O NEVER STAR

by Becky Bain 

(This originally appeared in the fanzine ETERNITY, which is nowout print.)

Catherine Chandler lay quite still, staring fixedly at theacoustical tile ceiling. There was a small water stain on the tilejust to her left and she concentrated, trying to decide if it lookedmore like a distorted elephant or an upside down squirrel. Thefingers invading her body touched a sensitive place and involuntarilyshe winced; the pain brought her back to the present and she felt themuscles in her jaw contract.

She should be used to this by now. The examinations took placeregularly, twice a week. The doctor listened to her heart, herbreathing. Then the baby's heart. Sometimes he did an ultrasound;sometimes he performed other tests she didn't understand, but onlyendured. Last week, he added a new feature -- a pelvic exam.

Catherine resumed her scrutiny of the ceiling. The indignity ofthis exam, intimate and extremely personal, was heightened by thecasual observers -- the nurse, a white-coated assistant, twobusiness-suited thugs -- and of course, the omnipresent cameramounted high in a corner of the room.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight. She allowed herself topicture it -- driving her bare heel into the doctor's throat. Theforce would drive him back against the wall. The nurse, standing byher head, would step forward to try to restrain her, and Catherinealmost smiled as she imagined throwing a hard elbow into the woman'smidriff. It would feel good to lash out, to hurt someone.

But there were too many of them; she was outnumbered and thechances of escaping through the use of physical force werenonexistent. So she lay still and endured with dignity what she couldnot resist.

When the exam was over, she was escorted back to her spare whiteroom; once inside, she listened to the hopeless sound of the doorbeing locked behind her.

**Pale mist drifted by, obscuring her vision. Catherine turned,searching the haze. The shadows threatened and she opened her mouthto cry out, but no sound emerged. She tried to move, but somethingheld her fast.

The eerie silence was punctuated by a sharp crack. A gunshot!Catherine whirled in time to see him recoil and go down.

"Vincent!" This time, her shout had substance. She had nosensation of running, but suddenly she was beside him, kneeling,searching frantically for the injury.

His eyes were open, his expression loving, wistful, a little sad."I know who hurt me," he said.

She smoothed the hair back from his brow. "Who, Vincent? Who hurtyou?"

His gaze shifted, looking past her. "Him."

She turned, looking over her shoulder. A man stood there,impeccably dressed, a pistol smoking in his hand. His face was leanand hard; his eyes glittered coldly. It was a face Vincent couldn'tpossibly know. She shivered and turned back.

Vincent was gone. In his place lay a baby. A shadow fell in such away that she couldn't see the infant's face, but she longed to cradleit close, feel its skin against hers, its soft, warm weight in herarms. She reached out and the baby vanished. She lurched to her feet,searching the mist frantically, but no one was there.

And then a chilling voice filled the air, reverberating aroundher. "The child is mine. Mine. Mine."

"No!"**

She came awake suddenly, gasping, her cry echoing in her mind, andshe wondered if she had made the sound aloud. Slowly, she sat up, hersleep-fogged mind registering the setting sun streaming in throughthe open blinds. She remembered lying down to rest; she must havefallen asleep. It was something that happened frequently of late. Shethought the mid-afternoon tiredness was probably a result of heradvanced pregnancy, compounded by sheer boredom. She stood shakily,fighting the uncomfortable vestiges of afternoon sleep, and crossedthe pristine white room to press her forehead against the cool glassof the window.

Outside, it was autumn. Far below, the leaves were beginning toturn, and she wondered if the air held the warmth of Indian summer,or the first gentle nip of coming winter. She longed to feel the sunon her face, a soft breeze in her hair. Or better, the cool damp ofthe tunnels...

As she gazed out, lost in wistful reverie, the sun slipped slowlybehind the skyline. On the teeming streets far below, cars began touse their headlights and commuters scurried along the sidewalks.Somehow, she'd endured the mind-numbing sameness of another day.

The scrape of a key in the lock drew her attention from the nightsky and a glance at the clock on the bedside table identified hervisitor even before the smooth white door swung open to reveal thestolid face of the Oriental nurse whose name she did not know.

The nurse never glanced her way, carrying a small tray to thenightstand where she spent a moment arranging things so all would fiton the small surface. Catherine waited impassively, cloaking herselfin the silent dignity she'd learned from Vincent.

The door stood ajar, but she made no move toward it. Unhappyexperience had taught her that one or more guards would be hoveringjust beyond it. As if in confirmation, the sound of masculine voicescame from the hallway. She didn't try to make them out, couldn't makeherself care what they discussed.

She wished the nurse would hurry. She'd been standing too long andher back was aching, but she wouldn't sit until the other woman hadgone.

One of the smooth young men Catherine had learned to loathe lookedthrough the open door. "Hurry," he advised the nurse brusquely. "Hewants you. Now."

Never before had the ritual of the evening meal been interruptedwith any sort of summons, but the nurse responded promptly,completing her task and hurrying from the room with an air ofurgency. As she went, she gestured toward the door and the young mannodded, reaching through to pull it shut. Catherine heard his key,closing her in.

Only when she was certain she was alone did she move to the bed.Always aware of the closed-circuit camera mounted high in one cornerof the room, she deliberately turned her back, sitting down with asmuch grace as she could muster. Dinner tonight was roasted breast ofchicken, served with boiled new potatoes and french-cut green beans.Dessert was an apple, neatly sliced. The food was adequately preparedand nutritionally balanced, but always only lukewarm by the time itreached her, and Catherine pressed her lips together in barelysuppressed resentment; the meal was not to nourish her, but the childshe carried.

She ate slowly, washing her tasteless dinner down with sips ofwater. She was never hungry anymore; it was love for her unborn childthat made her consume each meal. Whatever happened to her, the babymust be given every chance to be born strong and healthy.

When the plate was empty she carried the tray across the room,bending awkwardly to place it on the floor beside the door. It wouldbe removed in the morning, when her breakfast tray came.

She turned back toward the narrow bed and something on the floor,almost underneath it, caught her eye. A shiny bunch of keys lay there-- the nurse's keys. In her haste, she must have dropped them.

Catherine scarcely hesitated; during the long months of herincarceration, she had taught herself to remain impassive, no matterwhat. Slowly she moved toward the bed and the precious keys, herheart hammering. Acutely aware of the camera's eye, she slid her barefoot until it touched the keys. They were cold; she could feel thedull serrations against her instep. They were real.

Surreptitiously, she nudged the keys until they lay half-hidden bya leg of the little nightstand. If anyone came in, the keys would notbe instantly noticeable, but if the nurse came looking for them,Catherine could feign ignorance.

Keeping her face expressionless, she pulled down the covers andclimbed ponderously between the sheets. As if in response to herroiling emotions, the child within her stirred and kicked; her handwent automatically to her abdomen, stroking it tenderly. "Hush,little one," she whispered for her baby's ears only. "Be still."

As if her unborn child could understand, the frantic movementslowly subsided and Catherine closed her eyes. Sleep would not comethis night -- adrenaline raced through her veins, making every nervetingle -- but her body required rest, even while her mind careenedwildly, exploring possibilities.

The keys could be a way out, and she needed that, desperately.She'd overheard the doctor talking and knew her pregnancy was nearingterm; she harbored no illusions about her own fate once the child wasborn. If she wanted to live, she had to escape this place. And thistime, Vincent wasn't coming. Her fate, and that of their child, wasin her hands.

She dared not try now to make her escape. It was early and guardsmight still be roaming the stark white corridors. The wee hours, whenlife was at its lowest ebb, would provide her best chance.

The baby moved again, seemingly as restless as she on this night,and Catherine patted her side, humming a soft lullaby under herbreath.

When she could no longer endure lying still, she rose, pacingslowly between window and nightstand. Tiring of that, she moved tothe corner, directly beneath the intrusive eye of the closed-circuitcamera.

The hours crawled by until at last Catherine knew the time hadcome. She silently gathered up the keys and stole to the door. Shehad watched the nurse lock and unlock the door too often not to knowwhich key would fit, and she found it quickly.

She was in full view of the camera; if the guard manning themonitors was alert, her escape attempt ended now. Hands shaking, sheslipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened easilyand she glided through, pulling it quietly shut and locking it behindher.

The passage outside was empty. She felt bulky and slow when shewanted, needed, to feel swift and silently graceful. Hand on herswollen abdomen, she eased her way down the hall. The layout of thearea was familiar; this floor of the building contained an extensivemedical facility, and at one time or another she had been down all ofthe corridors, undergoing one procedure or another.

The mere memory was enough to make her clench her fists. No oneever explained the procedures or bothered to give her the results; tothem she was merely a vessel, a walking, talking incubator. No onecared what she thought, or felt.

There was no surveillance camera in this short section of hallway,but at the corner she paused, willing her pounding heart to slow, hertight breathing to ease. Her goal, the main stairwell, lay at theother end of this intersecting corridor. A camera was mounted aboveit, pointing down the hall.

Scraping together her nerve and dragging in a deep, steadyingbreath, she turned the corner. She was utterly exposed to thecamera's lens, but there were no sounds of alarm, no signs that heractivity had been noticed. Halfway down the corridor she slowed,hugging the wall, her attention fixed on a glass-walled room whoselights spilled onto the short-napped carpet.

She held her breath and peered inside. A single man sat at aconsole dominated by closed-circuit monitors. His tie was loosened,his jacket tossed casually over the back of a chair. As she watched,frozen in place, he stretched and yawned mightily, giving themonitors a cursory glance as he reached for a tall thermos. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming dark liquid -- coffee, she surmised -- andglanced at the monitors again before tipping back in his chair.

On the monitor showing this hallway, she could see herself, a paleblur tight against the wall. She didn't know how he could miss her,but he seemed oblivious, his attention focused on the mug cradledbetween his hands.

Terrified that motion would draw his attention, she didn't daremove. Frozen in place, she watched as he sipped his coffee andglanced from time to time at the flickering monitors. She couldn'tstay there forever, though; eventually she'd have to take a chance,and when he reached for his thermos again, she took it. Withexaggerated care, she got down on hands and knees and crawled, inchby painstaking inch, past the glass walls. When light from the roomno longer touched her, she pushed clumsily to her feet and glidedsoundlessly the last few yards, feeling safe only when she was nolonger in the camera's range. She paused there for a moment,listening, but there was still no outcry; the dim halls were eerilyquiet even at this late hour and she closed her eyes in a briefprayer of thanksgiving.

The stairwell door opened easily, silently, and she passed throughquickly. There was a security camera here, as well, but it wasmounted above the door, aiming down the stairs, so she took a momentto rest and gather her resources.

It was impossible to believe her luck would hold; surely she wouldbe spotted, surely they would come after her, but she had to try. Sheslipped down one flight of stairs, then another. Still no outcry.Surveillance cameras were mounted on every second landing, looming asenemies to be scurried past as quickly and silently as possible. Itwas incredible that no one had seen her but she didn't stop toquestion it. Maybe, at last, luck was on her side. Maybe, somehow,this was meant to be.

Ten floors down she began to try the doors. It was time to get outof the stairwell. Finally, on the fifty-fourth floor, a door opened.Someone, a kid perhaps, had stuck a wad of chewing gum to the doorframe, keeping the door from latching.

She yanked it open and darted through and suddenly she washalf-running down a plushly carpeted corridor. The walls werewood-paneled, the office doors marked with discreet brasslettering.

There were no cameras.

She stumbled to a stop, turning in disbelief. These were offices,real offices. Attorneys, architects, an accounting firm. Tenants inthe building.

She'd made it.

A swift surge of elation gripped her, taking her breath away. Shesavored it for all of ten seconds before cold, hard practicalitykicked in. She wasn't out of the woods -- or the building -- yet.

Ahead, an office door stood ajar. She approached cautiously andpeered inside. A small janitorial cart stood in front of a polishedoak reception desk; the muffled sound of women's voices floated fromthe offices beyond.

A cleaning crew.

With a hasty glance up and down the empty corridor to be sure shewasn't observed, Catherine stepped into the plush reception area; itslush carpeting and elegant panelling spoke of a high-class clientele.No one was there and she ventured further into the room, scanning itanxiously.

The cleaning crew must be in the rear of the office suite. For amoment, Catherine considered passing one of them a message, but herfaith in human nature had slipped in the past months. Bluntly, shewas afraid to trust them. So instead, she looked for a place tohide.

The reception area was sparsely furnished. A pair of gracefulloveseats flanked a low glass coffee table. One corner held a tallpotted palm; another was occupied by a pair of oak finish filingcabinets. Only the reception desk itself offered any hope ofconcealment and Catherine tiptoed forward to investigate. Thekneehole looked large enough for her to crouch in unobserved and shecrawled inside. It was a tight fit; bringing her legs up crowded herswollen abdomen, making breathing difficult. She shifted, trying tofind a more comfortable position.

A voice from the rear of the office suite sounded suddenly louder,and she froze, bent awkwardly sideways. When the voice receded sherelaxed, and only then did she notice that the carpet held a lightscattering of paper slivers, mangled staples, and what looked likebread crumbs. This area hadn't yet been vacuumed.

Panicked, she scrambled out from under the desk and looked for ahiding place that had already been cleaned. There was a door againstthe far wall and she crept to it, trying the knob gingerly. It waslocked.

Whirling, she scanned the area frantically. The only other egress,besides the door to the outside corridor, was a wide passage leadingto the rear offices -- where the cleaning crew was.

Stealthily, pulse hammering in her ears, Catherine approached it.There was no one in sight, but lights spilled from an open officedoor only a few feet away and as she watched, a shadow flitted acrossthe lighted opening. Reflexively she ducked back but no one came, anda few seconds later a vacuum cleaner began to whine.

Holding her breath, she looked again. She could see only one doorbetween herself and the office being cleaned, and a discreet sign ateye level identified it clearly.

MEN.

There was no other place to go. Catherine darted across thehallway and pushed at the door. It opened with a sigh that was maskedby the drone of the vacuum.

The room was dark, but Catherine could smell the sharp odor ofcleaning solutions. Sliding her hand across the wall, she located thelight switch and risked flipping it up. The place looked spotless;the chrome on the sinks and urinals gleamed. The bathroom had alreadybeen cleaned.

A flick of the switch plunged the room into darkness once more,but Catherine had her bearings, and made her way slowly to the shortrow of stalls. Feeling her way, she found the one furthest from thedoor and stepped inside.

Knowing where she was, combined with nerves and advancedpregnancy, triggered a basic response; abruptly, she had to urinate.Gritting her teeth, she tried to quell the urge; simultaneously, thewhine of the vacuum stopped and she could hear voices in thecorridor.

Hampered by darkness and her own ungainly bulk, she stepped uponto the toilet seat, crouching, braced against the stall walls forbalance. If anyone glanced in, she would be completely out of theirsight. A moment later the vacuum started again, this time in thereception area.

Catherine crouched there, motionless, until the vacuum's whineceased, the voices dwindled, and the outer door closed with anaudible thump. Only then did she ease down from her awkward position,stifling a cry as feeling flowed back into her cramped feet andlegs.

Gratefully, she heeded the urging of her body, using the facilityfor its intended purpose. She didn't flush, afraid the noise wouldbetray her. Instead, she crept silently out to the hall.

All lights had been extinguished, leaving the suite of offices indarkness, but Catherine's eyes were accustomed to it now. She madeher way through the maze of offices and cubicles, investigating. Somedoors were closed and locked, but others stood ajar, and brightmoonlight streamed in through enormous plate-glass windows.

It felt strange to be alone, in the dark, with no hidden eyeswatching, but she felt safe. Even if her captors had discovered shewas missing, they were unlikely to find her here before morning.

She found a phone in one of the offices and reached for it,planning to call... who? Not the police; she was afraid to trustthem. Certainly not the D.A.'s office; John Moreno's face was clearlyetched into her memory and she shuddered at the thought of him.

Not Jenny or Nancy; they wouldn't know how to get her out of thebuilding, and besides, whoever she contacted would then be in danger.She couldn't risk her friends.

Maybe Joe? She was sure she could trust him, and his resourceswere broad. He'd believe her if she told him to be careful. Yes, itshould be Joe. She lifted the receiver.

No dial tone. Impatiently, and with growing disbelief, she jiggledthe disconnect button. Nothing. Fighting panic, she raced across thehall to another office; that phone was dead, as well.

Had they found her? Cut the phone lines? The thought was no soonerformulated than she dismissed it. If they knew she was in here,they'd have come after her. There must be another answer. In thereception area, she found it.

A switchboard.

All the phone lines must go through here. She examined the sleek,modern console, pressing buttons randomly, looking for a way to turnit on. The machine remained stubbornly lifeless and at last she gaveup, drooping wearily onto the desk, pillowing her forehead on foldedarms.

*It's not fair!* she cried inside. *I've come this far...*

*Life's not fair, Catherine,* a sterner internal voice remindedher. *You can't give up. The baby needs you.*

Odd, how the voice sounded like Vincent's. Or maybe not soodd.

She lifted her head and took a deep breath. Time for Plan B. Itwould be pure stupidity to abandon her safe haven; chances of findinganother unlocked office were minimal, while the possibility ofrunning into one of her captor's minions was quite real. No, she'dhave to stay here until morning, until the building filled withpeople going about their business.

She glanced down at herself -- barefoot, clad only in a shortwhite gown. She couldn't very well mingle inconspicuously with thegeneral public dressed like this, so the first priority was clothing.The advertising firm that occupied these offices was a large one, soCatherine began to search, going from room to room, opening any doorsor drawers that weren't locked.

She struck paydirt in the third of the panelled offices. A filingcabinet drawer opened to reveal a zippered canvas gym bag; inside thebag she found a soft pink sweatsuit, running shoes, and even a pairof socks. Not only had she found clothing, but women's clothing, aswell. She hadn't expected to be this fortunate, but wasted no timestripping out of the hated white gown.

The woman who owned these clothes was a couple of sizes largerthan Catherine; the shirt was baggy and the pants too long, but thewaistband went over her bulging stomach easily. The shoes were toobig, as well, but far better than bare feet, and Catherine pulledthem on. She stuffed the discarded white hospital gown into the gymbag, slung the bag over her arm, and resumed her methodicalsearch.

When she had completed her rounds she crouched near a window,spreading her finds in a bright square of moonlight. She hadappropriated a small package of crackers and another of cookies,along with four candy bars and an apple. She wasn't going to starve.Better, she had also garnered almost twenty dollars, mostly in changekept in desk drawers for use in the pop and candy machines.

Her found treasures went into the gym bag. She was stealing, ofcourse, and painfully aware of it, but comforted herself with theknowledge that it was necessary -- her life was at stake.

With her conscience quelled, a weariness created by lack of sleep,advanced pregnancy and the ebbing of adrenaline set in. Gym bag inhand, she made her way to the office nearest the reception area,tucking herself into a corner half-hidden by a filing cabinet, andsettled in to wait for morning.

She was startled out of a light doze by the distinct sound ofwhistling. It was a moment before she found her bearings; when shedid, she peered shakily around the filing cabinet. The office sheoccupied was still empty, and she could hear the whistler fartherdown the corridor.

Falling asleep had been unforgivably careless and she beratedherself silently as she crept out of the office, all senses alert.Stealthily, she crossed the plush reception area and peered out intothe hall. It was empty.

This was perhaps the most perilous part of her escape. By now, hercaptor surely knew she was missing and his men must be ransacking thebuilding. There were not yet enough people about to ensure hersafety, yet she couldn't risk an encounter with the owner of thesweatsuit. She needed a new hiding place. Slipping down the hall, shefound refuge near the elevator bank.

A pair of public restrooms flanked the elevators and Catherinewent into the one marked LADIES. No one followed her and after amoment, she made her way to the furthest stall. Her sense of humor,so long buried beneath despair, stirred weakly, giving her a briefgleam of wry amusement at her surroundings.

Gradually the building filled with people; more than a few of themvisited Catherine's sanctuary, but none seemed to notice that the farstall had a permanent occupant. Catherine whiled away the time bynibbling on crackers she didn't want and sipping water from astyrofoam cup she'd gleaned in the suite of advertising offices.

When she judged it was mid-morning, she gathered her scavengedpossessions, along with her courage, and stepped out into the hall.She scanned the area cautiously but no one took notice of her.Knowing that few people used the stairs in high-rise officebuildings, she pressed the call button for the elevator and waitednervously for it to arrive.

When it did, she scrutinized the few passengers already aboard.Recognizing none of them, she stepped into the car. As it travelleddown, stopping at most floors and adding more passengers than itdischarged, she eased her way toward the back of the car.

When at last the elevator reached the lobby, she pushed forward,following the flow of disembarking passengers, using them as ashield. She spotted one of her captor's men almost immediately; hewas standing near the elevators, scanning the faces. Ducking herhead, she veered away from him, heading toward a side door. Even ifshe was spotted, she didn't think her hunters would try to openlyapprehend her in such a public place, but she couldn't be sure.Better to try to get away unseen.

Beyond the plate glass door she could see sunlight, and people onthe sidewalk. She had nearly reached it, and the freedom beyond, whena sharp cry rang out. Looking back, she met the angry gaze of the manshe had recognized; blocked by a small knot of people, he shoved hisway toward her.

Fighting panic, she pushed toward the door, opening it andstepping out into the sunshine for the first time in six months. Shealready knew where she was going and cut right, heading for FifthAvenue with its stores and people.

A swift glance over her shoulder revealed that her pursuer hadbeen joined by another. The two men were staying a short distancebehind and she wondered if somehow they understood she had determinednot to be taken peacefully this time. If she had to return to thatstark, sterile prison, she'd go kicking and screaming.

She increased her pace, turning from 53rd onto Fifth, headingnorth. A few yards away was the door to one of Fifth Avenue's finedepartment stores, and after only a split-second hesitation,Catherine pushed her way inside.

She wove a rapid path through racks of clothing, putting as muchdistance and merchandise as possible between herself and herpursuers. Not daring to look back to see if they still had her insight, she ducked out a different door, trying to lose herself in thecrowds.

Six months of inactivity had softened her and already she wasbreathing hard, but she dared not slacken her pace. She had reached59th and Fifth -- could actually see the park -- when she spotted oneof her pursuers ahead of her.

He didn't see her, not yet. He was anxiously scanning the faces ofthe people coming toward him, and Catherine instinctively dodgedbehind a portly, business-suited man who was making his way north,using him as an impromptu shield.

On the corner was another department store and she ducked inside,repeating her earlier ruse. When at last she dared to look back, shesaw no one she recognized and felt she could spare a moment to catchher breath. Pushing her way into another store, she detoured throughLadies' Apparel, hoping to find a place where she could sit, if onlyfor a minute.

She passed a bank of triple mirrors and stopped, suddenly aware ofher own reflection. Her hair was an untidy, uncombed mess, herpregnancy was graphically obvious, and the pink sweatsuit was far toodistinctive. In short, she was entirely too noticeable. If she hopedto avoid recapture, she needed to change her appearance.

Altering course, she found a nearby clearance rack and skimmedthrough it rapidly. It took only seconds to select a pale greenjacket; it would be too big, but she needed that to help conceal hermost obvious physical feature -- her pregnancy. Jacket in hand, shestepped away from the rack and wrenched off the tags, dropping themto the floor and slipping the jacket on over her sweatshirt.

She was shoplifting, of course, and not being particularly subtleabout it, but she didn't care. In fact, she would almost welcomebeing apprehended for this particular crime. It was unlikely thatstore security personnel were in her enemy's employ, and she couldalways refuse to go with the police. If she raised enough fuss,someone would call Joe.

But no one saw, and, wearing her stolen jacket, she stepped backout onto the street. She hadn't gone far when she caught sight ofanother hunter strolling slowly toward her, scanning faces as hewent. Hands in pockets, she pulled the green jacket more securelyaround herself and ducked right, toward Madison Avenue. When shedared to glance back, the man had vanished into the crowd.

She made her way north along Madison for a few blocks beforeveering back toward Fifth. The green lure of the park, just acrossthe street, was almost irresistible. If she tried, she imagined shecould just make out the swell of ground above the drainagetunnel.

She longed to abandon all restraint and race across the street,run through the park, into the tunnel, and hurl herself intoVincent's waiting arms. She'd be safe there -- nothing could harm herso long as she was with him -- but she didn't dare.

She knew her enemy. At first only a presence, a menacing specterher guards spoke of in cautious undertones, he had gradually taken onsubstance. Initially he'd wanted the book; later, after the drugs hadbeen taken away and the interrogations stopped, she had fully expectto be killed. They couldn't afford to let her live; not when she knewas much as she did -- not when she knew about Moreno.

But instead, they had taken her to that small, white room, andleft her there. Meals came with monotonous regularity, along withaccess to toilet facilities, clean clothing, and conscientiousmedical care. At first, she couldn't understand why her child was soimportant to them. Then, one day, as she was being escorted back fromanother unexplained medical procedure, she'd heard a chilling,blessedly familiar sound. Wrenching away from her escort, she'ddarted the few yards to a nearby door.

Her lips were already forming his name when she realized the roarsweren't real, and her cry died in her throat. The terrible sounds offury were Vincent's, but on videotape, and in the darkened room, aman sat, rapt gaze fixed on a monitor as Vincent clawed and shreddedhis way through men who tried to oppose him.The carnage wasgrippingly horrifying and Catherine stood frozen in the doorway,wanting him to stop, wanting him not to have to do what he was doing,even as her rational mind told her it was too late; this wassomething that had already occurred.

There was time for only this brief glimpse before her guard caughtup, gripping her arm harshly and pulling her away. She'd gone almostwillingly; watching Vincent kill was not something she consideredentertainment. It was only much later, in the solitude of her room,that she thought to wonder about the man who had been so obviouslytransfixed by the slaughter taking place on the screen.

Gradually, through overheard comments and remarks, she'd formed animage of the man; cold, ruthless, singleminded. And then, one day,she'd seen his face. It had been at the end of yet another physicalexamination. The exam over, she was buttoning her gown when the dooropened. She had met his gaze and seen the look in his flat, coldeyes. Later, alone in her room, the name for that expression had cometo her.

Greed.

He wanted Vincent's child. Wanted it for his own. And would stopat nothing to get it.

And finally she'd learned his name. Gabriel.

Her steps faltered as a new thought occurred to her. Her escapehad been fortuitous; luck had played a major role. But what if ithadn't been luck? What if she'd been set up? What if Gabriel wantednot only her child, but her child's father? Might he have allowed herto escape so he could follow her?

Suddenly panicky, she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk,turning in a circle, examining the faces around her. None seemed evenvaguely familiar, but the thought had taken root and new fear poundedthrough her veins.

And with it came a fierce determination. She couldn't risk Vincent-- wouldn't risk the safety of his world. Not even to save her ownlife. Not even for the life of their child.

"Hey, lady."

The hand on her arm sent her heart racing even as she spun around,jerking free in a panic.

A short, slight Hispanic man backed away, his hands raised in aplacating gesture. "Take it easy, lady. I'm not gonna hurt you. Justdon't stand in front of the door, okay?"

Shaking with reaction, Catherine mumbled an apology and moved awayfrom the shop door she'd inadvertently blocked. She had no idea howlong she'd been standing there, gazing across at the park, lost inthought.

Gathering herself, she began moving north, glancingsurreptitiously at the faces around her. They changed in a constantebb and flow, and she concentrated fiercely, knowing she dared not bespotted.

She barely noticed when the elegant Fifth Avenue shops gave way tomore modest establishments, but at length she ducked into a crowdedclothing emporium, slipping again to a clearance rack. This time, shemade off with an inexpensive pair of loose cotton trousers, carefulto choose a pair with a generous elastic waist, and a cheap shirt,stuffing them into her gym bag.

Despite her boldness, no one accosted her on her way out of thestore and she made her way to a grimy public restroom to changeclothes, shoving her discarded sweatsuit into the gym bag.

Lips pressed tight in determination, she examined her reflectionin the mirror. The change of clothes helped, but she was still muchtoo recognizable. She pulled her hair back, holding it tightly withone hand. Without its length to frame it, her face seemed to changeshape, de-emphasizing her eyes and widening her already strongjaw.

She looked around for something to hold the hair back in aponytail, but there was nothing handy, and she quickly decided that aponytail was a half-measure, anyway. She rummaged in the gym bag,looking for a small, zippered pouch she'd seen earlier. One of theitems contained in it was a pair of fingernail scissors, andCatherine fished them out and leaned toward the mirror. Grasping ahandful of hair, she began to cut.

Ten minutes later, her hair hacked off to her collar in the back,her earlobes on the sides, her bangs shaggy and hanging in her eyes,she examined her reflection. The cut was bad, the overall effectcheap and untidy, but she definitely looked different, and at thisjuncture, that was all she cared about.

Outside again, she squinted against the afternoon sun and verynearly collided with a tall, dark man wearing a Brooks Brothers suitand a neat, yuppie haircut. Her stomach lurched as she recognizedhim. One of Gabriel's men!

He was looking past her, at someone she couldn't see. She made anabrupt right turn and stopped, pretending intense interest in thenearest shop window. She could see the man reflected in the glass;he'd stopped not more than three feet away and was speaking hurriedlyto a man she didn't know.

Her child, quiet for most of the morning, seemed agitated now,kicking and wriggling fretfully, and she crossed her arms, pullingher jacket closer, trying to disguise her bulging abdomen. "Shh.Hush, little one," she murmured under her breath.

Her gaze was fixed on the reflected images of the two men. Theyhadn't noticed her yet. She dared not move for fear of attractingattention, so stood helplessly as the men moved closer, out of theflow of pedestrians.

"...furious," she heard the strange man say. "If we don't findher..."

"We'll find her," the dark man said. His words were reassuring,but Catherine thought he sounded nervous. She leaned closer to thewindow, fighting the urge to run.

"Yeah," the other man replied. "I hope so. Simmons has his mensearching the west side. Cortes's men are spread out in the south.Your guys are looking over here; I'm getting ready to send a detailup north."

"Good. She won't get far."

The strange man climbed into a car waiting at the curb; the darkone waited until the car pulled away before striding back the wayhe'd come, toward the south. Neither had given her more than acursory glance.

Catherine sagged against the grimy glass window, suddenly weakwith relief. The haircut and change of clothing had just paid off.She straightened, giving a cautious glance around. The dark man haddisappeared into the flow of pedestrians and she saw no one else sherecognized, no one who looked suspicious.

The afternoon sun was beginning to slide down the sky and foottraffic had thinned in this part of the city. Catherine was tired butdared not stop, dared not assume she wasn't being watched.

She kept on and gradually left the park behind. Soon she foundherself trudging through the streets of Harlem. Sometimes, forminutes at a time, hers was the only white face visible, but no onebothered her -- beyond a few derisive comments made by idle youthshanging out on street corners, no one seemed really to notice her.Something in her manner must have told them that she was as wretchedand as weary as they.

The tenements gradually gave way to warehouses and loading docks.The sun had set and the sallow glow of streetlamps contrasted withthe brilliant headlights of the heavy trucks that moved past her. Atlast, unable to walk another step, she leaned against a wall,breathing heavily. Her child moved, putting pressure on her back, andshe stifled a groan.

She could see no one who looked as if they might be following her;in fact, no one seemed to notice her at all. She might risk reachingthe tunnels now, if she had the strength, but this was an unfamiliarpart of the city; she knew there must be entrances to the worldbelow, but had no idea where to find them.

She couldn't stay here, but she was too exhausted to move on.Slowly, she slid down the wall to huddle in the shadows at its base.Maybe if she rested, just for a few minutes...

Across the street stood a gray concrete warehouse. Several bigrigs were backed into a long, busy loading dock and she could hearthe whine of forklifts and the shouts of men loading trucks. Shewatched the activity stolidly, most of her attention focused onregaining some strength. Absently she reached into her gym bag for acandy bar.

A long, dark car turned the corner, cruising slowly towards her.The car's windows were tinted, obscuring her view of its passengersand instinctively she shrank back against the wall, remembering alesson Vincent had taught her long ago. There was safety indarkness.

No more than fifty feet away, the car stopped and a man got out.He crossed to the loading dock and called to one of the men workingthere. The dock worker approached and the other man moved closer,into the light. With a shock, she recognized him. It was the manshe'd seen earlier, the one she'd overheard saying he was sending adetail north. All he had to do was turn his head and he'd see her.Her baby kicked, hard, and she winced, doubling over a little, tryingto be unobtrusive.

The car's engine was still running and her pursuer, who was nowshowing what looked like a photograph, probably of her, to the dockworker, had gotten out of the passenger side. That meant there wasstill a driver in the car, but because of the tinted windows, shecouldn't see him.

He might be looking right at her. Any moment, she might hear himshout, see the car spurt forward to cut off any escape routes. Anymoment. She pressed back into the wall, stiff with fear.

One of the big tractor-trailer units rumbled into life. It pulledforward into the street, turning toward her, and she watched it inchpast the car, blocking her sight of it -- and the driver's possibleview of her. The truck stopped in the middle of the street and thetruck driver climbed down from his cab and walked toward the back ofthe unit.

The driver's door of the cab stood open, the steady rumble of theengine masking all but the loudest noises. The driver was behind thetrailer, out of sight. With a sudden strength born of sheer terror,Catherine scrambled to her feet, snatched up her gym bag and rushedacross the street, reaching to pull herself up into the truck.

Behind the high bucket seats was a place for the driver to sleep.The sheets and blankets on the thin mattress were rumpled, as ifsomeone had just gotten up, but Catherine didn't hesitate, crawlingback behind the half-drawn curtain that shielded the area. Curlingsmall, she drew the curtain a little more, and huddled out of sightof the driver's seat, holding her breath.

She felt him climbing up the side of the truck, settling into hisseat. He didn't look back into the sleeper, didn't see her, and amoment later, she felt the strain as he put the truck in gear and setoff.

There were no angry voices, no sounds of pursuit. Through the gapin the curtain, she could see out the passenger side window and marktheir progress. The truck moved slowly through the city, yielding totraffic lights and other vehicles.

It turned and the view changed, darkened. They were crossing abridge; she couldn't see well enough to determine which one, but theywere leaving Manhattan, leaving the fanatic pursuit -- leavingVincent.

Deliberately, she turned her thoughts away. She was safe, but onlyfor the moment. She needed more space, more distance. Only then wouldshe have the luxury to think, to plan.

After perhaps an hour's travel, the truck stopped and the driverclimbed down from his cab. Catherine waited a moment beforecautiously poking her head through the gap in the curtain.The truckwas parked, engine idling noisily, in front of another warehouse, andshe saw the driver go up a flight of concrete stairs and disappearthrough a gray metal door.

Catherine thought fast. Her choices seemed clear-cut and simple.Either she could climb down out of the truck and try to make her wayfrom here, alone, or she could take her chances and remain in thetruck. Neither prospect seemed particularly inviting, and before shecould make up her mind, the driver returned. She ducked back into thesleeper, curling small in the corner as he threw the truck intoreverse and backed into an open loading bay.

For the next half-hour she lay in the sleeper, listening to theshouts of the men and feeling the shift and sway of the tractor cabas the trailer was loaded. The dock and the area around it wassurprisingly busy, especially considering the time of night and shewas presented with no opportunity to slip away.

When the driver finally climbed back into the cab and started theengine, she had resigned herself to travelling at least as far as hisnext stop, and found consolation in the knowledge that every miletravelled made her recapture less likely.

The rumble of the truck's engine, as it thrummed through thenight, was soothingly hypnotic and her eyes grew heavy. Shestruggled, but eventually weariness won out, and she slept.

"Hey, lady, what do you think you're doing?"

The harsh voice woke her suddenly from a sound sleep. Scramblingbackwards, she pushed herself up, uncertain of her surroundings.Inside, her baby thrashed uncomfortably. A light shone in her eyes,blinding her, and she lifted a hand to ward it off.

The light wavered and flickered before going out and she stared,speechless, at the incredulous face of the truck driver. He was ahusky black man in his fifties, thick through the shoulders, withgrizzled beard and a stained cowboy hat. His eyes were kind, though,and that gave her courage.

Over his shoulder, she could see it was still dark, so she hadn'tslept through the night. They were parked on the shoulder of a busyhighway; the truck's headlights lit a smoothly mown verge crowded bya tangle of overgrown shrubs and trees. The engine was turned off,and over the sound of cars passing on the highway came thehigh-pitched chirping of crickets.

"Where are we?" she managed, at last.

The driver opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed."Virginia," he answered at last. "'Bout halfway between D.C. andRichmond."

Catherine's eyes closed in an involuntary gesture of relief. As ifin response, her child quieted. "No one's following us?" shewhispered.

"You in some kind of trouble?"

Instinct told her to deny it, but this man looked intelligent. Thevery fact that she'd stowed away in his truck answered his question.She nodded warily.

He put out a hand to help her out of the sleeper. "Come on, lady.You might as well ride up front."

After an instant's hesitation she took his rough, calloused handand let him half-lift her into the passenger seat.

"This the only kind of trouble you got?" he asked with a wavetoward her abdomen.

Protectively, she laid a hand over it. "No."

"Didn't think so," he grunted, and started the engine. Not untilhe had merged with the flow of traffic and reached running speed didhe speak again. "Husband or boyfriend?" he asked bluntly.

Catherine peered at him. "What?"

"The guy you're running from. Husband or boyfriend?"

*Neither.* She opened her mouth to say it and changed her mind."I'm not married," she muttered, truthfully.

He nodded sagely and spent the next few minutes weaving a carefulpath through a cluster of slower-moving cars. When the highway beforethem was clear again, he took his right hand from the wheel andoffered it. "I'm Phil."

She took it, squeezing gratefully. "Cathy," she repliedautomatically, and regretted it a split-second later. She had tocover her tracks, make it impossible for Gabriel to find her. Sheshould have used another name. It was too late now, and she comfortedherself with the thought that hers was a common enough name, and shehadn't spelled it. For all he knew, it was short for Kathleen.

"Thank you," she said, a few minutes later.

"For what?" he asked gruffly without taking his eyes from theroad.

"For not putting me out, back there."

He glanced at her, his grin wry. "Couldn't do that," he said."It's a long walk, and there's snakes in those woods."

She darted a look toward the forbidding wall of forest, andshuddered. Snakes were better than the two-footed reptiles pursuingher, but not much. "Will you get in trouble?"

"If they see you," he admitted. "Company has a no-rider policy.Insurance."

"I'm sorry."

"I'll have to put you out in Richmond," he said. "Will you be allright there?"

Alone in a strange city with no friends, no family, noidentification, and less than twenty dollars, her prospects were lessthan cheerful, but she nodded. "I'll be okay." Her mind leaped ahead,thinking, planning. Lost in thought, she was surprised when Philpulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a brightly-lightedtruck stop.

"You look hungry," he said when they stopped. "Wait 'til I fuelup, and I'll buy you some dinner."

She nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

She stood by while he filled the two enormous, barrel-shapeddiesel tanks and followed him inside, where he paid for the fuelbefore leading her toward the back of the truck stop and a cozytrucker's cafe.

Over a plate of beef stew, she learned that he was based out ofOmaha, Nebraska, and was married with four children. "All grown now,"he said.

He'd just finished delivering a load of boxed meat when she'dspotted him in New York; the later stop was in New Jersey, where he'dpicked up a load of computer components bound for Florida.

"I might never have known you were there if you hadn't startedtalking in your sleep," he said.

"What did I say?"

"Nothing I could understand. But you didn't sound too happy."

That wasn't surprising. She'd been having a nightmare, and hisintervention, abrupt as it was, had been welcome.

With their meal finished, he walked her back outside and pointedthe way to a nearby motel. "I've stayed there," he said. "The roomsaren't much, but they're clean and cheap."

She nodded dutifully, knowing she didn't have enough money for thecheapest room, and Phil touched her arm.

"Take this," he said roughly, and pressed some folded bills intoher hand.

"Phil, no, I can't..." she began, protesting. He cut her off.

"Yes, you can, and you will," he said firmly. "I have a daughternot much younger than you, and a little grandson, almost two and ahalf now." His expression changed, turning almost tender. "You'resomebody's daughter; that baby in there is somebody's grandbaby. Ihope if my girl or her little boy are ever in trouble, somebody makesthe effort to help them."

It had been a very long time since anyone was kind, and suddentears stung her eyes. "I hope so, too," she whispered. "Thank you,Phil. I'll pay you back someday."

He shook his head. "Don't you worry about that. You just take careof yourself, and make sure that little baby is born safe andhappy."

She nodded. "I will."

"And you spend that money on a motel room tonight," he addedsternly. "Don't be hoarding it, spending the night out."

"The night's almost gone," she reminded him with a faintsmile.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "You do what I say."

"Yes, Phil," she agreed. She rose up on tiptoe and kissed hisgrizzled cheek. "I won't ever forget you."

If his complexion hadn't been so dark, she'd have sworn he wasblushing. She knew he stood watching as she trudged across the vastparking lot.

She checked into the motel and accepted the key the sleepy clerkshoved through the little window. Her room was tiny, furnished onlywith a double bed and narrow nightstand against one wall, but as Philhad promised, it was clean. She dropped her things on the bed andturned back to the door to secure the locks. They were flimsy thingsand she wondered if they would hold under any sort of pressure.

Moving to the window, she peered out into the night. Across theway, trucks rolled in and out of the truck stop; beyond, she couldsee the headlights of cars speeding along the highway. The motel'ssmall parking lot held only a few cars, but all its occupants seemedto be sleeping; there was no movement outside her door.

Despite the nap she'd had in Phil's truck, she was tired, her eyesgritty from too little sleep, and she yawned and turned away from thewindow.

In the tiny bathroom she stripped out of her clothes and steppedinto the shower. The water was blessedly hot, but she couldn't relax;the noise of the spray kept her from hearing what might be happeningon the other side of the door.

She couldn't even tell herself she was being irrational, shethought, so she washed quickly and got out. She dried herself withthe thin towels provided, biting back distaste as she dressed againin her dirty clothes.

Another peek out the window showed all was still quiet, so shecrawled into the narrow bed. But no sooner had her head touched thepillow than all drowsiness fled. She lay stiffly, ears straining forthe slightest noise, her body instinctively tensed for action.

Intellectually she knew Gabriel could not have followed her.Whether he had engineered her escape or it had truly been the seriesof fortunate opportunities it seemed to be, he would never havepermitted her to stray so far from New York. She must be safe. Andyet...

Rising from the bed, she began to pace restively, pausing everyminute or so to peer out the window. He was relentless, she knew. Shehad taken away something he wanted -- her child -- and he would nevergive up until he found her again.

Briefly, she allowed herself to imagine the intoxicatingpossibility of returning to New York, of slipping into the cityundetected and making her way to the tunnels.

Vincent.

He'd be there, waiting for her, tall and strong, standingsilhouetted in the tunnel, backlit by the golden light of his world.She could run to him, be caught up in his arms, feel the roughness ofhis cloak against her cheek, inhale the elusive scent that was hisalone. She wanted that so badly that for a moment, no risk seemed toogreat. He would protect her and keep her safe.

Safe. It was a feeling she didn't know anymore. She hadn't beensafe for a very long time, and slowly, reluctantly, she faced thecrushing reality that New York was the least safe place of all.

She had to keep moving, running, staying one or two steps ahead ofthe dragnet Gabriel must surely have out by now. Grimly, sheswallowed her longing and turned her mind to practicalities.

Her most pressing need was for money. The hundred dollars Phil hadpressed into her hand wouldn't last long, even added to the changeshe'd scrounged in the office building last night. Her mind raced,examining possibilities. Money... yes, she thought she could managethat, but first, she'd need some identification -- and not in her ownname. She would have to become someone else.

Stretching out on the bed, she let her mind roam, formulatingplans, mentally testing them, discarding what seemed too risky orunlikely to work. Eventually she fell asleep.

The morning sun woke her, streaming brightly through the gap leftwhen she'd parted the curtains to peer out. She blinked hazily,trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. An instant later,memory flooded back, bringing her to full alertness. Groaning, sherolled heavily onto her side and pushed herself up.

The parking lot outside seemed unchanged, save for the sunlightilluminating everything. The same cars were parked in the samespaces; down near the far end, a family was putting suitcases into ablue sedan. She breathed a sigh of relief and pulled the curtain backinto place.

A few minutes later she left the motel full of purpose. Consciousof Phil's stern admonition to take care of herself, she walked backto the truck stop and ate a good breakfast before setting out on thecourse of action she had outlined the night before.

By bus, she travelled to the public library, going straight to theperiodicals room. "Newspapers, for 1956," she told the pleasant youngman behind the desk.

"Any particular month?" he asked, reaching for a request form.

"Late in the year, I guess," she answered slowly. "October,November, December."

"Okay." He returned a few moments later with a small handful ofmicrofilm cans. "Here you go."

"Thanks." At a nearby microfilm machine, Catherine threaded thefirst of the films and began to scan. She went rapidly, slowing onlyfor the obituaries. It was only minutes until she found what she wasseeking.

'Debra Ann Miller, aged 4 months, passed away November 11. BornJuly 7, 1956, she is survived by her parents, Mr. and Mrs.John...'

Catherine read no further; instead, she jotted down the babygirl's name and birthdate and went on. When she had found four morenames, she gathered up her supply of microfilms and returned them tothe desk, exchanging them for ones from June, July, and August of thesame year.

Back at the machine, Catherine scanned the new films. This timeshe paused for the birth announcements, verifying that the babieswhose names she'd written down had been born in this area. It didn'ttake long.

"All done?" asked the friendly young man when she returned thesecond batch of films.

"Yes, thank you." She handed him the films. "Can you tell me howto get to the county building?"

"Sure." He gave her directions, and even drew a simple map. Itwasn't far, and though her back ached abysmally, she walked to savebus fare. Once there, she visited the records department.

"I need to get a copy of a birth certificate," she informed asullen clerk.

"Fill this out," the clerk instructed, sliding a form across thecounter without looking up. "There's a ten dollar fee."

"Thank you."

Choosing one of the names from the newspaper, Catherine filled outthe request form, using information gleaned from the obituary andbirth notices. She returned it, with her ten dollar fee, to theclerk.

"It'll be about a week. We'll mail it," the clerk said curtly.

"I won't be here that long," Catherine said, her heart thumping.She hadn't thought of this. "Can't I get a copy today?"

"Lady, it takes a week. You'll have to wait."

Clearly, she wasn't going to get any cooperation from the surlyclerk. "Is there someone else I can talk to?" She kept her voicecalm, despite the sudden apprehension racing through her.

"It isn't going to do you any good. I told you, it takes aweek."

Catherine didn't have a week. "Please."

With a great, put-upon sigh, the clerk trudged back into a warrenof little cubicles, coming back a minute later with a tall, baldingman in tow. "I told her it takes a week," she was complaining,audibly. "I told her."

"Thank you, Serena. I'll take care of it."

The clerk retired in a huff and the man leaned against thecounter, regarding Catherine with a faint smile. His eyes, palebehind gold wire-rimmed glasses, were apologetic. "Sorry about that,"he apologized. "I think she's having a bad day."

Catherine's need was immediate and urgent and she was prepared touse whatever means were necessary to secure her child's safety; shestarted with a diplomatic smile. "We all have bad days," shesympathized.

"Yes," the man agreed. "Now, what can we do for you?"

Catherine pointed to her request form, still lying on the counter."I need a copy of my birth certificate," she said."Well, like Serenatold you, that usually takes about a week," the man explained. "Wehave to pull the microfiche and make a photostat."

Catherine had a cover story, swiftly composed in the last fewminutes, and she launched into it, hiding her desperation. "Yes, Iknow, but the trouble is, I'm not sure I have a week." She patted herswollen abdomen ruefully and put all her charm into her smile. "Myhusband got transferred to England; he's been over there for threeweeks, and I'm supposed to join him before the baby's born. But Ineed to get a passport, and I can't find my birth certificateanywhere!" She resisted the urge to bat her eyelashes, and merelytried to look helpless.

"Can you get a passport that quickly?" He sounded genuinelyinterested, rather than skeptical, and Catherine took heart.

"Yes," she said with an assurance born of past dealings withImmigration. "Since it's sort of an emergency, they can rush itthrough. But I need my birth certificate."

He glanced down at the request. "Well, it sounds as if we ought tomake an exception in your case," he said thoughtfully. "I'll have oneof the clerks run down and do this right away. It'll take aboutfifteen minutes." He glanced at her anxiously, as if afraid thatwouldn't be quick enough.

She allowed her smile to widen, letting it light her face. "Thatwould be wonderful," she said gratefully. "Thank you so much!"

It was nearer to a half-hour before Serena came back with thephotostat, shoving it ungraciously across the counter. Catherinescooped it up.

Not audacious enough to ask the sullen clerk for directions, shewent to the front information booth to find out how to get to hernext goal -- the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was too far towalk, so she boarded a bus and sat down wearily. Her feet wereswollen, her back ached, and more than anything, she wanted to liedown. Urgency drove her on.

Her immediate purpose was to establish an identity; the birthcertificate was a beginning and, at the driver's license bureau, sheused it to obtain a state-issued picture I.D. card. By the time shehad it safely in hand, the sun was setting, and she trudged wearilyback to a cheap motel she'd passed while riding the bus.

The room she was given was small and dark, smelling sharply ofdisinfectant, and once Catherine wouldn't have spent five secondsthere, but now she couldn't make herself care. Exhausted, shecollapsed onto the bed, falling immediately into a heavy sleep.

She woke with a start, disoriented, aware only that something haddisturbed her sleep. Panicking, she levered herself off the bed,hurrying to the small, dingy window. The small parking lot held a fewcars, but there was no one in sight.

Her child shifted and kicked vigorously. "Did you wake me up?" shewhispered softly, rubbing the spot with her hand. Predictably, therewas no answer, but she stood for a moment with her head bowed, onehand on her abdomen, communing silently with her unborn child,regaining her equilibrium.

Presently she straightened, peering out the window again beforemoving to sit on the side of the bed. "I wonder what time it is?" sheasked no one in particular, already knowing there was no way to findout. She had no watch, and her room was cheap partly because itlacked both a telephone and a television. The darkness and dearth oftraffic on the street outside told her only that it was late; adragging sense of weariness said she hadn't slept long enough, butthe jolt of adrenaline she'd produced a few minutes ago had banishedall traces of drowsiness.

"I'm hungry," she realized, remembering that she'd only hadbreakfast the day before. Guiltily she thought of Phil and reachedfor her zippered gym bag, rummaging through her small supply offoodstuffs. She decided that the apple, now a bit battered andbruised, and a chocolate bar would balance each other out and stiflehunger pangs until morning, when she could get a decent meal. Shemunched slowly, peering out the window from time to time, thinkingover the next steps in her plan.

When morning finally came, she left the motel and crossed thestreet to a small cafe. She ate slowly, poring over the morningpaper, paying particular attention to the classified ads. When shepaid her check, she converted five dollars into dimes and carriedthem to the pay phone outside.

"Yes, I'm calling about the car you have advertised in thepaper..."

Patiently she called on the ads she'd marked, asking questions andtrying to sound as if she knew more about cars than she did. When shefinished, she had a short list of addresses, all within walkingdistance or near a bus line. At the second stop, she knew she'd foundwhat she wanted.

The car was a 1975 Ford Pinto. The passenger door was dented andthe paint had faded until it was more pinkish orange than theoriginal red, but the engine started easily and sounded all right toCatherine's inexperienced ear. The tires looked adequate and, whenshe took it for a short test drive, it seemed to handle well. Mostimportant, the owner had an air of unreliability that Catherine wasprepared to turn to her own ends. "I'll give you five hundred forit," she said, knowing full well the ad had asked for only $450.

As she'd expected, he didn't correct her. "Well, I don't know,lady," he hedged, rubbing his unshaven chin with a grimy hand. "Thisis a pretty good car, you know? I don't know if I can let it go forthat." It was hard to miss the avaricious gleam in his eye.

She gave the car another look and shook her head doubtfully. "Idon't know," she said slowly, watching him from the corner of hereye.

He saw an easy mark slipping away and moved closer. "Okay, lady,I'll tell you what. Five-fifty and she's yours."

Catherine pretended to think it over. "All right," she agreed. "Ifyou throw in the license plates."

That, of course, was illegal -- the plates were registered in hisname (she hoped) and weren't transferable to someone else, but shealso knew it was done all the time. It was one of the things thatmade investigative work so difficult. He didn't hesitate. "Sure, youcan have the plates, but you gotta pay me in cash. No checks."

No problem there -- Catherine didn't have a checking account. Ofcourse, at the moment, she didn't have that much cash, either. Shefrowned. "I'll have to go to the bank," she said. "Is that okay?"

"Sure, lady," he agreed, magnanimous now the deal had been made."Hey, listen, I got to run into town anyway. I'll even drop you offif you want."

The offer of a ride was more than Catherine had hoped for, and shenodded, trying not to look too eager. A few minutes later, she waswishing she'd walked, despite her swollen feet and aching back. Inaddition to not shaving, the young man driving with a bit too muchdash and fervor also didn't believe in bathing. In the close confinesof the car, he smelled just terrible.

Cracking her window, Catherine concentrated on breathingshallowly, trying not to gag. She was grateful when he pulled up infront of the bank she'd picked out of the phone directory.

"Thank you," she said, climbing out. "I'll probably be a couple ofhours; I have some other business to attend to."

"Want me to pick you up?" he offered. Clearly, he didn't want tolet his quick and profitable sale slip away.

Catherine let herself look grateful. "Would you? And I could payyou the money right here..."

"Sure, no problem," he said quickly. "Two hours?"

She glanced toward the bank sign -- a lighted display there showedthe time to be eleven twenty-eight in the morning. "Let's make it twoo'clock," she said.

"Two o'clock. Okay," he agreed. She waited until he drove awaybefore she turned, going, not into the bank, but across the streetand into a fast-food restaurant. There, she made use of therestroom.

First she removed the dingy shirt she'd taken from a rack in aManhattan store only two days ago. From the ever-present gym bag shepulled the white button-down gown she'd had to wear as a prisoner;she hated the very sight of it and had only kept it because leavingit behind would have been evidence for her pursuers, but now it wouldcome in handy. With its neat lines and crisp fabric it was obviouslyexpensive -- only the best for the mother of the child Gabrielwanted, though he didn't value the mother herself -- and would helpwith the impression Catherine wanted to create.

She put it on, buttoning it to the throat, and examined herreflection in the mirror. Her purloined running shoes weregood-quality Nikes and she could hope no one would notice that herpants were thin, cheap, and not quite clean, but even so, the lookwasn't quite right. Well, frankly, the look smacked of Omar thetentmaker, but she couldn't do anything about that; it came withbeing heavily pregnant. She needed something to draw attention awayfrom her body, to her face -- jewelry, or a touch of color. Jewelrywas probably out of the question, but she might be able to dosomething about color.

She brushed her hair and tugged at some of the more unrulystrands, wishing belatedly that she hadn't been quite so thoroughwith the scissors the other day. Still, it was an interesting look,and she'd actually met people who would pay large sums for a haircutlike this one, if they thought it was in fashion. Maybe she'd startone.

She stepped outside, glancing toward the bank only to check thetime. Eleven fifty-two. Bank officers would be going to lunch soonand that could be a problem, but her appearance was vital if shehoped to carry this off. She spotted an old-fashioned combinationdrug and dime store just down the street and turned her steps in thatdirection.

Inside the store she found a colorful display of cheap, gauzyscarves. She pulled a bright pink one from its holder and held it toher throat, checking the effect in the polished chrome of the rack.Perfect.

She paid for it and tied it around her neck. With a grim smile,she pinched her cheeks to give them color, shouldered her gym bag,and marched toward the bank.

Five minutes later, she seated herself gingerly and gazed across amassive desk at a slight, balding man who didn't look much older thanshe. The discreet brass plaque on his desk identified him as WayneEddard, Vice-President. "And what can we do for you?" heinquired.

This was perhaps the riskiest part of Catherine's plan, but shehad no choice. Without funds she was helpless, and even if she daredlook for work, no one would hire her when she was obviously only daysaway from giving birth. She had to chance it.

"I wish to make a withdrawal from a trust fund set up inPhiladelphia," she said.

"Do you have an account with us?"

"No, but I'm prepared to pay a fee for your bank's services."

Eddard nodded. "How much money are we talking about?"

"Thirty thousand dollars." She said it calmly, as if handling sucha sum was an everyday occurrence.

He didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow. Obviously he took her forthe wealthy young woman she pretended to be... had once been. "I see.Cashier's check?"

"No. Cash."

He did react then, with a swiftly covered start of surprise.

"I trust you do have that much cash on hand," Catherine addedimperiously.

"Yes, of course," he assured her hastily. Obviously, he did notwant to chance losing her business to another bank.

"I'd like to make the transaction right away."

"Certainly," he agreed. "Let me give you an account number... andour wire transfer number..." He jotted the numbers for her and pushedthe notepad across the desk.

"May I use your telephone? You can deduct the long-distancecharges from the funds."

"Of course," he agreed instantly, turning the instrument towardher.

She'd called Information from a pay phone earlier in the day toget the bank's number, and dialed it slowly. "John Kemper, please,"she said when the bank answered.

As she listened to the clicks of the call being transferred,Catherine thought about the trust, and how it came to be. Terminallyill and with no heirs, Margaret Chase had wanted to leave herconsiderable fortune to charity, but after spending time in thetunnel world, she had changed her mind. With the aid of an attorneyCatherine recommended, Margaret set up a trust in order to makefunds, up to a maximum of thirty thousand dollars, available toanyone who could provide the trust officer with a six-digit code. Shehad trusted Catherine to pass the code on to a select few: PeterAlcott, Father, and of course, Vincent. In this way, Margaret assuredthat the tunnel world would always have access to funds, independentof any one person. Never again would disaster, small or large, strikefor simple lack of funds to put things right.

Catherine had never imagined herself using the trust, but shedidn't dare try to touch her own money; not only did she have no wayto prove her identity, but it was all too likely that Gabriel waswatching her bank, waiting for her to try to access her accounts.Neither Father nor Vincent would begrudge her the funds she plannedto take from Margaret's trust, and chances that Gabriel's people hadmade the connection between her and Margaret were slim.

At last the call went through. "Mr. Kemper? I'd like to make awithdrawal from the Chase trust. The authorization code iszero-four-one-two-eight-seven." She waited while he verified thecode, then gave him the information he needed to transfer the funds."Thank you, Mr. Kemper," she said at last. "Have a nice day."

She looked up at Eddard, who was hovering nearby. "He's having thewire sent immediately," she said.

Fifteen minutes later, he handed her a two-inch stack of bills,mostly hundreds. The bank had already deducted its fee."Thank you,Ms. Miller," Eddard said, offering his hand. "If we can be of furtherservice, please let us know."

"I will," she said pleasantly, glancing over his shoulder at theclock on the wall. It was quarter of two. She had just enough time tochange her clothes before her ride returned.

He was five minutes late and she was pacing the sidewalkimpatiently when he arrived. "Here," she said, thrusting a wad ofbills into his hands. "Five hundred and fifty dollars."

He counted it slowly, verifying the amount. "Yeah. Okay, lady.Thanks."

"Come on," she said. "I'll give you a lift home." She didn't muchwant to ride in a closed vehicle with him again, but if Gabriel knewabout the trust, he'd have people here in a hurry, and she didn'twant potential witnesses left behind.

After dropping him off at his home, she pointed the car west anddidn't look back. For three hours she stayed on major highways,pushing the speed limit. After that, she assumed Gabriel had men inthe vicinity, and began to travel the secondary roads. To furtherconfuse things, she also changed direction, cutting back north.

It was well after dark when weariness finally overcame urgency.She found an inexpensive chain motel in the middle of West Virginiaand pulled in.

The room was similar to the one she'd had the first night -- sparebut clean. She tossed her things onto the bed and made her usualcheck of the parking lot before trudging to the bathroom and turningon the shower. As she stood under the hot spray, letting it warm andmassage the back of her neck, she ran her hands over her swollenabdomen. There was no answering kick, and she faltered. Now that shehad time to think about it, the baby had been unusually quiet today-- in fact, she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt itmove.

There was no chance to suppress the sudden panic that surgedthrough her. Rapidly, she dried herself and dressed in her cleanestclothes, the pink sweatsuit. After a cursory glance out the window,she sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, both hands pressed to hersides.

"Come on, little one," she coaxed gently, trying to keep theterror from her voice. "Wake up."

There was no movement.

With her right hand, she pushed, pressing on the spot where thebaby usually kicked. Sometimes when she did that, the baby wouldrespond by pushing back, or kicking. This time, there wasnothing.

She fought back waves of panic. Hadn't she read once that newborninfants could be sensitive to the moods of those around them? Herbaby was only days away from being born, and was Vincent's childbesides. She thought it had been unusually active lately. Was itpossible that it, too, was suffering from the stress of the past fewdays? Maybe it was, like her, simply exhausted.

Calmer, she gave an experimental push on her side again and thistime, she thought she felt an answering flicker.

"Come on," she urged aloud. "Wake up."

She pushed again, strongly, and this time the response wasclear-cut and vigorous as the baby kicked hard.

The sudden rush of relief was overwhelming and she sank down,curling on her side. She didn't know what she'd have done if thechild hadn't moved. She couldn't go to a doctor, or a hospital.Gabriel would be expecting that, and besides, this was Vincent'schild. She didn't, couldn't know what to expect, and therefore had toexpect anything. Outside help was out of the question.

It was a knowledge that followed her into sleep, disturbing herrest with nightmares of giving birth alone, in pain and despair. Thereality, when she woke gasping and sweating, seemed no brighter. Whatshe needed was a course of action.

Yesterday, she'd been simply running, putting distance betweenherself and her pursuers. Today, she needed a place to go.

Over breakfast, she studied a map she'd picked up at a gasstation. The usual criteria for choosing a destination -- friends,job opportunities, etc. -- were useless, and she ran a finger alongsome of the major highways, reading off city names under her breath.Columbus, Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Chicago, St. Louis....

Chicago. Something rang a bell and she stopped, thinking. Ofcourse! Last year, Vincent had asked if she'd be willing to be usedas a character reference for Edward Simmons, a young man who'd grownup in the tunnels. She knew Edward slightly but put more trust inVincent's assessment of him, and agreed without hesitation. Edwardhad been going to Chicago.

She had never been contacted about him, so either he'd never usedher name or his references had never been checked. Either way, thechance of Gabriel being able to trace the connection was nearlynon-existent. Her heart beat faster in anticipation and hope.

The drive to Chicago took most of the day and during the longhours at the wheel, Catherine couldn't keep her imagination fromsoaring into the near future, after she found Edward. The help hecould give her would be limited, of course. She still couldn't gohome, still couldn't go to a doctor, or a hospital, but he wassomeone she could talk to, someone who could understand. And he couldget a message to Vincent, let him know she was safe. Let him knowabout the baby.

Maybe there would even be a phone call. The image of Vincent witha phone in his hand seemed slightly incongruous, but there was noreal reason why he couldn't use one. He could go to the home of ahelper, maybe. She could talk to him herself, hear the wonderfulsound of his voice in her ear, say the things she'd been longing tosay for so long...

The dreams made the miles pass more quickly. It was late afternoonwhen she approached the city and its many, sprawling suburbs. Thoughshe'd visited a few times, she'd always flown and taken taxis, so thebasic layout of the area was unfamiliar, and it was a while beforeshe felt comfortable enough to leave the interstate highway.

She had no idea where Edward lived, so she'd have to call him, andfor that, she needed a phone. She supposed she could find one at aconvenience store or gas station, but she really preferred oneinside, away from noise and presently she spotted a block of officebuildings. There was almost sure to be a pay phone inside one ofthem.

Her gym bag held all her meager possessions, including her entiresupply of cash, so she carried it with her into the building. Asshe'd expected, there was a pay phone around the corner from theelevators, and she hurried to it.

Pulling the thick, tattered directory from its shelf, she openedit to the "S's" and began to scan down the page.

Shuster... Siddell... Siegel... Silva... Simkins... Ah, there itwas. Simmons. The Simmonses took up almost an entire page, but therewere only three Edwards. Digging in her bag, she fished out somechange and lifted the receiver.

"Hello?" It was a man's voice, deep and rough.

"May I speak to Edward, please?" she asked.

"This is Ed."

"Edward Simmons?"

"Yeah, that's me. Who's this?"

Clearly, this was not the right Edward Simmons. "I'm sorry, I'vedialed the wrong number," she apologized, and disconnected.

Another quarter went into the phone, and she dialed the secondnumber listed. The voice that answered this time was also male, butobviously younger, and her heart leaped in hope.

"Edward? No, he's not here."

"Can you tell me when he'll be back?"

"Sorry, ma'am. He won't be coming back. He's gone back home."

"Home?" she stammered, stunned. "Wait a minute, let me be sureI've got the right Edward Simmons. The one I'm looking for is twentyyears old, about five-ten, dark hair, hazel eyes..."

"Yeah, that's him. He stayed for a while, but I think he just gothomesick. He went back to New York about three weeks ago."

New York. And the description fit. It had to be the right Edward.And he was gone. Out of reach.

She thanked the young man politely, just barely managing to keepher voice steady, and hung up. She wanted to cry.

Instead, she swallowed the disappointment and, fighting despair,gathered up her things. Unshed tears blurred her vision, but shecould still make out the bright square of glass that showed the wayoutside and she went toward it, ducking her head to dash furtively atthe tears that threatened to spill.

"Ooofff!"

She collided with someone else and felt the solid grip of a man'shand on her upper arm, steadying her. Instinctively she shruggedaway, peering up through tears and shaggy bangs.

"Sorry, miss," the man apologized, but Catherine only half-heardhim.

She was too busy staring. His face was lean, his eyes cool, hismouth thin-lipped and tight. His hair was cut short and preciselystyled, his suit faultless. She'd spent months surrounded by grim menwith precise haircuts and impeccably tailored suits; this man couldeasily be one of Gabriel's minions. He was looking at her oddly, andsuddenly she panicked.

Whirling, she plunged through the heavy glass doors, ignoring hisstartled call. Fingers shaking, she fumbled with her keys. When shefinally got her car door unlocked and flung herself inside, the manstood on the sidewalk outside the building, watching her. She threwthe little car in gear and sped off.

Hunched over the wheel, driving more quickly than was strictlysafe, she kept an almost constant watch in the rearview mirror, butthere were no signs of pursuit. At last she pulled into the parkinglot of a convenience store and slumped in her seat, shaking.

So close. She'd been so close to being able to reach out, tocontact Vincent, and now, perhaps, because of a chance encounter, shewas close to recapture instead. Fear and frustration overwhelmed her,and, bending her head to the steering wheel, she let the tearscome.

It was the baby's strong, rhythmic movement that brought her back,reminding her of her priorities. There would be time later to grieve,to be afraid. For now, there was only the need for action.

For safety's sake, she had to assume the worst -- that the manshe'd run into was one of Gabriel's men, and her presence in Chicagowas now known. Even now, men might be converging on the area,prepared for a wide-spread sweep of the city; she couldn't hope toescape Gabriel's net twice.

So her priorities were threefold. First, she needed to get farenough away that she couldn't be easily detected. Second, the man hadseen her up close. She needed to alter her appearance, which meantchanging her hair again. She ran a hand through the untidy tangle andgrimaced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. No great lossthere. Third, and most important, he'd seen the car and probably hadthe license number. She had to get rid of it.

Dark was falling fast; the day was ending, leaving little time forthe things that had to be done before she could rest tonight. In theconvenience store, she bought a newspaper and skimmed the car ads. Asin Richmond, a series of phone calls narrowed her selection, and sheset out. An hour and a half later, she paid seven hundred dollarscash for a 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit. She left the Pinto parked on aseedy side street, keys dangling from the ignition. With luck,joyriders would leave it far from here, blurring her trail.

A nearby strip mall held a chain discount hair styling shop. Itwas still open and Catherine made that her next stop. Thehairdresser, a vapid young woman whose name tag read "Bunny", madedistressed noises over the ragged cut Catherine had given herselfwith the nail scissors before taking up her own, more suitable,ones.

When she finished, Catherine's hair was shorter than she couldever remember it -- close-cropped on the sides and in back, her bangsshort and feathered softly to the side. It didn't suit her; she hadtoo much face for this particular haircut, but once again, it changedher appearance and that was all she truly wanted. She paid Bunny andwent out.

In her new car, with her new appearance, she felt safe in pickingup Interstate 80 out of town; east of Joliet, Illinois, she turnedonto I-55 and headed south.

It was past midnight when she reached Springfield, Illinois. Totired to drive any further, she pulled into a Motel 6 and booked aroom. Tonight she didn't bother with a shower, choosing instead tosimply collapse on the bed.

She was jolted from deep, dreamless sleep by the sound of runningfeet; there was a heavy pounding followed by a deep, inarticulateshout. Pushing herself off the bed, she hurried to the window to peerout.

Flashing blue and red lights were everywhere, blinding her, andshe ducked back, letting the curtain fall. The pounding came again,and she realized it was someone hammering on a nearby door. Panicseized her.

She'd been followed; the police here were Gabriel's men. They hadthe wrong room, but soon they'd realize their mistake and come forher. The voice of her fear spread insidiously, making her heart poundand her palms sweat.

She used grim logic to fight the terror. They weren't after her.If they were, they'd be pounding on her door, not someone else's. Thepolice presence here was mere coincidence. It had to be.

She dared another peek outside. The pounding had stopped and shecould hear men's voices calling to one another. There were threepatrol cars parked at different angles in the parking lot, lightsflashing. The voices came from two or three doors down; the angle wastoo sharp to allow Catherine to see what was happening withoutopening the door, and she had no intention of doing that.

A uniformed officer came into view and hurried to one of thepatrol cars. A moment later, two other officers moved into theparking area. They supported a third figure who slouched betweenthem, hands cuffed behind his back. Catherine watched them placetheir suspect into the back of one of the patrol cars. That car,along with one of the others, pulled out almost immediately, butCatherine stayed by the window until the third car left fifteenminutes later. Only then did logic truly win out over fear.

Wrung out by the constant dread highlighted by moments of sheerterror, she dropped heavily on the bed. For long moments she simplysat, unable to summon the energy to even lie down. When she did crawlback under the covers, it was to lie with her legs curled as high asher distended abdomen would allow, her arms wrapped protectivelyaround its bulge, shivering in reaction.

Only gradually did the tension ease, and when her eyes closed, shefound only a restless, nightmarish sleep. It was a relief whenmorning came and she could reasonably crawl out of bed.

A hot shower, supplemented by a good breakfast, restored some ofher waning courage, and she was on the road again soon after sunrise,putting miles behind her. She continued south and west and was makinggood progress until, on the outskirts of Oklahoma City, her car beganto wheeze.

She didn't bother to worry about getting it fixed; there was notime, and besides, it was time to change cars anyway. She simplyrepeated her earlier maneuver and parked it with the keys in theignition and set about acquiring a new one. This time, she paid $600cash for a blue 1982 Toyota Corolla.

By the time she'd completed the transaction it was late afternoon.She'd been up since dawn and had little sleep the night before -- formany nights before. She'd hoped to reach Texas before stopping forthe night, but common sense outweighed the constant sense of beinghunted. She'd get a reasonable distance away from the neighborhoodwhere she'd bought the car, and find a room.

She preferred the economy chain motels, like Motel 6 or Super 8.They were spare, but they were clean and their reasonable cost helpedconserve her funds. Most important, they were busy, making her lessmemorable.

She made her way through the teeming city, caught up in rush hourtraffic. She wasn't familiar with the city, but she tried to stay onmain thoroughfares, always heading south and west. She drove slowly,alert to the unfamiliar traffic, keeping an eye out for a motel, butit was a different sign that caught her attention.

K-Mart.

Before she'd had time to think about it, she'd turned into theparking lot. A parking place presented itself only yards from thedoor, almost beckoning. She parked, and then sat in the car, staringat the store's facade. K-Mart wasn't the kind of place she normallypatronized; in fact, once upon a time, she wouldn't have been caughtdead in a discount store.

She puzzled over her own motivation, and finally it came to her.The simple truth was, she was tired of wearing the same clothes,tired of rinsing out her underwear in motel sinks each night, tiredof washing her hair with the coarse bar soap found in motelbathrooms. She needed a few things and now was as good a time as anyto get them. Her subconscious had known that, even if her consciousmind hadn't. With a rueful smile, she opened the car door and gotout.

Inside the store, she took a basket and began filling itmethodically. Toiletries came first. Shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush,toothpaste. A comb, and a bottle of hand lotion. A box oftissues.

In the lingerie department she picked up underwear and socks.Ladies' wear provided a pair of utilitarian blue cotton slacks with agenerous elastic waist and two inexpensive, oversize T-shirts -- onesoft pink, one pale green. That was enough clothing for now; shecould add to her wardrobe later.

She couldn't think of what else she might need, but hersubconscious still tugged, so she wandered the store, waiting forinspiration. Presently she looked up to find herself entering theInfants department.

She paused uncertainly.

Ahead of her, a young couple looked at strollers and Catherinewatched as the woman, obviously pregnant, said something to herhusband in a low voice. He took her arm, bending his head to hers,and after a moment they laughed softly. Catherine looked away.

There had been no such tender moments in her pregnancy. Vincenthad never stood close and felt his child move beneath his hand;Vincent didn't even know there was to be a child. There had been noloving anticipation, no hope, no planning for the future. A wave ofwrenching sadness swept her and she wanted nothing more than to be inhis arms.

It lasted only a moment. Her child stirred restively andautomatically, her hand went to her abdomen. The wistfulness wasswiftly replaced by a surge of protectiveness.

The young couple moved on, and with a defiant lift of her chin,Catherine pushed her basket into the aisle. Her baby would be bornsoon -- in freedom, not captivity. It was wanted and would be lovedand cared for.

Something inside her broke free and suddenly, all the warm,nurturing feelings she'd been suppressing for so long surged forth.She swayed, staggered by the force of her own unleashed emotion, andcaught at the shopping cart for support.

The baby moved again and, bending her head, Catherine whispered toit tenderly. "I love you, little one," she soothed. "Nothing bad willhappen to you. I won't let it."

According to things she'd overheard the doctor say, the babyshould be born soon. Perhaps as early as next week it would be hereand she could hold it and comfort it and shower it with all the loveshe had to give.

She was safe now; as safe as she could reasonably expect to be.Gabriel couldn't possibly know where she was, where she was headed.Safe.

And at last Catherine dared to look beyond the next hour, the nextday. Slowly, she allowed herself to look into the future, and withthe future came reality. When it came, her baby would need things --diapers, clothing, blankets. What else?

It occurred to her that she really had no idea what a baby neededand she pushed her cart through the aisles, scanning the packedshelves and racks in bewilderment.

The choices were overwhelming. She stopped by a display ofgarments wrapped securely in transparent plastic and tentativelypicked up a package of undershirts. The label said 'newborn', butCatherine had never seen anything so tiny. Could even a brand-newbaby be small enough to fit inside one of these?

Someone touched her arm. "Excuse me."

Catherine whirled defensively, instincts bristling.

A dark-haired woman about her own age stepped back, eyes widening."I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Catherine let out her breath in a long sigh of relief. "It's allright. I didn't hear you."

The woman smiled. Catherine smiled in return and her gaze droppedto the woman's shopping cart. A molded plastic infant seat occupiedmost of it, and scrunched up in the seat, fast asleep, was adark-haired infant.

"Oh, she's lovely," Catherine said, noting the pink terryclothsleeper the baby wore.

"Thank you." The other woman beamed with pleasure and Catherine'sown smile widened.

"How old is she?"

"Six weeks tomorrow."

"Oh, but she's so tiny!" She glanced at the package of shirtsstill in her hand. "I guess these aren't as small as they look."

The woman smiled sympathetically. "First baby?" she asked.

Catherine nodded.

"When are you due?"

*I wish I knew,* Catherine thought silently. "Pretty soon," shesaid aloud. "And I don't have any baby things yet."

The woman's eyebrows rose gently. "Cutting it pretty close, aren'tyou?"

"I've been sort of busy," Catherine said lamely. "I never had ababy before. I don't know what to get."

"Well, for starters, don't get those," the woman said, pointing tothe package in her hand. "Those kind of undershirts will ride up intothe poor kid's armpits every time you pick him up."

"What do I get?" Catherine asked, bewildered.

"Here, I'll show you," the woman offered. "My name's Ellen, by theway. Ellen Chapman."

"Ca-Cathy," Catherine stuttered, forgetting her name was supposedto be Debra until it was too late. "Cathy Miller." At least sheremembered to use her new last name. "This isn't your first baby, Itake it," she added, to cover her slip.

Ellen chuckled. "I have two boys at home with their dad -- fiveand seven."

Catherine smiled. "That's nice."

Ellen smiled back. "Sometimes, sometimes not."

Over the next quarter-hour, Ellen goodnaturedly guided her in thepurchase of everything from undershirts with long tails that snappedin the baby's crotch, to sleepers, to blankets and even a carseat.

"Bottles. You'll need at least a couple," Ellen said absently,surveying the articles piled in the cart. "Are you going tonurse?"

Catherine had been caught up in survival; she had never taken timeto consider how she was going to feed her baby. Ellen's casualquestion sparked a sudden image of herself, head bent low, cradlingVincent's child to her breast. For a moment, she even imaginedVincent there, too, reaching out to stroke the tiny newborn head.

It was an effort to bring herself back to the present. "Yes. Ofcourse I'm going to nurse."

"Then only get two bottles. Plastic," Ellen advised. "And asix-pack of ready to drink formula, just in case. And I think that'severything."

"I hope so." Catherine eyed her overflowing shopping cartruefully. "And thank you. I don't know what I would have done withoutyour help."

"You'd have managed," Ellen said breezily. "And now, I've got togo. My princess is waking up, and while I'm all for nursing, I'm notgoing to feed her in the middle of K-Mart."

Catherine laughed, feeling relaxed and happy for the first time inmonths. "'Bye."

"'Bye. Good luck with your baby." Ellen hurried away and Catherineleaned against her shopping cart and smiled. There was still joy tobe found, after all, and still good people to extend a helping hand.She found the knowledge reassuring and the pleasure found in a brief,chance encounter stayed with her all the way to her motel.

The next morning found her on the move again. The back seat of herlittle Toyota was piled high with her new purchases and she resolvedto invest in a couple of inexpensive nylon zipper bags at theearliest opportunity.

Breaking the routine she'd established, she stopped early in theafternoon. She should press on, increasing the distance betweenherself and her last known whereabouts, but her back ached and shefelt strangely restless, so she pulled off the highway inAlbuquerque.

Finding another chain motel was easy, but after checking in,Catherine found herself unable to sit still. Pacing between the frontdoor and the back wall didn't help, and after a while she turned hereye on the bed and the K-Mart bags piled on the spread. She wore hernew pants and one of her new shirts, but the baby's things were stillin their packages.

Maybe she could go through them, put them in some sort of order.Maybe the simple task would ease whatever was bothering her. Shehadn't gotten through more than a third of the tiny garments, though,before the restlessness had her on her feet again.

She peered out the window, arching back to counterbalance thebulge of her stomach, one hand braced against her hip as support forher aching back. She scrutinized the asphalt parking lot but nothingseemed out of place, and after a moment she let the curtain drop. Sheforced herself to finish sorting the baby clothes and began tuckingthem neatly away in the plastic shopping bags.

She had nearly finished packing the garments away when she noticedthat the fabric had the slightly stiff feel she associated with newclothing. She brought a terrycloth sleeper to her face and rubbed itexperimentally against her cheek.

It was almost imperceptibly rough and had a subtle scent, faintlyunpleasant. How would this stiffness feel against a baby's delicateskin? She frowned, and looked at the plastic sacks, now bulging withclothes.

She could wash them. She should wash them. There'd been alaundromat in a strip mall not two blocks from here. She could go andwash the baby's things, along with her own. She found the prospectimmensely pleasing, and wasted no time carrying it out.

At the laundromat, she found herself too restless to sit and watchthe machines. While the clothes agitated, she went outside to stretchher legs.

The day had been hot, but the sun had set and a cool breeze wasblowing. Catherine tipped her head back, savoring the fresh air.After six months in captivity, being outdoors was sheer luxury.

She began to walk, intending to go to the end of the littleshopping center before turning around and coming back. Her planschanged, though, when she realized that the one other lighted windowalong the storefronts belonged to a bookstore.

It had been literally months since she'd had an opportunity toreally read. In the past few days, she'd only had time to skim thenewspaper, and before that, she'd been Gabriel's prisoner, starved ofall mental stimulation. The lure of printed matter was too strong toresist.

Automatically she wandered toward the poetry and literaturesection, letting her fingers run along the titles, smiling now andthen as a familiar one triggered a memory. The section was severelylimited, though, and she found nothing she wanted to buy.

She drifted along the aisles, skimming titles. Psychology andself-help books gave way to computer manuals; beyond those were bookson hobbies and collecting. In the back of the store, Catherine foundthe children's section and paused. So many titles were familiar; justas many were new to her. She picked up a colorful paperback. Thecover proclaimed it to be one of a series -- The BerenstainBears. The artwork pictured a pair of cute bear cubs dressed inpeople clothes, and she smiled as she replaced it on the shelf.

Farther down was a whole shelf devoted to Dr. Seuss -- one of herown childhood favorites -- and beyond that, a shelf of children'sclassics: Kipling's Just So_stories, The VelveteenRabbit, Black Beauty, The Secret Garden, MadeleineL'Engle's Time Trilogy. Someday soon, she might read these to her ownchild. The thought warmed her.

A moment later she paused in front of a series of shelves devotedto books on pregnancy, childbirth and child care. It occurred to herthat she really knew very little about the actual process ofchildbirth -- and with an acute stab of reality, she realized that itwas something she ought to know. She browsed, paying specialattention to chapters on emergency home births.

The one that seemed most comprehensive and complete was soontucked under her arm. She added a thick paperback volume on childcare and looked for the checkout. She paid for the books and wentback to the laundromat and, after transferring her clothes to adryer, sat down in one of the molded plastic chairs and began toread.

An hour later she was back in her motel room. Newly washed, softand sweet-smelling, the baby's clothes were neatly folded and packedaway; Catherine's own clothing was likewise folded and tucked backinto the ubiquitous gym bag that served as her suitcase.

Her chores done, she reached again for the childbirth book, butthis time, it failed to hold her interest. The odd restlessness wasback and she stood and moved to the window. The asphalt parking lotwas unchanged. Her little blue Toyota stood faithfully in front ofthe door and she thought about the infant car seat she'd bought onlyyesterday in Oklahoma City. It was locked into the Toyota's smalltrunk, still in its box. Maybe she ought to get it out, figure outhow to use it.

Fifteen minutes later she crouched uncomfortably beside the car'sopen passenger door and fiddled with the seatbelt. The tongue didn'twant to go into the latch and she pushed, grunting a little with theeffort. Her position compressed her stomach, making it hard tobreathe. She wiggled the mechanism and suddenly, as if she'd merelyneeded to find the correct angle, the tongue slipped into place andlatched with an audible click. She tugged on the belt to make sure itwas secure. It was.

She didn't quite understand the compulsion she'd felt to get thecar seat in place, but at least it was done. Using the car as asupport, she heaved herself to her feet. Her body protested thisabuse by sending odd little strains and aches twinging through her.Her back ached, too, had been aching all evening, and she wondered ifa warm bath might ease the discomfort.

She locked the car and went inside. The bathroom had no tub, onlyan oversized shower stall, but that would probably serve just aswell.

She stood under the water, letting the warm flow soothe and relaxher, when she felt the first tightening in her body. The feelinggradually increased until her entire abdomen was tight; she couldfeel the rigidity of contracted muscles beneath the skin. After amoment the tightness eased.

Hurriedly, she finished bathing. She'd stepped out of the showerand was toweling off when it happened again. She stood motionless,hands pressed to her sides, until it ended.

She'd had intermittent contractions before, in captivity. At firstthey had frightened her, but, behaving as if Catherine was anone-too-bright kindergartner, the Oriental nurse had brusquelyexplained that these were called Braxton-Hicks contractions, and werethe body's way of preparing itself for childbirth. The contractionsshe was having now were similar. And yet, some unexplainable instinctwarned her they were different.

The contractions continued, growing progressively stronger, whilethe interval between dwindled. It was her nightmare come true. Shewas in labor. She would have to give birth to this baby here,tonight, alone.

The most intense contraction yet gripped her, making her gasp; herhands clutched blindly at the bedspread as she sank to the floorbeside the bed. She pressed her face against the mattress and bitback a small, pained cry.

No one must hear her. No one must know.

When it finally ended, she sagged against the bed. "Oh, Vincent,I'm so scared," she whispered aloud.

*You have the strength,* her memory heard him whisper. *I knowyou.*

And she did. She knew it. It wasn't the pain that frightened her;she could endure whatever came. It was her lack of knowledge.Panting, she reached for the paperback book lying open, face down, onthe bed.

After the hour spent studying it at the laundromat, Catherine hadthe chapter on home births practically memorized, but the brieflisting of things that could go wrong was terrifying. What ifsomething happened -- a birth accident -- and her baby wasirretrievably harmed because she didn't know what to do?

What if something happened to her? Women didn't often die inchildbirth anymore, but it happened. Without medical care, ithappened more often. What would happen to her baby if she died givingbirth? The authorities would search in vain for the family of DebraAnn Miller.

And what about Vincent? No one would ever tell him. He would neverknow -- not of their child, or even that she hadn't wanted to leavehim, hadn't gone away voluntarily. For the rest of his life, he wouldwait for her. And wonder. And grieve.

Better that he should have a sense of closure. Better thatsomehow, her child reached New York, reached him, even with the riskof discovery by Gabriel. Frantically, she scrabbled through the gymbag, pulling her belongings out into an untidy pile, finally comingup with a small, spiral-bound lined notebook and a pen.

Another contraction seized her and she huddled helplessly,breathing hard through her mouth. By the time it ended, she wassweating, panting for air. She crawled up onto the bed and lay stillfor a moment, gathering her strength, before pushing herself up andreaching for the pen and notebook.

The note she wrote was hasty and barely coherent, touching onlylightly on her disappearance. The baby was the most important thing.Vincent's baby. *Our baby,* she told him fiercely, scribbling thewords. When she finished, she scanned the message, frowning. Itwasn't truly what she wanted to say, but it conveyed the facts. Itwould have to do.

She had no envelope to put the letter in. Folding it tightly, shescrawled Peter Alcott's name and address on the outside. She wasn'tpositive she had the house number right and couldn't remember the zipcode, but the authorities would be able to find him, and he would seethat the message was safely delivered. She propped the note against alamp on the dresser, dragged herself to her feet, and began to pace,trying to walk through the ever-increasing pain.

After a while, her legs would no longer reliably support her andshe sank to the floor, curled on her side. When the contractionspeaked, she stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep fromscreaming.

No one must know. No one must hear.

Eventually the realization that she was lying on carpet sank in.She'd never had a baby before, but common sense and all the thingsshe'd ever read told her childbirth was a messy affair. She mustn'tleave any traces for a maid to find. A stained carpet would drawattention. Gabriel might find out.

Painfully, she crawled into the bathroom. The shower stall wouldbe easiest to clean, so she dragged herself inside and crouchedagainst the wall.

When the urge to push came, she knew, from reading the childbirthbook, that she wasn't supposed to give into it. She tried to resist,but she couldn't remember why she should, and it wasn't long beforeshe simply let nature, urgent and compelling, take its course.

Squatting, she grunted with the effort of expelling her child.Between contractions, she leaned her cheek against the cool tile walland gasped for breath.

The contractions grew until she felt nothing but the indescribablesensation of being torn in half. She grunted and pushed. There was anabrupt gush of bloody, mucousy fluid. Her body pushed and pushed, andwhen it stopped for a moment's rest, her hands went instinctivelybetween her legs. She could feel it -- the soft, firm roundness ofwhat had to be the baby's head.

The urge welled up again and she strained, feeling the head emergeslowly. Another push and it was out; the body followed, slidingwetly. She was afraid to try to catch it, afraid of dropping it, soshe just guided it, as gently as she could, to lie on the wet showerfloor.

Gasping, she used the back of her bloody hand to push sweat-soakedbangs off her forehead. The baby lay face-down. The umbilical cord,still attached and pulsing, wrapped around one tiny leg anddisappeared beneath the incredibly small torso.With trembling hands,she turned the slippery-wet, blood-smeared body. Instinct or somelong ago memory brought one hand up to support the head. A boy, shenoted as he came over onto his back.

He gave a long shudder -- the first movement she had seen -- andopened his mouth. His chest rose and fell with a first tentativebreath that was quickly followed by another, and another. Almostimperceptibly, she relaxed.

He looked fine. He looked healthy. She let her gaze linger on histiny, red, scrunched-up face. In this moment, the whole world seemedbeautiful. She wanted to weep for joy.

Ignoring the birth fluids that covered him, she lifted her son inher hands. Startled by the movement, he gave one thin wail, butquieted as she instinctively cradled him close. He opened his eyesand blinked, gazing at her solemnly.

"Hello, little one," she whispered.

He flailed one tiny fist, his movement jerky and uncoordinated.She settled him into the crook of her arm and caught his hand inhers. All his fingers were there, she noted automatically, and smiledinwardly. So it was true, what they said about new mothers. She'd getto his toes in a minute. Right now, she wanted to marvel over theperfection of his hand, so small and complete right down to thedelicate, paper-thin nails that tipped each finger. Not claws, nails.She kissed his fist and let it go.

The other hand was just as flawless. He had five toes on eachperfectly formed little foot. His eyes, blinking in the glare of theoverhead light, were so dark they looked black, and a sparse growthof downy hair was matted and wet. He was beautiful, and her heartswelled with love.

Crouched in the shower stall, enthralled with the miracle in herarms, she forgot about the afterbirth until another, mildercontraction gripped her. Afraid she might drop him, she put the babyback on the shower floor. He whimpered at the feel of the cold tiles,but didn't cry, and she murmured softly, soothing him, as shedelivered the afterbirth.

In comparison to the ordeal she'd just undergone, this was easy,and it was only moments before the placenta slid out and onto theshower floor. Grimacing in distaste, Catherine used the back of herhand to nudge it into a corner.

The umbilical cord was still attached, and with a soft, comfortingtouch to her son's head, she leaned across him and snagged the edgeof a white plastic shopping bag, dragging it toward her. On the wayhome from the laundromat, she'd stopped to buy some of the itemsrecommended in the childbirth book.

The bag held a stack of dark blue terrycloth towels and she pulledthem out. Unfolding the top one, she spread it on the bathroom floorbeside the shower. She placed the baby carefully in the center of thetowel and brought the end up, wrapping him snugly. He seemed to watchher, his eyes tracking unsteadily, following her movements.

Delving into the bag again, she withdrew a package of whiteshoelaces, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a box of single-edgedrazor blades. She ripped open the shoelaces and held them carefullyby one end, dipping them into the bottle of alcohol. When they werethoroughly soaked, she pulled them out, dragging them against oneside of the bottle's rim to draw out the excess moisture.

The umbilical cord snaked out from beneath the towel and she tiedthe shoelaces around it, spaced a few inches apart and pulled tight.She took a new razor blade from the box, grit her teeth in distasteand sliced through the cord, taking care to cut it between the tiedshoelaces. It separated easily and she shoved the loose end of thecord into the corner with the placenta, dropping the used razor bladeon top.

With her son's most urgent needs attended to, it was time to turnher attention to herself. She still crouched, naked and smeared, inthe shower stall. Her hair was matted and tangled, soaked with sweat;her hands were streaked and smeared with her own blood; her legs andfeet were spattered with birth fluids.

Murmuring reassurance to her son, she moved him away from theshower and closed the plastic curtain. She turned on the water andlet its warm flow sluice over her, crouching weakly against the wallbecause her legs were too unsteady to support her. She was bleeding,she noticed, and wondered if she would be able to tell what wasnormal and what was too much.

When she felt clean, she literally crawled out of the stall, tooweak to risk standing just yet, and dried herself carefully beforedressing as quickly as she could. The baby still lay where she'd puthim, squinting against the harsh overhead light. She paused to touchhis cheek in a tender caress, and he turned his head toward hertouch, his mouth opening blindly. He made a faint, mewing sound whenshe took her hand away.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," she crooned. "In a minute. I justneed to finish here..."

He subsided as if he understood, and she turned to complete hertasks. The afterbirth and umbilical cord she wrapped in layers ofnewspaper before tying the whole thing up in the now-empty plasticshopping bag. It would go in a dumpster somewhere, once she recoveredthe strength to take it. Her shower had pretty much cleaned up therest of the mess; she used her damp, dark towel to blot up a fewspots that remained.

Now she could tend her baby. Her strength was coming back now,slowly, and she pulled herself up by the bathroom vanity. She closedthe drain on the sink and filled it with warm water.

Crouching, she picked up the baby, cradling him tightly in one armwhile she used the other to lever herself up. Once standing, sheleaned heavily against the vanity and an adjoining wall and placedher son, towel and all, into the warm water.

He howled in unexpected displeasure. She didn't know he could beso loud; anxiously she hushed him. No one must know he'd been bornhere tonight.

She unwrapped the towel and washed him quickly, clumsily, beforelifting him, dripping wet and very unhappy, from the now-cloudywater. There was still some blood matted in his sparse fair hair, butit would have to wait until she was steadier on her feet. He wasclean enough for now.

She wrapped him in her last clean towel and inched her way intothe bedroom. A box of disposable diapers was among the things she hadfor him and she opened it, spending a few anxious minutes figuringout how to put one on. A soft cotton nightgown, impossibly tiny whenshe'd folded it only a few hours ago, came next, and she fumbledclumsily getting it over his head. Guiding his jerkily moving armsthrough the sleeves was another trick, but she managed it, and atlast, bone-weary and aching in every muscle, she climbed intobed.

She sank down into the pillows and cradled her son close, nuzzlinghis head and murmuring softly. He replied with an anxious little cryand turned his head, his mouth opening blindly.

It slowly dawned on her that he was hungry, and she rememberedreading that a newborn could nurse only minutes after birth. He waswhat? An hour old? Maybe more.

She pulled up the front of her shirt and brought him awkwardly toher breast. He rooted blindly for a moment before finding thenipple.

The feel of his tiny mouth on her breast was indescribable andCatherine bent her head low, crooning softly as he nursed. "You're sobeautiful," she murmured, stroking her fingers over the downy blondhair on the back of his head. "I wish your daddy could see you." Shedidn't dare dwell on that tantalizing, impossible wish.

"Someday. We'll go there someday," she promised. "When it'ssafe."

  

"...Give her a child...

To tell once and once only...

How once she walked in brightness..."

Robert Frost

Continued in Part 2