She sat on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.Then, aware of what she was doing, she jumped up and paced nervouslyfrom the bed to the window and back. An automatically cautious glanceto the corner of the room reminded her there were no cameras here. Ifshe had nothing else, she had privacy, and she could be grateful forthat.

But, she reminded herself, she had much more. Books. Music.Television. Things to keep her mind occupied. Paper for writing.

The telephone on the desk shrilled. She jumped, startled, andreached to answer it.

"Cathy?" A man's voice.

"Yes?"

"This is Butch, at the guard station. Your friend Mr. Maxwell's onhis way out, and I just wanted to be sure you're okay."

She remembered Arlen telling her someone would check. "I'mfine."

"All right. We'll let him go, then."

"Yes. Thank you."

She cradled the phone and managed a little smile. Maybe they wouldbe able to keep her safe, after all.

The tray Morris had left was beside her hand. She peeked under thealuminum cover, but had no appetite for the soup cooling there. Sheturned her attention to her surroundings.

A small closet took up one corner of the room; inside she found aset of built in drawers. Most of the drawers were empty, but the topone held a limited selection of sweat shirts, sweat pants, andt-shirts, all size medium. Rolled cotton socks and underwear filledout the drawer. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. High fashion itwasn't, but virtually anything was an improvement over that horriblehospital gown. She remembered with satisfaction how she'd burned thehated garment years ago in a barbecue grill in a roadside picnic areain Colorado.

Beside the closet was a tiny bathroom containing a shower, toiletand sink. The medicine cabinet held an array of toiletries, likesoap, deodorant, shampoo, and toothpaste. Catherine took her owntoothbrush from her coat pocket and laid it beside the one supplied.Her hairbrush went on the narrow counter top.

"Guess I'm moved in," she murmured to herself. She slipped out ofher coat and hung it in the closet, then moved to examine the scantysupply of books on the shelf. A much-used hardback copy ofWebster's New Collegiate Dictionary was flanked by a RobertLudlum spy thriller and a Stephen King horror novel. Two tatteredpaperback "The Cat Who..." mysteries were lying on their sides. Notmuch here she considered pithy reading, but far, far better thannothing. Tomorrow she'd find the facility library and see what it hadto offer.

She sat at the desk and peered again at the congealing tomatosoup. She still had no appetite. She'd never been hungry before,either, she remembered. She used to force herself to eat, consciousalways of the new life inside her that required nourishment. At leastshe wouldn't have to do that now.

And then, deep in the recesses of her mind, a small hope flickeredinto life. She and Vincent had been together every night since theconcert in the park. It had happened before.

She might be carrying Vincent's child. And if she was, she neededto take care of herself. Care for the child. Hope fluttered, warmingher from the inside. She removed the aluminum cover and picked up thespoon.

Much later, she lay in bed, secure behind her locked door. A smalllight burned in the corner of the room. She'd grown used to sleepingwith a light, though she wished it could be a candle. She'd eaten thesoup and the crackers; now she curled beneath rough blankets insteadof soft quilts and tried to picture Nicholas.

Not as she'd last seen him, surly and taciturn, but his usualboisterous three-year-old self, bright and inquisitive and full ofenergy. His face, from a dozen angles and bearing a dozenexpressions, flitted through her mind and she felt the corners of hermouth quirk, just a little. It was hard not to smile when she thoughtof him. She tried to picture him growing up, wondering what he wouldlook like at four, at seven, at ten. He already promised to be tall,like his father. She hoped his fair hair wouldn't darken the way hershad.

Right now he'd be getting ready for bed. Maybe Vincent was helpinghim with his pajamas, or washing his face. Or perhaps the moremundane process of preparing for sleep was over, and they werecuddled together reading. When Nicholas was relaxed and drowsy fromthe story, Vincent would tuck him into his bed and perhaps press akiss against his cheek. Maybe he'd give Nicholas an extra one, fromher.

And then what would Vincent do? She imagined his hands reachingfor her, cradling her face before he kissed her. Remembered the lean,hard length of his body in bed beside her, the feel of his mane as itslipped through her fingers, the rasp of his cheek caressinghers.

Despair overcame her, and she turned her face into the pillows andcried.

Her sleep that night was scattered; she came awake at every smallnoise, her heart thumping madly. When the sun began to lighten theroom, she got up, knowing further attempts to rest were useless. Shemade her bed, took a shower, and dressed in the soft, loose-fittingclothing provided. She pinned the keys to her room inside thewaistband of her gray sweatpants, opened her door, and ventured outinto her new life.

"Morning." The casual greeting came from a lightly-built Hispanicman in a guard's uniform. "You must be Cathy."

"Yes," she acknowledged cautiously. "Who are you?"

His grin flashed against his olive skin and twinkled in cheerfuldark eyes. "Miguel Alberto Garcia Torres y Alvarez," he pronounced."But you can call me Mike."

His charm was difficult to resist; she smiled. "Mike. What are youdoing outside my door?"

He gestured overhead. "Fluorescent tube's burnt out. I'm changingit."

She noticed the small stepladder and long white glass tube behindhim. "Don't you have maintenance people to do that sort of thing?"she asked, her suspicions roused. She poised nervously, ready to spinback into her room and slam the door.

"Other floors have maintenance people," Mike explained,positioning the stepladder under a flickering rectangular fixture setinto the white tile ceiling. "We have guards. You got a leaky faucetin your bathroom? Guard fixes it. You hungry and don't want to cookfor yourself? Guard cooks. You got dirty laundry? Guard washes it."He waved up and down the wide hall. "'Bout six months ago, we paintedthe place. Guards, residents, everybody."

"Residents?" she repeated doubtfully. She didn't move from theshelter of her doorway, but did relax her guard.

"Sure, residents. Not much to do around here, you know? I mean,you can read books or watch TV, but that gets old after a while. Sowhen the time came to paint, we had lots of volunteers."

"I see."

"No, you don't," he disagreed cheerfully. "But you will." Hestepped up on the ladder and began to fiddle with the opaque plasticshield of the light fixture.

"Excuse me," Catherine said.

Mike paused and looked at her expectantly.

"Where could I find Kelly?"

"Gone home," Mike said succinctly. "She's three to eleven."

"Three to eleven?"

"Her shift. Three to eleven. Then there's the night shift. That'seleven to seven." He glanced at his watch. "Which reminds me, I haveto finish this. Going home time in fifteen minutes. That's when theday shift comes on. I'm usually day shift, but we got somebody onvacation this week."

"Oh." Catherine shifted uncertainly.

"You go on down the hall, I think Mindy's in the library," Mikeadvised, his attention on the faulty light. "Doug's at the desk."

"Only three of you?"

"Everybody's sleeping," he said reasonably, pausing in his work topeer at her. "Nobody coming in and out, nobody to watch."

"That doesn't sound very secure."

"You can't get on this floor unless you use the elevator," hereminded her patiently. "You can't use the elevator unless somebodyup here authorizes it."

"No fire stairs," she remembered.

"Don't tell the fire department," he grinned. "If there's a fire,we all have to troop up to the roof and wait for a helicopter."

"Wait to be picked off, you mean."

He shook his head and grinned. "Bulletproof shielding all aroundthe sides. They'd need armor-piercing shells and those are hard tocome by."

She allowed herself a smile at his irrepressible good humor."Okay, you convinced me," she said. "Now can you tell me where I goto get breakfast?"

He gave her directions to the kitchen. No one else was there, soshe rummaged around in refrigerator and cabinets until she found whatshe wanted. A pair of labeled coffee urns sat on the counter. Shefilled a cup from the one marked decaffeinated, added it to the trayshe'd found, and carried coffee and toast back to her room. Mike wasgone when she reached the hallway, but as she was fumbling for herkey, the door opposite hers opened.

She spun defensively, prepared to hurl the tray and its contentsinto an assailant's face.

A man, dark-skinned with a Middle Eastern cast to his features,paused in the opening. "Good morning," he said, his English faintlyaccented. He stood very still, as if aware of how edgy she was.

She swallowed. "Good morning," she answered, her voiceunsteady.

"But, please," he said, and stepped forward, his hands extended."Let me hold the tray while you find your key."

After only a slight hesitation she surrendered the tray into hishands. "Thank you," she said, and opened her door. "I'm Cathy," sheadded, as she took the tray back.

He flicked his fingers across his forehead as if doffing animaginary cap. "A pleasure to meet you. I am Malek."

"Malek. That's an unusual name."

"It's Arabic. My family is from Syria," he said. "But I came tothe United States when I was twelve. My father was attached to mycountry's embassy here. Later, I attended Yale University." Hegestured toward the tray in her hands. "And I am keeping you fromyour meal. I apologize. Since we are neighbors, perhaps there will betime later to talk."

"Yes," she answered. "I'd like that."

She'd thought about it during the sleepless periods in the night.The people here now should be safe, especially the residents. Gabrielcouldn't have known she would give herself up or that she would bebrought here, so wouldn't have an agent planted yet. Only newcomerswould need to be scrutinized carefully.

The guards, of course, were different. They had contact with theoutside world, and thus could be subverted. She'd have to be carefulof the guards.

After breakfast, she visited the library. As Kelly had promised,there was a small but varied selection of posters and prints, as wellas some small rugs and even a few knickknacks. Catherine came awaywith things that suited her taste, and borrowed a hammer and somenails from one of the day guards to hang the pictures. Afterwards,she made a second trip to the library to stock up on reading materialand music.

Lunch was another solitary meal prepared quickly in the kitchenand eaten in the privacy of her room. After lunch, she was summonedto a visiting room. Two federal attorneys waited on the other side ofthe glass.

"Good afternoon, Miss Chandler," the older of the two said, hisvoice rendered tinny by the intercom. "I'm Malcolm Harris; this isDiandra Shaw. We've been assigned to look into your allegationsagainst the man you call Gabriel, and District Attorney Moreno."

She nodded cautiously.

"What we'd like," Diandra Shaw added, "is for you to tell useverything you remember. That will give us a starting point for ourinvestigation."

This was the true point of no return. Up to now, she could havechanged her mind at any moment and returned to the tunnels. But onceshe'd told all she knew, once the wheels had been set in motion,there was no turning back. She'd have to follow through, all the wayto the bitter end.

She swallowed hard and pulled back the folding metal chair on herside of the waist-high counter that bisected the room. "It began witha black book given to my boss..." she began. The two attorneys satquietly, taking notes and asking occasional questions while sherecounted the events of three years ago.

"In the end, I escaped," she finished. "I'm still not certain howthat happened; it certainly depended more on luck than any planning Iwas able to do."

"You say Gabriel planned to kill you. What evidence do youhave?"

She shook her head slowly. "There isn't any. I just knew."

"Did he say anything to you? Threaten you?"

"He never spoke to me."

"Never?" That was Diandra Shaw. Her expression and voice turnedskeptical.

Catherine's own voice hardened. "Never," she repeated. "He used towatch me sometimes, but he never spoke."

"And yet you know he planned to kill you."

"He had no use for me, once my baby was born," she explained, athin edge of annoyance creeping into her tone. "Releasing me wouldhave meant losing John Moreno, whom I assume he considers a valuableasset. I knew he wouldn't do that."

"But, Miss Chandler, there's no proof," Diandra said kindly.

"I'm aware of that, Miss Shaw," Catherine answered sharply. "Theydid teach rules of evidence at Columbia Law School. I'm just tellingyou what happened."

"Of course," the other woman murmured, suddenly conciliatory. "I'dforgotten you're an attorney."

"About your son, Miss Chandler," Malcolm Harris said, changing thesubject. "Can he be produced if necessary?"

She stiffened in her chair. "No."

His eyebrows rose. "No?" he repeated gently.

"You're claiming he kept you prisoner because he wanted yourchild," Diandra Shaw reminded her. "We may need to prove the childexists. That you haven't made him up."

"Any competent obstetrician should be able to determine that I'veborne a child," Catherine snapped. "I'm willing to submit to thenecessary examinations. My son will remain in hiding."

"But what if it's not enough?" Diandra argued. "Somejuries..."

Malcolm put a restraining hand on her arm. "It's far too early inthe investigation to worry about that, Diandra," he said. "Let'sconcentrate on the facts."

Catherine had a headache by the time they left. She microwaved afrozen dinner in the kitchen and retired to her room. Televisiondidn't hold much appeal, so she put a Mozart cassette in the stereoand curled up on the bed with a book from the facility library. Butthe story failed to hold her interest and presently she closed thebook and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

Memories had been enough to sustain her in the past. Closing hereyes, she reached for one, well-loved and familiar. They'd been inher apartment, near the end of the time she thought of as "before."Vincent stood in her bedroom looking out the glass-paned frenchdoors, his hair washed apricot from the glow of the setting sun.Surprised to see him up, she'd gone to him and slipped her armsaround his waist. They'd talked briefly of uncertainty and she'dtried to make him promise not to shut her out of his nightmares.

"Whatever happens, whatever comes, know that I love you," he'dtold her instead.

Those were words she'd clung to later, letting them lend herstrength and courage. They still did, the very memory buoying herwith newfound determination.

There were fresher words, too, words spoken only yesterday, in thedamp culvert where they'd parted.

"I love you, Catherine," he'd said, his gaze measured. "Neverforget."

"I won't," she'd promised. And she wouldn't. If it took twentyyears, he'd be there, steadfast, devoted, and loving her. And as longas she had that to cling to, she could do anything.

Lunch the next afternoon was disturbed by a knock on the door. Aglance through the peephole made her hasten to turn the deadbolt andopen the door.

Arlen Miller stood there, looking brisk and businesslike. "Hello,"she said, and stepped into the room without waiting for aninvitation. She glanced around. "I like what you've done here."

Catherine followed her glance, as if seeing the newly decoratedroom for the first time. The far wall held a pair of framed abstractprints in soft pastels. An oversized poster of Monet's WaterLilies, tattered at the corners where someone had once hung itwith tacks, was taped to the wall over the bed.

The space over her desk was taken by a whimsical print of a pairof rabbits nested in a bed of blue flowers. The flowers lookedfaintly unreal and the artist was unfamiliar, but the picturereminded her strongly of The Velveteen Rabbit, which in turnreminded her of her father, and that made her feel safe.

An arrangement of dried flowers, presented last night by Mike aswhat he called a 'housewarming' present, graced her desk, and aNavajo-type rug in soft blues and greens brightened the floor besideher bed.

"Thank you," Catherine said. "It does feel more like I belong herenow."

"But not completely," Arlen said, her smile at once compassionateand perceptive.

"No," Catherine agreed with a wry smile. "Never completely."

"It's just as well," Arlen said. "It isn't your home, after all.Here." She placed a package, slightly smaller than a shoebox, on thebed. "I've brought you something."

Catherine eyed the box with habitual suspicion. "What is it?"

"A package from home, I believe," Arlen answered. "Jack brought itin this morning; said he got it from your friend Joe. Apparently Mr.Maxwell isn't saying where it came from before that."

"They shouldn't do that," she said automatically, even though herheart was pumping with sudden elation. "It's dangerous."

"Not particularly," Arlen said. "Joe and Jack frequent the samesports bar in the Village, I'm told, and often sit together to watchfootball or basketball. And of course, Jack works in this building.Neither of them needs to alter routine to pass on a package."

Catherine took her eyes off the brown paper covering and eyedArlen sharply. "How do you know all that?"

"Routine background," she answered simply. "For your protection,for Jack's, and for Joe's. If we can trace the package's originsfarther back, we'll assume others can, too, but until then, Joe andJack should be safe enough."

Catherine permitted herself to relax. "Good," she said. "I don'twant anyone getting hurt because of me."

"Neither do we," Arlen said briskly. "I have to get back to myoffice now. Enjoy your package."

"Yes, thank you." Catherine took time to follow Arlen to the doorso she could lock it behind her, and then fairly flew back to the bedto heft the bundle.

It was weightier than she'd expected. The brown paper had beenfolded carefully over the box, and the whole thing tied up withstring. Her name was written clearly in a hand she knew well. Shelifted it to her face and imagined it still carried the subtle scentof candlesmoke.

Whatever it held, the package was a treasure to be savored. Sheplaced it carefully on the bed and went for the round-pointedscissors on her desk.

The paper wasn't held by tape, and when she cut the string, thepaper parted in her hands. She folded it back and let her fingerslinger a moment on the box. He'd touched it. Perhaps Nicholas hadhelped him, and she imagined their hands together, one pair powerfuland furred, the other small and chubby, packing the box withtreasures and folding down the flaps to seal them in.

She opened the box slowly. On top were sheets of paper, foldedonce but not creased tightly. She glanced at the top sheet,recognizing Vincent's strong hand. She fingered it lovingly, then setit aside. She'd leave his words, his precious news, for last.

Under the paper was a flat, rectangular object wrapped in tissuepaper. She lifted it out and placed it in her lap before parting thepaper.

Her mother's smile shone through the glass covering andreflexively Catherine let her fingers trace the smooth silver of theframe. Someone - Peter, perhaps - had gone to wherever her thingswere stored and brought away this most precious of treasures. The boxheld a second flat object, and she reached for it, pulling the paperaway to reveal her father gazing at her from a photograph taken onlya year before he died.

It had been more than three years since she'd seen their faces,even in photographs; there'd been a time not long ago when she'dbelieved she would never see them again. She lingered over thepictures, her eyes misty, before finally setting them side by side onher nightstand. With her parents' images watching over her, shereached back into the box.

Another flat package proved to be her copy of Shakespeare'ssonnets and she revised her opinion as to who had visited her thingsand chosen what to send her. Only Vincent would know what this volumemeant. She turned to the inscription.

It looked precisely as she remembered it. She brushed her fingersacross the strong, flowing V that served as a signature, then flippedthrough the pages. A pressed rose, its perfume long faded, marked thetwenty-ninth sonnet, and Catherine took a moment to read the poembefore closing the volume and placing it on the table next to thephotographs.

The last item, half the size of her fist, was wrapped in a scrapof cloth secured with a straight pin. A paper tag dangled from thepin's bright yellow head and she paused to read it.

So you will remember someone is thinking of you...

Her brow puckered in puzzlement; she removed the pin. The clothfell away, revealing a clumsily stitched brown suede pouch. Herbreath caught painfully in her throat and she teased open the mouthof the pouch with trembling fingers.

Her mother's rose - Vincent's rose - slid into her hand. Hetreasured it as much as she did, and she knew what it must have costhim to part with it.

Her fingers closed over it, the sharp edges of its petals cuttinginto her fingers, and she brought her cupped hand to her cheek. Itwas a long moment before she reached for Vincent's letter.

My Catherine. Peter assures me this letter and package willreach you safely, and with no danger to the couriers. Your answermight provide a trail for your enemies to follow, however, so youmust not reply. For myself, I would willingly take the risk, but wecannot jeopardize the others who inhabit my world. I know youunderstand this.

Nicholas is well. He cried for you the first night. I held himuntil he fell asleep. Since then, he seems resigned, but I know howmuch he misses you.

He played with Brian today, and Natalie tells me he seemedcheerful and had a good appetite at lunch. You must not worry toomuch. He is safe, and everyone has offered to watch over him when Icannot be near.

I visited your chamber this morning. There was no reason; we'veset up a bed for Nicholas in my chamber, and moved his things.Nevertheless, something drew me there. And it seemed I could stilldetect your scent in the air; that if I listened hard enough, I mighthear the sound of your laughter.

I miss you. Be safe, Catherine. Come back to me.

It was signed with his initial, strong and sweeping across thebottom of the page. She returned to the salutation. "My Catherine,"he'd said. The new boldness, the possessiveness, wrenched at herheart. With the letter in one hand and the rose clutched tightly inthe other, she bowed her head and cried.