Chapter Nine

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Vincent restlessly paced the narrow pathway just outside of Catherine’s sub-basement, glancing through the threshold opening each time he passed it. Only two days had passed since he’d seen her last, and though that wasn’t really a long time between their meetings, for some reason his anxiety had grown with each hour of separation. She’d told him she would have busy week, and normally he would respect that, but tonight he hadn’t been able to ignore the small voice inside his head that urged him to go see her, to see if all was well.

The problem was that he had no real reason to suspect otherwise. A few times he’d felt a twinge from her over their bond, mostly at night. Several times he’d felt the charged emotions of her dreams. In one the emotions were too chaotic and short-lived for him to decipher, though another time she’d clearly had a nightmare. He’d begun to go to her then, wanting to be there for her should she wake, but the nightmare had fizzled out to nothing before he’d gone far, and he reluctantly returned. All in all, there was nothing to account for the alarm bells ringing in his head, and yet nonetheless he was worried. Something didn’t feel quite right.

At his next pass of the threshold he paused and glanced up, as though he could pierce the stony veil of the apartment infrastructure itself, Vincent focused on Catherine through their bond. Nothing. It was silent and still, with no element of danger or fear. He wasn’t even sure she was home. Finally, as though he’d come to a sudden decision, he stepped across and disappeared into the light.

Her apartment was dark, but for a single light near the chair in her bedroom. Catherine sat in that chair, a book in hand, reading. There was nothing amiss. Vincent paused, wondering whether he should intrude on her solitude – she was ready for bed and it was late. Another hesitation, and then he lifted his hand and tapped softly on the glass.

Catherine looked up in surprise, and seeing him there, set down her book and rose to meet him. The door opened and she reached through, to touch his arm solicitously.

"Is everything all right?" she asked anxiously.

"Everything’s fine," he hurried to assure her. "I just…"

He paused for a moment and she waited expectantly.

"I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Of course I am. What made you think I wasn’t?"

He frowned, his eyes pinned to her face. She looked tired, but then hadn’t she told him it would be a busy week? She worked long, hard hours as a matter of course. A busy week for her must, by definition, be trying in the extreme.

"Nothing," he finally said, trying to shake the inexplicable sense of foreboding that still lingered in the back of his mind. "You look tired, Catherine – you should be in bed."

He glanced behind her and she turned to see his gaze sweeping the cozy comfort of the turned down bed waiting.

"I was just about to. I just needed to unwind a bit first after such a hectic day. Reading helps," she added.

He nodded in understanding. Didn’t he usually do the same at the end of a long day, no matter how tired he was?

"Then I’ll go and let you get your rest."

He turned to leave, but then turned again quickly.

"Catherine, Saturday…"

"I’ll be waiting at seven, Vincent."

He nodded, a bemused look on his face.

"Seven," he repeated in a whisper.

Another moment went by in silence, until he finally whispered goodnight and left. It wasn’t until he was in the tunnels once more, on his way back to the hub, that he realized she hadn’t joined him on the balcony, nor had she suggested he come in. That thought stopped him in his tracks. He couldn’t ever recall a visit to her when she hadn’t done at least one of those things.

* * *

"Do you think she’ll ever notice?"

"It doesn’t look like it. You work her too hard, Joe, that’s obvious."

The voices broke through the wall of concentration surrounding her, and she looked up, startled, to find her boss and Peter Alcott standing before her desk, perusing her with good-natured humor.

"Very funny," she said, smiling wryly.

She rose to hug Peter, and gave Joe a punch in the arm in passing.

"Ouch!" he said, grabbing his arm as though she’d done it real damage. "What did I do?"

"That’s for working me so hard, right, Peter?" she asked, turning in the older man’s arm to assess her boss with a grin.

"Absolutely, Cathy," Peter played along. "If you hadn’t done it, I would’ve had to. This way is better – I don’t have to worry about retaliation. He’s in better shape than I am."

"Yeah, it’s the chocolate-covered fried cheese curds that do it – you should try them sometime," she quipped in return.

"I was thinking about something more along the lines of salad and chicken. How about it?"

"Lunch? It can’t be time for lunch yet," she said, glancing at her watch in surprise.

"It’s after two, Radcliffe," Joe smirked.

He turned to the gray-haired man beside her.

"You might be right about me working her too hard after all," he said. "You’d better take her to lunch before I get sued or something."

"Gladly. Come on, Cathy, it’s on me."

"No, really, Peter, I have so much to do…"

"Go already, would you?" said Joe, pushing her toward the door. "And don’t come back until you’ve consumed at least three thousand calories. You’re getting way to thin."

She rolled her eyes, but gave in gracefully, snagging her coat and purse along the way.

The restaurant was relatively peaceful, given that the noon-hour rush was long over, and they asked for a small half-moon booth in a secluded spot, behind a large potted palm, so they could talk about the happenings below. The service was very good, and after ordering – salad and chicken – she took a sip of hot coffee, sat back and relaxed, conscious that it was the first such moment in her whole day, if not her whole week.

Peter had tea, a habit gained from long association with Jacob and the tunnels, and he watched her as he added a raw sugar sweetener.

"You look tired, Cathy. Is everything all right?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" she said, exasperated.

"Everyone?" he repeated, frowning.

"Well, ok, not everyone, but you today and Vincent last night. I don’t look that bad, do I?" she asked wryly.

"No, not at all. It was just an observation – sorry, a doctor is never off the clock," he said with a smile.

"No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I guess I am tired," she ruefully admitted.

"It’s been one of those weeks, eh?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yes, it has. And to tell the truth I haven’t been sleeping well either, so that hasn’t helped."

"Anything I can help with? I’ve got access to drugs, you know," he whispered conspiratorially with a wink.

She laughed at that, but shook her head. "No, I don’t think it warrants drugs," she teased in turn.

"Seriously, though, Cathy, everyone has trouble sleeping from time to time. A few sleeping pills wouldn’t give you any trouble, and they might help get you back in sync with your sleep rhythms."

"Maybe," she finally conceded. "But I’d rather not if I didn’t have to."

"Always a wise choice," he agreed. "If you change your mind, though, I’ll be at the children’s concert tomorrow night. I’ll make sure and bring a few, just in case."

"Yes, all right," she replied, an unreadable expression in her eyes.

"You are going, aren’t you? I thought you said you’d be there last weekend."

"Yes, of course I’m planning on going. It’s just that given this week’s workload, I wouldn’t be surprised if something came up, that’s all."

He frowned, but she looked away to fuss with her coffee, adding a second helping of sugar and cream.

"Cathy, if you don’t want to tell me about whatever’s bothering you, just tell me to drop it, but something’s wrong, I can’t help but feel that’s true."

She glanced up at him in surprise, then looked away quickly, leaning down to take a sip of coffee.

"It’s nothing, Peter, just some bad dreams, that’s all."

"Well, you’re in luck. When Jacob and I were interning, we were fascinated with dream analysis – it was a new study back then. We used to play around with it every chance we got, though of course neither of chose psychiatry as our fields. You know it’s a pretty well-established fact that once you understand the underlying cause of a dream, it usually stops."

"Really?" she asked, fascinated despite herself.

"Uh huh. It’s true. Come on, tell me," he urged. "Maybe I can help you make some sense of them."

She thought for a minute, then shrugged and set down her coffee cup.

"Okay. There are two, and I’ve been having one or both each night since last Sunday. One isn’t really so much a dream as a memory. I guess it’s a dream of a memory," she corrected. "In it I see myself, a few years ago, right before the attack, as a matter of fact. It’s a real memory, I know that much, but in the dream I’m there in two roles. In one I’m simply an observer, watching the events unfold. It’s all very familiar to me, of course, and I know what’s going to happen, but I have to stand there and watch it anyway, and nothing I say or does has any impact. I just have to watch it to the end."

"And the other role?" he asked, leaning forward curiously.

"I can also feel the events as they were then – I am the younger Cathy living that event, just as I am the older one, watching," she said. "It’s really odd, to have two perspectives at the same time. Odd…" she repeated, her voice trailing off.

"What memory are you reliving in the dream?"

"Well…"

She picked up her cup for another sip, hiding suddenly flushed cheeks behind it.

"What?" he asked, intrigued.

"I’m with Tom – Gunther, you remember?"

He nodded and she went on.

"It was after one of his business dinners, something to do with a zoning permit, If I remember correctly. We’re in my apartment and we’re… you know…"

She took another sip of coffee, not meeting his eyes.

"Oh!"

She nodded, and after a thoughtful pause, he continued on.

"I thought you meant the dreams were nightmares. I didn’t realize it was something else," he said with a smile.

She put her cup down abruptly, and frowned.

"It is a nightmare, Peter," she replied quietly. "Being with him was a mistake. I knew it even then. And in light of what I have now, with Vincent, well, let’s just leave it at that – it was a big mistake. It’s awful, having to watch that scene over and over again, but it’s far worse to have to relive it as that younger girl. I don’t want him to touch me, but I can’t stop it. It was consensual then, I know that logically, but watching it now, reliving it now, it feels like something far worse. I want to make it stop, but I can’t, not until it’s over, and when it is, all I feel is hopeless resignation, like this is all there is, all there ever will be. I hate it, and him," she added, startling him with the sudden passion of her emotions. "Worse yet, I even hate myself by the end, for putting up with him and Stephen before him. If only I’d known…"

Peter reached over and covered her trembling hands.

"Known what, Cathy?"

"Known that a love like Vincent’s was out there, waiting for me," she explained, looking up with tears in her eyes. "I would have waited, Peter. It would have all been different then."

The tears fell from her lashes, and he slid over, drawing her into a comforting embrace.

"Shhh, it’s all right," he crooned softly. "It’s all right."

He handed her a linen hankie fresh from his pocket and she straightened up and blew her nose, looking about herself with embarrassment. Luckily there were only a few other patrons right now, and none of them seemed to be aware of the couple hidden away in the back corner.

"What about the second one? Do you want to tell me about that?" he finally asked, when she seemed to have composed herself.

"The second one," she repeated, shaking her head with a wry snort. "You’d think nothing could be worse than the one I just told you, but this one is."

"Tell me," the older man urged.

"In this one I’m below, with Vincent, in his chamber."

Peter cocked an eye at that beginning, wondering how such a promising start could become a nightmare to beat the one he’d just heard.

"We’re in his chamber, in his bed…"

She glanced shyly toward him, and then quickly away.

We’re just kissing, kissing and touching. But suddenly he pulls back from me."

She was staring outward, unseeing. He knew she saw the dream images now, replaying in her mind.

"He’s screaming, and when I look down, I see myself covered in blood. I don’t have the scar anymore. It looks just like it did when it happened, open and bloody and raw."

She was breathing hard now, her eyes wide with fear and anxiety.

"In your dream, Vincent… hurt you?" he asked hesitantly.

"No!"

She stared at him in horror, pulled away from the awful dream images by what he suggested.

"He could never hurt me! I know that, but he doesn’t. In the dream he thinks he did, he’s sure he did."

"But he didn’t," he asked again cautiously.

"No, of course," she reiterated firmly. "It’s just the scar."

"The scar?"

She blinked rapidly and stared at him in confusion, as though seeing him again for the first time.

"What?"

"You said that Vincent hadn’t hurt you, that it was the scar…"

He waited patiently, while she stared at him, bemused.

"The scar…"

"Yes, the scar," he repeated, staring at her intently.

He didn’t understand why, but he was sure this was the path to understanding at least this dream, if not the other. He was rewarded when he saw the confusion fade away, replaced with a dawning perception.

"The scar will always be a reminder to him. Every time he sees it, he’ll see me as I was then, when it happened. I think he blames himself for what happened, for what he couldn’t prevent, and more than that, as if that weren’t enough, the scar will always remind him of his own fears, of what he might do, if he should ever lose control with me. I’ll never have what I want, never! All I have left are those bitter, terrible memories of Tom and Stephen, of men I never loved, while the man I love beyond life itself... I can never have."

By the time she finished she was sobbing uncontrollably. The other patrons had noticed them now, but Peter ignored them and held her close, rocking her trembling body with his own, all the while murmuring soothingly to her as he did.

* * *

"Where’s Catherine?!"

Peter almost jumped out of his skin, Vincent’s solid and sudden presence beside him on Catherine’s balcony startling him with its abruptness. Not that he hadn’t been expecting him – indeed he’d stepped out just minutes before, as dusk began to deepen the sky from pink to purple, specifically to wait for him.

"Calm down, Vincent," he rushed in. "She fine now – she’s sleeping."

The words were barely out of his mouth when Vincent left his side and strode through the door leading directly into Catherine’s bedroom. Peter followed the large man, who quickly settled himself on the mattress beside the sleeping woman, and stroked a hand gently across her forehead. Peter noted the tender caress and wondered whether it was done to check for a temperature, soothe her or reassure himself. In the final analysis, he was pretty certain it was all three.

As though sensing his presence, despite the deep, drug-induced sleep, Catherine sighed and turned to nestle her cheek into his suddenly still hand. He cupped her gently in his palm, and softly stroked his thumb over the satiny smoothness there. After a few minutes, he looked up at the older man waiting, his face stern.

"Tell me."

Peter put a finger to his lips, then gestured him towards the living, and after a hesitant pause, Vincent nodded, reluctantly removed his touch from her slumbering form, and stood up to follow him out of the room. He left the louvered doors open, though, and chose a seat on one of Catherine’s small couches that allowed him to watch her as they talked. Peter took the couch across from him.

"I had to stop in at the DA’s office today on business – I’m a witness for an upcoming abuse case – and stopped in to see Cathy. She looked a little tired."

Here Vincent leaned forward to watch him intently.

"So I took her to lunch. She told me she hadn’t been sleeping well the last few nights, that she’d been having some bad dreams."

Vincent’s eyes widened at this.

"You weren’t aware of it, I mean through your bond? I assumed…"

"No, I wasn’t," the younger man admitted with a frown, shaking his head. "I felt a few twinges from her the last few evenings, but they never seemed to last too long or to be something to worry about. But something hasn’t felt right to me, and I couldn’t quite pin it down. This must be it."

He paused a minute, deep in thought.

"But that would mean she’s been muting the bond, wouldn’t it?" asked Peter.

Vincent turned his attention back to his friend and nodded, a deep frown etching his features.

"I don’t really understand this bond you share, but is that possible? Can she do that?" Peter asked, obviously startled and surprised.

"She did it once before," Vincent conceded. "I know why she did it then, but why would she now?" he asked, as though to himself.

"I think I can answer that," Peter replied.

Vincent looked back at his friend intently, and repeated the words he’d said a moment ago.

"Tell me."

"She told me she’d been having two nightmares. In one she relives… an evening," he finished delicately, "spent with Tom Gunther, that occurred sometime before she was attacked. The details are irrelevant," he added quickly, seeing the frown deepen on the younger man’s face, "but the feelings she has at the end aren’t. She described it ending with a strong sense of hopeless resignation – those were her exact words.

Vincent nodded, and Peter could see that he had decided to respect his unspoken request that he ask no more regarding the details of that particular dream.

"And the second nightmare?"

"This one involves you," the older man began.

Vincent stirred uneasily, glancing through the doors to where Catherine slept.

"You’re together, below, and… Well, let’s just say that you’re together," Peter finished lamely.

Vincent’s eyes widened, but his expression quickly shifted to one that was tightly controlled.

"You’re going to misinterpret what I’m going to tell you next, Vincent, so please let me finish, all right?"

Vincent paused, his brows furrowed, then nodded tersely.

"Everything’s fine at first, but then it changes. Suddenly she’s covered in blood, and the cut along her side is open and fresh, as it must have looked right after the accident."

Vincent jumped to his feet, his whole body shaking. His breath came in gasping pants, and Peter thought he might actually be on the verge of running away rather than staying to hear more.

"Wait, wait!" he implored, jumping up to grab a trembling arm.

Vincent shook him off without thought, his eyes filled with terror.

"I hurt her," he whispered in anguish. "I hurt her…"

"No, Vincent, no! You didn’t hurt her! Please, listen to me! I asked her that myself, and she was so angry that I thought that could be. She vehemently denied that you’d hurt her, that you could ever hurt her. No matter what she didn’t understand about the dreams, she was absolutely certain of that. It was then, in the middle of those strong emotions while defending you, that she said some pretty revealing things. I don’t think she consciously understood them herself until that minute. I don’t know if she even caught it then."

Vincent blinked rapidly, his wild-eyed gaze focusing a bit at those words.

"What did she say?" he demanded, still breathing hard.

"She said that she knew that’s what you – the image of you in the dream – would think. She said it was all because of the scar. She said she was sure you blamed yourself for the accident, that you’d never be able to see it without feeling guilty. She said she was afraid that any time you saw it, it would remind you of your deepest fears, that you might hurt her. Don’t you see, Vincent? She thinks that whatever chance there might have been for the two of you to share an intimate relationship before the accident is now irrevocably over. The dreams represent the end of hope. That’s why she’s reliving her thoroughly unsatisfactory relationship with Tom. That’s why it ends with her feeling such a sense of hopeless resignation. She thinks she’ll never have more than that, that all her hopes for a full life with the one she loves have ended completely. Don’t you see, she thinks it’s all over between you, that the very sight of her will inspire feeling of fear and guilt and self-loathing. Can you imagine what that must be like, to think that you’re the cause of such a thing in the person you love?"

Vincent looked stunned at the enormity of that thought.

"I’m no psychiatrist, Vincent, but it makes perfect sense," Peter continued doggedly. "She said the dreams began last Sunday night, and it was during her exam that evening that she asked about having the scar removed. She thought it could be handled just as it had for most of her facial scars, and reacted very oddly when Jacob and I told her that it couldn’t be done. I thought it was strange at the time, but you came in then, and she seemed to brush it aside. I just assumed it was a fleeting thought, but I think it was then that she began to realize what sort of impact that could have on your relationship. The dreams were a manifestation of both your worst fears and her own combined; yours that you would hurt her, and hers that you would never be able to move beyond that fear. I think in the past she was convince that eventually she could make you see the error of your ways, that she could help you move past your fears, but on Sunday that certainty disappeared. She doesn’t think she can convince you now, not with such a blatant and constant reminder in front of you. Think about it, Vincent. She knows that any time she managed to move you a step closer to intimacy, it could only lead to the sight of that scar, and she’s convinced that that will stop you cold. The scar is the symbol for the end of hope, and when she learned that it couldn’t be removed, that hopelessness came crashing down."

Vincent sat down abruptly, as though his legs had given way.

"Wake up, Peter."

Vincent shook the older man’s shoulder, and finally roused him from sleep. Peter glanced out through the balcony doors and saw that it was the pitch dark. Glancing down at the illuminated dial of his watch, he read the time; three o’clock.

"What is it, is something wrong?"

He started up abruptly, as though to rush into the bedroom across the way, but Vincent restrained him gently.

"No, nothing. Catherine’s fine."

Peter leaned back against the arm of the couch, shifting his long legs uncomfortably on the short upholstered length.

"Good," he said with a sigh of relief.

"I need your help," the younger man said.

Peter woke up fully at those words, pulling himself upright to a sitting position.

"Of course, anything."

"You said Catherine won’t wake for quite a while."

"Yes, that’s right," Peter replied. "She’s pretty small, and I gave her a fairly powerful sedative. It should be nine or ten o’clock at the earliest before she wakes up, and it could be considerably later, maybe well into the afternoon. Each individual reacts different to a drug of this sort, and Catherine has no history with them me to gauge her response."

Vincent nodded.

"I can’t stay past dawn – if I did it would be at least another twenty-four hours before it would be safe to leave. I should be there for the children’s concert at eight this evening, but I won’t leave Catherine. I need you to help me bring her below."

Peter frowned and looked out at the darkened balcony.

"There’s no way, Vincent. You can’t take her that way…"

"No, of course not. We’ll take the elevator," the large man said simply.

"The elevator?! You’re kidding, right?"

"No. It’s late, and we’re not likely to encounter anyone. If we do, well, I’ll be covered up in my cloak, and you can say we were at some sort of costume party and are half asleep. They’ll believe you."

Peter thought about it for a moment, then his incredulity shifted to reluctant agreement, and he nodded his assent.