APRIL 12

Catherine switched off the lights in her apartment, savoring the soft glow of the candles she had placed on her couch table. Smiling, she thought that using candles was just one of the habits she had acquired Below.

It was Tuesday, April 12th and one year had passed since she and Amy had been assaulted in the park. One year since Amy had come to live apart from her -- Below.

Now that she was thinking of it, April 12th seemed to be a date predestined to bring about important changes. If memory served her correctly, it had also been April 12th when she had broken up with Tom Gunther, two years ago.

Amy had been so tiny back then, her future a huge blank spot in Catherine's imagination, and with a warm feeling of gratitude Catherine remembered how everything had changed the moment Vincent had entered her life. She missed the closeness they had shared during that first year when their friendship had developed and gradually grown into something more, something very special.

After the attack her life had become rather hectic with her struggle to divide herself between two lives, two worlds. And yet, there had been changes she wouldn't want to miss for anything in the world. The slowly increasing and deepening intimacy between Vincent and herself, once they had acknowledged their being in love with one another, had lent a bittersweet poignancy to their relationship. And then, suddenly everything had been turned upside down again.

Catherine clenched her teeth as she felt a wave of rage and hatred surge through her chest. How could men like Paracelsus or her attackers have so little regard for the lives of others? An overwhelming onslaught of anxiety made her gasp for air as pictures of abused and beaten and even murdered victims of crime passed before her inner eye. Not to mention all the pain that was being inflicted on peoples' psyches, injuries invisible to the eyes, but nonetheless fit to destroy lives once and for all.

"Where is the hope?" she whispered helplessly when images of her own attack flooded her mind. Tears sprang to her eyes and she found herself choked by memories of the struggling and writhing child in the iron grip of their tormentor. The flashing blade before her own face had been like nothing in comparison, and yet she felt beads of sweat building on her forehead and upper lip, reliving the fear and pain that had followed.

Suddenly another scene replayed itself within her memory. Vincent sitting on his bed, rocking back and forth, and holding his head between his hands. Who could fathom the anguish he had suffered at that moment when the perception of his own humanity that he had fought so hard to shape and maintain, crumbled and turned to dust within a few moments?

Catherine stopped the pacing she hadn't been aware she'd started. Nothing of what Father had predicted or feared had happened after Vincent's encounter with Paracelsus' drug. The past two months had gone by rather peacefully with Vincent being his usual quiet and restrained self. A little more restrained than normal, she mused, and maybe a little less uninhibited with the children, especially Amy, but otherwise still a valued and respected member of his community and a thoughtful and loving friend. Something was missing, though, and she wasn't quite able to put her finger on what it was.

A familiar tapping on the glass pane sent her heart racing, and when she flung the French doors open, meeting Vincent's tense expression on a face framed by unruly tresses of wind-swept hair, she suddenly knew...

Since remembering Paracelsus' poisonous words, Vincent had been all gentleness. The passion in everything he did was lacking. It was as if he went through the movements while his heart and soul where someplace else. Never, throughout the past eight weeks, had he done anything spontaneous, like paying a visit to her balcony, for instance.

"You are surprised to see me," he observed in a low voice. "I hope my visit doesn't inconvenience you."

"Don't be silly," she chided. "Actually you rescued me from some rather dark mood."

"I know," he replied quietly. And after a brief pause of hesitation he went on, "Catherine, there are things we need to talk about. If you think that this is not a good time then I..."

"No, tonight is perfect, Vincent," she assured him. "Will you come in?"

If he was having any reservations about that, he didn't show it. Without resistance he followed her into the living room and discarded his cloak.

"Just like old times," she said, smiling, but his sharp intake of breath left her instantly sober and wary. She indicated for him to take a seat, and he complied wordlessly.

"What is it, Vincent," she prompted, a knot of apprehension forming in her stomach. "Can you tell me?"

Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his thighs and studied his hands. "I came because this day holds frightening memories for you, and I couldn't stop thinking how much I wanted to be with you, to share those memories and help you bear them."

She sat down beside him, placing one hand on his back. "That means so much to me, Vincent. Thank you," she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "But you've been through a lot yourself, and I wish with all my heart that I could do something to reach the pain that you've locked in your heart and take it away."

The curtain of hair concealing his face swayed slightly as he shook his head. "I am not the first one who had to discover something about himself that he finds hard to live with."

Nor is the question about Amy's origin the only shadow that has fallen across your soul, she added silently to herself.

The muscles of his back rippled beneath her palm as he straightened and turned to face her. "Catherine, on my way to you I felt such anger in you, such pain and fear. Even now, I can sense your despair about the things that happened to you. To us. These feelings are poisonous. We must not allow them to destroy us."

Wordlessly, she shook her head, and he accepted her unwillingness to talk about it. After a brief pause he began to speak again, "Your assumption about Amy's empathic abilities may be correct. I'm not completely certain yet, but there have been situations when I, too, got the impression that she sensed things within me."

"Amy has been her old self during the last weeks. She didn't have any more nightmares. Did she?"

"I don't think so. But, Catherine, for someone this young she has gone through quite a few traumatic experiences. Therefore it may just as well be possible that her irritable behavior came solely from within herself. Anyway, I have been shielding her from my emotions as best I could. Just in case."

"Do you think it will be easier to understand what's going on inside her once she'll be able to talk about it?"

"No, Catherine. Things like that are nearly impossible to express, even for adults. We both know that."

"Yes, we do," she agreed with a sigh and slid from the couch to kneel before him in order to get a glimpse of his face. "But we won't stop trying. Will we?"

She could see that he had to force himself to meet her searching eyes. But finally he could no longer stand it and threw back his head with an anguished groan. She inched a little closer and took his hands. "What is it, Vincent? Please?"

"How can I even begin to try to find words for what is in my soul when I cannot remember what happened. What I did." His hands were limp and cold between hers, and she began to rub some life and warmth into them, but he pulled away abruptly.

"Don't," he snapped, and then added more softly, "Please, don't do that."

"Will you speak to me, Vincent?" she asked, unperturbed, but her heart was pounding so fast that she could hardly breathe. Was he possibly beginning to remember their night together at last?

Cautiously, Vincent seized her shoulders and, rising to his feet, pulled her up with him. With a long, solemn look into her eyes he released her and walked over to the terrace door, staring out into the darkness. She didn't dare follow him, so she remained where she was, hoping desperately that he would say something. That he wouldn't simply disappear.

"What hurts the most," he began at last, "is that I have a child, something I didn't even dare dream of, and cannot be happy about it. After all, I should know best how it feels to be unwanted, and rejected, by your parents."

"Do you really think you are rejecting Amy?"

With a helpless shrug, he turned. "Catherine, every time I look at her I am reminded of my worst nightmare. Losing control over my actions is the one thing that I must never allow to happen. Never."

"But you didn't lose your control. If anything, someone robbed you of it. It wasn't your fault."

Turning his back on her again, he whispered, "It pains me to think of...the woman. To imagine her helplessness and her terror."

"Then try not to imagine it. You're torturing yourself with something you cannot change. You cannot even be sure that it really happened. Paracelsus..."

"You are right," he said, his voice tense with restraint. "It is possible that Paracelsus lied. That I must concede. But it is not probable."

He came to her then, stopping within arm's reach. "Catherine, please look at me," he implored her. "What do you see?" And without giving her time to answer, he continued, "What did you think when you saw me for the first time? You thought at once that I must be Amy's father. You were not repulsed by my appearance, because you loved the child who resembled me so much. Do you know what people usually feel when they see me for the first time? Even those who've been told about me and are prepared to meet someone unusual, react with fright. An understandable reaction, considering my predatory appearance. But, Catherine, it hurts. And the worst thing is that they are right to be frightened. Part of me is a predator. I do kill. And I..."

His voice broke and his shoulders slumped. He would have averted his face again, but she didn't let him. Clasping him in a tight embrace, she pressed her body against his, desperately trying to prevent him from withdrawing. His anguish washed over her like a tidal wave, and she gasped under its force. But then his hands came up to support her when she would have swayed under the onslaught of his emotions. Slowly he lowered his head, and when she felt his bristled cheek touching hers, she turned her face to kiss it. Her feelings for him all but overwhelmed her, and everything in her cried out to tell him about their night together. The realization that she kept something precious and beautiful from him was suddenly unbearable. Yet, instinctively, she held back.

He had begun to nuzzle the side of her neck beneath her hair, and she shivered under the subtle touch of his lips that excited her beyond reason. Her fingers clutched his back in small kneading motions, eager to draw him to her more tightly. His breath came in short, ragged gasps and was hot on the sensitive skin of her throat as she bent back in his arms, completely yielding to his delicious caresses. He went down on his knees, drawing her with him, not even loosening his hold on her body as he dropped to the floor. How she had yearned to taste his lips again, and now she found that the reality of his kiss far exceeded the sweetness of the memory. Searchingly, his mouth moved against hers and she parted her lips in invitation. With a soft moan he complied, and the clean, heady taste of his tongue was her undoing. His words were muffled by her lips clinging to his mouth, but he moaned her name over and over again, and it was not before she felt him stiffen in an attempt to draw away that she noted the entreaty in his tone.

"Catherine," he rasped, "I am sorry. I'm so sorry."

She shook her head in denial, trying to pull him back down and reassure him that there was not the slightest need to apologize, but he rolled himself off her body and rose to his knees.

"It was unforgivable of me to take us this far," he said, his voice still trembling with the effort of trying to gain control over his raw emotions. "Please know that I could wish for nothing more than to cast away all thought and surrender to the desire we both feel. But, Catherine, I do not think that we are ready for this. I...am not ready. There are too many loose ends, too many unknown factors, for us to take such a grave step."

Still struggling to rein in her disappointment, Catherine moved into a sitting position. "Like what?" she asked.

"Like the question whether you are ready to bind your life to mine in such a way," he replied, and Catherine wondered briefly if she had detected a trace of exasperation in his voice.

"Vincent, what kind of a decision do you expect from me? I love you, and I would do everything to be with you. I feel connected to you in ways I never would have thought possible. I do not think that making love with you would make that much of a difference. Not anymore."

The way his eyes were riveted to her lips, devouring every single word she spoke, left her with a tight feeling in her throat. What if she hadn't been able to find the right words? What if she'd said something wrong?

He shifted his position and came to sit beside her, bracing his weight on one arm, and extending the other to take her hand.

 "I didn't mean to make it sound as if taking another step in our relationship depended on your decision alone, Catherine. What I'm trying to say is that I have to be able to trust myself before I can accept the responsibility of someone else trusting me." Pulling her hand to his mouth, he placed a chaste kiss on its back.

The tender gesture sent a shiver down her spine, and she briefly closed her eyes to gather her thoughts. When she reopened them, she found him staring at her intently.

"How would you define trust?" she asked reluctantly.

He let go of her hand and sat up, resting his forearms on top of his knees.

"If I remember it correctly, the dictionary says that trust means confidence, a strong belief in a person's goodness, strength, and reliability."

"I do trust you, Vincent. I am convinced of your goodness. I know your strength, both physically and spiritually. And I believe in your reliability. You would never hurt me. You have proven that many times. Now, what exactly is it that you think cannot be trusted within yourself?"

Drawing his knees more tightly to his body, he said, "Those are just words, Catherine. They do not encompass everything.”

“That’s right, of course, but what about feelings?”

Tilting his head, he cast her an unexpected smile. "Feelings are the non-intellectual part of our character," he lectured, "and therefore beyond words."

"And yet we give names to them," she replied, "but I remember that you told me once you don't believe in names."

"I do believe in feelings, though," he said solemnly, "and in sensations." With a low moan he threw back his head and glanced up at the ceiling before he continued, "The feel of you in my arms, of your skin beneath my lips, of your mouth on mine, stirs a hunger in me that frightens me."

Putting one finger to his chin, she guided his gaze to meet hers. "There is nothing about you that frightens me, Vincent. I'm not afraid."

The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as he answered, "I know. I remember that you told me once you were not afraid of storms." And then, completely serious, he added, "But you don't feel what I feel. You only get to see what passes my control."

There was nothing she could say to that, so she simply allowed herself to be enveloped by his silence. Her thoughts kept revolving around his words about the sensations she had evoked in him, and she briefly reveled in the delicious tingle that pulsed through her veins at the memory. Something in his posture told her that he was very much aware of what was going on inside her, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. Torturing him was the last thing she wanted to do.

"Vincent," she began, "once you told me that you find it hard to balance your passion and your tenderness. I've been thinking about that a lot. It's all right if you're not yet ready to face the passionate aspect of our love. But please don't withhold your tenderness from me. I know I'm being selfish, but I need to feel that kind of closeness between us. Otherwise I might think I'm only dreaming."

The smile was back in his eyes as he cupped her cheek in one large palm. "Please don't ever stop being selfish where your need for my tenderness is concerned," he rasped. "I need it every bit as much as you do." Pulling her close again, he pressed small kisses into her hair, and with a sigh of contentment she relaxed against his chest and closed her eyes.

"That man -- Paracelsus --," Catherine said after a long interval of pensive silence, "Why do you think he would lure you down there and drug you? What could he possibly have hoped to accomplish?"

"I have thought about that a lot myself, believe me," Vincent replied. "I have even tried to get around the block in my memory to find out. There are pictures, obscure images that would resist my attempts to draw them to the surface of my conscious self. Now I'm not certain if it was wise to break that resistance. Those images haunt my sleep and even my waking hours. Given the short span of time I was down there, they must derive solely from hallucinating, and for that I can only be grateful."

Catherine withdrew from the circle of his arms and scanned his features. "What kind of pictures are they, Vincent?"

"Things that leave me with the feeling that Paracelsus tried to show me what he were able to give me, should I...meet his expectations," Vincent said, resting his arms once more on his raised knees. "There were scenes of fighting and victories, of freedom and power, of..." Hiding his face more deeply behind the curtain of his mane, he continued reluctantly, "...of sexual encounters in numerous varieties."

"Oh, no," Catherine whispered emphatically. "How could he torture you so?"

With a groan Vincent rose to his feet, his stance indicating that he was ready to bolt from the room any moment.

"Not everything was torture, Catherine," he confessed at last. "Paracelsus knows more about me, about both halves of my character, than I care to admit. Once his drug had eliminated my mental censor, he was able to play with my deepest fears, my most secret dreams, and my emotions as he pleased. He doesn't know everything, though, and most of his baits simply repulsed me, but those that drew me..." He paused, too choked for words, but then he pivoted and the anguish in his eyes pierced her soul with its intensity. "Catherine, I experienced how it may feel to make love to you. Do you understand? He pushed me into a pool of blood and depravity and then took the most sacred thing in my life and tossed it in as well." Gasping under the weight of unshed tears, he dropped heavily to the floor and sat there silently, dejectedly, and utterly bewildered.

Catherine was too moved for words. What was she to do? Was Vincent finally remembering their lovemaking and confusing it with some hallucination, or had Paracelsus actually given him fantasies like that? Should she tell him everything in order to find out? What if she only managed to disturb him further? Her mind reeled with unanswered questions, and she could no longer bear the physical distance between them. Cautiously inching closer, hoping desperately that he would tolerate her touch, she laid her arm around his shoulders and leaned her head against his. Suddenly he shifted his position and pulled her close, hiding his face in the folds of her blouse. His abrupt movement almost startled her, but then she felt quiet sobs shake his body, and hot tears were seeping through the fabric of her clothes.

"Vincent," she spoke softly, "Paracelsus will never be able to taint what you and I have. He knows nothing about love and he has no power over it whatsoever. What he did to you was horrible beyond words, but eventually he will have to realize that it could neither buy you nor break you."

"Oh, Catherine," Vincent moaned quietly against her neck, "loving you was so beautiful."

"It will be again," she said, biting her tongue for letting slip the one small word that might have given away too much, but he didn't seem to notice.

His head came up and he looked at her with wide eyes. "How can you say that, knowing what I have done? What I am capable of?"

Catherine cast her gaze down to give him space to meet the impact of her next question. "Did you finally... remember...fathering Amy?"

His answer was a weary shake of his head. "Not clearly. I mean I cannot extricate that one single event from the blur of images the drug left in the back of my mind." He swallowed hard before he went on, "I wonder if I'll ever be able to rid my memory ot those haunting visions again."

Catherine's mind worked feverishly. If Vincent had really raped Amy's mother, he would probably remember it as a single scene, as he indirectly remembered his making love to her, because it was real. Her doubts that Vincent was indeed Amy's father increased by the minute. Whatever Paracelsus had intended by instilling that lie in Vincent, she would see to it that it wouldn't work out. She suspected that Paracelsus had used some form of hypnosis along with the drug. It was obvious to her that he wanted to manipulate Vincent into a certain direction and was not willing to leave anything to coincidence. That Vincent had remembered Paracelsus' voice above all else only confirmed her assumption.

"What are you thinking?" Vincent interrupted her thoughts.

"Nothing," she lied, running her fingers through his bangs affectionately. "But you know what? If Paracelsus still harbored any hopes that you could ever be what he wants you to be, he wouldn't have let you go."

"Probably not," Vincent conceded.

"And you know what else? I wish I would not have to let you go now, but it's late and dawn will be breaking soon."

He gave her a fond smile, one that not only tugged at the corners of his mouth but shone in his eyes as well. Rising to his feet, he held out his hand to help her up. "I'd better go, then," he said obediently, hugging her to him once again and whispering in her hair, "I'm sorry that I kept you so long. You have to go to work in the morning."

Dismissing his apology with a shake of her head, she leaned into him. "You be careful," she admonished, aware that she was sounding like a mother hen, but his soft chuckle was worth it. "And, Vincent, thank you for coming tonight."

He placed a tender kiss on her lips, his gaze lingering just a little longer before he released her from his embrace. As she watched him don his cloak and pull up the hood, she was fascinated by the elegance of his motions.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to come Below for a couple of nights," she sighed, reaching for his hand. He took it in a gentle clasp. "We're working on a particularly trying case, and I'll only be able to manage if I take lots of work home with me. I'm not even sure that I can make it Below next weekend. If everything goes well, though, the case should come to its conclusion on Monday."

"Then it will be best that I don't come to you either," he said.

She nodded sadly, and he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. When he finally relinquished it, his fingers brushed against hers in a delicate caress.

I love you, Vincent, she thought as she watched him leave. He paused briefly before beginning his ascent to the roof, and she knew that, in his heart, he had heard her.

*

Deep in thought, Vincent walked through the first dim light of morning. The park was a mysterious and quiet place at this time of day. The branches of the trees cast bizarre patterns against the graying sky, and the faint noises of the awakening city drove him onward to seek the safety of the tunnels. On reaching the culvert, Vincent stopped and turned again, surveying the area next to the entrance. It was an involuntary action, but nonetheless necessary and deeply ingrained. On the entire way through the park his sensitive ears had been focused on the sounds around him, even the smallest ones, although his thoughts had still been with Catherine, reflecting on their conversation and the whole gamut of touches and emotions they had shared.

Finally ducking into the drainage tunnel, Vincent still marveled at Catherine's acceptance of him, of even the obscurest aspects of his personality. What could someone as beautiful and bright as she see in a creature of the dark like himself?

Never before had the heavy steel door slid in place behind him with such a strange finality. Never before had the corridors that led to the inhabited tunnels seemed so long and narrow. Never before had the familiar gloom weighed more heavily on his shoulders. The torches along his way sputtered and struggled to wrap a veil of light around him, but he knew the darkness would always be stronger down here where human beings could only be tolerated guests.

He knew that Catherine was afraid of the darkness. She had told him so some time ago. Yet, her love drew her to come here, to be with the child -- and with him.

The memory of the bittersweet seductiveness of Catherine's kisses sent small sparks of fire through his veins, and he paused to listen to their echoes in his soul. Tears stung his eyes, but he held them in, knowing that he could encounter somebody anytime now. He had no wish to discuss his emotional state with anybody right now. Resuming his walk, he focused his mind on the day ahead, on the duties and chores that had to be fulfilled and, strangely, that calmed him at last. 

Suddenly he paused again, only now realizing that there were no messages on the pipes; none whatsoever. An "all-quiet" was always a sign for emergency, for utmost caution, and he broke into a quiet trot, needing to be home and see that everything, and everyone, was all right.

The study was buzzing with voices, Father's, Mary's, William's and some others', and Vincent could see their agitation in the way they moved and gesticulated. William was the first one to notice his presence, and in his usual gruff way, the burly cook bellowed, "Where the hell have you been, Vincent?"

"Now, now," Father soothed, and Mary cut in, "You knew that he was Above, William."

Alarmed by their behavior, Vincent demanded, "Will anybody tell me what happened, please?"

Mary walked over to where he stood at the base of the stairs. "Amy is missing," she explained, unable to meet his eyes.

Vincent staggered backward a step and grasped the railing for support. "How can this be?" he gasped.

"I was on duty in the nursery tonight. I only went to the bathroom for a few minutes. You know the little ones cannot leave their latticed cribs on their own, otherwise I wouldn't have left the room for a second. Anyway, those few minutes were the only time when someone could have come in to snatch her."

On the other hand, Vincent thought, if Amy were capable of climbing over the rim of her bed, she could have sneaked out anytime during the night. He remembered all too well that he had been able to disappear from the nursery several times when he was a small child, because Father had underestimated his physical skills.

"It is highly unlikely that anyone could pass by the sentries without being seen," was all he said, but silently he admitted that someone as small as Amy, with such a light gait, and probably barefooted at that, might very well stalk by one or the other post.

"She is possibly still within the home tunnels," Father said. "She knows how to send an emergency signal should she get lost. That's why we put an all-quiet on the pipes."

Vincent turned to Mary again. "When did you notice that she was missing?"

"On my return from the bathroom. That was about one and a half hours ago," Mary answered.

"She could not get too far in such a relatively short span of time," Vincent mused.

"Four different search-parties are combing the tunnels already," Father said, absently running one hand through his graying hair. "Up to now, there is no indication that Amy was kidnapped. Aside from the fact that no one could have slipped by the sentries...who would do such a thing?"

Vincent preferred not to utter his worst suspicion. Not before he had any palpable reason for such an assumption. There was no use in worrying these people further, now that they needed their strength to do everything within their power to find the child. Pensively, he let his eyes wander over the assembled members of his community, and when he finally encountered Father's worried gaze, he knew that his parent had long come to the same conclusion as he. If the worst were to be true, and Paracelsus indeed had the child...

Vincent swallowed hard with the enormity of that thought, but instantly clamped down on his rising panic. They had to do this one step at a time. It would not help matters along if he were to rush anything.

"Do you wish me to notify Catherine?" Father asked hesitantly.

After a brief moment of consideration, Vincent shook his head. "Not yet." Walking over to the large desk where Father had spread all the various maps of the tunnels, he demanded, "Tell me which areas the search-parties have been assigned to." While Father pointed it out to him, Vincent's mind worked feverishly to detect all sorts of possible blind spots that might escape somebody who didn't know the tunnels as intimately as he. Finally, with a short nod of his head, he set out on a search of his own.

DECISIONS