Pleasantly tired and glowing from a vigorous workout, Catherineleft the gym the next morning and started towards her own room and ahot shower. She turned a corner and nearly collided with a man comingthe other direction.

"I'm sorry," she began, automatically, as her gaze flicked uptoward the man's face.

She blanched and instinctively stepped backwards.

"Hello, Cathy," he said.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins, making her heart pound andher hands tremble, and effectively tying her tongue.

He seemed to take her reaction in stride. He nodded and, accedingto a guard's tug on his arm, went around her and continued down thehall.

Frozen in place, she stared after him; only when he opened the gymdoor and stepped inside did she move.

Ten minutes later, she stopped her furious pacing long enough tounlock her door and admit Arlen Miller.

"I'm here," Arlen said briskly. "What is it?"

"You tell me," Catherine hissed between clenched teeth. "You tellme why your newest guest here is John Moreno!"

"First of all, Mr. Moreno isn't a guest," Arlen said. "He's aprisoner. But since he's also a witness in an important case, againsta man who would not hesitate to have him killed to prevent himtestifying, he's been placed in protective custody. That meanshere."

"You have other facilities."

"Of course," Arlen agreed. "But none so secure as this one. Mr.Moreno's enemy is not to be taken lightly. You told me soyourself."

Catherine blinked. "Gabriel? He's going to testify againstGabriel?"

Arlen inclined her head in assent. "My understanding is thatGabriel Vandt was arrested this morning. Mr. Moreno has agreed to aplea bargain."

"Immunity from prosecution?"

Arlen hesitated. "I'm not certain," she confessed. "My job is toprotect him, and I've concerned myself with learning the things thatwill help me do that."

Catherine reached for the telephone on her desk. "I want to talkto Joe Maxwell."

It was three hours before Joe reached the facility; by then,Catherine had worked herself into a fury.

"They're dealing with Moreno," were her first words, delivered ina savage undertone.

"I know," Joe said wearily.

"Why?"

"Come on, Cath," he said, sounding annoyed. "Get real. You can'tgive any hard evidence against this Gabriel guy. You never actuallysaw him do anything."

For the first time, her fury faltered. "I know."

"But you've given them exactly what they need to put Moreno away.He dealt personally with Gabriel, I'm told. Took direct orders. Hecan convict Gabriel."

"In exchange for what? Arlen said not immunity."

"No," Joe agreed. "Even the Feds wouldn't stoop that low. Reducedsentence."

"Reduced to what?" Catherine asked. Her voice dropped to awhisper.

"Ten years," Joe answered. "In exchange for testimony leading to aconviction."

"That's five years with good behavior," Catherine said.

"Yeah, but it's also the end of his career. He'll be disbarred.Dishonored."

"He's taken more than four years of my life, Joe," she saidbitterly. "Five years of his hardly seems a fair trade."

"I know," Joe said, his voice softening. "It isn't fair. But itgets the big guy. Doesn't that matter?"

"I suppose so," Catherine admitted. "I've worried about how they'dconvict him without the book I gave to Elliot."

"Now they don't need it."

"Do they still need me?" The question came out of the blue,startling even her.

Joe's eyes were sorrowful. "I already asked that, kiddo," he saidgently. "Yeah, they do. You add credence to everything Moreno says.Your testimony isn't enough to convict, but it's sure enough tohammer a few nails in the coffin."

"Yeah," she said shakily. "I guess." She looked at him. "It'sdangerous for you to be here."

"So I'm told," he answered lightly.

"You shouldn't have come."

"You call me in a panic, begging me to get over here, and Ishouldn't have come?"

She couldn't help smiling at his open incredulity. "No," she toldhim. "You shouldn't."

"What should I have done? For future reference," he added, smilingnow.

"You should have told me what I wanted to hear until I calmeddown."

"I don't know, kiddo," he said dubiously. "You were prettydistraught."

"Yes, I was," she admitted. "More than I should have been."

"I admit, it surprised me a little. I figured you'd have guessedMoreno might roll over for us."

"I would have, if I'd thought about it," she said. "But I haven'tbeen sleeping well; I've had things on my mind."

"Oh?" His eyebrows went up. "Anything I can help with? Since I'mhere anyway?"

She gazed at him in open speculation and came to a sudden,desperate decision. "Yes," she answered. "See if you can find outwhat's wrong with my son."

"Your son?" Alarm showed on his face. "Is he sick?"

"I don't think so. But something's wrong and no one will tell mewhat it is."

"You haven't talked to him," Joe said, with certainty.

She shook her head. "No."

"Not to his father, either."

"No."

"Then how do you know something's wrong?"

"It's what they don't say in the letters. Never, 'Nicholas sendshis love,' or 'Nicholas wants you to know he's learned to write hisname,' or even 'Nicholas misses you.' And look." She pulledNicholas's drawing from the drawer where she'd put it. There was nodanger in displaying it. It was a typical three-year-old's rendering;faces were drawn with blobs of color for eyes, nose and mouth.

Joe studied the crayoned scrawls carefully. "What is it?"

"He drew a picture of his family," she told him, and waited whilehe looked again.

"Is this you?" he asked finally, pointing to the figure with thelong hair. "Looks awfully big."

"No," she said unhappily. "That's his father."

"Oh." Joe carefully didn't ask about the hair. "Who's this otherperson? The one with the stick?"

"That's his grandfather. Leaning on a cane."

"And the little one with the yellow hair is Nicholas," Joeguessed.

"Right. Holding his daddy's hand."

"You're not in it."

She was silent, the agony of exclusion cutting through heranew.

"Cathy. Why aren't you in it?"

She had to take a deep breath before she could answer, and eventhen her voice emerged sounding thin and shaky. "I don't know. Idon't know what it is."

"Well, what can I do? Can I call somebody? Nicholas's father,maybe?"

"No," she answered, too swiftly. "But maybe, if you could carry amessage?"

"Of course," he replied promptly. "Give it to Dr. Alcott,right?"

She nodded. "It's Peter, then, who's bringing you the letters andpackages?"

"At first," Joe said. "The first two or three. I think he's stillthe source, but to be honest, I haven't seen him personally in a fewweeks."

She frowned. "Then how do you get the packages?"

"A locker at the bus station. Or Grand Central. Just like in a spynovel. Can you believe it?"

"But how do you get the keys to the lockers?" All along, she'dbeen imagining envelopes and packages passing neatly from hand tohand.

"Different ways. Mostly, I get them from Benny the sandwich guywhen he brings me lunch. But I got one from that old black guy whoplays sax sometimes on the corner near the courthouse, and anotherone from some street kid who ran into me and pushed it into myhand."

Catherine smiled. "I understand," she said. "Can you wait while Iwrite a letter?"

"Sure," he agreed, instantly. "Listen, I'll go out and shoot thebreeze with the guards or something, okay? Give you some privacy." Hewent out, closing the door behind him.

Catherine got up and turned the deadbolt, locking Moreno out.

She had no formal stationery, but there were several yellow legalpads in her desk. She pulled one out and picked up a pen.

Dear Vincent, she wrote, and paused. Dear Vincent. Itlooked cold and stiff on the page, and not at all indicative of theway she felt for him. Strange, how it bothered her to write it here,in this letter he would actually hold in his hands, and not in herjournal.

Dearest Vincent was no better. She thought of MyVincent, the way he'd claimed her as his Catherine in thesalutation of every letter he'd sent, but that seemed derivative andanyway, she never thought of him as completely hers. Parts of himbelonged to Father, and to his community. And part of him belonged,now, to Nicholas. She tore off the top sheet of paper and startedanew.

Vincent. Just that. His name. Long the sweetest word sheknew.

She didn't have time for all the things she wished to say; Joe waswaiting. Besides, Vincent knew her as well as he knew himself. He'dknow already what she was thinking, feeling. How she was enduringthis dreadful separation.

Vincent. I miss you terribly, every day. Even if he knew,she had to say it. Sometimes I think I'll die if I can't see you,touch you, hear your voice. Then I remember your faith in me and thethings I have to do, and it gives me the strength to stay hereanother minute, another hour, another day.

But something's wrong. It's in all the things no one says inletters - and it's in the drawing Nicholas made of his family. I'mnot there, Vincent. What's happened? You promised you'd make himunderstand I didn't want to leave him. That you'd remind him everyday how much I love him.

She was crying, her tears spilling down to mark the paper. Shebrushed them away impatiently.

Don't let him forget me, Vincent, she pleaded. Pleasedon't let him forget me.

She glanced at the door and decided she had time for a littlemore.

I love you, she wrote, the fervent wave of it bringingfresh tears. Forever.

She signed it and turned to another page.

Dear Nicky, she began, printing carefully so he would beable to recognize his name. How are you? I am fine, except that Iget very lonely sometimes. The people here are nice, but there aren'tany children, and especially there aren't any little boys. I missyou. I wish I could see you. Everyone tells me in their letters howbig you're getting.

I love you very much, Nicky. I hope you know that. I thinkabout you every day.

She signed it, love, Mommy, and folded it in with Vincent'sletter and put both in an envelope. She sealed the envelope and wroteVincent's name on the outside.

"I give this to Dr. Alcott?" Joe asked when he returned.

"If you can do it safely," she said. "Benny might be safer. Besure no one sees you, Joe. It's a terrible risk."

"I'll be careful," he promised, and glanced at his watch. "I'msorry, kiddo," he apologized. "But I have to get back..."

"I know," she said wistfully. "I've taken up too much of your busyday already..."

"Don't worry about that," he said. "I'm here any time you need me,Cathy. Any time."

"I'll remember that." She hesitated, loath to let him leave.

He seemed similarly reluctant, and after a moment he grinnedsheepishly and opened his arms. "Come here," he commanded.

With a wan smile, she did, pressing her face hard against hischest. "I miss you, Joe," she whispered.

"Yeah, I know," he said. "I miss you, too."

He must have made it a point to pass on the letter immediately,because two days later she had a reply. Several replies, in fact.

This time, she read Vincent's first. My Catherine, hebegan. Please don't be alarmed. I haven't spoken of it because Ididn't wish to distress you. Nicholas is well. It is simply that herefuses to speak of you. Father and Peter assure me our son'sreaction falls within parameters considered "normal" and that thereis no cause for alarm. I speak of you every day, as do others, andNicholas has by no means forgotten you.

I read your letter to him. He wouldn't look at it, andpretended to be playing with his zoo, but he listened. His heart ismine, Catherine, and I know he understood.

He misses you, as do I. We both long for the day when you willcome home to us.

She knew he was trying to reassure her, but in actuality, hisletter said frustratingly little.

Natalie's letter, tucked in the envelope next to Vincent's, wasmore blunt. I haven't said anything before because Vincent askedme not to, but if you ask me, Nicholas is furious with you for goingaway and leaving him, she wrote. Vincent probably won't tellyou any of this; he's protecting you, I think. But I'm a mother, too,and I know I'd want to know what was going on with my kid. So now I'mtelling you. Nicholas is mad. He doesn't talk about you. Ever. Ifsomeone else mentions your name, he gets this obstinate look andturns his back. But I also know he wakes in the night sometimes,crying for you.

He needs you, Catherine. You're his mother, and no one elsecould ever take your place. Maybe being tough is the only way heknows to cope with being without you. But he's a strong little boysurrounded by lots of people who love him, and a daddy who adoreshim, and he's going to be okay.

A third letter, delivered in a separate envelope, was from PeterAlcott. Dearest Cathy, he wrote, and she could almost see therough kindness in his face. I delivered your letter, and, since Iknew you wouldn't risk sending one without great cause, demanded toknow what you said. So Vincent told me.

I don't blame you for worrying, Cathy, but as your friend andas your son's physician, I urge you not to. What Nicholas isexperiencing is a very natural reaction to the loss of a parent.Especially as, in Nicholas's psyche, you are very likely his onlyparent. Even though he idolizes Vincent, he hasn't known him longenough for that deep reliance to form. That's my opinion,anyway.

What Nicholas is doing is very simple. He's angry, and he'srejecting you. Something in her chest twisted, making the breathcatch in her throat. She swallowed hard and forced herself to readthe next sentence. But I'll tell you a secret, Peter went on.The pain in her chest eased and she smiled a little. That was herfather's pet phrase - "I'll tell you a secret."

"Go on, Peter," she whispered. "What's your secret?"

Only children who are very secure in their parents' lovedisplay this sort of behavior. Children who are unsure don't daretake the risk. Deep down, Nicholas knows how much you love him, andhe knows that no matter what he does, you will still love him. Thatmakes it okay for him to be mad at you for going away. For leavinghim. And don't kid yourself; in his eyes, no matter what explanationsVincent tries to give him, that's exactly what you've done. You'veleft him. But he loves you, Cathy, and I feel sure he'll be happy tosee you when you come back.

"You feel sure," she repeated aloud. "Not quite a guarantee,Peter." She let his letter slip from nerveless fingers. "My littleboy hates me," she said to the empty room. "He thinks I've gone awayfrom him." She raked her hair back from her face with both hands."And, of course, he's right. I've left him. Just as surely as mymother left me."

Bitterness filled her throat and she fought the urge to walk out,get in the elevator, and not come back. It would be so easy. No onehere would try to stop her; they couldn't. She wasn't a prisoner ofanything but her own sense of obligation.

But that sense was backed by Vincent's belief in her, andthreatened by the fear that waited for her to falter. If she wentnow, she would never have the strength to come back; worse, the caseagainst Moreno would fall apart, and without Moreno's testimony,Gabriel, now incarcerated in a high-security cell in a nearby federalholding facility, would be released. Released to steal and corruptand murder. She couldn't allow that. She couldn't face the look inVincent's eyes if she did.

So she swallowed the bitterness and clung to the hopeful bits ofthe letters. Nicholas needs you, Natalie had written. Hemisses you, said Vincent's letter. He'll forgive you,Peter's letter all but promised.

"I hope you're right," she whispered. "I hope you're all right. Myprecious little boy..."

Despite her understanding of the need for Moreno and histestimony, she could barely tolerate knowing he was there; she knewshe couldn't bear to see him again. She was grateful she didn't haveto.

She was there of her free will; Moreno was a prisoner, subject toa plea bargain. In the hierarchy of the security facility, that gaveher precedence.

So Moreno wasn't allowed near the gym during her workouts, wasn'tpermitted in the library when she was there, had to vacate thekitchen if she was hungry.

It probably inconvenienced him, she thought spitefully. She hopedit did.

Still, his presence was a reminder of the dangers still to befaced. She combated the oppressive fear not only with her rigorousroutine, but also with her memories. She was engrossed in aparticularly comic one of Nicholas at about eighteen months,liberally smeared with his first Oreo cookie, leaning out of his highchair to offer her a soggy bite, when someone tapped on her door."Who's there?" she called as she went to answer it. She had triedleaving it open, but Moreno's presence on the floor had roused oldfears and she couldn't bear the vulnerable feeling she had when itwasn't closed.

"It's me." Malek's voice.

She unlocked the door and opened it. "Hi."

"Hello," he answered. "Are you busy?"

"Not particularly. Come on in."

He complied, glancing at the TV as he did so. "Soap opera?" heasked, not quite hiding his distaste. "Do you watch those?"

Catherine made a face. "Not really. I mostly have it on for thecompany."

"Ah, the company. I understand that. Being a federal witness islonely work."

His matter of fact attitude made her smile. "Yes, it is," sheagreed. "What can I do for you?"

His smile was conspiratorial. "I'm hoping you will tell me youplay chess."

"I do," she admitted, "but not very well. I haven't played in along time."

"That doesn't matter," he said. "There's a board in the library.Would you like a game?"

His open eagerness decided her. "Yes," she answered. "Iwould."

By the time he returned with the board and pieces, she'd pulledher desk out from the wall to give them a playing surface and goneacross the hall to Malek's room to borrow his chair.

"Excellent," he said when he saw her preparations. "I took theliberty of visiting the kitchen. I've brought you a diet cola."

"Wonderful," she said. "How'd you know that's what I drink?"

"Simple," he answered. "Before you arrived, we had none. Now wedo. You must have requested them."

"They asked what I wanted to drink," she agreed. "Pretty goodreasoning, detective."

He smiled and began to set up the board. "Not detective, no," hesaid. "Simply a man with the wrong relatives."

Catherine gathered up a handful of pawns and began lining them upin the appropriate spaces. "Relatives?" she asked cautiously.

Malek nodded without looking up. "My cousin."

He didn't seem inclined to go on, so Catherine let the matterrest. She took a pair of pawns, one in each hand, and offered Malekher closed fists. "You choose," she said.

He tapped her right hand and she turned it over to reveal theblack pawn.

"I go first," she said, and moved her king's pawn forward.

Six moves later, Malek had checkmated her.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't give you a very goodgame."

"No apology is necessary," he said, and began returning pieces totheir starting squares. "Would you like to play again?"

He seemed in earnest, and she shrugged. "Sure. Maybe I can takeyou to eight moves this time."

He smiled. "I will play without my queen. Perhaps that will makeus even."

"I doubt it," she answered frankly, "but we can try."

Malek won that game, too, although Catherine had lost track of thenumber of moves by the time he did.

"You see?" he said, setting the men up once more. "You arelearning."

"It's always hard for me to visualize moves ahead of time," sheconfessed.

"That seems odd," Malek commented. "I was told you are anattorney."

"Used to be."

He looked up. "I understood attorneys were like doctors andclaimed their titles by virtue of education."

His sincerity made her smile. "I suppose you're right," she said."And sometimes I do say I'm an attorney, rather than I used to beone. But it's been so long since I've practiced law that I'm afraidI've forgotten a great deal."

"You've certainly lost the capacity for long range planning,"Malek said. "If your chess game is anything to judge by."

She laughed. "I don't know if it is. I was a lousy chess playereven when I was a practicing attorney."

"How long have you been playing chess?" he inquired as he moved aknight.

"I learned in college, but after graduation I didn't play for along time. Years. Then I met someone who plays and he persuaded me totry it again." She smiled. "I never beat him, either."

"You speak of this person with fondness," Malek observed. "He is aclose friend?"

Instinct made her wary. "Yes, he is," she answered, struggling tokeep her voice casual.

"You miss him, this friend?" Malek asked with perception. Thecompassion in his voice made him hard to resist.

"Yes," she answered quietly. "Very much."

"Are you permitted to tell me his name?"

The odd phrasing of the question made her glance at him.

"I do not wish to ask for information you must not reveal," heexplained, and she realized he thought she might need to keep thename secret because of the witness protection program.

"His name is Vincent," she said softly.

"Ah. Your friend Vincent."

"More than a friend," she said, her voice suddenly wistful. "Muchmore. He's the father of my little boy."

"You have a son?" Malek asked, surprised.

She nodded. "Nicholas. He's three."

"So young to be separated from his mother," Malek observed. "He issafe, yes?"

"He's with his father," Catherine said. She was aware she wastelling more than necessary, perhaps more than was safe, but somepart of her desperately needed to confide in someone, and Malek was acompassionate listener.

"I'm glad," Malek said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "Myson was not so fortunate."

Foreboding traced an icy path down her spine. "What happened tohim?"

"My cousin had him killed. As a warning to me."

Catherine's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no. Malek, I'm sosorry."

He managed a sad smile. "You would like to see a picture ofhim?"

"Very much."

"I will get it." He left, returning a moment later with a framedphotograph. It showed a boy of perhaps seven or eight, with laughingdark eyes.

"He's very handsome," Catherine said, studying it.

"He looked like his mother," Malek said softly. "And he was sosmart! He spoke four languages by the time he was five."

"Four!" Catherine repeated, with astonishment.

"Yes. English, French, Arabic, and Hebrew."

"Hebrew? That's an odd choice for an Arab child, isn't it?"

"Many of my countrymen think so," Malek answered. "But Israel isour neighbor. Learning her language seemed the right thing to do.Since I knew it, I saw no reason not to teach it to my son."

"And then he died."

"My cousin was selling arms to terrorists. Right here in thiscity. When I found him out, I tried to persuade him to stop. Helaughed at me and refused, so I went to the authorities. Two dayslater, my son was kidnapped from the van that took him to his privateschool. The van driver was badly wounded in the attack. Two daysafter that, my son's body was found. He had been tortured before hedied. His fingers had been broken. His feet, burned. They had cutpieces from his ears and his nose."

Catherine made an inarticulate sound of horror.

"I knew then that my cousin must be stopped." Malek's voice wascuriously expressionless.

"How..." Catherine paused, swallowed hard. "How did you know itwas your cousin?"

Malek didn't look up. "There was a note pinned to my son's shirt.A simple reminder that I have a wife and two daughters. I knew it wasa warning."

"What happened to the rest of your family?"

"They have been sent away," he said. "My father, who is outragedover the things his brother's son has done, sees they are safe."

Catherine let her breath out in a long sigh. "Oh, I'm glad."

"It will be a year, next week," Malek added. "Since my son died. Itell you this so that if I am especially melancholy, you willunderstand."

She reached across the width of desk and gripped his hand. "Anytime you want to talk about him... or about your wife, or yourdaughters, I'm here," she told him.

He lifted his head and graced her with a smile. "I knew, when Ifirst saw you," he said, "that we would be friends."