Sleep, My Love

by BeeDrew

This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineHeart of the Minstrel I, in 1990. Beauty and the Beastand its characters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions and RepublicPictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoyment offans.  This is my "she's not dead" story, and it won't make muchsense unless you have seen the Beauty and the Beast episodeThough Lovers Be Lost.  The sequel isSurfacing.

Inhuman. It was inhuman, what they'd done to her.

The doctor's hands shook as he slid the needle into the rubber capof the morphine and drew the dose into the syringe. Dear God, ifshe'd only told Gabriel what he'd wanted to know, months ago . . .but she had resisted, fought the influence of the drugs amazingly.And in the end, as always when one opposed Gabriel, resistance hadbeen in vain.

Enough. Finish it off, quickly.

His soul cringed from the words, but there was nothing in him thatwas stronger than his fear of Gabriel. Not mercy, not compassion.Nothing.

The others had gone to the roof with the baby, fleeing the menaceof the creature that had supposedly fathered it. He would follow in afew moments.

Behind him, the woman lay, still tied to the birthing chair. Herskin was white with exhaustion, her damp hair plastered to her head.She was unable to gather even the strength to plead with him for herbaby. Had she heard Gabriel's command? Did she know what he was aboutto do?

He turned and approached her. Years of habit had him reaching forcotton and alcohol to swab her skin before injecting her, but hechecked himself. Infection was hardly a consideration, now.

"What is that?" she whispered, eyes lifting to him.

He was shaking badly now, and nausea swam at the back of histhroat. He knew his hands would be too clumsy and slow to manage therubber tubing for an intravenous injection. He slid the needlethrough her skin and into a muscle. Her death would be slower, thisway. He was sorry.

"You won't suffer. I promise." He turned and fled to the stairway,knowing he would carry to his dying day the stricken horror in hereyes. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs as he climbed and thepounding of his feet on the metal stairs seemed to chantmurderer--murderer--

He could not climb fast enough to leave behind the accusation inthose wide green eyes, the eyes that had held him silently guilty forher torment since the first questioning session. A thought nagged athim, something he'd wondered about months ago. He heard again his ownvoice saying, Her resistance is remarkable.

He sprinted across the concrete toward the helicopter. Its bladeswere already whirling, and the sight of the man waiting to usher himinto it made his blood freeze.

Surely he'd given her enough morphine, surely. . . . It would beabsorbed into her bloodstream from the site of injection, slowlyshutting down her system until her brain no longer told her heart tobeat and her lungs to draw breath. Surely he'd given her enough. Ifhe had not, Gabriel would kill him. And there would be no one topromise him he would not suffer.

He was certain she was dead, or dying. She had to be.

Part 2 of 2: The Journey

She did not belong here. She was to cross over. Mother and Daddywere waiting, and the one who loved her best had come.

He held her fiercely close against his heart, within the circle ofhis strength, the trembling circle of his pain. He swayed back andforth, rocking her. She knew she would never rock her baby this way.His sobs shook her, his tears wet her hair.

She could no longer feel the warmth of his arms around her, thewarmth that was all the warmth in the world. It was not her own willwhich held her here even now, but his; the depthless enormity of hislove. Yet the Morpheus' brew in her blood pulled her from him,gradual and inexorable, like the ebbing tide.

She had told him of their son, and just as the baby's body hadpassed from hers in blood and pain just before, so the responsibilityfor it had passed from her to him. She could go now, held safe in hisarms, in his heart. Safe from all harm. A gentle passing, aftermonths of anguish.

She floated. Scattershot images came to her, and remembered sounds. . . they caressed her like invisible hands, sometimes rough,sometimes soft. She knew their texture, knew their meaning, but inthis grey place she had no eyes, no voice of her own.

In this place there were no words. She had gone too deep forwords.

Vincent felt her go. Not as he had before, when their bond lived,but he felt it. The fragile pressure of her fingers eased until itwas nothing. Her breathing, as intimate to him as his own, so closedid he hold her, faltered. When it ceased, when her muscles went laxin his grasp, the howl rose inside him. Savage and primal, the griefof the Beast raged for release. It fought the sobs of the Man forpossession of his throat. He could not breathe. He could not live,without her.

He huddled there, on the night-shrouded rooftop, cradling hislove's still form.

He pressed her close, close--as though he could merge with her,infuse his own life into her, die for her. Catherine!Catherine! his heart screamed. But the only answer was his ownvoice, crying, and the moan of the wind.

Catherine. My Catherine.

After an unimaginable time, a blessed numbness came to him. Herose, his legs almost without strength, and began to carry her awayfrom the place of her death. He would take her home. No one wouldhurt her further. He would take her home.

Homeplace. Tears on her skin, warming it slightly. Soft clothbeneath her, not hard concrete. His kiss, the kiss she'd longed for.While I live, you live. With me. In me. Always.

Brian left for school very early that morning, his arms strainingwith the load of the box he carried. He had a science project to setup. It was the best one he'd ever done; he had a special friend who'dhelped him with it. Mouse cared little for the science that went withthe electronics they had developed; he just cared about gizmos. Andthey'd both needed something to occupy their thoughts in the pastmonths, since Miss Chandler had disappeared.

Feeling his throat tighten with the familiar ache, Brian crossedthe street to wait for his father's chauffeur to pick him up. Helifted his eyes almost reluctantly, as he did every morning, to lookup at her balcony, hoping against hope that he would see her there,looking out over the city. She wasn't there. She never was. Hestarted to turn away. Then, something--

Riveted, Brian stared upward. He lifted one hand to shade hiseyes. There! Was that--it was! Something fluttered, something white,it wasn't a bird, omigod--

"Brian? Brian? Hey buddy, you in there?"

Casey's voice cut through his concentration as the chauffeurleaned toward the passenger side of the car. "Wanna jump in? Ithought we were supposed to get you to school early today."

Brian jerked open the door and dumped his box and backpack on theseat. "Wait, Casey. I gotta go, I gotta--"

He bolted across the street, heedless of traffic and blaringhorns. He shoved through the doors of the apartment building and rantoward the super's office on the ground floor. He'd get Milo. Thenight doorman had just finished his shift, and was probably enjoyinga cigar before his walk home.

"Milo! Milo, please, you gotta help me!" Brian gasped, burstinginto the office. The grizzle-headed old man looked up from hisnewspaper and smiled kindly.

"Sure, Brian. Tell old Milo your troubles."

"It's Miss Chandler. There's someone up there, I saw--please,Milo, hurry! Bring your keys. Come on!"

Milo shoved himself to his feet, his gnarled hand going to thebelt where he carried his passkeys.

"Calm down, boy. You say you saw someone in Miss Chandler'sapartment?"

"Yeah! From across the street, something on the balcony--Milo,come on!" Brian tugged on the man's arm, dragging him toward theelevator.

Milo followed, fingering his keys with a slight frown. "Brian, yousure it wasn't a pigeon, or a trick of the light? You got an awfullybig imagination."

"No! I saw something. Honest, Milo, I did." Brian watched, almostdancing with impatience, as Milo used one of his keys to call anelevator.

"Police been in and out of that apartment, but they always callahead," Milo mumbled. Brian kept silent, knowing Milo's habit ofthinking aloud. The elevator seemed agonizingly slow to the anxiousboy as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. Come on, come on.. . .

"Miss Chandler's got valuables in that apartment. Best find out ifsome one's after them," Milo decided. When the door opened on theeighteenth floor, the old man moved purposefully toward Apartment21E. Brian dogged his steps.

Milo fitted a key into the lock. "You stay out here, Brian," heordered. "I shouldn't oughtta be doing this anyway. Just don't wantto look like a damn fool if there's nothing in there."

He stepped inside, calling loudly, "Anyone here? MissChandler?"

Brian waited until Milo had walked a few steps before he duckedin, his sneakered feet silent. There was no sound, no feeling thatanything moved or lived in the still apartment. Brian began to feelafraid.

Milo approached the bedroom door and stopped. Brian saw his backstiffen.

"Oh, no," the old man whispered. Brian crossed the room in threesteps and shoved Milo out of the way. He had to see, had toknow--

He sucked in a deep breath. She was there, on her bed. She lookedpeaceful, asleep maybe? Maybe?

But her limp stillness told him it was not so.

"Come on, Brian," Milo said gently, putting an arm around him."Come on, now."

* * * *

Confusion. Other voices, not the silk-on-sand voice she loved,harsh babble against her tranquility. She tried to shove the noiseaway, but she had no way to move, she was weighted down in greyness.Bag her hands. I don't want to lose anything on the wayin.

Someone touched her. Vincent. Vincent, where are you?

* * * *

Dr. Abraham Marx straightened his aching back and sucked down thelast of his coffee, grimacing as he got a mouthful of grinds. He spatthem into the waste can and continued scribbling notes in an openfile. Just one more autopsy today--then he could get out of hisgreens and scrub the stink of formaldehyde off his skin. He'd go tohis health club, knock back a beer and soak for a blessed half-hourin the hot tub. Life didn't get any better than that.

The phone at his elbow jangled and he grabbed it irritably. "AbeMarx. Your nickel."

"Abe, it's John Moreno. I've got a hot one for you."

Damn Moreno and the whole D.A.'s office. They had put him throughmore hoops than he cared to count in his years as a forensic surgeon."Look, John, I'm into the home stretch here--"

"It's the Chandler case. They found her body in her apartment thismorning. The M.E. signed a death certificate at the scene, but I needyou to get the preliminaries rolling. The ambulance will be thereshortly."

Marx sighed, as the vision of beer and hot tub vanished like amirage. The Chandler case wasn't just a case, it was the case. Thekind that the media pups would be yapping all over. He'd better getthe facts, and fast.

"All right, John, thanks for the warning."

He'd cleared the docket by the time the ambulance reached themorgue. He waved the orderlies wheeling the gurney into an examiningroom. "In here, boys. Rayburne, see what's holding Frank, would you?We need to get going." His eyes swept the hallway, noting that inaddition to the usual complement of police, two men in business suitswere observing the proceedings. He rolled his eyes as he turned away.The feds were in on it already.

Sgt. Nick Rawlins, a detective Marx knew from previous homicideinvestigations, started to follow him in. "Nick, back off, would you?You know I can't stand you guys breathing down my neck. Go call yourforensics people and give me some room to work."

Rawlins shrugged. "Whatever you say, Doc."

Marx shut the door firmly behind him, wishing Rayburne would getback with his assistant so they could start the tissue and bloodsamples. He peeled back the sheet covering the body and began apreliminary examination. After enough years in forensics, corpseswere just your stock in trade, stripped of all the culturalresonances and morbid fascination they held for others. He touchedthe tape recorder that sat nearby and took out a stethoscope.

"Dr. Marx recording. Subject Chandler, Catherine. No breathsounds, no respirations, no pulse. Rigor mortis--"

Marx paused. Damn strange. She must've died only shortly beforebeing found, for rigor mortis had not set in. Her left arm when helifted it was still flexible, her skin cool but not stiff. He turnedthe arm he held toward the light. There were faint bruises around thewrist and a visible needle mark. Someone had given her anintramuscular injection, and had not been careful about it, judgingfrom the purplish swelling. What kind of drug had it been?

Something, some instinct, made the hairs on the back of his neckstand up. Carefully he fitted his stethoscope back into place, heldhis breath, and listened. No heartbeat. Then--

"Uh-oh," Marx whispered. He dug his fingers into her neck, tryingto find the carotid pulse. With fingers and stethoscope in position,he waited for what he thought he'd heard.

There!

She was alive. He had a heartbeat, unbelievably faint and slow,but a heartbeat. This stiff they'd brought him to cut into was alive!He had to get help, dammit, where was that intern--

The door opened too easily when he slapped his hands against it,his mouth open to yell. The two business suits crowded him back intothe examination room even as he sputtered a protest.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? I've got to get help,this woman's alive--"

"Alive?"

One of the men curled his fingers around Marx's arm, his grippainfully tight. "Are you sure about that, Dr. Marx?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure, she's got a heartbeat. Get out of my way!"Marx tried to shove the man out of his path and suddenly foundhimself being backed into a wall, both arms pinned in the grip of aman with a linebacker's build and attitude.

"Now, Dr. Marx, you don't want to be hasty." This was said calmly,though the man still held both of Marx's arms in an iron grip. "We'reFBI, Agents Carmichael--" he jerked his head toward his partner--"and Higgins." He flashed an ID before Marx' dazed eyes. "We'replacing Catherine Chandler in federal witness protection." Higginsspoke over his shoulder to his partner. "Call in. She's got to move."The other agent went to the phone near the door, casting a cool lookat the still woman on the gurney as he did.

"What are you talking about? She needs massive stimulants, arespirator. She's got to be placed on total support--"

"She will be," Higgins promised. "Dr. Marx, this matter mustremain entirely confidential."

As Marx stared, aghast, the door to the examination room startedto open and Rayburne's calm voice reached his ears. "Dr. Marx,Frank's been delayed by a personal matter. Shall I--"

Agent Carmichael reached out and unceremoniously slammed the doorin Rayburne's face. "Higgs, hurry it up," he barked, holding the doorshut.

Higgins bent even closer to Marx's face, filling up his field ofvision. "Not a word, Doctor. We have reason to believe that someonewithin the District Attorney's office was involved in Miss Chandler'sabduction and what is believed to be her murder. For that reason, hergreatest safety lies in that person's belief that she is dead."

"But--"

Higgins' eyes narrowed. "Dr. Marx, if you cannot come around to mypoint of view on this, I'll have the IRS knocking on your door sofast your accountant won't have time to quit. Don't call me onit."

Marx gaped at him, speechless. Were they serious? He could easilylose his medical license if he went along with it, especially if thewoman died later. But another kind of ruin was inches away, itsbreath hot on his face and its eyes hostile. If Higgins really hadhim audited. . . . Marx paled a bit. "Your people will see she'scared for?"

"Naturally."

Marx straightened and flexed his arms. "Let me go." When Higginscomplied, he strode to the door and opened it, watched closely by thetwo agents. "Sorry, Miss Rayburne. I had some equipment in front ofthe door. Ah, since Frank can't be here, we'll delay the autopsyuntil later, all right?"

He closed the exam room door behind him. "Sgt. Rawlins, bearing inmind the sensitive nature of this case, I think Miss Chandler's bodyshould be moved to a more secure location, don't you agree? I'll seeto it personally."

* * * *

It was very late at night when Marx reached home. Currently helived alone--thank heaven for small mercies--so there was no one tosee him slowly unraveling as he plodded upstairs. He stripped and puton a bathrobe before he went down to his study and poured himself abrandy. He gasped as the first swallow burned all the way down to hisstomach.

Dropping into a chair, he sipped the liquor again and closed hiseyes. The events of this unbelievable day wound again through hismind, not soon to be forgotten. He'd nearly autopsied a live patient!He cursed the medical examiner at the scene, who hadn't listened longenough or hard enough for the heartbeat, and had probably made hisexamination in the midst of police chaos. He or she had, without adoubt, gotten Marx into a huge mess.

It had been tricky, smuggling the Chandler woman out of thehospital by private ambulance. Agents Higgins and Carmichael had beenmiracles of efficiency. They'd even provided him with a body to cuttomorrow--same build, same hair color. He wasn't asking any questionsabout where they'd gotten it.

They had told him their people would run tests and examinationsthrough the night and would deliver the results by messenger beforedawn. Hopefully, the information Marx put in his report would matchany evidence gained at the scene by police forensics. He shuddered tothink what would happen if the deception were discovered, and hispart in it traced. But he didn't believe for a moment that Higginswas bluffing about the IRS.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice todeceive. Marx finished his brandy in one nervous gulp. It wasn'tover yet. The police, told of his barring Rawlins from the "autopsy,"had not been pleased. He'd gotten a call from the commissioner thatafternoon, stating in no uncertain terms that one of their peoplewould be there bright and early the next morning and would witnessthe autopsy. Diana Bennett, that was the name.

"Deal with it, doctor," Higgins had said, his face smooth andunworried. "We got you the body. Fake it. Be creative." Marx hadwanted to punch that bland, slate-eyed face. But he hadn't. Instead,he'd had Rayburne leave a message for Officer Bennett that theautopsy would begin at 9 a.m. He'd told Joe Maxwell of the D.A.'soffice, who'd called soon after the commissioner, the same thing. Buthe planned to have the autopsy on "Catherine Chandler" underway by8:30 a.m. An understandable mix-up.

He hoped.

* * * *

Diana Bennett strode into the forensics department and lookedaround inquiringly. It was time to begin a new case, and she wouldn'tlet regrets for the past one hold her back. She wouldn't think aboutSally Rogers, about her own failure . . . now it was CatherineChandler's turn. The woman had seemed to mean something to JoeMaxwell, and the details of the case were intriguing. Let the woman'slife, and her death, drive out the images of a tortured child thatinvaded Diana's sleep.

She gave herself a shake as she approached a technician who wasstacking instruments on a tray. "Get a grip, Diana," shemuttered.

The woman turned as Diana neared her. "May I help you?"

Diana flashed her badge. "Yes. I'm Diana Bennett, with SpecialCrimes. I'm here for the Chandler autopsy. Could you tell me where tofind Dr. Marx?"

The woman's eyes registered confusion, both at the request and atthe unconventional appearance of this police officer. "I'm afraidthere's been some mistake, Officer. Dr. Marx has already begun thatautopsy."

"What? He told me nine o'clock." Diana glanced at her watch. Itwas still five minutes before the hour.

The woman crossed to a central desk and checked a clipboard. Sheshook her head. "I'm not sure how that happened. It's scheduled,right here, for 8:30 a.m. Perhaps Dr. Marx can explain. I'll showyou."

Diana pursed her lips in annoyance as she followed her guide downthe hall. It was not a good start.

The technician helped her get into a gown and mask and thenushered her into a large, cool room that smelled harshly ofchemicals. Two men worked over a body on a central table.

"Dr. Marx? I'm Diana Bennett, with the police."

The man in surgical greens unbent from his close examination ofthe body on the table and handed a metal pan to his assistant. "Forthe lab, Frank."

He turned toward Diana. "I was expecting you, Ms. Bennett. You'relate."

"Your message said the autopsy would start at nine," Diana said,approaching the table. She looked down dispassionately at the body.Its head and legs were covered with sheets, leaving bare the torso,which had been cut through the chest all the way down to thespine.

Marx shrugged. "A mistake. Your people or mine, who knows."

"Well, it's too late now. Bring me up to date, doctor," Dianarequested, her voice even. The man was powerfully nervous; she couldhear it in his voice and see it in his stiff stance. She wonderedwhy.

"The victim died approximately twelve hours before she was found.Injection site on the left arm indicated a drug was administered,which the lab has identified as morphine." Marx held up the corpse'sleft arm for Diana's inspection.

"External examination also revealed that Miss Chandler gave birthto a baby shortly before her death."

"What?" Diana gasped. Joe hadn't said anything about the womanbeing pregnant when she was kidnapped.

Marx nodded. "It was definitely a surprise. But I've removed andexamined the uterus, and she was carrying an undelivered placenta.That means she was killed within a few minutes of giving birth. Now,as far as other injuries. . . ."

Diana let Marx drone on, her mind utterly absorbed by the news ofthe pregnancy. She could read the doctor's full report later; rightnow she wanted to consider the implications of a baby. Assuming thechild had survived, where was it? Who had taken it, and why? Sheglanced toward the shrouded head and shoulders, and reached for thesheet. She wanted to see the face of this woman whom she would cometo know so intimately over the coming months. Pictures just weren'tthe same.

Marx didn't look up from his examination of the abdominal cavity."I wouldn't, Ms. Bennett. It's standard procedure to remove the topof the victim's head for cranial examination and removal of the brainfor analysis."

Diana's hand froze. She wasn't squeamish--far from it--but sheknew from past experience how this woman's face would come to haunther. Better to visualize it whole, if she was to see it in her dreamsfor months.

They wrapped up quickly. Diana made a pointed request for the fullautopsy report and lab analysis, and with a mutter of agreement Marxstripped off his surgical gown and left the room. Diana paused by thedoor to wash her hands, glancing back over her shoulder. Marx'srather silent assistant was cleaning up. As he lifted the sheet todraw it down over the body, Diana caught a glimpse of honey-brownhair. It seemed all she was destined to see of the real CatherineChandler.

In the hall, Diana saw Dr. Marx disappearing around a corner,followed by a dark-haired man she recognized. "Maxwell, I'm notsupposed to talk to you," Marx snapped. Joe looked ready to followhim.

"Joe, I need to talk to you," she called.

Strangeplace. No voices she knew, no feeling of home. Tubessticking in her nose and mouth and skin.

"I'm here to tell you, Sam, this little lady's blood chemistry issomething else. Incredibly oxygenated--that's why she survived withhardly a heartbeat. And the morphine--she's almost completelymetabolized a dose that would've killed most women. I'd love to run afew tests on that kid of hers, wherever it is. The fetal bloodsupply, passing through the umbilical cord and placenta. . . ."

She was moving upward, slowly, out of the greyness and into thelight she now knew she would see again. It warmed her, faintly, likethe memory of warmth rather than warmth itself. She had a long way togo.

She still had no voice to call out to the crazy-quilt of visions,out of time and out of joint, that chased through her mind. Shereached, yearning, for the one who could give her life, the one whocherished her in his heart.

Two men thrashed in a cavern floor, roaring their anger andchallenge, clawing and biting until one clutched a burning crystal inhis palm and faced down the snarls of the other.

Vincent. We loved. There is a child, she calledsilently.

A white whirlwind descended and the faces of the dead were coveredwith snow . . .Gabriel!

A cloaked figure on a boat lifted its face to another man whoflung words at him, then his body, as shots rang out. In a dark nightsuddenly gone more dark, orange fire bloomed; molten, rolling firethat became a woman's hair as she leaned over a fallen man, collapsedatop a grave.

She did. Safe in the undying love and strength of his soul, sheslept deeply, but not dreamlessly, waiting for her body to gather itsstrength once again.

Somewhere a baby cried.

Author's Note: The poem quoted here is, of course, "Though LoversBe Lost," by Dylan Thomas.