Surfacing

by BeeDrew

This story originally appeared in the now out-of-print fanzineHeart of the Minstrel II, in 1991. Beauty and theBeast and its characters are owned by Witt-Thomas Productions andRepublic Pictures. This story is presented merely for the enjoymentof fans and is a sequel to the story Sleep, My Love.

It took long, groping moments to grasp the tatters of realityaround her. Alone. Hospital. Alive.

Turning her head was a great effort, but she managed it. She layin a beige room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and held no otherliving thing except herself. A monitor beeped quietly, announcing herheartbeats for anyone who cared to listen. Beside her, aliquid-filled bag hung from a pole, trailing a long tube. Shefollowed its windings until she saw that it buried itself in the skinof her arm. It hurt, vaguely. The pale sunlight filtering through thecurtained window told her it was day, but no more than that.

For an instant, fear closed her throat. This room was like anothershe knew--like the heartless, unadorned cubicle where they'd kepther--waiting--waiting for the baby--Oh, God, my baby--

Her breathing quickened as she stared, unblinking, at the ceiling,reaching for the memories even as the pain of them tore through her.She had delivered her son, literally into the hands of her enemies,struggling to give him life and knowing that she was giving him onlydeath by birthing him into their care. Vincent had come, but toolate. There had been a needle, and the rooftop. . . .

Catherine Chandler closed her eyes, so newly opened, and let thequiet weeping take her.

His sense of her was fading.

Vincent paced the soft-lit gloom of his Father's study. Ten steps,pivot, ten steps again. Jacob mewed fretfully against his shoulder, atiny victim of colic. Neither father nor son would get much sleepuntil the little one's pains eased.

Vincent's thoughts trod as weary a path as his feet. He hadbelieved that with their son to hold and care for, his feeling ofcloseness to Catherine could only deepen. There had been momentssince her death when he was sure he'd heard her voice, felt hertouch--times when he'd whirled in a shadowy room and sent his eyeshunting for her, even though he cursed himself for a fool. Not thebond, surely--that was dead--but a sense of nearness, as though shewere just on the other side of an invisible veil, that sometime mustpart. He had wondered if he were going mad...but if so, what sweetdelirium, to feel his Catherine so near.

In recent days, though, this sense of her had slipped away. Shehad become a beloved memory, softly blurring with the passing oftime. Father had said this was the final step in his process ofgrief. But Vincent mourned anew.

With a start, he realized that the baby was asleep, had beenasleep for a good while, and he was still crossing and recrossing thestudy. Dousing the single candle, Vincent padded with his son to hisown chamber, there to lay Jacob carefully in the wooden cradle thathad been his own. He checked the baby's diaper, fussed with theblankets, and kissed the downy head gently before he turned away toseek his own bed.

With a deep sigh he slipped beneath the quilts and closed hiseyes, willing himself to rest while he could. But sleep refused tocome, its lure weak compared to the ache in his heart.

Catherine. My Catherine....

When she woke again, a nurse was with her, changing the sheets onwhich she lay. The woman hummed softly as she worked, gathering upCatherine's limp form as though she were a doll and moving her fromone side of the bed to the other. The sheets rustled crisply andsmelled of laundry soap. The nurse was plump and moon-faced, butthere was a kindness about her lips.

"Hello," said Catherine.

The nurse started violently and laid a hand against her amplebosom. "Goodness! So you're finally awake. You gave me quite afright."

Catherine smiled faintly. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize, Carol."

Catherine stared. "What did you call me?"

"Carol," the woman reminded her. The shrewd glint in her eyes toldCatherine she was not the first patient in this particular hospitalwho had shown surprise at her name.

The nurse lifted Catherine's unresisting arm and showed her theplastic ID bracelet, on which was boldly printed SMITH, CAROL.

Catherine began to laugh. She knew there was a crazed edge to thesound, but she didn't even care when the nurse hurried out, doubtlessto roust a doctor. There was such beauty in it; such comic, circulartragedy in the way her life had led from the bed in Vincent'schamber--where she'd landed because a couple of street thugs hadmistaken her for "Carol"--to this bed, only to be Carol onceagain.

She laughed until the tears pooled in the corners of her eyes andescaped, until she was gasping in weakness. It was good to laugh, tofeel the hurt of it in her ribs and hear the sound of her own voice.But she was still so scared.

Jonathan Pope sat at ease behind the wide gulf of a solid mahoganydesk, regarding the nervously shifting woman before him. His eyes,which seemed in the yellow lamplight to take and hold something ofthe bitter grey smoke that trailed from his pipe, were never atease.

"You have information?"

The woman nodded. "She came out of the coma today."

Her eyes flickered away from him, unable to settle anywhere forlong, and he knew she would not be useful much longer. She would run,as she had from the nursery that last night, when Gabriel had finallylost his tenuous hold on reality. And in any case, the nurse couldn'tbe left at the hospital now that the Chandler woman was awake. Shemight be recognized.

His plans were well-conceived and already in place. He would soonbe able to take over the job himself.

"Has she said anything?"

The woman shook her head emphatically, then hesitated. "Not thatI'm aware of. I'm not her primary-care nurse."

Pope dismissed her with a crisp gesture. "Return to your duties,then. Be sure that the woman doesn't see you."

She nodded, and turned to leave the room, just a shade tooquickly.

He gave attention to his pipe, refilling it from a soft pouch oftobacco. That done, he pressed a button on the intercom and spokeinto it.

He regretted having the nurse killed. She had been loyal--to apoint--to both himself and his predecessor. A man who wished to wieldunseen power did not kill too often, or indiscriminately.

He rose from the desk and went to stand by the window, looking outinto gathering darkness. The gleaming pane threw his own image,ghost-like, between him and the garden of this most comfortablehouse. Comfortable, to be sure. It had been one of Gabriel's.

Gabriel. What a great waste his death had been, even if ithad given Pope all he'd ever desired. A brilliant man, a geniusreally. Killed in the end by the very obsessions which had fueled hisrise to power. Pope looked down at the ring he wore, twisted itthoughtfully around his finger. He had no right to it, he wasn't oneof them. He wasn't sure why he'd gone to the trouble and expense ofrecovering the ring from the police impound. He had simply done it,without reason--and that was bad business.

He had of Gabriel much more than a ring. He had the man'sconnections, his contacts, his knowledge. And, to some extent, hisagenda--minus the maundering cant about power, and the dark heart ofman. He considered himself a businessman, nothing more. Just now, theChandler woman was a piece of it.

She alone--if she still knew the whereabouts of the damningbook--could snatch from him the prize he'd waited for all the longyears in Gabriel's service. He would not let that happen. He must notunderestimate her forces, as Gabriel had. He must not forget theexistence of the creature.

Pope had taken the videos of the animal with him when he'd gone.He'd watched the thing move, watched it kill. It was still out there.He must see that Ms. Chandler never reached that particular source ofhelp.

"I've told you all I can, Mr. Carmichael," Catherine said flatly.Finally upright in bed--a small victory that would, she knew, leaveher exhausted--she eyed the man who sat beside her, leaning back inhis chair like a guest, rather than the inquisitor he was.

It was Saturday; she had awakened on Wednesday. The doctors heldout guarded hope for her release from the hospital in ten days or so.She had been poked, prodded, examined and measured to the limits ofher feeble strength. More than once she had wanted to scream outagainst the battering of their questions: Enough! Where's Gabriel?What's happened to my baby? Where--is--Vincent!

But she did not. This was their game, played their way, and heronly weapon was silence.

"Miss Chandler." Carmichael heaved a weary sigh, entirely feigned,and leaned toward the bed, as though to establish a confessor'srapport with her.

A trick I used at the D.A.'s office, Catherine mused.

"You say you have no memory at all of your abduction, of the birthof a child, of who may have your child now? I find that hard tobelieve."

"Mr. Carmichael, what you believe or disbelieve is immaterial."She flicked the words out like a whip as she too leaned forward,mocking him. "I will repeat myself one more time: I don't rememberanything beyond an investigation I was pursuing that involved a pieceof evidence that came into our hands. I recall that I was pregnant atthe time. You say that I was abducted, held prisoner long enough todeliver my child, and then injected with a large dose of morphinethat ought to have killed me, but didn't. My survival is consideredunexplainable and miraculous."

She shrugged, and gave him a wry smile. Miracles had changed some,if they took the form of comfortable, hygienic imprisonment by one'sown government.

"All of that has been over for five months, while I've been lyinghere vegetating! I have a life to get back to and a child to find.Witness protection is all well and good, but since I can't remember adamned thing, I'm not much good as a witness, am I? And I'm sick andtired of your endless questions!"

Carmichael still stared at her with measured calm, apparentlyoblivious to her tirade. But the outburst had made her feel better.Catherine folded her arms and watched for his reaction, bracingwearily for another volley.

He didn't give it. He stood up, pulled lightly at the hem of hisimmaculate suit jacket, and went to the door.

"I'll be back tomorrow, Miss Chandler." The door eased shut behindhim.

"It's Ms. Chandler!" she flung furiously at the emptyroom.

She let her face drop into her hands and counted the even breathsshe drew, until the anger was gone.

He watched on the nurses' station video monitor as Carmichaelquestioned Chandler, smiled when she gave his partner the rough sideof her tongue. He studied her as she calmed her temper and leanedback on the pillows, eyes closed. She looked absurdly fragile, withher nearly transparent skin and child's thinness.

In three questioning sessions, she hadn't shown the slightestcrack in her claim of amnesia. The doctors said it was possible, evenprobable. But he didn't buy it for a minute.

Carmichael's footsteps echoed on the tile. "Not a thing. She won'tbudge."

"She'll be released, then?"

"Maybe." Carmichael brought him out from behind the counter with awave. "Come on. Let's get back to the office and check in."

He followed, almost submissively. Carmichael was, after all, thesenior partner, since he himself had just come off an extended leavefrom the Bureau. So far, Carmichael seemed to think he wasn't goodfor much except parking the car.

"She was right about her questionable value as a witness," he saidto Carmichael's back, as they exited the hospital. "With Gabriel deadand all the other trails cold, her case is closed unless she cares toshed some light on the disappearance of her child, or the extent ofGabriel's reach."

Carmichael grunted assent, sliding into the passenger side of thecar and reaching for the car phone. He spoke into it. "This isCarmichael. Nope, nothing.... She's stonewalling, and we're notgetting anywhere with the same old questions. She's more valuable tous loose and under surveillance than squirreled away in witnessprotection.... Right. I'll call later." He hung up.

His partner waited a beat, then said mildly, "You know, we mightdo well together if you spoke to me as much as you do tocontrol."

Carmichael held his silence, then let it out on a long sigh. "Iknow. It's just that I've been with this one a long time, and she'sall that's left of something big. Something that could've made ourcareers, if we'd cracked it. Mine and Higgins'."

"If he'd lived."

"Right. Yeah." Carmichael suddenly sniffed the air, and grimaced."Chrissakes, Pope. Do you have to smoke that thing in the car?"

"Sorry." He cracked his window, but did not put away his pipe.

The world was ebony, pinpointed with tiny, airless flecks ofcrystal, and bounded by a circle. If he looked long at a blank spot,it gave up its own points of light that stood still when he stared atthem, and danced when he looked away. Aeschylus' words drifted to himfrom some boyhood tedium, touched still with cadence of Father'svoice... the conclave of the stars, those potentates blazing inthe heavens that bring winter and summer to mortal men, theconstellations, when they wane, when they rise....

"You're quiet tonight," Diana said, beside him.

He didn't answer at once. He had his eye to the telescope; hadlost his thoughts among the stars and pitch. It took a moment to comeback.

"I'm stargazing. A silent and solitary pursuit." He smiled to showher he didn't mind having company, which was ridiculous since thiswas her rooftop. Yet he knew that if he'd asked it, she'd have goneinside and left him alone.

She smiled back. "Solitary, unless you're watching meteor showers.I always get the feeling that if I could only get a telescope for myears, I'd hear them whooping and shrieking up there, having a fineold time."

That made him chuckle. Then they stood in silence again, ratherawkwardly. He didn't know why he'd come. He suddenly realized that hehad rarely--had he ever?--come to her home simply to spend time withher. She came Below to the public Helper affairs, scarcely qualitytime. When they met Above it was always a mission, hers or his, andthe din of the emergency drowned out any hint of friendship. Yet shewas a friend, a good one, and he had few enough of those.

She gave a sudden, twitchy smile and turned away, a whirl ofshoulders and titian hair. "I'll make tea. You people drink quarts ofthe stuff. Bet you could stand one more cup today?"

"It sounds inviting, but could it be coffee?"

At her nearly astounded look, he smiled slightly. "Jacob hascolic. I've been awake far more than I've been asleep lately."

She went without a word, and returned presently with two large,mannish cups that steamed in the cool air. He sniffedinquiringly.

"Hazelnut," she supplied.

"Hazelnut." He sipped, and his eyes widened appreciatively overthe rim of his cup. "It's good!"

"I'll bring you a bag, next time I come down," she offeredquickly, then stopped, as though unsure of the propriety of such agift.

"That would be wonderful. I know Father would enjoy some."

Another loaded silence. Vincent suddenly felt he couldn't standthis play of manners another moment. He met her eyes, and shestilled.

"What is it?"

"I'm--I'm losing her," he said, feeling the words torn from him.He turned from her, bowing his head wretchedly. "You'll tell me, likeFather--`She died months ago. You'll remember her always, but you'vealready lost her.' It's just that I--" He made a tiny, frustratedsound. He couldn't find words for so ineffable a thing aslonging.

"You're not ready to let her go," she said. Her voice was quiet,almost flat, and when he looked up, her eyes were steady on his,blue-grey and uncompromising.

"Do I have a choice?" he demanded. His voice was rougher than heintended, and he found himself clenching his hand so tightly aroundhis mug that he set it aside quickly, fearing that he would crackit.

"Yes," she lashed back. And reached to touch him, a firm clasp onhis arm that so few dared, and which he needed so badly.

"You had no control over the fact that Catherine died. You losther, and it left a big hole--a big, bloody, gaping hole, that wantsto heal now. And you don't want it to, because it used to beher place. Letting it heal--letting yourself be wholeagain--that's the choice."

"But I don't--"

He broke off, and looked at her, frowning.

"When you're ready, it will happen," she said matter-of-factly."And until then, it's going to hurt like hell."

She picked up his mug and put it back into his hand. "Here, drinkyour coffee."

He did. They stood side by side, not touching, with the cityspread before them. Every once in awhile he would look at her, andfrown again.

Good counsel, my friend, he said to himself. But it doesnot feel right. Not...not yet.

She smelled a line and bait.

Her hands smoothed the unblemished surface of the manila folder inher lap as she lifted her eyes to Carmichael. "Why now, Mr.Carmichael?"

He shrugged. "That brief does not contain pretty reading. Yourdoctors thought it best not to upset you until you'd had a few daysto regain your strength."

She pursed her lips as she gave him a long, sideways look. Whata crock.

He caught the look and raised his eyebrows slightly as he stood upto take his leave.

"You'll realize once you've read the file that it's no longernecessary for you to remain in witness protection, whether you regainyour memory or not. As soon as the doctors okay it, we'll be sendingyou back to the real world. I hope your hospital stay will be short."He smiled without warmth.

"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael. I've imposed on the taxpayers'hospitality long enough."

This time his grin was unforced, if unpleasant. "Goodbye for now,Ms. Chandler."

The door folded shut behind him, and Catherine bent at once to thefile. Her eyes were haunted, hungry, as they sped over the pages.What of her son? And Vincent?

It took her two hours to read and re-read the file. When she hadfinished it for the second time, her shoulders were knotted and hereyes bleary. The windows had gone dark.

Catherine munched on a cold chicken leg from the dinner trayserved her a long while before. Despite the fact that the brief readlike a bad movie--full of carefully dangling trails meant to piqueher curiosity and send her scuttling right to the people the FBIwanted tapped--her thoughts whirled somewhere between elation andbitter sorrow.

Gabriel was dead, his power smashed--but so was Elliot, whose loveshe had never been able to return. And there was no trace of her son.She had to believe he was with Vincent. All she knew for certain wasthat she was going to find them, her lover and son, just as soon asher body and her will would carry her.

She pushed aside the tray, unable to face congealed mashedpotatoes and lime Jell-O, even for the sake of building her strength.She rang the buzzer to summon the night nurse and request a sleepingpill. When it was provided, she swallowed the water offered in asmall paper cup, but tucked the pill between her upper lip and gum.She would not take it until she had had some time to plan.

The nurse dimmed the overhead light and went out, with a slightsmile and a nod. For an instant her body was outlined against thehall light, before the door closed and blanked the image.

Catherine's eyes flared, and she felt her stomachclutch--something about the set of the nurse's back, hersmallness--she closed her eyes tightly and shrank beneath the covers,remembering another silent nurse, another door that had closed on hercountless times, countless, and always with the snick of a lock andthe grate of a key thrust in and twisted--

Catherine bit her lip until the pain drove out the memory, andthought about Carmichael. He was sure she knew something--and an FBIagent would never give up as easily as he seemed to be doing. TheBureau wanted to know what she knew about Gabriel, and the eventsthat had transpired while she lay here, senseless. She must eludethem. They stood between her and Vincent, between her and thebaby.

She lay awake a long while, thinking and planning, and all thetime, the need for them was an endless moan within her. When shefinally slept, uneasily, her anguish smothered in chemicals, shedreamed of Gabriel's skeletal face looming over her hospitalbed--here--no, there, in the delivery room, blood on his hands, hetore the baby out of her,cut her, tore it screaming out of her--no,no--Vincent!

She woke herself, trying to say his name.

Vincent jerked awake. His feet hit the floor and he had taken twosteps toward the cradle before his thoughts focused and he realizedthat Jacob was quiet. His brow furrowed as he stared into thedarkness.

The baby's primitive wants--hungry, wet, tired, need tocuddle--were a part of the furniture of Vincent's mind now, and hehad grown used to listening for the empathic cry that accompanied adissatisfied wail. Jacob slept peacefully, yet Vincent could havesworn that someone had called out to him, someone who needed himbadly.

He listened in the darkness a few moments more. Then, shivering,he climbed back beneath the covers. The call did not come again.

"Just a few more days, Ms. Smith. The effects of so long acoma--"

The small, bespectacled doctor gazed at her pleadingly, butCatherine was adamant. "I'm leaving this afternoon. I'm strong enoughnow, and there's no real reason for you to keep me here." She smiledat him, almost sympathetic. She imagined it must be very frustrating,to have one's prize experiment insist on escaping the laboratory."Surely you've learned all you're likely to in the tests you'vedone?"

He sighed. "I suppose we have. But we can't explain our results.You should not have survived that dose of morphine. Your bloodchemistry has normalized now, but our first tests showed some reallyamazing substances...you're sure you cannot explain any of this? Doesyour, er, the child's father, have any known irregularities, thatis--"

Catherine cut him short with a steely look. "My baby's father isnone of your business, Doctor." She shrugged, and put on hercourtroom poker face. "As I've said, I can't remember what was doneto me during my captivity. Perhaps some drugs they gave me...."

The doctor stared at her unhappily, then sighed as he bent toscribble on a clipboard. "I'll leave your release papers at thenurse's station, then. Goodbye, Carol. And good luck."

Catherine smiled. "Goodbye, Dr. Walsh. Thank you."

When he was gone she started to dress, slowly, taking her time.Even after days of rest and physical therapy, she was stilldangerously weak. Her body's infuriating slowness was at odds withthe jittery, acid excitement coursing through her.

Once she had dressed, there was little enough to pack, and sheknew she ought to lie down and rest.

Impossible, she decided with a sigh, and began to pace.

Her mind ticked over the last week and what was to come. Once theFBI had decided to release her from their protective, curiouscustody, she'd been left largely alone. Carmichael had appeared andtold her what day she was to be released; was there anyone she wantedhim to contact?

There was. She'd given him a name and number, and watched her planbegin to unroll. She smiled, remembering. . . .

It was fortunate, she thought, that Al Prasker didn't have heartproblems--or at least, he hadn't when she'd last seen him, at herfather's funeral.

"Are you all right? Can I get you some water?"

He sank into the chair behind him, groping blindly for the arms toanchor himself. "I--uh--yes, I mean no...C-Cathy?"

She crossed to him, crouched before his chair as she'd done sincea child. "Yes, Al. It is me," she said. "Truly. I know you thought Iwas dead. Everyone did. Does."

"I--uh--"

"Al, I'm in trouble."

"Yes," he managed feebly.

"I can't explain it all. These past months, when you thought I wasdead--I've been here, in witness protection. The man who--well, whomurdered me, is gone now. But I want to remain hidden for awhile,until I can figure out what to do. Have you probated my will?"

"Uh--yes, that is, we've begun--"

"Good. Continue with the proceedings."

He gaped at her. "But, but you're alive--"

"No one must know that yet," she insisted. "My will stipulatesthat Peter Alcott will receive the bulk of my estate, to be used ashe sees fit. Peter will channel the funds to me so that my existenceis kept a secret for the time being."

"Where will you go?"

The lie slipped easily out of her. "I don't know yet. I asked youhere today because I need some money until mine is available throughPeter--and because I couldn't let my father's dear friend go ongrieving."

Prasker finally managed to shake off the remainder of the shock.He rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Oh, Cathy. This is--"he broke off, as though he couldn't trust his voice.

"It's all right, Al. How often are you asked to meet with a deadwoman in a government hospital security ward?"

Prasker choked out a laugh, and enfolded her in a hug. As his armswent around her, Catherine slipped a tightly folded piece of paperinto his pocket, and prayed.

She felt like a newborn child, or an immigrant taking her firststep on the soil of an unknown country. The colors and scents were soharsh, so new, on the outside.

And she was terrified, Catherine realized, as Agents Carmichaeland Pope escorted her out of the hospital. One confused glance toleft and right told her nothing. It was a grey, muddy spring day. Thehospital sat amid rolling, unmarked parkland, and the weather wascool and mild. She might have been anywhere between the Mississippiand the East Coast.

She found herself hunching her shoulders and squinting against theassault of sunlight. Her pulse began a fast, hard beat that she couldfeel against the tight collar of her turtleneck. How long, sinceshe'd been in a space with no ceiling over it, no walls around it?More than a year.

Below. Below. I want to go Below, she found herselfbabbling inwardly, and had to stifle the wish. It wasn't to bethought of until she was well away from the FBI. She shut her mindagainst the openness, letting the agents nudge her along like ananimal stunned by a blunt blow. She was relieved--and ashamed ofit--when they reached the car.

Carmichael had the grace to say nothing as he handed her into theback seat of a large brown LTD and joined his partner in front. Safebehind tinted glass, she looked out on the distorted world andwondered if Vincent had felt like this, trapped by the boundless,unprotected spaces of the world Above.

She never asked where she'd been kept, nor did the agentsvolunteer any information, but it took the better part of theafternoon to travel by car and plane to New York. Catherine sufferedthe wait impatiently, knowing that every moment brought her closer tohome.

She had asked Carmichael to drop her off at her father's oldoffices. It was logical that she would go to her lawyer as the firststep in reclaiming her old life. Still, it was a calculated risk--allthe time she remained Above, she could be spotted by someone who hadknown her. And that must not happen--not until a time and place ofher own choosing.

She gave not a sign of her growing tension as they began the lastleg of the journey--the drive from the Newark Airport into Manhattan.The gritty, garish pace of the city dazed her; she wanted nothingmore than to run to the nearest entrance to Below. But she must becareful. She must never endanger Vincent or his world again. Excusingthat disjointed terror she'd felt while outside the car, things hadgone according to plan. There was no reason to assume that they wouldnot continue to do so.

It was when she shifted her gaze from the strange-familiarstreets, and looked again at the two men who were, like it or not,her enemies, that she saw it.

Gleaming dully, black and coiled around his stubby finger, hetapped it against the steering wheel, keeping time with the wispymusic that floated from the radio.

The ring.

Catherine felt her heart slam once against her ribs and her palmsgo cold. The ring. Part of her mind kicked into high gear,assembling and assessing the new information; part of it flounderedand gagged on its own fear. He had worn that ring. Like every otherdetail of the violence in the delivery room, she remembered how ithad glittered on his finger as he stroked her baby's cheek.

She looked down quickly, hiding the raw terror on her face. Herhands twisted into a painful knot in her lap. All right, allright, she whispered inwardly. The plan hasn't changed. Justget away.

The car drew to a smooth halt next to the curb, and Catherinelooked up at the familiar outline of her father's old offices. For acrazy moment she imagined that she had never run away from Tom atthat party, never been attacked nor saved nor loved, and that shestill worked here. Late afternoon, she thought wildly. I'dhave been here a whole five hours. Time to go home.

Carmichael opened the car door, and she stepped out, slipping on apair of sunglasses. She tightened the belt of her raincoat and turnedto face the agents, who were watching her with relaxedguardedness.

"Thank you for bringing me back, gentlemen. I'm sure, somehow,that we'll meet again." Her eyes slid to the man who wore the ring.Pope. She was certain she had not encountered him during hercaptivity.

Carmichael grinned slyly. "No doubt. I can understand your keepinga low profile for awhile, but I'll look forward to reading about yourmiraculous return from the dead in the papers."

She smiled. She would do nothing to gainsay their assumption thatshe intended to pick up the threads of Catherine Chandler's life."Thank you again. Goodbye."

They watched her until she had vanished into the building.Carmichael shook his head. "What would you do first, Pope? I thinkI'd call my mother, or throw one hell of a party. She wants to seeher lawyer." He gave a low whistle, shaking his head, and turned tohis partner. "Get to the other car by the parking garage. FollowPrasker if he leaves that way. I'll watch the front."

* * * *

Inside, her heart pounding, Catherine made a beeline for the rowof phones at one end of the lobby. Lifting the receiver in atrembling hand, she dialed Al's number. He picked up instantly. "I'mhere, Al. Let's begin."

Several minutes later, Al Prasker and a small woman in darkglasses and a raincoat left the building and hailed a taxi. Anondescript car edged away from the curb and merged into trafficafter them.

On the sidewalk, Carmichael checked signal from the tracer plantedin the lining of Chandler's coat. The transmitter was moving steadilyaway from him, but he kept his eyes on the front of the building,just in case. Then his walkie-talkie squawked for attention.

"Carmichael."

The voice was obscured by a crackle of static so that Carmichaelhad to bring the handset close to his ear. "Prasker and the targetwent to the Manhattan Central Trust Bank. The woman isn'tChandler."

"Damn!"

Carmichael sprinted to the car and radioed Pope. "The transmitterwent with Prasker, but Chandler didn't. Anything?"

"A Federal Express truck pulled up to the freight elevator a fewminutes ago, but the driver wasn't gone long. I believe Miss Chandlermay be inside. I'm following."

Carmichael swore again. "Stay with her. I'm right behind you."

How unfortunate, Pope thought, behind the wheel of his car,blocks away. He kept the truck in sight, but he already knew where itwas headed. Central Park.

Shivering, Catherine put on her bomber jacket and sank down amongthe packages and envelopes that littered the floor of the truck. Herfirst set of clothes had gone with Al and his secretary. The jeans,tennis shoes, and thick sweater she now wore were more practical forthe tunnels. True to her instructions, Al had left a flashlight and aroll of bills in the pocket of the jacket. She couldn't resist a grinat the thought of the agents' faces when they realized they'd losther.

She would vanish Below. Al, when questioned, could truthfully sayhe hadn't seen her since the hospital. Catherine Chandler woulddisappear for the third--and final--time.

She sank down to sit against the side of the truck among thepackages and envelopes that littered the floor. She pressed bothhands against her face, dimly aware of nausea rolling in her stomach.Soon, soon, her mind whispered. You'll be with himsoon.

"Central Park West," the driver called. He braked, then parkedclose to the curb and climbed out to open the door. Catherine smiledat him as she descended from the truck.

"Thanks."

The young man thumbed his cap and grinned. "Take care, lady.Strangest delivery I ever made, and you ain't even insured."

As the truck pulled away, Catherine glanced around to get herbearings. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and set off toward thedrainage tunnel, head down. Her heart pounded and her breath camequickly, both with the unaccustomed exertion and with painfulanticipation. Far off, she felt the gathering cloud of that odd,flying-to-pieces terror. She walked faster, telling herself she couldexpect nothing else, after more than a year of captivity of one kindor another. She focused on her surroundings, trying to shut out thedrum-like pulse of the fear.

Her way was eerily familiar, yet not. It had been summer when shelast came this way. She hunted for the familiar outline of herbuilding, no longer her home. Young parents passed her, pushing babycarriages or toting small, warmly-wrapped bundles in carriers, andeach one sent a dart of pain through her. Older children played hard,their shrieks high with excitement. She studied each face as shewalked--would she see Kipper, or Samantha, or Eric?

The drainage tunnel loomed ahead. Habit had her casting a glanceover her shoulder to see if she was observed before carefully pickingher way through the clutter of dead leaves and trash. There weretears, wet and cold, on her cheeks.

She ducked inside and took two eager steps, before her mindregistered what her sunstruck eyes were telling her. The entrance hadbeen destroyed. Chalky concrete crunched beneath her feet, and thesmooth panel that had been the secret door was gone, replaced with arude covering of plywood. Hesitantly she stepped toward an exposedpipe.

Her lips thinned as she reached mentally for her long-unusedpipecode. She would reach them. They had to be down there, they couldnot all be dead or scattered. A panicked prayer formed in her mind.Please, God. Please.

She had taken out her flashlight and struck it twice against thepipe when he spoke her name.

"Miss Chandler."

She froze. No! No, not when I'm so close.

"Come out of there, please."

It was Pope. Carmichael's voice was lighter, a brown tenor next tothis man's rough bass. She cursed softly. She had guessed they wouldwire her clothes; that's why she'd changed. They must have been ontothe Fed Ex truck, too. Why couldn't it have been Carmichael? Him, shemight have sidestepped with a lot of bluster about privatecitizenship and harassment. But not Pope. If he wore the ring, hewanted her for different reasons and didn't care how he got her.

"I am fast losing my patience. If you go into that tunnel, I'llcome after you, and not alone."

Catherine sighed silently and swallowed something bitter that rosein the back of her throat. She must not lead a man like Pope into thetunnels.

She stepped out, blinking, into the sunlight.

Pope smiled. In his dapper overcoat, wearing that smile, he lookedlike nothing so much as a plummy English butler. If you overlookedthe .38 in his hand.

"Visiting old, beloved spots, Ms. Chandler?"

She scowled at him and clenched her jaw to keep her lips fromtrembling. "What do you want with me?"

"Sentimental remembrances of your lover?" he continued, stillsmiling. And then, in a heartbeat, he was beside her, gripping herwrist like a flower stem in his meaty hand. He slipped the nose ofthe gun beneath her jacket and sweater and shoved it against herribs, just where the pressure made her jerk helplessly, like a fishon a hook.

"Or were you looking for something? A book, perhaps?"

That damned book, she thought, with a wild, exasperatedanger, even as her feet groped backwards, away from the cold press ofthe gun. Patrick Hanlon, you were a coward.

"Where is it, Miss Chandler?" he asked mildly, almostconversationally. She turned her face from the bore of his eyes andthe feel of his breath.

She opened her mouth. She almost told him. What was that book toher? It was miles away, years ago; it had been part of that otherCatherine, the princess in the fairy tale that always ended tidily,with a rescue by the enchanted prince. It had nothing to do withher.

Yet, she didn't speak. Couldn't. Some spark of the D.A. she hadbeen; some kindling of perversity she'd had since she was four, heldher tongue.

"I don't remember," she told him flatly, daring him to disbelieveher.

He took that dare. His gaze did not grow hot with anger, but cold.Cold and black. He was forcing her, step by stumbling step, away fromthe tunnel entrance. He knows, she realized. He knows whomight come out of that tunnel, and he's afraid.

"Miss Chandler. Be sensible. Haven't you and yours suffered enoughover that book? Isn't it worth trading for...say, knowledge of yourchild's whereabouts?"

She stiffened. She couldn't help the sickening lurch of hope thatrose to her face. He smiled--

And then, suddenly, there was a popping sound, and concrete chunksexploding from the wall behind them. Catherine ducked instinctivelyas Pope dragged her back, toward the tunnel. More popping, and Popegave a startled grunt. His grip on her arm loosened, and the coldmetal of the gun was gone.

Catherine turned and ran. It felt as though she fled throughliquid glass. She slithered on wet leaves, and fell once. She triedto keep her head down, expecting every moment to feel the thud andburn of a bullet in her back.

It did not come. She ran until she broke from the trees and intopeople, knowing all the while that she had nowhere to go.

"I ran down the Fed Ex truck. Driver didn't know anything. Who'dhave thought she'd be desperate enough to shoot you?"

Pope ground his teeth together until they squeaked. Carmichael hadfound him moments after Chandler's escape, staggering toward his car.He sat with his back against the right front tire as Carmichaelworked efficiently over the bullet wounds--entry and exit--in hisright arm. The limb was useless.

"No. Someone else--" Pope broke off, hissing. Carmichael tightenedthe makeshift pressure bandage, and sat back.

"Someone else?" he repeated, rather stupidly, Pope thought.

"Perhaps those Gabriel left behind are not anxious to have hershare her information with us," Pope said. He flexed the arm, andwished he hadn't.

Carmichael didn't seem to have his mind on the case. He cupped hishands under Pope's elbows and started to help him up. "Come on.That's just a patch job. You need a doctor--"

Pope shook off the man's help as he lurched to his feet.Ruthlessly, he banished the rush of weakness that accompaniedmovement. "Later. We've got to stay with her now, or lose her."

"There are people all over the city," Carmichael argued. "Shecan't dodge our net for long."

"No, and perhaps not theirs either!" Pope snapped. God, to be ridof this annoying little toady....

"Are you nuts, Pope? You're hit! We have plenty of men--"

"Have some of this plethora of men sweep the park in case thesniper is still about. You know the assignment regarding the woman.She's now wearing blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a short leatherjacket. Get the description out. Find her. Then the hospital."

Pope met his partner's hostile, appraising look with a cool stare,but Carmichael didn't argue further. He had apparently exercised hisnurturing instincts and was ready to let Pope dig his own grave. Witha "your funeral, pal" shrug, he reached for the car phone and beganhammering out the orders and description.

Pope winced at the pull on his arm when he opened the back doorand eased down onto the seat. It was torture, but he managed to pullthe belt off his coat and rig a sling. He tugged the coat moresecurely around his shoulders, hoping to ward off tremors ofshock.

In his gut there was the unaccustomed twinge of queasy nerves. Hechecked the .38, wondering exactly who had been the intended targetof the sniper. The Chandler woman might have more enemies than sheknew. Or, assuming that the marksman had aimed true, she could havecontacted someone and asked for help in reaching the creature. Popeknew, without a doubt, that it had no need of firearms.

And lastly, the most chilling possibility of all--was someonegunning for him, independent of the Chandler entanglement?

He looked at the ring once, turning his hand so that it caught thesunlight. He wore it on his left hand, like a wedding ring. It lookedforeign, alien against his skin, and there was the whisper again: Youhave no right. The gold was bloodstained from his instinctive grab atthe wound, right after he'd been hit. He tried to rub away the browncrust, but it had dried and he couldn't do much without water.

In that instant, his plans changed. He would end this quickly.When he found her, he would kill her. The book had not surfaced infive months, and if she were not alive to retrieve it, there was ahigh probability that it never would. He would take those odds. Thenhe would go to ground, and find out who had shot him.

He looked at the ring, and if he shivered, he told himself it wasthe shock.

She had to stop. Her muscles were still sluggish and apt totremble after her long sleep, and ten blocks had left her wheezing.She couldn't breathe, and she hurt, and they could just kill her nowif they wanted, but she had to stop.

Panting, she bent down with her hands on her knees. Her eyesdarted all around, looking for pursuers, and for a bolthole. And itcame for her again, that horrible, inexplicable terror. . . . If shelooked up, at the rearing height of the buildings, she would be sick.Shaking now...her thoughts going blank, her self goingblank...a jostle of tourists flowing by, with outsized, pasty facesand eyes like clutching fingers.

Catherine gave a small, gulping whimper. She bit the inside of hercheek until she tasted the mineral tang of blood. Pain helped herfocus. Fiftieth Street. Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Center.Traffic crawling by, slow and loud. A street vendor ahead; nauseatingscent of sizzling pork. Beyond him, a way down. A subwaystation--

She was already running, digging into the pocket of her coat.Hadn't there been a token in the handful of change Al had left, she'dseen it, there had to be one--

Yes. She held it, round and hard in her clammy palm, as she shovedher way down the stairs. The man-made tunnel, solid yet shiveringwith the roars of the trains, closed over her head. Walls. Ceiling.Something to put her back to. She pushed through the crowd and ontothe first car she saw, just as the doors banged shut.

Ignoring the hostile stares of the other passengers--some of whomshe'd rudely shoved to get onto the car--she groped her way to a seatand sank down. With a hand to her mouth, she forced herself tobreathe through her nose. In, and out, until her heartbeat slowed,and the red fever of panic receded.

After a while she raised her head. Her knees still felt likejelly, and the trembling was a tiny motor running inside her, but shecould think again, could string one thought after the other withoutlosing them into the terror. What was happening to her?

She scanned the car once--its occupants seemed harmless enough, assubways went--and then closed her eyes with a sigh. She'd lost it;completely lost the edge that had made her one of Joe Maxwell'sprotegés. And now was not the time to fall apart. She knewthat given half the opportunity, she'd run screaming to the firstHelper she could find: Help me, help me, they know where my babyis, they're shooting, help--

No. Blood had already been shed; it mattered little that the losshad been to the other side. She was not going to lead bullets towardthe Helpers, or those Below, or any of her friends Above. She had todo this herself. Improvise, Chandler, she ranted. Thinkdefensively. Think like Isaac, or Vincent.

Pope had said he knew where her child was, but it could easilyhave been a lie, told to get her to divulge the whereabouts of thebook. Cutting a deal with Pope was not an option--she of all peopleknew how untrustworthy were the promises of men like him. It was farbetter to try to reach Vincent. If her baby was not Below, then theycould find him together. The question, she told herself, iswhether you have the grit for this. Daddy's not here. Vincent's nothere. There's trouble, and it's all up to you. Do you have the gritfor it?

I don't think so, came the small mental voice, meekly.

Yet she was equally sure she had no real choice. She opened hereyes, and for the first time felt a calm sense of purpose edging outthe clamor of fear and desperation. It was something like what she'dfelt when Joe would hand her a folder and toss out a casual,"Impossible. But see what you can do."

See what you can do. She glanced around, assessing thecar's other passengers again. They had changed since she'd firsttaken inventory. One girl--petite but coarse-looking, with tangled,carroty hair and square silver earrings--caught her eye. Or rather,her clothes did.

The girl looked up as Catherine approached. "Yeah?" shedemanded.

Catherine touched the collar of her leather coat. "Would you tradeyour jacket for this?"

For a moment the girl stared at her, unblinking. Then she smiled,revealing a chipped tooth. "Who you kiddin', lady? You wanna trade anol' jean jacket for coat worth three bills?"

"Yes."

A silence, and Catherine could see the girl trying to figure outher angle. Not knowing what else to say, she stayed silent.

"Awright," the girl said, eyeing Catherine suspiciously. As sheslipped out of the jacket, Catherine saw telltale needle marks on thepitifully thin arms. The leather coat would probably belong to apusher before nightfall.

"I get the buttons," the girl said, and began unpinning the firstof a dozen, which sported slogans that ranged from Pink Floyd toGreenpeace to "Screw Authority."

At length the exchange was made, and the girl ran a hand down thebutter-soft leather of her new acquisition.

"This is real nice." She threw Catherine a look that questionedher sanity. Then she left the car, as though afraid the strange broadmight change her mind.

Catherine smiled a little as she sat down again. Her "new" jacketwouldn't do much to cut the cold once night came, and it smelledfaintly of marijuana. But Pope hadn't seen it. It was something, shereminded herself. A first step. Even now, in this subway, she was soclose to the world Below; painfully close, yet still firmly on herside of the line. How could she cross? Where, with the drainagetunnel entrance compromised? Two pieces of gold to Charon, andwelcome to the underworld.... It was maddening.

She'd gone Below hundreds of times--but always through occupiedbuildings. Her own apartment basement, Helpers' dwellings, even thebrownstone where Carol Stabler had died. A couple of times, in apinch, Vincent had brought her down via drainage grate or manhole,but these were too public, and she very much doubted whether shecould lift either one in her weakened state.

The train rattled on, eager upon its tracks, and Catherinewondered, absurdly, whether Vincent might be clinging to its top,head bent against the racing wind, bound for...where?

She twisted in her seat to peer from the grime-streaked windows.Walls blurred past, then slowed as the train drew near a station.Houston Street.

She shut her eyes and let a mental map of the city unroll, placedherself on it, and then looked down the streets and up the avenues.She was entering the Lower East Side, around Canal Street and theBowery. There were restaurants where she'd lunched and kibitzed withfriends, stores she and Jenny had gleefully pillaged for bargains,and flophouses where she'd sought out witnesses and informants. Thecity's soft underbelly; you didn't go there without thinking twice. .. .

And then it came to her, unfolding slowly in her mind, thesolution that had been there all along.

The Beaumont. Decrepit, boozy, dreaming sourly of theglitter-golden days when it had been a waystation for theater-goers,it slouched behind its weathered boards, just this side ofdemolition. Once Vincent had run there, pursued, and had managed bythe skin of his teeth to get Below. That time, she had arrived a bittoo late to do more offer her shoulder as he staggered home, Fatherstumping before them in righteous disapproval. That time, the heroinehad missed her cue.

She only hoped she could do better today.

Her train terminated at Grand Street. Coming up out of the subwayinfused with new energy, she shut out the whisper of panic bythinking of nothing at all except the motion of her Reeboks as theyate up the pavement. Her destination was only a few blocks away: St.John's Shelter for the Homeless.

Catherine ran a hand through her tangled hair and looked down ather shirt, smudged with dirt when she'd fallen in the park. Dressedin the teenager's scruffy jacket, she looked the part. Still, shehesitated before she grasped the door handle and stepped inside.

As she paused to let her eyes adjust to the wan afternoon light, awoman approached, wearing black gabardine and a tired smile. "Do youneed a place, dear?"

Catherine started to answer, then faltered as she felt, amazingly,tears press at the back of her throat. Finally she managed, "Yes.I...I need a place. Just for a few hours."

"Of course. Something to eat, first? They're setting up for dinnernow."

"No, thank you. Just somewhere to sleep."

The woman led her down a short hallway that opened onto a largebarn of a room, filled wall-to-wall with cots. Most of them, at thistime of day, were empty.

"Take any bed you like. Have you any valuables you'd like me tohold for you, while you sleep?"

Catherine smiled into the kind brown eyes, and declined. Al's cashsupply of $400 was still intact, but revealing that she had it wouldarouse the woman's suspicions.

"I'll let you rest then." The woman vanished back to her duties inthe foyer.

Catherine glanced around, noting the huddled mounds of blanketthat indicated other "homeless" sleepers, and chose a bed near thefar wall. She slipped her cash into the waistband of her jeans andlay down with a grateful, silent sigh.

Once off her feet, she realized that she had pushed her newlyhealed body too far. She had meant to go over the plan in her head,shaking it down for flaws and weak spots, but her very bones hurtwith weariness. Under cover of darkness she would try to reach theBeaumont, and pray that Pope hadn't trailed her....

Sleep came down like a mallet, and she knew no more.

Vincent knelt in the blue shadows near the carousel and knew witha touch that he was too late.

The girl had been dead for some time, her face obscenely whiteagainst her ruddy hair. She was cold and stiffening fast. He turnedher over, as gently as though she were alive to feel it, and saw thatthe slats of the bench had dented her cheek. Around her lay thelitter of her death--a bottle, a dusty white vial. A syringe.

His chest lifted and fell once, an aborted sob that did not comeagain. Too many; there were too many of these castoffs for him tofind, and cry for.

He stood, looking down at her. Sixteen, perhaps? Or younger. Theyears he read in her face might not have been written by time. Hebent to slip an arm beneath her shoulders and knees. There wereplaces he could take her where she would be found and cared for. Hedidn't want to think what might happen to her body, left hereovernight--looted for clothes, certainly, and possibly worse. As helifted her, the leather coat she wore fell open.

He reeled, and nearly dropped his burden as he inhaled the mingledscents that wafted from the coat. Sweat, under cheap perfume.Hairspray. Cigarette smoke. And beneath it all, Catherine.

His legs would not hold him, and he sank down on the bench. He wasgoing mad. He sat in the early night with a dead girl in his arms andthe scent of Catherine in his nostrils. Most assuredly, he was goingmad.

"Catherine," he whispered.

She woke suddenly, in a freezing sweep of alarm, as someonetouched her. She struck without thought, and felt her forearm slamagainst something soft. There was a grunt, and the unmistakable whineof rusty bedsprings. Then she was fully awake, blinking grit out ofher eyes and staring at the old woman on the next bed.

I hit an old woman, Catherine realized, feeling the colorrush to her cheeks. I hit a little old woman.

"Don't tell," her visitor whispered, returning Catherine's stare."Please don't tell." She looked defeated; she looked a hundred yearsold as she sat, bow-legged, with her white, cottony hair poking outfrom beneath a blue ski hat. Her eyes were half-ashamed andhalf-hostile. "They'll put me out if you tell."

Catherine sat up, still fogged with sleep, and told herself thatsince the old lady had been trying to pick her pocket, she didn'thave to feel too bad about hitting her. She groped for her money.Still there.

"I won't tell," she said. "Here." She handed the woman afifty-dollar bill. Many more of the beds around her were filled, andthe light from the high-up windows had gone. "Do you know what timeit is?"

The old woman stared in disbelief at the money in her hand."Dinner 'bout an hour ago," she murmured. "'Bout six or seven now, Iguess...."

Catherine stood up, folded her blanket, and left the would-bethief still marvelling over her good fortune.

She slipped outside without a goodbye, hoping the woman who hadwelcomed her wouldn't remember a brown-haired, green-eyed stray who'dcome to sleep for a few hours. She already regretted her impulsivekindness to the old bag lady; that one would surely remember. Butwith any luck, she would be long gone before anyone began askingquestions. She glanced around sharply, feeling all the old,streetwise habits springing to life.

It was full night now, and the crowds had thinned. No one seemedto take much notice of her as she walked west on Broome and thenturned south toward Canal Street. She moved quickly, skimming closeto the buildings. Eyes touched her back; did any of them hold,follow? There were blocks yet to walk, and this was the downside ofwaiting until dark to attempt the Beaumont entrance.

She realized only when a wave of dizziness rolled over her thatshe was famished. Ducking into a small deli, she was grateful toescape for a moment the skin-crawling feel of being watched. A lankyblack teenager glanced up indifferently from his fruit baskets.

Catherine chose an apple and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. As sheapproached the counter and dug for money, she heard a jingle at thedoor. Her head came up.

The man who entered was dark-complected, dressed entirely in blackleather. He gave her only the neutral glance of one stranger toanother before he moved off to the cold-drink case.

She watched him covertly as she accepted change from the clerk.The man's back was to her; he seemed harmless...until his reflectedeyes met hers on the clear glass of the display case. He was watchingher. Catherine bolted.

"Hey, lady--yo' food!" the boy called.

But she was already out the door, zig-zagging through the darkenedcity blocks in frantic, thoughtless flight. One of Pope's men; had tobe, and she was not going to be caught when she was this close. Herbreath sawed in and out of her lungs and the muscles of her torsobegan to cramp, but she did not stop, nor did she look behind her,until it loomed before her. The Beaumont.

She pressed herself into the shadows cast by the stooped hulk,eyes restlessly scanning the way she'd come. Nothing. She yelped whena hand closed around her ankle.

"Careful there, honey. You almost stepped on me."

He grinned up at her from behind a hoary beard, one of a hundredstreet people who sheltered in and around the Beaumont. Saluting withthe bottle in his other hand, he gave her ankle a friendlysqueeze.

Catherine jerked out of his grip. He threw back his head andlaughed. "You ain't said a thing, but that's what all the girls say.No luck with the women, and that's a fact."

He took a long pull at the bottle, one eye on Catherine as shesquatted next to him.

"Your luck's about to change." She held up a twenty. "Quickest wayinto the basement?"

The old man gestured with the bottle. "South side. Broken windowwhere they vented the laundry." He made a grab for the bill.

Catherine held it out of reach, and as he watched, added anothertwenty. "I was never here."

He chuckled as she let him snatch the money. "Honey, with whatthis'll buy me, I wouldn't remember if Santy himself was here."

Catherine watched as he heaved himself to his feet. Tipping her awink, he loped off. She waited until he rounded the corner before sheturned and hurried around the building. A quick search proved thather money had not been ill-spent. There was a square black openingjust below street level.

Yes, very square and very black. Catherine eyed it uneasily, thenthrew a glance over her shoulder. Her jaw tightened. I hatethis.

She sat down, stuck her legs through the opening and felt for asolid surface with her feet. Cringing inwardly, she expected at anymoment to encounter something soft and twitching beneath her foot, orto be grabbed and jerked into the dark.

Carmichael stuck his head around the thin curtain of the EmergencyRoom cubicle. "Pope?"

Pope looked up. He sat bare-chested on the examining table as adoctor tended his bullet wounds with considerably more expertise thanCarmichael's. Yet the pain was just as intense.

"They've found her?" Pope clipped the words out through tightlips.

"Yeah. Surveillance marked her on Broome Street, coming out of ahomeless shelter. Matron says she didn't make any phone calls, justslept a few hours. She went to a deli, but hightailed out of therelike the devil, didn't even take her food. Don't know what spookedher. She's not wearing the leather coat anymore, by the way."

"Was she followed?"

"Our man lost her after she ran, but we've got her pinned within afew blocks. So far as we know, she hasn't contacted anyone exceptPrasker since we sprung her."

"Good. It would be a good idea to call in everyone available tofill out the search pattern. We won't lose her again."

Carmichael nodded. "I'm on it. You about finished here?"

"Almost. We'll leave in a few minutes."

As Carmichael vanished the way he'd come, Pope wondered if the manhad noticed that he was no longer running the show, "senior partner"status notwithstanding.

He got off the table when the doctor indicated that he wasfinished. He permitted the shot given to ward off infection, butdeclined painkillers. Numbness was a luxury he couldn't afford untilthis matter was concluded.

After spouting a few instructions they both knew Pope wouldn'tfollow, the doctor left him in privacy to dress. Pope donned hisstained shirt with a touch of disgust and refastened his shoulderholster.

Soon, Catherine Chandler, he promised silently, as he wentto find Carmichael. I'll catch up to you soon. Believe it.

She was in. She made herself move a few steps forward in utterdarkness before she turned on her flashlight, and cast its cone oflight around her.

Basements generally gave her the willies, despite the fact thatthey led the way Below. Uneasy thresholds between the manmade and theearthen, they had their own rust smell and their own silence, brokenonly by slithers and rustles that might--or might not--be alive.Basements spooked her.

Come on Chandler, she bossed herself. As Jenny wouldsay, don't be a weenie.

Despite this sage advice, she recoiled as she stepped on somethingthat went mush underfoot. She jerked her light to it. Only a soggycardboard box. The floor was strewn with the detritus of neglect--oldpaper, leaves, rodent droppings--and her light picked out peelingpaint over cinderblock walls. This was not the way she and Isaac hadentered when they'd made their abortive rescue, but she rememberedgoing a long way down before finding Vincent. So she'd go down, anyway she could, and hope for the best.

Ahead and to her left, she saw a black opening that lookedpromising. Gingerly, she made her way across the room until she stoodat the top of a stairway, which notched neatly down into nothing.

He was here once, she told herself bracingly. Maybe onthese very stairs, going home. She took a first step, thenanother, wanting desperately to grab at the railing but resisting,afraid of what her hand might encounter. Keep going, keep going.Don't stop.

So far, her light showed no doors, only more stairs, with alanding at the base. She reached it and shone her light down thehallway that led to her right. This level looked more--well, morebasement-ish, with low pipes that were furry with spiderwebs andcrumbling insulation. Probably the boiler room. A four-step,suspended stair tilted alarmingly when she put her weight on it andshe had to jump the rest of the way down, landing awkwardly. She gavethe stairs a peevish kick before she walked on. There might be anynumber of rooms and passages down here, and only one way Below. Coldfingers of doubt touched her resolve. Why I ever thought thiswould work....

But she had no real option but to continue. She found anothermusty room beyond the first, and a long, forbidding tunnel afterthat. She was no longer headed down. Before, she and Isaac hadfollowed the sound of gunshots, and she'd hardly noticed the tunnelsand rooms and stairs, so intent had she been on finding Vincent.

She stopped, and was trying vainly to bring back images of herprevious flight through the Beaumont when she heard the unmistakablesound of someone falling on the metal stairs, just as she had. A malevoice cursed in the darkness.

No--Oh God no-- Her mind flashed into panic, but her body,fortunately, had more sense. She had thumbed off the flashlight andpressed herself flat against a wall before she had quite registeredthe fact that it hadn't been Pope's voice. She was quite certain ofthat.

Pope stared up at the brooding old derelict and knew she wasinside. It was just the kind of place where one might find thecreature, and an entrance to the tunnels below the city.

Carmichael buzzed beside him like a mosquito. "The men have ruledout the other two blocks. Shops and restaurants, all searched orlocked up tight. Still going through a few flophouses--"

"There." Pope pointed. "That building. Has anyone searchedthere?"

"Not yet. But it's condemned, no phone or power, shewouldn't--"

"I will," Pope said firmly. "I'll search it. We should makesure."

"You'll need backup--"

"No. There aren't enough of us to pair up, and as you said, she'sprobably not in there. You keep tabs on the search from here. Keepeveryone on track."

It went against every rule in the book, and they both knew it. SoPope simply strode away, and listened to hear if Carmichael wouldfollow.

Carmichael swore. "Pope, have you at least got your remote? I wantcheck-ins every fifteen minutes."

"Every fifteen minutes," Pope promised over his shoulder,lying.

She couldn't hear him. There had been nothing since her pursuerhad fallen down the stairs. Chills lingered at the base of her spine,along the backs of her hands. She knew he was there, in the darkness.Waiting. Breathing.

The scream was half-born before she cut it off, setting her teeth.Sweat broke from her. She couldn't just huddle here, like a rabbitpinned in a floodlight, until she felt the grab of his hands.Half-sick at the effort it took to force one step, then another, shewished she could take off her shoes and erase their soft scuffingsound. But the parting velcro would echo as loud as a riflereport.

Five steps. Six.

Steady, Cathy. She closed her useless eyes to better envision thelay of the tunnel as she had last seen it, before she'd doused thelight. The passage was wide and relatively empty. There might beanother stairway at the end, and it would not do to go tumbling offit.

She moved to her left and trailed a hand along the wall. Sheestimated that she had come perhaps a third of the way down thepassage before she heard the scrape of footsteps on the floor aboveher, followed by the muffled boom of his voice.

"Ms. Chandler! You're here. I know it. It's no use running anymore. There are men all over the street."

Pope. Had she been mistaken? Had he been the one who'd fallen onthe stairs, or were there two of them?

Catherine's fists clenched and she felt the first lick of anger.Either way, she was done with running. And fear was done withher.

Sprinting back down the tunnel, she picked her way through thepitch-black rooms by memory until she came to the one she'd calledthe boiler room. Risking the light for a few seconds, she cast itaround in search of a weapon.

There, against the wall. A short, thin length of pipe. She grabbedit out of its nest of cobwebs, and wedged herself into the triangleof space beneath the rusted steps. She clicked off the light, andwaited.

For what seemed a long while, he moved around the level above,crossing and recrossing as he searched out every corner and hidingplace. She'd heard nothing of the "first" man. Perhaps it had beenPope after all. But why would he have gone back up, once he'd comedown? With a start, she recalled the shooting in the park. If Popehad been the intended target, and not she....

He was on the stairs now, his steps slow but implacable. The utterblackness shaded to grey as his light reached before him. Then hissteps sounded just above her head. She tensed and held herbreath.

His spill from the unsteady stairs was worse than hers because ofhis greater weight. He landed on all fours, with a cry of pain thatcut off as Catherine struck.

She swung with all her strength, unable to see what body partwould suffer her blow. She hoped it would be a vulnerable one. Thepipe connected with a pulpy thud, and she heard the air whoosh out ofhim.

His flashlight had rolled a few feet away. It threw off a filmylight in which they were both just shadows. She reared back foranother strike.

Even as she brought her weapon down, she saw the upward jerk ofhis arm and the shape of the gun in his hand. He got off one shotthat would have hit her dead in the chest, had she not twisted asideas the pipe struck.

He screamed, a high, whining sound--she had hit the woundedarm--but with his left hand, he was already leveling the gunagain.

Catherine backed off, fast. Pope struggled to his feet, his breatha whistle of fury. "You can't run far--I'll come after you--"

She darted quickly into the room beyond, hoping for time to hide,and strike again from darkness. But she couldn't see--had there beencrates stacked to her right?

As she stood poised on the edge of memory, arms closed around her,dragging her back against a hard body. He lifted her right off thefloor, and trapped her legs between his. She struggled, squealingbehind the hand clamped over her mouth.

"Quietly, Miss Chandler. Quietly," he breathed. "Wait forhim."

The hand now covered her nose as well, and Catherine understoodthat she would be smothered unless she cooperated. The pipe was stillclutched in her hand, but his expert hold made it useless. Shestilled, and the hand eased away until she could breathe again. Shesmelled leather and her own sweat.

Pope's light bobbed closer. She could see his face in it; thecraggy shape of his brows and the fury in the eyes below them. Assoon as she felt the gathering shift of her captor's muscles, sheknew what he was going to do.

Pope was barely six feet away when the unknown threw her. Shelanded heavily, but took the impact on her shoulder and rolled, justas Isaac had taught her. She came up in a crouch, ready to springaway, but Pope's gun was level, his finger tightening on thetrigger--

And then, the phut of a silenced bullet passing narrowly over herright shoulder. She knew she would never forget the surprised, stupidlook on Pope's face as the redness bloomed at his throat. Hestaggered, fired once at the ceiling, and fell heavily to his knees.The gun clattered from his lifeless hand, and he pitched down ontohis face.

Catherine whirled, still holding the pipe, eyes vainly trying topierce the darkness. She knew herself to be as helpless against theother man's bullets as against Pope's. How does it feel,Cathy, how does it feel, because that's the end of a gun andthe end of everything and he's not coming to save you--

A light flared whitely, inches from her face, blinding her. Sheswung the pipe, but felt it caught and jerked out of her hands. Aniron hand came down on her shoulder and shoved her roughly to thefloor.

"You won't need this, Miss Chandler. I see no need to kill you. Itwould be best, however, if you stayed just where you are."

He moved beyond her, toward Pope's body. Bending, he played hislight up and down the prone figure. Through the brown blotches thatstill obscured her sight, she made out dark curls, a cleanprofile--

She stiffened, remembering the strong scent of leather as he'dheld her. The man from the deli; the one she'd been sure waswatching.

He reached out and lifted Pope's left hand, worrying at it for amoment before he let it drop, so much meat. He straightened up. Thering glittered between his thumb and index finger, and she tasteddread.

He looked toward her, and in the uncertain light his face lookedcolorless, almost blank.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why did you kill him?"

He smiled. "I didn't do it to help you, if that's what you'rethinking. Though it would have saved us both a great deal of troubleif I could have finished him in the park. Unfortunately, I wasdistracted."

He looked down at the ring, his eyes almost meditative. "I waswilling to sacrifice you, if need be, to get to Pope. We don'ttolerate interlopers."

The ring disappeared into a pocket, and he looked at heragain.

"What about the book?" she challenged. Her voice shook. It had toend; if this man, later, were to hunt her again, all for thatbook--

He shook his head. "We are not so foolish as to continue usingcontacts and structures as hopelessly compromised as those recordedin that regrettable volume. It is only carrion-eaters such as this--"he kicked Pope's body, viciously--"trying to make use of another'sleavings, who need to fear the book."

Catherine stared at him. He couldn't mean to leave her alive;she'd seen him do murder. He walked toward her, squatted down a fewfeet away. Still she could not move.

"We're done with you, Miss Chandler." He reached out, and sheflinched from his touch on her face, a touch which said, We canfind you--we can touch you--whenever we wish it. "Be sure thatyou are done with us."

He left her. She heard him walk away and up, his footsteps assteady as a sleeping man's heartbeat.

For a long while she sat, shaking mutely, until she could forceherself to move. She found her flashlight and stumbled back to thelong tunnel. At the end, as she'd thought, there was anotherstairway.

Down. She didn't know how long it took her to get down the stairsand into the sub-basement that was blessedly familiar. Here was thedoor she remembered. It had stood open, and from it had flowed thatamber light that meant safety.

Sobbing, she grasped the handle in both hands and pulled, knowingthat it was futile. All her strength could barely shift it. She couldnot get in.

No longer able to stand, she sank down on the floor and leanedagainst the door, weary tears streaking her face. Stone and metalleeched away her meager warmth, and hunger had long since faded to aweak emptiness.

So close, so close. Come on, Cathy, don't give up now. Notnow.

Sluggishly on hands and knees, she made her way around the room,slapping her hands against the walls until she found a pipe thatdisappeared into the floor. With the butt of her flashlight she beganto tap a message.

Vincent stiffened in his chair, his head going up in a gesturethat was sickeningly familiar. Yet this time the alarm was notsilent, known only to him. He saw by Father's eyes that the other manhad heard it too. Relief touched him an instant before anger; notmadness, then. The sound was real.

Someone was tapping Catherine's signal on the pipes. Catherine.Beaumont Hotel. Catherine. Beaumont Hotel. Catherine--

With a low growl Vincent dropped the chess piece he held andripped at the straps of the infant carrier that bound Jacob to hischest. The baby sent up a shriek, an echo of his father's mentalagony.

"Vincent--" Father's voice cut off as Vincent deposited theoutraged baby in his arms.

"Who dares?" Vincent cried, his voice shaking. "Who mocks mygrief?"

A white-faced Zach appeared in the entryway. "Vincent, you heard?Pascal had to relay the message, he sent me to tell you--"

Vincent nearly bowled the boy over as he cleared the room in twostrides. His feet pounded the stone floor as his heart pumpedrage-driven strength into his limbs. The anger was almost sweet;finally, his pain had somewhere to go. By God, whoever tortured him,whoever desecrated Catherine's memory in such a fashion would giveaccount of himself, would pay dearly for this.

It was a long run, but his fury only built with every stride. Thewhite faces of tunnelfolk, gaping, loomed up and then fell behindhim, like the Doppler moan of a train whistle. Farther from the homechambers, there were no faces, no impediments. And at last the doorwas ahead of him, rushing at him. He decided a split second beforeimpact to abandon caution; whoever tapped the message obviously knewof the Tunnels.

Roaring, he flung himself and all his speed at the door. It gavewith a high metallic shriek. His hands curved into striking claws; asnarl twisted his features--

And he saw her.

Vincent fell back, his sight actually reeling. He fumbled for thesolidity of a wall and leaned into it, seeking to ground himself insomething secure, something that was not madness. For madness it was,madness it had to be--

"Vincent?" She managed his name with an ugly sob as she struggledto her feet. Her eyes burned into his, as strong and pure as everthey were.

"Vincent, please. . . ." Her arms made a half-aborted gesture ofembrace, then fell helplessly to her sides.

Catherine. He couldn't breathe. His eyes fixed on her,traced the lines of her face. Every sense was telling him that it wasshe. Her scent, her voice, the colors of her--Oh, sweetdelirium--

He reached for her, arms and soul.

And then she was in his arms, wracked by sobs that shook her frailbody like convulsions. "I love you, I love you--" she gasped out,over and over. And Vincent, who had felt his blasted heart crack withgrief, now felt it leap to life again in an agony of joy.

Catherine stirred in Vincent's lap. He had picked her up to cradleher against him, but then had sunk to the stone floor with her, weakwith his own weeping. As she moved, his arms tightened instinctively,mute testimony to his inner vow: I will never lose you again.

She reached for his face, met the stunned, crystalline eyes. Sheslipped a hand behind his head and drew him down to her kiss. Itmight have lasted years, their virginal kiss, for the catharticjoining that had given them their son had not been savored, had notbeen shared so much as survived. As his lips moved on hers, thewarmth of him flowed into Catherine. She clung to him as to alifeline.

Her touch was a benediction to Vincent, a miracle beyond allothers she had given him, except Jacob. Desperately, he clutched herin panic-tight arms, letting his lips convince him of her presence.It was impossible, impossible. But so real.

When they finally drew apart, he gazed down at her, lifting a handto stroke her face. "Catherine, am I mad?" he whispered.

She smiled, and turned so that she could tuck her head beneath hischin and feel his pulse beat under her cheek, and the movement was sopurely Catherine that it pained him.

"No, Vincent. I'm here. I'm really here."

He voiced no other questions, had none, knowing only that she wasreal. That she was his. His hands rubbed gently over her shoulders.She was thinner, her bones fragile beneath her skin and the greeneyes larger than he remembered in a gaunt face. But she was alive.Alive. The word danced like a bird amid the swelter of histhoughts. "Catherine."

"Vincent."

"You will stay. You will live here in the Tunnels, with me and ourchild." The words were a demand, but his voice was full ofpleading.

Our child. Relief swept through Catherine as she leanedback to meet his eyes.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't leave us."

"Never, Vincent."

She looked straight into his eyes, and spoke fiercely. "To theworld Above, I'm dead. I gave all that I was and more to that world,to its needs. There is nowhere else for me but here. With you,and--"

"Dear. . .God."

They both turned, startled. Father stood in the ruined doorway. Heclutched his cane in one hand and groped at nothing with the other.His face was ashen. He started to fall.

Vincent spilled Catherine from his lap as he leapt to catch hisfather. He lowered the older man gently to the floor as Catherinecame to kneel beside them.

"Father--" Vincent's voice died. What could he say? His parent'sdazed eyes were fixed on the weary apparition who grinned crookedlybehind the tears that had started down her face.

"I'm realizing that I could have been gentler about this," shesaid. "It's me, Father. I've come back."

"Have you?" Father gasped weakly. He reached out. Catherine caughthis hand and pressed it to her wet cheek.

Vincent put his arms around both of them, and couldn't hold backhis trembling. Father began to whisper a prayer.

"Thank you. Thank you, Lord. Thank you...."

Catherine was only dimly aware as she made the final part of herjourney home. When Vincent lifted her and she was wrapped in hisstrength, with the delicious wool-and-candle scent of him surroundingher, she could do nothing but give in to the relentless pull ofexhaustion. Even in its grip, she curled one hand tightly around afold of Vincent's shirt, as though she were afraid he would leaveher. She never knew what hurt this gave him when he saw it.

Father went ahead of them, allowing them this time alone, andassuring that others did the same. Very soon she felt herself laidgently on a soft, giving surface. Vincent's bed. Her eyes flared openwhen he pulled out of her grip.

"I won't go far," he soothed. "Only to fetch some water."

And so it began again, with him tending her in her weakness. Sheknew this, and an odd sadness washed over her. Yet I would do itall over, for him. . . .

When Vincent appeared again, he carried in one hand a steamingpitcher, and in the other, a baby.

Solemn and wondering, the little one peered at her with her owneyes. Catherine felt a shattering, fine as crystal. She sat up. "Oh,"she whispered.

Vincent came and laid the baby in her arms. "I have named himJacob."

Catherine shuddered as she felt at last the sweet weight of herchild. He blinked at her, as beautiful as she remembered and more."Jacob," she whispered. And began to cry all over again, swaying backand forth in the instinctive way of women with children. "Jacob."

* * * *

The shocks were hardly over. Given leave to summon the community,Father accomplished it by dint of frantic, disjointed banging on thepipes. His message was garbled, but the very hysteria of it had thedesired effect. Looking into the rows of anxious, wide-eyed faces, hecould manage no more than two words. "A miracle."

And he pointed toward the door to Vincent's chamber where, thusfar unnoticed, two shadowed figures stood. Catherine, holding Jacob,stepped into the light, Vincent tall and protective behind her.

She smiled tremulously. "Hello, everyone."

After one silent, electrified moment, a collective cry went up,and the Tunnel folk surged toward them. Vincent just managed to getboth arms around her before Catherine and the baby were nearly buriedin the welcome of those who had grieved, who could not believewithout the assurance of touch that she was real.

She bore it silently, making no answer to the babbled questionsthat fluttered around her. Closing her eyes, she lifted Jacob higheron her shoulder and leaned back into Vincent's solid chest.Home.

Vincent held his family close. Neither would ever be beyond thereach of his strength again, never while he still breathed. He vowedit fathoms deep, deeper than words, and let himself hold them just alittle tighter.

Catherine felt it, and turned from the tumult around them. Thelook of exquisite pain on his face tore at her heart.

"Vincent." She reached up, and kissed him softly on the corner ofhis mouth.

It was very late, but sleep would not come. Catherine felt as ifjoy itself had replaced the blood in her veins and coursed throughher body with every heartbeat, filling her, nourishing her. Shewondered if she would ever be able to let go of Jacob, or let Vincentget more than two steps away from her.

You will stay. You will live here in the tunnels, with me andour child.

She smiled, dreamily, tasting again the rough quality of his voiceas he'd said it. He had changed. She'd felt that at once, and wantedto know how, and why. It might just be the happiest task of her life,finding out. She lay against him now, with the deep rise and fall ofhis breathing beneath her and the baby asleep in her lap. Inhalingthe sweet clean scent of her son, she wanted to cry, but there wereno tears left.

"Catherine."

The sound of her name rumbled through his chest and sent a lazythrill through her. "Yes, Vincent."

"What saved you? I...felt you go, on the rooftop." His voice waslaced with the pain of the memory.

Unseen by him, a smile traced her lips as she reached to toy withthe lacings of his shirt.

"You saved me."

"I? But...I left you. I thought you were dead."

"Almost. The doctors say the morphine should have killed me. Butthere were--substances--in my blood that kept me alive. Morphine haslittle effect on you, Vincent. I asked Father."

Vincent began to understand. "You mean...the baby?"

Catherine nodded, a tiny motion against his chest. "I think so. Iwas afraid for you, for the baby, if the doctors ever truly found outwhy I survived. They kept asking about the baby, about his father,and I think they suspected. That's part of why I can't return Above.They mustn't find me, or any of the answers to their questions." Sheran a wondering finger around the soft cup of Jacob's ear. "Does healways sleep like that? With his face all scrunched up?"

Vincent would not be distracted. "Do you want to?" he questioned,his voice carefully neutral. "Return Above?"

"No!"

Even Jacob stirred in his sleep, disturbed by the violent word.Catherine's muscles went rigid at the thought. She felt the flick ofthat monstrous fear-- "No! I don't want to. Ever."

Vincent's arm tightened around her shoulders, and he lifted a handto stroke her hair. But his brow wrinkled in puzzlement. His eyestested hers. And, after a moment that stretched too long, shefaltered before their searching.

She burrowed back against him, and spoke rapidly. "I don't wantto, Vincent. This is my home, now. This is where I'm needed. Eventhough it's going to take some getting used to, being treated likesomething between a ghost and a holy relic."

He chuckled, as she had meant him to. She leaned back again tolook up at him. "But, Vincent--I want to contact Joe, and Jenny, andNancy. I can't leave them grieving."

He nodded in instant agreement. "They are a part of us, becauseyou are. We will welcome them." He felt her muscles loosen in relief,and he smiled. "Father took quite a liking to Joe."

Catherine blinked. "Father? Met Joe? This...ought to proveinteresting."

"To say the least. There is so much to tell. And Catherine,there's a woman you must meet, a woman to whom we owe our son. Hername is Diana."