HEAVEN BREAKING THROUGH

CHAPTER 1

The echoes of his own footsteps pounded mercilessly in Vincent’s head as he raced along a narrow, winding tunnel. All he could think of was leading his pursuers away from the home chambers, away from his family and friends. Ever since Zack’s signal of intruder alert had reached him, his mind had been working feverishly in search of a possible way to divert the intruders’ attention and keep them from stumbling across the essential entrances to the secret world below.

Vincent took yet another turn toward the park, and then stopped briefly to make sure that the two men were still following him. When he heard them approaching, he set off again and sped up a straight passageway. Suddenly he heard a shot reverberating through the tunnel, the echoes all but deafening in the rocky confines of the underground world.

At that moment it became crystal clear to Vincent that he was running for his life. What he hadn’t reckoned with was the fierce determination of the men to find something, someone, down here, and quite obviously they were set to kill. Another gunshot split the silence and Vincent caught a glimpse of the hunters as they rounded a corner at the far side of the corridor.

Changing his initial plan to escape into the night darkened park, Vincent ducked into a side tunnel that led away from Central Park and toward the buildings beyond it. In order to reach the closest exit he knew, Vincent had to cross a spacious, vaulted subway tunnel which would afford his pursuers a clear view and good aim, but there was no time to think of other options. Vincent stayed close to the wall for as long as he could, but the instant he turned to cross the open space, yet another shot rang through the air and tore into his body. It took him a moment to realize that he’d actually been hit by the bullet, but then the pain suffused him and stole his breath away. Vincent pressed his hand against his aching side and rolled himself towards the opposite wall. Stumbling to his feet, he rounded a corner and made his way through an abandoned tunnel that led to the basement of an apartment building. Another shot went off and a sharp pain in his temple momentarily blackened his vision.

"You’d better face it, monster," a cold voice came from behind. "You’re no match for us. We got you."

Tears stung Vincent’s eyes as he slumped against the iron rungs of a ladder that was his last hope of escape. If he could only muster the strength to pull himself up there...

"We saw you," the voice continued. "And we’ll see to it that this city gets rid of the likes of you."

Anger welled up in Vincent’s chest. This was not how it was going to end. With his last ounce of energy he climbed up the ladder and fell through a door that gave way under his weight the moment he leaned against it. In his fall, he tore down a stack of empty crates on the other side, and the muted sound of the door as it thudded shut again behind him, was the last thing Vincent took in before blackness descended upon him.

*

Catherine sighed as she rummaged through the storage room in the basement of her apartment building. Being your own father’s employee had a lot of disadvantages, she thought angrily. Okay, being the boss’ daughter had a lot of merits, too, like choosing your own hours of work, not to mention cutting them back considerably if you had better things to do. She set aside yet another cardboard box and swore silently when she broke a nail in her attempt to lift the lid. Where could those papers be that her father needed so badly? She remembered storing them away with her other things when she moved into this apartment. She rose to her feet to survey the room and suddenly froze in mid-movement as a strange noise reached her. Something like a muted gunshot? A rush of adrenaline swept through her veins as she headed for the door, opening it and listening into the darkness of the empty basement. There was another shot, much nearer now. Her heart thudded rapidly in her chest as she strained her ears to pick up more sounds that might give her a clue as to what was going on down there. She was just about to run in order to get out of there and into the elevator when the boxes that were stacked on the far side of the corridor tumbled to the ground as someone burst through the wall into the basement. Catherine thought that her heart would stop beating altogether, but when she realized that the cloaked figure on the floor before her must be severely hurt, her fear calmed and she gave up on the thought of simply fleeing from the scene. She was still struggling to decide what to do when he lifted his head and looked at her with pleading eyes, the most startling blue eyes she had ever seen. Her hand went to her mouth as she took in the rest of his features and the veil of hopelessness and resignation that clouded his fragile gaze at her stunned reaction.

At that moment something snapped into gear within her and she stepped up to him, reaching down to help him up. She noted automatically that there was no blood. Maybe he hadn’t been hit after all.

"Come," she urged as she heard footsteps from somewhere beyond the door. He gathered his strength and forced himself to his feet, swaying with exhaustion. Catherine noted a dark stain on the right side of his cloak. The heavy fabric seemed to be soaked with blood. So, he had been shot after all. "In here," she demanded, shoving him hastily into her storage room and locking the door behind him. Then she pushed the alarm button and turned to get into the elevator and escape, only to find that she could not. She couldn’t simply flee and leave him down here on his own. If she stayed she could try her best to keep the approaching danger away from him. So she just backed away from the door and hid in a small alcove where the fire extinguisher was kept.

Just like her charge only minutes ago, a man burst through the basement door and fell onto the heap of crates. At the same time the elevator doors opened and a security officer and the janitor got out and confronted the intruder.

"Where is he?" the man panted heavily.

"You’d better tell us where you came from and what you want in here," the guard retorted.

The man got to his feet and scanned his surroundings. "He must be in here somewhere," he said. "There are probably lots of them out there in those tunnels."

"I don’t know who you think you’re looking for, mister, but you got no right to break in here and scare people out of their skin," the janitor cut in. "And why in the world did you set off the alarm?"

"He didn’t," Catherine said and stepped from her hiding place. "I did when I heard a noise coming from down there." She cocked her head in the direction of the door.

"Ms. Chandler," the security guard greeted her. "Are you all right?"

Catherine nodded. "I was just about to leave the basement when he broke through that door."

"You were down here, lady?" the intruder said. "Then you must have seen him."

"I saw no one but you," Catherine replied, firmly holding his gaze. Something puzzled her about that man. After what had just happened, she wasn’t prepared for the intelligence and vulnerability that she could see in his eyes.

"You’d better come with us now and tell the police who you think you saw, mister...," the officer said and patted his gun as if to emphasize his demand.

"Colwyn," the stranger provided. "Stewart Colwyn."

"Do you think you’ll need me?" Catherine asked, retreating to the elevator.

"Not right away," the officer answered, "but the police may want to ask you a few questions."

She nodded again. "You know where to find me," she said, and then the elevator doors closed.

On the way up to her apartment Catherine thought feverishly what to do next.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Chandler?" she muttered to herself, closing her eyes. But then she remembered the eyes of the injured stranger in her storage room and how he had looked at her. With an involuntary sigh, she gathered her resolve around her like armor against her doubts and fear. Resolutely she unlocked the door to her apartment and went in search of her first aid kit.

*

Once inside the dark room, Vincent leaned against the wall and slid down into a sitting position. His right side hurt terribly, and the hood next to his left temple was wet with blood. Probing his waist cautiously, he noted that the bullet had almost gone through his body and now he felt it close to the surface just beneath his lower ribs. It should be easy to remove, Vincent thought wryly. Maybe he’d even have to do it himself. His head spun as he tried to regain his breath and clear his thoughts. With effort he raised his head and scanned the walls of the room for pipes or anything else that might help him get a message Below. He had to warn the others. They mustn’t come after him. There was no way of getting back to Father and the safety of the tunnels any time soon. The second man was still down there, probably waiting, and in his weakened condition Vincent would have been unable to by-pass him without being seen.

Finally he detected two parallel pipes along the opposite wall. They were only partially visible because shelves had been placed in front of them, but they were all he had. He made out a set of tools on one of the shelves and dragged himself across the room in order to get something solid to tap against the metal pipes. He had no idea how far these pipes would carry his message, but as he banged against them as forcefully as he could, he hoped that it would reach at least one of the outer posts.

Exhausted, he slumped down in front of the shelves. No matter how he might look at his situation, one thing was certain: he was trapped. There was no way of escaping from this place. He was completely at the mercy of a stranger. The woman's face appeared before his mind’s eye, a face that had expressed kindness, compassion -- and fear. He should be used to frightened faces by now, but it still stung and probably always would. This woman was different, though. She hadn’t turned away from him but had come to him and offered her help. Whatever he might think of her, whatever he might expect, or even dread, she had not given him away to the people outside. He’d have to be careful, nonetheless, and consider thoroughly how much he could give away about himself. Not an easy task when his head was throbbing with pain. Heaving a ragged sigh, Vincent resigned himself to wait and see what was to come.

*

On her return to the storage room Catherine was reluctant to turn on the bright light without warning.

"Please shield your eyes," she whispered after she had closed the door behind her. There was no reply and she quickly switched on the light to see how the stranger was doing.

It puzzled her to find him cowering on the other side of the room. Why would he drag himself across the floor in his weakened condition? For a moment, Catherine couldn’t help but stare at the hand that clutched the right side of his waist. It was a huge hand, its back covered with dense hair, and the fingers were tipped with long, sharp nails. She pulled herself together and took a step closer to see what she could do to help. He held his breath as he sensed her approach, but didn’t open his eyes. Somehow she got the impression that he didn’t care all that much what she was going to do.

"Please let me take a look at your wounds," she demanded quietly. When he didn’t react, she wondered fleetingly if he was capable of understanding her at all. But then he lifted the hand from his side and pulled back his cloak. Catherine retrieved a flashlight from her bag and directed the beam at the blood-soaked vest.

" This doesn’t look good," she observed, frowning in concern. "Don’t you think I should get you a doctor?"

This time his reaction was immediate: a sharp shake of his head that made him wince with pain.

"That’s what I thought," Catherine said, pulling a pair of scissors from her bag. "This has to come off," she explained as she set to cut open the bulky garment. She wondered fleetingly about the strangeness of his clothes and then gasped as she took a close look at the injury. "This has to hurt like hell," she mumbled to herself. Fortunately the bullet was poking out of the skin, so maybe she could just seize it with a pair of tweezers and pull it out. The stranger had still not opened his eyes. "Do you have a name?" she asked, in order to distract him while she prepared a pair of tweezers. There was no reply, and the low groan of anguish when she removed the bullet was the first sound that she heard coming from him. She applied a compress to the wound which was bleeding profusely by now, and told him to press it to his side with all his strength. "There’s not much more I can do right now," she whispered while she checked his head wound briefly and saw that it had stopped bleeding already. "I have to go back up to my apartment in case the police need me to tell them what I’ve seen." Placing a canteen with water within his reach, she rose to her feet and put her bag against the wall. "Please try to drink something," she advised, "and if the pain gets unbearable, take these." She took his left hand and opened it, dropping two pills onto his palm. "I really have to go now. I’ll be back as soon as I can."

*

Vincent was grateful that she had turned out the light as she’d left. Carefully he slipped the painkillers into the pocket of his cloak, moaning when even this slight movement caused a burning pain to spread through his body. Slowly, cautiously, he slid to his left side and rested his head on the bag the woman had left with him. Another stab of pain left him breathless as he tried to relax into this new position, yet he couldn’t help but marvel at the woman’s courage and determination. Although he was far from guessing at her motives, something within him began to rely on her and even trust her. His last thought before he allowed himself to drift off was that he wished he knew her name.

*

The interrogation by the police had been brief and matter-of-fact. Catherine had no doubt that Stewart Colwyn would be on the street again in no time. There wasn’t much they had against him. They hadn’t even found a gun with him. Catherine wasn’t sure why she hadn’t mentioned the shots. Somehow it had seemed the right thing to do at the moment. Maybe because they’d have searched the area beyond the hidden door, she mused. That might have made it even harder for the stranger down in her storage room to get back from where he’d come. There was something one of the police officers had said that made Catherine very uneasy. He had sounded as if he believed the tale of the intruder, as if there might be a possible search of the basement.

After the police had left, she waited about twenty minutes before she returned to the storage room. She wished the stranger would talk to her, help her come to a decision as to what to do.

When she opened the door, she switched on her flashlight and kept the beam slightly averted. She closed and locked the door behind her and squatted down beside the figure on the ground. Although she had been careful not to make any sound, he seemed to sense her presence and opened his eyes. Her heart went out to him when she saw the pain reflected there and a deep sadness that pierced her to the bottom of her soul.

She cushioned his head with a blanket that she’d brought with her and then covered him with another one. "I have to get you out of here," she said quietly. "They might want to search the basement."

His head rolled back a little and he stared up at the ceiling helplessly.

"Is there any place where you want me to take you?" she inquired softly.

He shook his head, and she found the fact that he was responding to her vastly reassuring.

"Then I’d best take you up to my apartment. No one will look for you there. You’ll be safe with me."

At that, he turned his eyes on her, his expression unreadable. Yet she seemed to detect a trace of astonishment and awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. She gave him an encouraging smile. "Do you think you’ll be able to make it into the elevator?" she asked. "It’s late and no one is likely to be around to see us."

He looked a little doubtful, but he shifted his weight and got up on his left elbow in an attempt to lever himself into a sitting position. He succeeded before she could come to his help and, bracing himself against the wall, he slowly got to his feet.

"Lean on me," she demanded, and at his inquiring look at the stuff lying around on the floor, she said, "I’ll come back for these later."

*

By the time Catherine reached the apartment door, her shoulders and back ached from the strain of supporting the man’s great weight. She knew he had to be in immense pain, but he was remarkably restrained. Aside from a few ragged groans there was nothing to be heard from him.

Once inside the apartment, his behavior changed abruptly. His breathing became labored and he started to resist her gentle support and strained away from her. She barely managed to help him lower himself onto one of her couches. He thrashed his head from side to side, and Catherine could see his eyes move restlessly under his closed lids. A rumble started in his chest and became a low growl that caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand on end. She saw the pulse in his throat race frantically and wondered what might have brought on this frightening change in him. Suddenly he got to his feet and made an unsteady step forward, instantly toppling over and burying the coffee table beneath him. It cracked and shattered under his weight, and Catherine released a silent prayer that he hadn’t done any further damage to himself. Relieved, she noted that he regained his feet, because she would have been helpless to move him without his support. Instinctively she began to talk, not caring that she was babbling, grateful only that he seemed to respond to the tone of her voice. He calmed immediately and tolerated her touch again, and she was able to guide him into the bedroom. It was important that she remove as much of his clothing as possible before he laid down, so she began to work at the fastenings of his cloak in order to pull it off his shoulders. Surprisingly his furred hand came up to help her. He slumped down on the edge of the bed, wincing with pain, and she rushed to get a pair of scissors to cut off his vest and shirt completely. Pieces of the cloth still stuck to the wound, and Catherine removed them carefully. He didn’t resist her actions and endured the procedure patiently. Yet Catherine couldn’t help but remember the menacing growl he had produced earlier, and a shiver ran down her spine. Without too much difficulty she managed to clean and dress the wound. For some reason the bleeding had lessened already. In fact, it had almost stopped, and she gave a silent prayer of thanks. She helped him lay back and touched her palm to his forehead and cheek to feel for any sign of fever, but fortunately he didn’t feel very hot.

What a compelling face, she thought and dropped her eyes to his bare chest that was covered with a profusion of sleek, tawny hair. It wasn’t curled like most men’s chest hair was, but looked rather like fur. No, she decided, it wasn’t like fur either. It was something unique altogether and she perceived the irrational wish to touch him there. Shaking her head in dismay at herself, she pulled up the covers and tucked them around his body to ward of the chills that shook him.

She sat with him a little while longer and simply watched his face, trying to get accustomed to his alien appearance. Her first impression had been that he resembled a lion, but now she didn’t think so any longer. One might call his features feline, but actually he didn’t look like anything she knew. There were far more human traits in his face than inhuman ones, and she thought that no one who had looked into those eyes could possibly mistake him for anything else but human ever again. Yet he’d been hunted like an animal. Someone had wanted to kill him as if he were some kind of vermin, and her heart ached with the thought of what kind of life he might have led so far. Did he live in the subway tunnels? She’d heard about people living down there, but they didn’t strike her as the accepting kind that would tolerate someone such as him.

He moaned in his sleep and she brushed her hand across his forehead soothingly. He felt hotter than before and she hoped fervently that his temperature wouldn’t rise too much. She rose and went to the bathroom for a washcloth to cool his face. When she touched it to his heated skin, he moaned again and his hand came up to push it away. She began talking to him, and he stopped resisting her ministrations.

How like a child he is, she thought and smiled with the sense of purpose that suddenly filled her.

*

Vincent awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight touching his face. For a moment he hesitated to open his eyes. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in an apartment above before, but never during the hours of day. Remembering the ride in the elevator, he assumed that he must be quite high above ground level, a fact that instantly made him feel trapped again. He blinked as the rays of light teased his lashes open, and then turned his head toward the window. He realized that actually it was not a window but a door that probably led to some terrace or balcony. The doors stood slightly ajar and an early spring breeze stirred the soft drapes into a swaying motion.

Beyond the transparent material of the drapes he glimpsed a piece of sky, patches of blue interspersed with wind-tossed clouds, and a sudden stab of melancholy made him avert his eyes and roll his head to the other side.

He looked for the woman who had rescued him, but he could neither see nor hear anything of her. He remembered how he had leaned heavily upon her shoulders as she had taken him up into her apartment, and he wondered how someone that small could muster so much strength.

Cautiously he tried to move. His left hand went to his temple to probe the wound there. With satisfaction he noted that it had begun to heal. When he tried to lift his right arm, though, a searing pain shot through him and he gasped with the intensity of it. Vaguely, he remembered that the woman had cleaned and dressed the wound before she had allowed him to lay back in her bed. She had practically cut off his vest and shirt in order to do so, and he had been too weak to pay much attention. But now his state of undress made him feel extremely vulnerable. With relief he noted that at least his pants were still firmly in place.

Once again, he wondered where she might be and he felt panic grip him at the thought that he was alone and helpless in a topsider’s apartment. He had to do something, and quickly.

Slowly he rolled onto his left side and, ignoring the pain and the dizziness, dragged himself to a sitting position. The room spun before his eyes, but he was determined to get to his feet and explore his surroundings. Step by shaky step he made his way over to the louvred door and, grabbing a doorpost for support, he peered into the adjoining room.

There she lay, in a makeshift bed on her couch, deeply asleep. She looked so peaceful with her hair fanned out on the pillow and her shoulders rising and falling gently, not at all like someone who had taken in an odd-looking stranger whom she had saved from a madman. Just when he decided to return to the bed in order not to disturb her, she opened her eyes and lifted her head.

"What do you think you’re doing?" she scolded good-naturedly and leapt to her feet. He lowered his eyes to avoid the intimate sight she presented in her silken pajamas. She seemed to be completely oblivious to the fact that the top she wore revealed more than it concealed. Grabbing his left arm, she gave him a gentle shove to turn him around and guide him back to the bed. "Wait a minute," she said as he finally sat on the edge. "I think I’ve got something that might fit you.

She returned with a large shirt with grey and white stripes and helped him into it. It hurt, but he knew he would feel more comfortable with something to cover himself. "It suits you," she said with a smile as she buttoned up its front, and he who had never worn a shirt with buttons in his life, could do nothing but watch her with silent fascination.

"Tell me your name," he demanded hoarsely, and she flinched at the unexpected sound of his voice.

Just when he was about to reproach himself for startling her, her face broke into a delighted smile and she answered, "Catherine."

Remotely he was aware that she asked for his name in return, and he wished he’d been able to answer, but all he could do was to sink back against the pillows and close his weary eyes.

*

Catherine wiped away a tear from her cheek. Why would the fact that he had asked for her name fill her with so much hope? Gazing down at his pale complexion, she tenderly traced the dark circles under his eyes with one trembling finger. She had to get some nourishment into him, or at least some liquid. The water she had tried to feed him earlier, had only served to soak the pillow. Maybe if she prepared some broth...

The telephone rang and she went to answer it. "No, Daddy, I’m fine. Really." Her father sounded worried and she listened patiently to his complaints. "Didn’t Marilyn tell you that I called in this morning?" she asked. "Something important came up and I really had to take care of it. I’ll be in tomorrow morning, okay?"

She knew she wasn’t being fair in taking advantage of her father’s good nature, but this time it wasn’t for herself and she regretted that she couldn’t tell him that.

After she’d hung up the phone, she went to the kitchen to prepare some soup for her special guest. It was only canned soup, but she simply didn’t have the ingredients on hand for homemade soup.

She lowered the dish to the nightstand and carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. Bending forward, she retrieved the bowl and as she turned to lift the spoon to his parched lips, she found him watching her intently.

"Good morning," she said, smiling, but he remained solemn and distant. "You have to eat something to regain your strength," she offered brightly and brought the spoon in front of his face, but he averted his head, refusing to be fed.

"I can do that," he whispered, his throat dry and raw.

Being stubborn, are you? she thought to herself, but put the bowl back down on the nightstand. She went to the kitchen to prepare him fresh tea, and when she returned with the mug, she found that he had emptied the bowl and placed it on the nightstand once again.

"You look exhausted," she remarked, just to say something at all.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked abruptly. "You put yourself in grave danger when you take in strangers."

His admonition took her by surprise and she was momentarily at a loss for words.

"I’m sorry," he added in a much softer tone. "Please know that I’m very grateful for all that you’ve been doing...for me. It’s just that..."

"Yes?" she prompted when he fell silent, but he wouldn’t say anything more.

"Who are you?" she asked gently.

"My name is Vincent," he replied and from his guarded expression she could tell that he wasn’t going to tell her more than that.

"Vincent," she repeated softly and he flinched at the sound of his own name. Holding out the mug to him, she ordered, "Please drink your tea."

He didn’t take it but kept staring at her silently, so she placed it on the nightstand and retrieved the empty bowl. She could literally feel his eyes following her as she left the bedroom.

*

The next time Vincent awoke, it was early afternoon. When he got up, he noticed that the pain in his side was bearable now and that the dizziness was manageable if he just moved very slowly. He found himself alone in the apartment, but strangely this time he didn’t feel all that uneasy about it. There was trust within him now, and a new confidence that he would be able to return home soon. He walked over to the window and looked out at the buildings across what must be Central Park. He’d have liked to go out onto the terrace and look down to gauge the height he would have to overcome, but he dared not. The opposite buildings were far away, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to step out in the open in broad daylight. So he looked up at the sky instead. It was overcast and gray, and part of him missed the warmth of the sunlight that he had felt when he’d first awakened in this apartment.

Forcing his thoughts back to the problems at hand, he sought out the bathroom, carefully avoiding the large mirror above the basin. Keeping his eyes downcast, he washed his hands and face and silently wished for a change of clothes.

Feeling fairly refreshed, he made his way to the kitchen in search of something to drink. He even allowed himself to reach for an apple, grateful for the fresh, sweet taste that replaced the stale one in his mouth. Normally he wouldn’t have touched anything in a stranger’s home, but it was in the best interest of his host if he regained his strength as quickly as possible. He decided to stay up a little in order to get used to an upright position again. His heartbeat and breathing were labored as he returned to the living room and sat down on one of the two small sofas. Taking another bite of his apple, he looked around the room and caught sight of a large etagere that held a curious assembly of colorful eggs and spheres. Intrigued, he rose again and walked over to take a closer look. Most of the objects inside were simply made of colored glass, but there was also one beautifully clear crystal sphere, a delicate ivory rose, and a breathtaking piece of lapis lazuli in the shape of an egg. The deep indigo was interspersed with tiny spots of pyrite and reminded him of a night sky full of stars.

A key was being turned in the lock and he whisked around, gasping at the stab of pain the sudden movement caused him. Thanks to the many locks that secured the door, he managed to disappear into the bedroom before someone entered the room. He heard the door close, and the next moment Catherine’s head appeared in the small opening left between the paneled doors.

"You’re up," she stated. "That’s good. How do you feel today?"

"What day is it?" he asked back.

"Thursday," she answered brightly. "You slept for two days." And indicating the remains of the apple that he was still holding in his hand, she added, "I see you found yourself something to eat. I can only hope that your stomach will tolerate it."

An irrational flash of embarrassment surged through him, and he smiled wordlessly.

"I’d better fix you something more nourishing," she said, shrugging out of her coat.

The dizziness became worse, and Vincent returned to the bed. He listened to the noises from the kitchen and the steady clatter almost lulled him to sleep. His eyes flew open as he heard Catherine’s voice from the door, "Dinner is ready. Would you like to sit with me or are you too tired?"

Slowly he sat up. He’d better get used to moving again. By the time he reached the dining area in the living room, Catherine had set the table and served him some stew. Cautiously, uneasily he sat down opposite her and reached for the spoon. He felt extremely uncomfortable at the thought of eating in her presence, but he clamped down on the feeling. He had to eat in order to recuperate, and he couldn’t simply resort to raiding her kitchen at those rare moments when she wasn’t there.

The stew tasted delicious and he had to force himself to eat slowly. Once, he stole a quick glance at his host and noted with relief that she kept her gaze lowered and concentrated on her own plate. When he was finished with his portion, he risked another glance and noticed that she looked troubled. Her meal unfinished, she stared absentmindedly down at her hands.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" she replied and hastily started eating again.

"Something is troubling you," he stated. "I don’t mean to be intrusive, but if it has got anything to do with me..."

She put down her spoon and looked up to meet his eyes. He noted that hers were green and capable of expressing a wide range of emotions. "I’m not sure about that," she said, and he had to make a conscious effort to concentrate on their conversation again. "They searched the basement today."

He felt apprehension creeping up his spine. "And," he prompted, "did they find anything?"

She shook her head. "Not that I know of. But they did brick up the opening between the antechamber to our basement and the deserted subway tunnels." She stopped talking and gave him an inquiring look that made him avert his eyes. He knew she expected him to explain himself, to tell her what that particular piece of information meant to him, and it pained him that he mustn’t tell her anything, that he couldn’t repay her kindness with the kind of trust she deserved. When he remained silent, she pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, starting to clear the table. "Would you care for a cup of coffee?" she asked over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen area.

"May I have tea please?" he asked, turning halfway to look in her direction. The movement caused him pain and he froze, slowly returning to his initial position.

"Of course," she replied.

A few minutes later, she returned with a tray and set it in front of him. She sat down and watched him intently. He met her searching gaze steadfastly, relieved that the stormy look from before had turned to one of calm interest.

"Look," she said, shoving the tray aside as she leaned slightly toward him, "I don’t mean to pry, but I have to know how I can help you. You can trust me. I won’t do anything to endanger you. Surely you must know that by now?" Without waiting for a reply, she continued, "Your condition is improving, and I’m certain there is some place that you wish to go once you are well again. Since I never heard about you in the media, I take it that you live in hiding. If the access they bricked up today is your only way home..."

"It isn’t," he cut in, dropping his gaze to his hands. When he looked up again, he found her still staring at him inquiringly. Inhaling deeply, he briefly gathered his thoughts before he began to speak. "Catherine, I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me, for saving my life. I’ve never met anyone like you before. You risked much in order to help a total stranger, although my appearance must have frightened you. I..."

She reached out to cover the back of his hand with her palm and he fell silent.

"If somebody had told me to do what I did," she began quietly, "I would have found it inconceivable. But when you raised your head and looked at me down there, I didn’t even have to ask myself what I should do. I couldn’t help but act as I did. You don’t have to thank me for that, Vincent. If you do want to thank me, though, you could start by trusting me."

Vincent’s heart twisted in his chest at her words. Sharing his secret with her was the one thing he couldn’t do. The internal conflict all but tore him apart. Without thinking, he turned his hand beneath hers and their palms touched. "The words aren’t mine to tell," he said huskily. "I’m sorry."

Catherine nodded resignedly and withdrew her hand. "I understand. Please let me know when there is something else I can do for you."

"I will," he replied, staring at his now empty hand. He couldn’t believe that he had dared to touch her like that. The skin of his palm was still tingling with Catherine’s warmth, and he suddenly felt as if a gossamer thread of energy went from his hand to hers, connecting them in a way his mind couldn’t grasp. He shook his head and looked up to find her standing in the middle of the room and absentmindedly rubbing her one hand with the thumb of the other. She looked so sad, and for a moment it was as if her sadness was carrying over into him and became his. "Catherine," he began hesitantly, "if there’s anything that I can do for you, please tell me."

She looked at him for a moment, obviously confused, but then she smiled. "I will," she said, echoing his own words from moments earlier, "but now you should lay down again. You look awful."

"Thank you," he said playfully.

"You know that I didn’t mean..." she began.

"I know," he interrupted her with a half-smile.

Reassured, she turned and went to pick up the bags she’d brought home with her. "I got you a change of clothes," she explained as she held out the bags for him to see. "I hope they’ll fit."

Vincent didn’t know what to say. He badly needed fresh clothes, yet the thought that she had gone and bought some for him, disconcerted him.

"You can try to take a shower when you’ve rested," she went on as she opened the bags and pulled out a large, gray-blue sweater and two off-white t-shirts. The second bag contained soft-looking black sweat pants and two pairs of oversized tennis socks. She had even thought of underwear.

Vincent found himself staring at the objects she had spread out before him, unable to imagine ever wearing them. Never in his life had he ever worn anything new, and the mere thought of slipping into those things seemed alien to him. A quick glance at Catherine told him that she was waiting for his reaction as she beamed at him expectantly.

"And?" she coaxed eagerly when nothing was forthcoming from him.

"Thank you," he said at last, expelling the breath he’d been holding. "These are...incredible." To say the least, he added inwardly, imagining the reactions of the tunnel dwellers if he showed up Below, wearing these clothes. But Catherine’s contented smile finally caused him to smile in return.

"I’m going to put them into the bathroom for you," she suggested and stuffed everything back into the bags.

I should really rest now, Vincent thought as he pictured the strains of a shower in his weakened condition. Slowly he made his way over to the bed and sank down gratefully.

Briefly he contemplated the news about the sealed access to the tunnels. That meant he’d have to stay here a little longer than he’d planned. He had to be in good condition when he left the relative safety of Catherine’s apartment, for he mustn’t make any mistakes out there. The hunters might still be around, waiting for him.

Maybe he could phone a helper to relay a message, the next time Catherine was out. With that thought he finally allowed himself to fall asleep.

*

Catherine smiled at the sound of splashing water that came from her bathroom. Vincent had appeared quite uneasy about the idea of taking a shower, even though he’d tried not to show it. She heard him experimenting with the faucets and hoped that his healing wound wouldn’t make it too difficult for him to clean himself. He had slept through the entire night and seemed to be quite rested in the morning. She had suggested he take his shower first, so that he wouldn’t get too tired for it during breakfast.

Once, in the middle of the night she had been roused by a dream, a strange dream whose contents eluded her, but she could still recall the feeling of sadness it had left in its wake. On impulse, she had gotten up and walked over to the bedroom to check on Vincent. She’d found him lying on his back, peacefully asleep. She’d stood there in the doorway, watching the stark planes of his unique face that were emphasized even more by the moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains.

Once more she wondered what kind of secret he was keeping from her. Were there others like him whom he tried to protect? To be honest, she was a bit annoyed that he didn’t confide in her, but on the other hand, what did she know about the hardships he probably had to face, being who he was?

She’d lain awake long after that, thinking about him, about the sadness in those eyes that had captured her instantly, the moment he’d turned them on her. She had always had an easy life, aside from the fact that she’d lost her mother at such a young age. Her father had always seen to it that she had everything she needed and wished for. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the life someone like Vincent must have had.

The sound of running water had stopped and the ensuing silence drew her from her musings. She reached for the torn and soiled cloak, shaking her head as she thought of her futile attempt to clean and mend it. The garment had proven too large and heavy to fit in the washing machine, let alone in the dryer. Running her fingers over the coarse fabric, she detected at least four different kinds of cloth that had been patched together, and she thought fleetingly that a few more wouldn’t matter. Was there someone in his life who did that kind of thing for him? Probably, because someone must have made this cloak for him. Obviously he couldn’t shop for his own clothes, and even if he could, where would he ever find something like this? Her curiosity about the possible circumstances of his life was surfacing again, but at that moment the bathroom door was unlocked and Vincent stepped out into the bedroom. He stopped in his tracks as he saw her standing there with his cloak in her hands, and she held it out before her apologetically.

"I’m afraid I couldn’t save this," she murmured, awed by the strange look in his eyes. He had donned the things she had bought for him, and normally she would have made a remark about the abrupt change in his attire, but there was something about him that silenced her. She couldn’t read his expression, so she succumbed to the stillness that he suddenly wore around him like an extra layer of clothes. His long hair cascaded over his shoulders in wet tendrils, and she made a mental note to see to it that he didn’t go to sleep before it was dry again. That thought distracted her enough to break the spell. As he crossed the room to take his cloak from her hands, she noted that he moved quite effortlessly already, a fact that made her oddly sad. She would miss him when he’d gone, miss the purpose and meaning that he’d given to her life.

She released the garment as he reached for it and watched as he placed it over the foot of the bed.

"It doesn’t matter," he said quietly, keeping his eyes averted.

Suddenly she remembered that she’d promised him breakfast. "Are you hungry?" she asked casually.

For some reason, that brought a smile from him and he answered, "As a matter of fact, I am."

*

Early evening found Vincent sitting in the living room with a copy of Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince in his hands. Before she had left for work, Catherine had urged him to browse through her reading material and see if he’d find something that would interest him. Truth to tell, Vincent hadn’t had too much hope in that regard. The first things he had encountered were stacks of fashion magazines and a couple of romance novels, but finally, next to the thick, leather-bound volumes of an encyclopedia, he’d found several books that had always been favorites of his. The Velveteen Rabbit, for example, or Jonathan Livingston Seagull. There even was a copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

Vincent’s eyes had wandered over to Catherine’s desk. A stack of manila folders lay on one side of the desktop; the other was occupied by several law books, but on top of them he’d discovered The Little Prince and reached for it immediately.

The little prince’s encounter with the fox had always been one of Vincent’s favorite parts of the story and he leafed through the book in search of it. To his surprise he found that Catherine had put a bookmark exactly there, and one sentence was even underlined. He read it out loud to himself, "You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." His eyes strayed away from the book as he pondered the significance of the quotation, and his mouth curved into an amused smile as he applied the words to himself.

A rustle from the corridor outside drew his attention away from the book and he lowered it to his lap. A wave of frustration and dismay surged against his mind, and before he could wonder about its cause, Catherine opened the door and stepped into the room. Her eyes were dark with anger, but the moment she caught sight of him, her features softened and she managed a smile. "You shouldn’t sit here in full view when someone opens the door," she admonished gently. "My father has a key, too, and so has my friend Jenny." For some reason, she stopped there although he had a feeling that she’d wanted to add yet another person to the list.

"I knew that it was you," he replied calmly.

She gave him a puzzled look before she shrugged out of her coat and dropped it onto the chair next to her.

"I see you found yourself something to read," she remarked, waving one hand in the direction of the book he was holding in his hands. Obviously she didn’t expect a reply to that, because she went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

Without closing it, Vincent put the book face down on the throw pillow next to him, wondering fleetingly where the coffee table might be whose imprints were still visible on the carpet. Then he walked over to Catherine, looking at her questioningly. "You’re angry," he stated quietly.

Catherine put down the glass firmly. "You bet I am," she tossed out. "I’m furious."

"Would you like to talk about it?" he coaxed gently.

She cast him a surprised look. "I don’t think that you would care to know."

He returned her gaze solemnly. "I’m aware that the story itself is none of my business, but I think that it might bring you release to get it off your mind."

She nodded her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps you’re right." She preceded him into the living room and they sat down facing each other. "It’s about my father," she began, studying her hands. "He wants to see me married to a certain man I’ve been involved with during the last year. He can’t understand that Tom and I..." She paused uncertainly, and Vincent caught her glancing at him furtively.

"Do you love that man?" Vincent asked carefully.

Catherine shrugged. "Maybe if my father wasn’t so persistent, I’d have a chance to find out." She paused briefly as if to gather her thoughts. "What makes me so mad is that it doesn’t seem to matter one bit if I love Tom or not. In Dad’s eyes he’s the right choice because he’s rich and powerful, and -- to make at least one concession to me -- handsome. But I think that the main reason why Dad is so fond of him, is that Tom’s a lot like him. Neither cares much how someone else feels as long as it suits his purposes."

"You sound quite bitter about it," Vincent remarked when she fell silent.

"I am," she gave back. "I mean, for all my life I’ve done what my father wanted me to, and he even managed to make it look as if it had been my own wish. I don’t think I would have studied law if it hadn’t been for him."

"But you’re not sure about that," Vincent interjected.

Catherine shook her head. "I did have a dream when I started law school. I wanted to help people, make a difference. Not exactly something you can achieve with corporate law." She brushed a strand of hair from her face and looked up at him as if she expected him to say something.

He met her gaze steadfastly. "So, you’re planning to make changes in your life that your father isn’t happy about."

Puzzlement rippled briefly through her, but it was quickly replaced by excitement. "Exactly. To say he’s not happy about it is the understatement of the year. When I brought it up this morning, he treated me like a recalcitrant child. When that didn’t work, he changed his tactic and tried to make me feel guilty. He always gets to me with that one." She sighed. "He even stooped so far as to bring in my mother, telling me how much she’d wished for me to have a happy life."

Catherine’s face assumed a dreamy expression as she stared past Vincent with unseeing eyes. A wave of pain and longing washed over him as he looked at her, listening to the flow of her emotions. He hadn’t done that in a very long time. Exposing himself to another person’s feelings had always been painful and emotionally draining, to say the least, so he avoided it as best he could. But with Catherine he simply couldn’t help himself. The voice of her soul was strong and clear inside him, so compelling that he didn’t have any other choice but to listen. So he listened carefully, and what it told him touched him deeply. She was in such turmoil, struggling to find herself in a sea of other people’s expectations, wishes, and demands. He could see that she was finally beginning to regard herself with her own eyes instead through those of others.

"You miss your mother very much," he stated, knowing that his words would probably bring tears from her. But they were needed now, because it might well be that in Catherine’s heart the eyes of her mother came closest to her own.

"I do," she said, her eyes glittering moistly already.

"And what do you think your mother’s counsel would be in this case?"

Catherine took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "That I follow my heart," she whispered without thinking twice.

For a moment, Vincent allowed himself to study her silently. Eventually he asked softly, "And what does your heart tell you?"

She opened her eyes again and turned them on him. They shone with a deep green and the clouds that had been there only moments ago had vanished.

"That I live my own life and not listen any longer to what others tell me that love is, or isn’t."

He smiled at her warmly, feeling irrationally proud of her. She returned his gaze and held it, and he felt her confidence and enthusiasm growing by the minute. Suddenly she leaned towards him and reached out for his hand, giving it a grateful squeeze.

"Thank you, Vincent," she breathed, and the smile that danced in her eyes made his heart leap with delight.

Something diverted her attention and she released his hand to pick up the book that was still lying face down on the pillow next to him. She traced the underlined quote with her forefinger.

"That’s a bad habit of mine," she said, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks. "It gives away too much about myself."

"It’s a wonderful line," he replied, and she blushed again.

"I guess, in a way that makes you responsible for me, now that you’ve discovered so much about me," she suggested quietly.

Her words stung, and at the moment he was helpless to explain why. Only after she had closed the book and risen to her feet, did it strike him that there couldn’t possibly be anything sweeter for him than being responsible for Catherine.

"Are you hungry?" she called out from the kitchen, and even before he answered, he knew that he would have to leave soon.

*

Catherine awoke with a start, trying to grasp the last shreds of her dream before it disappeared completely. She leaned up on one elbow and looked towards the panneled doors, but everything was quiet. The room lay still in semi-darkness, dawn only just starting to chase away the shadows. She shook her head and lay back again. It wasn’t like her to awaken this early in the morning, let alone to get up. Closing her eyes, she tried to relax, but sleep eluded her. Resolutely she swung her feet to the floor and rose, reaching for her robe. In order to get to the bathroom, she had to cross the bedroom, so she left her slippers beside the sofa and quietly padded across the carpet lest she awaken Vincent. For some reason, this morning, the panel doors were completely shut. Usually she left them open just a bit in order to hear if anything was wrong and Vincent needed her. She pushed the doors aside, careful not to make any noise, but as her gaze fell onto the bed, her heart sank. It was empty. From the way the pillows and blankets had been straightened she could tell that Vincent hadn’t just gone into the bathroom. He had gone for good.

Something told her that she should be relieved, that now she could pick up her old life again, but strangely that was the last thing she wanted. Frankly, she hadn’t even considered yet what she was going to do once Vincent walked out of her life and returned to his own.

Catherine approached the bed and gingerly sat down on its edge. Somehow this wasn’t her bed anymore, it was his, and reclaiming it would take some getting used to. She swallowed a lump in her throat as she traced the pattern of the covers pensively and picked up a small sheet of paper lying there. Without looking at it, she rose to her feet.

Suddenly a wave of anger rushed through her. How dare he leave her like that? Hadn’t she saved his life, given him shelter and a safe place to recover? The least he could have done was...

Was what, Chandler? she interrupted her own internal tirade of anger. What did you expect from him? That he should thank you on his knees and ask for your permission before he left?

A part of her screamed, yes, that’s exactly what he should have done, but then a calmer, more reasonable side of her took over and released the resentment, cleansing her soul with tears that she was helpless to explain. She walked over to the the terrace doors and pushed them open. Stepping out on the balcony, she savored the fresh, clean morning breeze as she leaned forward against the balustrade. The city was still drowsy, the noise of the day hadn’t risen to its full force yet, and Catherine wondered what kind of a place it might be where someone like Vincent could live. She hoped that it was a good place, a kind place, and that he would be all right.

Straightening, she slowly unfolded the message he’d left and read the lines through a mist of unbidden tears.

Dear Catherine,

There are no words to thank you for all that you did for me. Please forgive me for leaving so abruptly. Know that I will never forget your kindness.

V.

Swallowing down the feeling of betrayal that was still constricting her throat, she tucked the note in the pocket of her robe and walked back into the apartment.

Chapter Two