwas basic, well constructed, not flashy or even particularlyfeminine. When he opened a drawer with several white cottoncamisoles, shorts, and a long button front shirt, Joe was startled torealize he'd stumbled onto Diana's more intimate apparel. There washardly a bit of lace or frill to be seen. Well, he thought withblushing, defensive humor, his co-worker surely did not invest all ofher paycheck in her wardrobe. Nor did she seem to believe inattracting attention to herself through her clothing.

Then something caught Joe's eye; a flash of metal coming from thefloor of the wardrobe, behind a pair of dress leather boots neatlysettled next to two pairs of sensible flats and a heavy pair ofhiking shoes. Reaching into the closet, Joe pulled out a large tinbox, like the ones fancy cookies were packed in. This one wasdecorated with Currier and Ives winter scenes in soft tones of gray,blue, and snow.

It took Joe a long moment to stare at the box. He'd lived withsisters long enough to recognize a "hands off, keep out, privatestuff" keepsake box when he saw one. But if he was to find anythingout about Diana's current whereabouts, this was probably onepossibility he had to go on. He lifted the lid of the box open andset it onto the bed.

The box was indeed filled with momentos of Diana's personal life.You are being neurotic, Maxwell, paranoid, Joe told himself. How canyou possibly go looking through this stuff? Taking a deep breath, Joepaused a moment before continuing. But Diana's gentle, yearning face,watching the children as she had on Saturday, urged him on.

Another stack of letters was in the box, carefully tied with awhite ribbon. They were in various hands and postmarked fromdifferent cities across the country over a timespan of several years.About a dozen of them, at the bottom of the stack, looked older. Theywere all from California. Joe set them all aside, not even daring tocontemplate opening any of them. He pulled out, instead, a smallstationery box that held several dried flowers, including what hadonce been a rosebud corsage, gently cradled in tissue paper. Typicalstuff to hold on to, he reasoned, but not anything that could sendhim in any particular direction today.

Then the citations came out of the box.

From the City of New York to Patrolwoman Diana Bennett, forconduct and bravery in the call of duty, in the line of fire, datedfive years ago, February 1985. Those did not surprise Joe at all, ashe reflexively let out a low whistle. It was just like Diana to keepsomething like that to herself. She'd been shot on duty. The suddenconfirmation from those documents sent an unexpected tremor throughhim. He knew she was a crack shot now. Thinking of her oncevulnerable and wounded only reinforced his present urgency to locateher.

Following the citations, a photo came to light: A gentle-featuredwoman with light brown hair, looking no more than 44 or 45, neatlydressed, standing next to a younger version of the woman in theMassachusetts photo. A police officer in dress blues, a lieutenant,by the insignia Joe could make out on the uniform, was beside thewomen, his arms unselfconsciously encompassing another uniformedfigure: a young woman with coppery red hair carefully braided off herface -- Diana, probably on her graduation from the Police Academy,surrounded by her well-wishing, laughing family. She obviouslyfavored her father in heredity, fair and bright haired, with the samewarm smile. Joe thought he hadn't really seen Diana smile as freelyas she was in that photo. The scene was so filled with warmth, pride,and easy affection, in sharp contrast to the quiet -- desperation --he'd felt from the young police woman in recent months. The DA couldremember just such a time in his own life. Before his father had beenkilled. When he pulled out a yellowing newspaper clipping next, Joefelt another pang of sympathy for his missing friend. It detailed theshooting death of an off-duty policeman, Lieutenant Timothy Bennett,who'd stepped in to intervene in a domestic abuse situation in hisown neighborhood. Vaguely, Joe recalled the incident which hadproduced a good deal of publicity. Lieutenant Bennet had pulled ayoung woman and her baby to safety after her drunken husband hadbegun hitting her in the corner grocery store. The man was carrying aconcealed gun and shot the officer once, in the back of the head, ashe stood comforting the terrified mother. Diana's father had beenexecuted half a block away from his own home, helping a neighbor onhis own time.

Looking away from the piece of paper in his hand, Joe had to stopto catch his breath. He wondered how much the tragedy had influencedDiana's own life, as his father's death had done to his. Her owncitations were dated a year and a half after the incident and heremembered his own raging recklessness as a teen, robbed of hisfather by gunmen his own age. How had her own run in with the fatefuldevastation of having a cop for a father fueled Diana's consumingresponse? The unexpected kinship Joe had felt for the young policewoman was becoming clear to him now: His tested heart had silentlyresponded to another that had endured the same pain. And now, wherewas she? What had her own inner demons drawn her in?

Reaching, finally, the bottom of the box, Joe pulled out twowell-worn, slim volumes -- poetry books. The first was a copy of theworks of Dylan Thomas. The second was Thomas Gray's Elegy in aCountry Church Yard. To Joe's anxious spirit, the books lookedsomehow familiar, though he couldn't imagine why. Pages in each ofthem were marked with strips of paper serving as temporarybookmarks.

Joe read the poems that were singled out with nervous interest.English Lit was never his best subject in school, but he could stillappreciate the timeless quality of the classics and their universalmessages to all ages. Then he noticed something: The book of Thomas'poetry had several lines underscored lightly in pencil on one pagethat was dog-earred as well, seemingly returned to again and again bywhomever had been reading it: "Though lovers be lost, love shall not.And death shall have no dominion."

A cold shudder ran through the DA without warning at the words. Herecognized the books at last -- They were similar in age and type tothe ones Cathy had had in her apartment. Quickly checking the frontpages for any inscriptions, Joe found none on either volume. But hisinner alarms were all going off at once, telling him without doubtwhere those books came from.

What he had long attempted to push from his mind as pureconjecture and coincidence was suddenly staring him right in theface.

Shakily, replacing all the articles he had gone through in theirproper places, Joe walked out of Diana's bedroom with anindescribable feeling of anxious, forbidding confusion that demandedto be resolved only in one particular direction.

The taxi ride back to the office was in no way a help inenlightening him, as the crawl through city traffic gave him too muchtime to think and piece together details that should never havefit.

Diana had relinquished to him all of her working notes andjournals on Catherine's murder investigation, or so he had thought atthe time. She'd been eager, even desperate to put the case behindher, he remembered, not surprisingly considering what she'd beenforced to go through with the inquiry. The books, the notes and bitsof Catherine's personal life she had been studying, all of Cathy'sprivate effects, had been turned over to some doctor, as Joerecalled, per the dictates of her will, an enigmatic document in andof itself. This doctor was trustee of some sort of private benevolentfoundation, and Catherine had left everything she owned to it.

Except those books had apparently been left behind, remaining inDiana's possession. She had never handed them over to him with herpaperwork, the DA guessed. Why? Two old books of poetry, writtenmostly about death, loss, and grieving. Why had she kept them, of allthings? Why were they important enough for her to risk disciplinaryaction, to slip them into the box with her own cherished personalmomentos?

They had been Catherine's books, or at least in Catherine'spossession. He was certain of it. Why would Diana want them?

The parallels in the lives of the two women began to merge inJoe's mind uneasily. He was positive that Diana had dug up more onCathy's private life than she had been willing to share, even withhim. Hell, he'd threatened her with legal action during the course ofher work when she suddenly backed off conclusions she'd insisted onhaving him keep an open mind to.

There were too many pieces that came together in her investigationwithout explanation. He told himself it was because of the way sheworked, but his gut told him that was only part of the truth.

Things were too similar to be pure coincidence. She'd been in toomany places one step ahead of him throughout the entireinvestigation. It wasn't just damn good police work, her brilliantgrasp of criminal psychology and how the players in the tragic dramawere destined to move.

It was eerily as if Diana, in placing herself so completely intoCatherine's existence for her work, had never quite managed to returnto her own life. Could she now possibly find herself entrapped inCatherine's own unexplained personal world somehow?

But not against her will, it would seem.

Joe's mind kept returning to the hour he had spent in her companySaturday morning, her interaction with Samantha and Jacob -- happy,easy, but somehow tinged with unacknowledged... regret... at the sametime. The children had to be part of it all, as well. Diana hadseemed to be grappling with some deep pang of emotion, especiallywhere the baby was concerned. She had seemed at once blessed and...haunted... as she had held the child in her arms.

The child. A little boy, about a year old. With a golden halo ofcurls and eyes that could reach into your soul. Jacob.

Catherine's child.

That was the only answer. The missing baby. Gabriel's othervictim.

Why had the maniacal drug lord taken the child from Catherine? Whyhad he wanted it, a baby, an innocent, powerless? Gabriel fed onpower. Joe knew the type, too well, from experience. They devouredpeople, body and soul, without a pang of conscience.

A helpless baby.

With a powerful father.

Joe had thought... Elliot Burch... Catherine's rebuffed suitor.Burch had it all: wealth, power, influence, and a legacy of concreteand steel in the city that would long outlive him. His chameleon-likeadaptability to confound his detractors, and his undeniable charm andintelligence would have been an asset to any ally.

Still, Gabriel had disposed of Burch too easily, too quickly. Ifhe had been holding the child hostage to manipulate the father, whywas the baby still alive months after Burch's death? The nursery thathad been found in the fortified mansion on Staten Island that servedas Gabriel's stronghold: Everything pointed to the fact that thechild was still alive, or had been up until the police raid on thebuilding. Why would Gabriel keep the baby if he had already used hisfather?

Because Elliot Burch could not have been the man Gabriel hadultimately been after.

Elliot may have loved Cathy as much as he was capable; he may haveasked her to marry him, but she had turned him down. They may haveremained friends afterwards, despite his repeated lapses ofconscience, but Joe could not bring himself to think Catherinecapable of bearing a child under the circumstances of a casual loveaffair. She was so much deeper than that. Love meant so much more toher, he knew, from the few times she had haltingly opened her innerstruggles to Joe in their relationship. Bearing a child would havemeant a profound embodiment of love to her.

That left only one conclusion, the one that was mostincredible.

Joe stared out at the city passing slowly by him as the taxi woveits way through noonday traffic. He suddenly felt weary and sorelytested. This city had once been a magnetic place of possibilities inhis hopes. That had all changed these past two years. He saw it nowin its harsh, disgusting reality, beneath the glitter and polish: Thecity was peopled only by users, of every manner and morality. The fewidealists left were forced to watch their dreams corrupted by thepowers that be. And the innocent were left without hope, withoutprotection.

Cathy had been swallowed up by that soul-eating revelation ofhumanity. Gabriel had simply used her for his own ends -- first forthe criminal evidence against him, then, for the child, for his owntwisted purposes, whatever in damnation they could have been.

A child. A baby. To be used to wreck anguish in the hearts ofthose who loved him. A simple pawn in a powerplay from hell.

If Elliot Burch had not been Gabriel's real target, who was? Whodid the monster want to control? The child's mother had already beenmurdered, her knowledge neutralized to a mere nuisance. That couldonly have left the baby's father to care, to mourn, to riskeverything in order to save the child, to open himself up to beingused by a demon like Gabriel.

The child's father... Vincent.

And Diana had become embroiled in the powerplay herself with theinvestigation.

She had seemed willing to risk everything of herself at the time.Joe had threatened her career. Her very life had been placed injeopardy more than once by armed men. Still, she had clungtenaciously, desperately, to her own agenda in the case. Hermovements had been indecipherable, her leads unintelligible, hertotal commitment to resolving the case unshakable.

Yet, she had held back, from him, he knew. She was somehow able tocontinue her work even as she protected, at all costs, her sources ofinformation in the investigation. Joe was positive of that:

She had been protecting the child's father even as he wasattempting to protect the baby himself.

Gabriel had wanted power to manipulate, fed on power fueled bydesperation. What more frightening power could he own than that of afather seeking to save his child regardless of the risks, thecosts?

A father who was already terrifying in his own strength andabilities?

What would such a man be willing to do to save his child?

Diana had described Vincent as Cathy's protector, an avengingangel of justice. Joe had resisted that conclusion with every fiberof his being, for all the evidence he had to go on pointed to anavenging angel capable of inhuman strength and rage. If they wereboth right, then Vincent had killed more than once to keep Catherinesafe, with animal ferocity. What would he have been capable of inattempting to protect his child?

His child -- Joe could not reconcile the sweet, bright, happy babyin Diana's apartment Saturday with a savage, less than human,parentage. There wasn't even anything unusual to call attention tothe child beyond his enthusiastic, precocious embracing of life. Hewas a beautiful, attentive, heart-warming little boy.

With eyes that could touch your soul.

Joe remembered the uncanny feeling he had been overwhelmed by whenJacob had turned his gaze fully upon him Saturday. He had felt asthough the child could read his soul. Diana had hinted at some sortof -- connection -- between Cathy and Vincent, some sort of sharedbonding that drew the shadowy figure to Catherine's side whenever shewas threatened.

Perhaps that was Jacob's legacy from his father, the power thatGabriel had sought to control and manipulate.

In the past, Joe would have dismissed out of hand such thinking asridiculous conjecture, the stuff of paperback novels. That was, untilhe'd met and worked with Diana. Time and again, the DA had beenforced to marvel in awe at the scope of her powers of observation,her capabilities of turning senseless bits and pieces into provablewholes. And that was just as a result of her own highly intuitivenature and willingness to see what others refused to see, refused tocontemplate. What if Gabriel had recognized such a power in a beingas seemingly threatening as himself?

But that was all in the past. The murky, painful, never to beunderstood past that had so threatened his own hold on sanity andhope. The fact of the matter was that Diana was missing now, herdisappearance was in the here and today of the city. She may havesought to protect Vincent, reunite him with his stolen child a yearago. But she was in danger now herself:

Diana was still entangled, somehow, with the realities ofCatherine's secret life.

Joe closed his eyes and eased against the back of the car seatwearily, attempting to calmly sort out what he felt from what he knewfor certain. It was not an easy task. He had to admit that all thelabyrinthian details of Diana's investigation a year ago did not haveto necessarily add up to a sinister aspect in her disappearance now.Diana was nothing if not forthright and level-headed. She'd provenherself capable of taking care of herself numerous times in the yearhe'd known her. Her own captain had dismissed his worry. Yet, ifDiana was level-headed, she was also generous, sensitive, and capableof a depth of empathy Joe had not been able to expect this side ofheaven. He'd felt it reaching out to him time and again when his ownspirit had faltered.

What more poignant human drama could she become a part of thanthat of a lost child, a motherless child, left in the heartbreakingcare of an anguished father forced to hide his very existence fromthe world at large?

There had to have been some redeeming qualities to the mysteriousfigure of Vincent, Joe conceded in honest justice, or else Cathycould never have fallen in love with him, borne him a child. Thereality of that conclusion made the DA's heart lurch. "There'ssomeone I care about, someone I... love... " she had confessed to himonce in his office when she'd been so obviously in pain. Joe had totake hold of his own heart at the tender news, and it nearly brokewhen he'd seen tears shimmering in her soft eyes. "He's going througha hard time... he's not well... " she'd spoken quietly, and Joe haddrawn her into his arms for comfort.

That had been only a couple of weeks before she haddisappeared.

No, Catherine's love would have redeemed Satan, himself, Joethought.

And Diana's would have protected him.

. . . Did protect him... A shot into the heart of one of hell'sown had proven it. Diana would never have complicated her alreadypainful life so totally, if it wasn't to share her awesome convictionof heart with someone equally as in need as herself.

That was the only conclusion Joe could come to. Somewhere,somehow, Diana was now within the mysterious reaches of Vincent'sworld. Because she wanted to be, because of some catastrophe, hecouldn't begin to decide. But he knew she would not be found untilshe was ready to be.

If she was still alive.

Another nightmare for him to struggle through, alone. The young DAwas just about to concede defeat, fling up his hands in frustratedsurrender. Heaven had seen fit to torment him for some obscure reasonwith the need to care about two wondrous, lightning-drawing womenhe'd never be able to fully comprehend. One was dead, partly as adirect result of his actions, the true circumstances of her life onlya puzzling, disjointed, painful mystery he'd never be able tosolve.

The other could be a part of just the same circumstances as thefirst, though by her own doing, it would seem.

And there was nothing Joe could do to unravel it all, find thethread of sanity through it all, prove to himself that the nightmarewould not again cost him the life of someone he cared for.

The files on his desk were still waiting there when he returned,mentally exhausted. Andrea had slipped a handwritten envelope on thetop of the pile. Without even thinking, Joe loosened his tie andsettled back into his chair with the envelope.

It was addressed simply to him, with only his name. Joe recalledsomething about a messenger Andrea had pointed out as he had made hisdistracted way past her earlier. Who would send him a letter bymessenger? It didn't look official, just a personal note, on heavy,vellum paper in what looked like the ink of a calligraphy pen. Thehandwriting was unfamiliar. He opened the letter.

A flood of emotions, relief being foremost, washed over him, as hequickly read the lines:

"Joe, I know you well enough to realize you must be frantic withworry by now. First I apologize for putting you through it. Second, Iappreciate your concern, though I know you'll never own up to it.

"I'm sorry I haven't make it back to the city yet. I'm sort ofstranded here with Jacob and Samantha's family. There was an accidenthere Saturday evening. The children and I got caught in it. They'reall right. Samantha dislocated her shoulder, though. And I've gottenmyself pretty battered."

A twisting in the pit of his stomach confirmed that he'd beenright in his concern. But how right, he wondered?

"My leg is broken badly and it looks as though I will need to stayput for at least 3 weeks until I can be moved. I'm getting wonderfulcare, but the community here is a bit isolated and I can't get backto New York until I have some of my own capabilities back."

For God's sake, Joe railed inwardly, his frustration at thefractious information mounting even as his relief was. Where on earthwas she? An "isolated" community -- Had the no-nonsense policeofficer fallen in with some strange survivalist cult, his black humorquestioned? But his heart answered his objections with the truth: shewas isolated because Vincent was isolated.

"You can get a hold of me if you really need to through Dr. PeterAlcott there in the City. Otherwise I'll send you a note from time totime letting you know how things are progressing.

"Please let Captain Phillips know what's happened. He probablythinks I've buried myself in the Abbot care and hasn't even noticed Ihaven't checked in."

In spite of himself, Joe had to put his anxiousness aside. Sheeven knew her captain's reaction to her disappearance: indifference.How could that possibly make her feel, in reality? Like she was onlybeing used, for her capabilities and nothing more. God, didn't thewoman have a single heart that was opened to hers? Could their ownstormy relationship be her only link to emotional sanity? Maybe inthis world.

"Don't worry, Joe. I'm sorry I missed our chance to keep talkingMonday. I'll be fine, but you have to do me a favor." At the nextlines, Joe felt tears well up into his dark eyes as he realized whothe favor really was for: "Take a couple of days for yourself. Gosomeplace quiet and find your strength. No one's taken it from you.You've only been forced to bury it, hide it, in grief. I'll be backin no time to try and convince you of that . You'll see. Don't makethe angels cry. Sincerely, Diana."

The tears were very much beyond his tested control as they slippedsilently down his cheeks. She was safe... She was hurt... She wasstill looking out for him.

But who would ever be looking out for her?

Then Joe felt the chill run through him again, the foreboding he'dfelt in her apartment, when he'd felt her threatened and his ownhelplessness at doing anything about it. He read the note again justto be certain: "Dr. Peter Alcott."

That was the name of the doctor in Catherine's will.