After

Part II "Peace Beguiles"

William Blake "Cradle Song"

ACT I

Vincent ran his fingers along the edge of a finely sanded length of beech. The grain was silky smooth and without a single blemish. The dove-tailed edges were precisely cut, ready to join with the larger pieces already set into clamps along the well-worn workbench. This was the last section to set into place. As Vincent added dabs of glue and fit the edges snugly together, the finished shape of the project came together. The most difficult part was behind him. He allowed a brief moment to revel in the sense of accomplishment made even more exceptional by the fact that every inch of the piece had been worked by his hands and his hands alone, rough as they may be.

Standing at the threshold to his workshop, Cullen gave a low, appreciative whistle.

Vincent looked up, giving Cullen a grateful smile. "I couldn’t have done it without you, Cullen. Your patience with my fumbling first attempts was biblical. I never thought I’d get the hang of it."

Cullen felt the heat of the compliment flush up his neck. It hadn’t been all that long ago when he’d nearly lost his friendship with Vincent and all the other members of the community below. It was Vincent who took his side and stood by him during that dark time, and Cullen would never forget Vincent’s grace and mercy. He ducked his chin and coughed, trying to cover the sudden rush of emotion.

"Get the hang of it?" he scoffed as he moved into the room. "These joints are perfect." He ran a hand along the places where the sides met. "And it’s as smooth as a baby’s backside." He looked up at Vincent, grinning. "If I’m not careful, I could lose my job as head craftsman."

"I sincerely doubt that. It took me several weeks to do what you could have done in less than one," Vincent acknowledged honestly.

"But you did it all yourself with no real experience."

Vincent chuckled. "That’s true enough." He moved around the workbench, double checking the clamps. "When can I begin to apply the finish?"

Cullen gave the piece a more professional eye. "Day after tomorrow," he decided. "You need to let the carpenter’s glue set, and then apply the bottom piece. Finally, you’ll have to sand the joints one more time to make sure you didn’t miss any gobs of glue, and then you can start the finishing process."

"How long will applying the finish take?"

"A couple of days--including drying time."

Vincent nodded. "Perfect. I should be able to give it to Catherine right on time."

"I can’t believe you’ve been able to keep this a secret," Cullen marveled. "I thought Mouse would have spilled the beans for sure."

Vincent’s face took on a look of mock seriousness as he placed a hand on his heart. "Mouse gave me his solemn word."

"What did you bribe him with?"

"A new air compressor," Vincent admitted with a sheepish smile.

"Good choice!" Cullen laughed, clapping Vincent on the shoulder. "Catherine is going to love her surprise."

Vincent warmed at the thought of her. "I hope so."

*****

Catherine shifted her position in the uncomfortable office chair, tipped her head back, and rubbed her tired, red-rimmed eyes.

Across the table from her, Joe Maxwell pushed back his chair and stood. He held Patrick Hanlon’s enigmatic black book in his hands and rifled through the pages for what had to be the thousandth time. "We’ve been at this off and on for nearly two months, and we’re no closer to figuring out what’s going on than we were the day Patrick died."

"I know," Catherine replied with a sigh. "No one knows that better than me."

Just then, their boss, John Moreno, stepped into the little conference room housing the make-shift, two-man task force. Moreno looked around at the scattered notes pinned to the cork board, the stacks of file folders spilling across every available flat surface, and the wastebasket overflowing with used Styrofoam coffee cups. Shaking his head, Moreno announced, "I’m pulling the plug."

Joe leaned forward, pressing his hands into the table top. "But we’re almost--"

"Almost what?" Moreno snapped, running an impatient hand over the top of his balding head. "Almost bankrupting the city? Almost backlogged around the block? Almost burnt out beyond recovery? Tell me, Joe. What do you almost have?"

"We’re close," Joe implored. "We tracked the connection between Pat and Malloy Davidson. Now all we have to do is decipher the notes he left that tie in Hanover Norton Trust. Pat held back something for insurance that will make sense of it all, I’m certain of it. We just haven’t been able to find it yet."

Moreno shook his head. "I’ve already given you more than enough rope with this, Joe. You’re not a cop. Let it go. Whatever Hanlon had, it died with him."

"Just give us a couple more days. I’ll kick Cathy loose if you want--just don’t close the case yet. Please."

About to argue, Moreno let out an exasperated sigh. "I already hate myself for it, but I’ll give you until the end of the week." He glanced over at Catherine. "And there’s no sense pulling off Chandler. We both know she won’t let you swing in the wind alone--although I sure as hell would. Monday, you’re both back on the active roster and this investigation is closed. Permanently."

Moreno jerked the door open, almost flattening Rita Escobar who stood on the other side, arms full of more files. "And stop monopolizing the clerks!" he called over his shoulder as he pushed past Rita.

Joe dropped his head. "Maybe Moreno’s right. Maybe this is a monumental waste of time."

"I know you don’t believe that." Catherine stood now, too, pushing back her chair.

Joe looked down at the black book still in his hands. "I’m sick of this book," he ground out, "sick to death of it, and Hanlon, and the whole twisted mess!" Rage and frustration contorted his face. As if he couldn’t bear to touch the book any longer, he threw it across the room as hard as he could. Then, without a word to Catherine or Rita, he stormed out, leaving the door rocking on its hinges.

The two women looked at Joe’s retreating back, stunned.

Catherine shook her head. "This is so frustrating." She moved from around the table and headed toward the spot where she’d seen the book fall behind a small mountain of computer printouts. As she reached for it, she realized it was wedged between the stacks of paper and the wall. Bent at an awkward angle, she instinctively put one hand to her belly as she stretched toward the book with her other hand, inching down until her fingers finally found the cover.

"Oh my," exclaimed Rita from the other side of the room.

Fingers scrabbling, Catherine snagged the book and yanked it up. "What?"

"I have four older sisters and seven nieces and nephews."

Catherine stared at her, beyond puzzled. "So?"

"If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have guessed."

"Seen what?" Catherine turned to look behind her to see if she could spot whatever it was Rita had seen.

Without another word, and very purposefully, Rita closed the door left open by Joe. Moving to stand in front of Catherine, she slowly gave her the once over from head to toe. After a moment, she clapped a hand over her mouth, and then just as quickly dropped it. "I can’t believe I didn’t notice it until now, but you know, now that I’m looking, all the signs are there. And that little hand thing you just did to your tummy? That clinched it." Turning back to Catherine, she grabbed her by the shoulders, looked her straight in the eye, and said, "Cathy Chandler, you’re pregnant."

Catherine slid down into the nearest chair.

ACT II

"I thought I’d have at least a month or two before anyone would start to wonder," Catherine said more to herself than to Rita, "and then maybe a month or so after that before I’d have to put the rumors to rest."

"Then it’s true?"

Catherine looked up at the young woman, knowing she was about to step over a line from which she could never return, and meekly nodded.

"That’s wonderful!" Rita enthused, shocking Catherine as she bent down to give her a crushing hug. Then, just as quickly, Rita pulled away from the hug, her face suddenly serious. "It is wonderful, right?"

Catherine dropped her eyes, a warm glow spreading through her at the thought of carrying Vincent’s child. "Yes," she smiled shyly. "It’s very wonderful."

Rita resumed her eager hug, and then pulled up a chair beside Catherine. "You don’t have to tell me, but does this have anything to do with to the mystery man you didn’t want to leave a few months ago?"

Catherine wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t want to reply in a way that would prompt Rita to ask probing questions that she couldn’t answer, but at the same time, she knew she needed to come up with a reasonably truthful explanation. Whatever she said now, whether it was true or not, would become the truth--at least to the world above.

"I love the father of this baby very much," Catherine began.

That was true enough.

"Unfortunately, he doesn’t live here and never will live here," she continued, unable to keep the hint of regret from her voice.

Another fact.

"I still see him when I can, and he is very happy about the baby," she finished, looking up to meet Rita’s kind, understanding eyes. "And I’m very happy about this baby, too." Her own eyes twinkled despite the angst caused by the discovery of her secret.

"Then that’s all that matters," Rita pronounced, patting Catherine’s hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took a deep breath. "Does Joe know?"

"You’re the first and only, so far." Above, Catherine mentally amended. "I was hoping to tell Joe once we sorted out the Hanlon thing."

"You’ll know when the time is right. Until then, your secret is safe with me," Rita promised, giving Catherine’s hand an encouraging squeeze.

Just then, the door flew open and Joe breezed back into the tiny room. "What’re you two doing sitting around?" he demanded, shaking his head. "Can we get back to work please?" He reached for the black book still in Catherine’s hands. "We’ve got four days, Radcliffe. Let’s get a move on."

Rita gave Catherine a wink as she sidled past Joe and out the door.

*****

Catherine unlocked her apartment door and closed it behind her. Looking out onto her terrace, she saw Vincent’s familiar silhouette and smiled. Setting her keys and briefcase on the table, she moved to join him. Opening the French doors, she stepped into his waiting arms.

"I’m glad to see you," she murmured, lifting her face to press it against his neck. "It’s been a long day."

"Are you well?" he asked, concern evident in his deep voice.

"I’m fine," Catherine assured him.

"Sit down," he said, leading her toward the bench against the ledge.

Drawing up beside him on the bench, she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his chest. After a moment, she said quietly, "Rita knows."

Vincent hesitated. "How?"

"She guessed."

He leaned a bit away from her. "But you don’t look any different to me."

"Apparently to her I do."

"What did you tell her?"

"The truth--or at least as much of the truth as I could."

Vincent pulled her to him once more. "What did she say?"

Catherine offered a little half smile. "Congratulations."

"That’s all?"

"She gave me her word that she’ll keep my secret." Catherine said nothing else for some time, content to simply breathe in his scent and feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek. "It’s time to tell Jenny and Joe," she finally admitted. "I’ll need both of them if this is going to work."

"I wish there was more I could do." Vincent’s feeling of powerlessness made his voice harsh. "I hate that you face so much alone."

Catherine lifted her head from his chest and met his eyes. "I’m not alone, Vincent," she said earnestly.

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do. But I’m not alone," she reiterated. "Joe and Jenny care about me, and I care about them."

Vincent nodded. He knew what she said was true. Catherine did share her life above with people who loved her—and he grudgingly had to admit that he was grateful she had others around her on whom she could rely.

He let go of his jealousy and just held her, stroking her hair and absently caressing her back. He missed having her below. They’d spent countless hours during the weeks of his recovery walking the tunnels leading to his favorite spots and visiting with the extended family of tunnel dwellers. Many nights she slept beside him in his chamber, curled into his back or safely tucked in his arms. It was difficult to know she couldn’t stay. It had been nearly two weeks since she’d been below, and part of that was his doing. The surprise he’d been working on was time-consuming, and he knew if she had been below there was a good chance he would have been found out. To have her there in his arms right now would have to be enough.

For now.

Catherine’s breathing slowed as she relaxed, letting go of the tension of the day. To be held by Vincent was all the sedative she needed. She’d nearly drifted off to sleep when he roused her gently.

"I almost forgot," he whispered into her hair before he eased away from her. "I didn’t come empty-handed tonight." He moved over toward the far wall of the terrace and retrieved a basket from the shadows. "William sent you a gift."

Catherine sat up. "A gift?"

Vincent carried the basket over to the bench and set it between them. Opening the lid, he lifted an earthenware crock. "Beef stew." Reaching deeper into the basket, he held up a loaf of bread. "Fresh baked this afternoon." He reached in again. "And as a special treat," he pulled out a white ceramic ramekin, "apple cobbler. "

Catherine chuckled. "In all the time I have known William, he has never once sent me food."

Vincent nodded, smiling, as well. "I was as surprised as you," he agreed. "But he made me promise to bring it to you."

"Why?" Catherine asked, looking down at the delectable meal.

"He’s convinced that you can’t possibly be eating well, and he knows how busy you are." Vincent set the basket on one of the patio tables. "He wants to help."

"That’s so sweet." Catherine lifted the lid on the earthenware crock. "This smells delicious." She looked up into Vincent’s clear blue eyes. "Will you join me?"

It was rare that they shared a meal above, but Vincent nodded. Delighted, Catherine headed to the kitchen to retrieve bowls and silverware.

*****

Overhead, in the clear night sky above the city, a private jet was preparing to land. A lone flight attendant gently placed her hand on the shoulder of a sleeping man. "Excuse me, sir," she said politely. "You asked me to wake you just before landing."

The man stirred in his seat. "Thank you, Isabelle."

The flight attendant turned and made her way back toward the front of the plane, leaving the man unaccompanied in the main compartment once again. Immediately alert, the man reached toward a sophisticated telephone resting on the desk in front of him. He punched in a number, and a mechanical ring could be heard through the phone’s speakers.

"Hello," said a voice on the other end of the line.

"Is everything in order?"

"The last loose end is about to be sewn up."

Impatience flared in the passenger. "You’ve had weeks to bring this to a close."

"Trust me on this," the voice replied. "They’ve got nothing. I’ve got the situation under control."

"Trust? Hardly." Punching another button, he disconnected the call.

As he flipped on a small desk lamp, a soft glow illuminated the cabin. Leaning to his left, he glanced out at the city below, his reflection filling the window. His face was angular, the lines unforgiving in a countenance entirely appropriate to his nature. For months now, he’d been experiencing an odd sense of ennui. For the first time in his life, he was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with his world and all its trappings. He was powerful, rich, privileged, and yet he felt discontented, as if nothing in his very expansive realm interested him any longer. He wanted...more, somehow, although he truly had no idea what the more was.

On the seat beside him lay an open briefcase. Reaching in, he pulled out a folder. Setting the folder on the desk, he leafed through its contents. Finding what he was looking for, he pushed the folder away and set out a whole host of newspaper articles. Tucked among them could be seen a headline that read "D.A. Nabbed in Drug Bust" and another proclaiming "D.A. Sucker for a Pretty Face,"

"I hate it when I have to take matters into my own hands," the passenger said aloud.

Act III

Early morning sun streamed through the windows of the French doors leading from Catherine’s bedroom out onto the terrace. Waking, Catherine stretched and instinctively reached out toward the other side of the bed. Realizing she was alone, she pulled her hand back and rolled away. Fully awake now, she lay still, watching the breaking dawn play across the walls and along the floor.

To say she missed Vincent’s presence was beyond an understatement. She ached for him at times like this. The move to make their relationship more intimate had been a gradual, organic process that stemmed from their deep love and growing passion, and the eventual physical consummation of that love had been deeply satisfying for both of them. After Vincent’s illness, however, he had no concrete memory of their life together, including those tenuous new intimacies. Understandably, the course of re-establishing that part of their relationship had been the slowest to recover. Even though she had experienced the joy of waking beside him, of sleeping in his arms, of watching him sleep peacefully beside her, she longed for the return of what had just begun to blossom. She was pregnant with his child, for heaven’s sake, and yet Vincent remained reticent. Intellectually, she understood what was holding him back, but emotionally it still felt like rejection. To accept that their physical relationship was once again a measured gift was sometimes deeply painful. Today was one of those days. She swiped at a tear that slid from the corner of her eye, feeling a mixture of frustration and resignation.

Her phone rang, and she answered it with more curtness than the caller deserved. "Hello," she snapped.

"Hey there." It was her friend, Jenny Aronson. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Something like that," Catherine sighed. "Sorry, Jen. What’s up?

"I was wondering if you’d like to meet me for lunch. I haven’t seen you in a few weeks, and I could use a Cathy Chandler fix. What do you say?"

Catherine leaned up on her elbow. "That sounds like a great idea." She hesitated for a moment. "I was going to call you anyway. I have something important to tell you."

"Tell me now!" Jenny insisted. "You know I hate surprises."

"It can keep," Catherine parried. "Let’s meet in the park at eleven and walk to lunch."

"How do you expect me to work all morning with a surprise hanging over my head?"

Catherine smiled. "You’ll just have to be patient—which I know you hate. I’ll see you then." She hung up the phone and slid her legs over the side of the bed. She looked down at her just-now-beginning-to-pouch belly. "Here we go, little one," she said out loud, giving her tummy a pat.

*****

If Catherine lived to be a hundred, she would never forget the look on Joe Maxwell’s face. "How did this happen?" he asked, not realizing how ridiculous that question actually was.

"Well, when two people fall in love---"

"I don’t mean that. I know how it happened," he sputtered. "So where is this guy now? Is he still in the picture, or did he leave you to deal with this on your own? I know people, Radcliffe. I can make this guy do the right thing--"

Catherine held up a hand, restraining him and his misguided sense of offended honor on her behalf. "The father of this baby hasn’t deserted me," she assured him. "He’s very much in the picture, even if he can’t be with me right now."

"How come I’ve never met him?"

"He doesn’t live here," she replied honestly. "But there are people in my life who have met him--Peter Alcott, for one."

"Alcott knows him?"

"Yes. " Catherine nodded, knowing the revelation hurt Joe’s feelings more than it assuaged his fears.

Sighing heavily, he reached for the phone on his desk. "Just let me do a quick background check on him. What’s his social security number?"

"Joe," Catherine said softly. "Please don’t do this." She walked over to him and gently took the phone out of his hand, replacing the receiver. "You won’t find anything, and that’s the way it has to be. You’ve got to trust that I know what I’m doing."

"But Cathy--"

"I know I’m asking a lot, but please. I need you to be my friend. I won’t be able to do this without you."

Her words hit home. He knew he was half in love with her himself, but that wasn’t the reason why he’d help her. They were partners, but even greater than that, they were friends. This kind of friendship with a woman was something Joe had never experienced before Cathy Chandler walked through his door. He did trust her--with his life--and if that meant not looking too closely right now at the father of her baby, so be it. He’d get his chance eventually, but he wouldn’t do it behind her back.

"Okay," he sighed, running a hand roughly through his hair. "When is the baby due?"

"Late winter," she replied. "I’m about three months along."

He looked at her then, really looked at her. Despite the anxiety written all over her face, she looked wonderful. Her figure was fuller, and she looked healthier than he’d seen her in a long time. He should have noticed earlier. If he wasn’t so damned wrapped up in this Hanlon thing, maybe he would have. "A baby…" He shook his head. "If that doesn’t beat all."

*****

The dog days of August were in full swing, but the heat was relieved by a westerly breeze that lifted the hair from Catherine’s neck as she waited for Jenny to join her in the park.

Jenny Aronson had been Catherine’s friend since college. They drifted apart once Catherine started working at her father’s firm and had become involved with Tom. In retrospect, Catherine knew that Jenny and her old group of friends didn’t take her very seriously back then. And why should they? She could see now that her existence then was shallow and lacked substance. Oddly enough, she was only able to reconnect with Jenny after she left that other world behind. Now that both her parents were gone, she would always be grateful for her friendship with Jenny. Jenny knew all about Catherine’s past, she knew where she had come from, and she knew how much she had grown. Catherine recognized deep down that having a shared past with someone from the world above was essential to her ability to cope.

Catherine spotted Jenny crossing the parkway and waved. Jenny saw her and smiled, waving back.

"Hi there, stranger," Jenny said when she reached her, giving Catherine a warm hug.

"Hi, yourself," Catherine replied. "Do you mind if we walk a bit?"

"Not at all, as long as you tell me what’s going on. I want to know what’s so important that you kept me on pins and needles all morning."

"I’m not sure how to begin," Catherine said as they strolled down the tree-lined lane.

The smile on Jenny’s face slipped. "You’re okay, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not sick or anything?"

"No, I’m not sick or anything."

"Thank God." Jenny relaxed. "Then what is it?"

Catherine took a deep breath. "Jen," she began, "I don’t know any way to say this other than to just say it. I’m three months pregnant."

Jenny pulled up short. "How is that possible?"

Catherine sighed. This was becoming an annoying pattern. "Why is that the first question everyone asks? Is it so inconceivable that I might actually have a love life?"

"N-No, it’s not that. It’s just that I haven’t seen you with anyone since Tom. I know you told me that you were involved, but I had no idea how serious it was."

"I’d say ‘serious’ was appropriate," she replied, patting her belly.

They began to walk again.

"Of course, you know I want to know everything," Jenny said, "but I’m sensing that’s not going to happen."

Catherine’s pained look told her she was right.

"Will you marry this man?" Jenny asked after a moment.

Catherine shook her head. "At least not in the traditional sense," she admitted. "I love him, Jen, and he loves me, but our relationship will always be…unusual."

"Why?"

"Normal just isn’t possible for us."

This was the most integral part of the conversation. If Jenny pressed her, Catherine knew it might end their friendship, which was the last thing she wanted. She wanted to confide in Jenny without reservation, but she wasn’t sure if either one of them was ready for that yet; maybe they would never be ready.

"Do you trust me?" Catherine asked.

"You know I do."

"If you trust me, you have to believe that I know what I’m doing. I’m not in any danger, and he’s not a criminal or married. He is, however, unable to share my life in the conventional sense."

"Are you okay with that?"

"Yes." Catherine nodded. "And I need you to be okay with it, too."

Jenny didn’t respond for a long time. Finally, she sighed. "I may not understand it, Cath, but you’re my friend, and I love you. I’ll do whatever I can to help."

Catherine felt her world slip just the slightest bit, like one tectonic plate sliding over another. It was real now. She was going to have a baby, and two of the people she cared about most in world above knew about it. She stopped mid-stride and turned to give Jenny a fierce hug. "Thank you," she said when she finally pulled away. "You’re the closest thing to family that I have, and sharing this with you is really important to me. I want you to be a part of this child’s life."

Tears filled Jenny’s eyes. "Of course I will. Everything is going to work out."

The two women hugged again.

"Come on," Jenny said, ending the embrace. "It’s lunch time, and you’re eating for two."

Catherine grinned, wiping away her own tears. "Yes, I am."

Jenny looped her arm through Catherine’s and led the way. "We’ve got a zillion things to plan!"

*****

It was after one o’clock in the afternoon before Catherine returned to her office. Joe was waiting, impatient.

"It’s about time," he complained, following her into her office. "I think I remember some immigration problem with a guy named Lopez on Pat’s list of clients on retainer. I’ll bring the printouts in here." He tossed Hanlon’s book on her desk and walked out.

Good old Joe. Pregnant or not, this was an ongoing investigation and he wasn’t above cracking the whip. Chagrined, Catherine reached for the book, sliding it along the table top. As she did so, a corner of the book snagged against a bent paper clip wedged beneath the leather blotter. "Damn, "she swore. A fresh scratch now marred the black leather surface.

Looking closely, she also noticed that the stitching at the corner of the book must have snagged against the paper clip, too, because the black, waxed thread was now stretched out a bit and slightly puckered.

Joe noticed her scrutiny of the book when he returned with the file. "What is it?"

"I’m not sure," Catherine replied, gently running the tip of her finger over the loose thread. "It’s probably nothing." She flicked at the thread with her fingernail and it gave ever so slightly. She reached for the offending paper clip under the blotter, and after a bit of coaxing with the end of the bent clip, she pulled the thread completely loose, revealing a slit between the interior and exterior layers of the cover.

Meeting Joe’s eyes, she held the book up to him.

Putting down the file, Joe took the book from Catherine’s hands and eased his fingers into the slot created by the sandwiched cover. Very carefully, he lifted out a folded piece of paper. Smoothing it flat, he stared at it for a moment. Giving a low whistle he said, "Radcliffe, I think you just found Pat’s insurance."

*****

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity for Joe and Catherine. By Friday afternoon, they were finally ready to bring their findings to Moreno. The key to understanding most of the notations in Pat’s black book were indeed found on the slip of paper hidden inside the cover. Names, dates, account numbers, all of them pointed to one thing -- one very powerful, very rich, very dangerous source. Of this source, however, they could find no direct identification except for a single name: Gabriel.

Armed with everything they learned, they approached Moreno’s office fully expecting their boss to be both relieved and delighted with their progress.

He was neither.

"So you figured out one unidentifiable crook is stealing from a bunch of other crooks," Moreno said, his voice icy. "I’m not wasting any more tax dollars on this, Joe. Let them kill each other off and save us the trouble."

Joe and Catherine were stunned.

"You have to turn this information over to the Organized Crime Unit," Catherine insisted. "Whoever this Gabriel is, he’s at the heart of serious corruption."

"Pat traced collusion at almost every governmental level," Joe explained. "This has to be just the tip of the iceberg."

"Hanlon’s dead," Moreno said flatly. "You and Chandler worked it as far as you could." At that, he scooped up all of their records, including the black book and the slip of paper that had been tucked inside the cover. "I’ll take it all to a Fed friend of mine and leave it on their doorstep. They’ve got resources—we don’t."

With that, they were summarily dismissed.

Back in Joe’s office, Catherine didn’t know what to say. "I’m so sorry, Joe."

Joe looked out the window, his back to her. "Me, too, Radcliffe." After a moment, he turned to face her. "Go home," he said quietly. "You’ve got other things to think about right now. I’m going over to Clancy’s to get good and drunk. Maybe I’ll forget the last two months ever happened."

ACT IV

For the first time in weeks, Catherine made her way down through the basement of her building and into the tunnels. She hadn’t sent word for Vincent to meet her. She wanted to walk the tunnels alone tonight. Something wasn’t right with this thing between Moreno and Joe. In fact, she couldn’t shake the fact that something was very, very wrong. She ran through all the possibilities over and over again, but she still couldn’t put her finger on it. Finally, as she neared Vincent’s chamber, she made the conscious decision to let it go for the time being. She was tired; all she really wanted was be enveloped by kindness and love and forget about death and vice for a while.

When she arrived, Vincent wasn’t in his chamber. She waited a few moments, and then decided to seek him out.

She ran into Mouse first. "Hi, Mouse," she called cheerfully, waving a hand in greeting.

Mouse took one look at her, raised both hands to his mouth, and took off in the opposite direction without as much as a hello.

Accustomed to Mouse’s often odd behavior, she didn’t think too much about it, but when Jamie came bustling down the tunnel a few moments later, she knew something was up.

"Hi, Catherine," Jamie said, overly bright. "I haven’t seen you in the tunnels in weeks and weeks!" She took Catherine by the arm and began leading her away from the main meeting chamber.

"I’m looking for Vincent," Catherine began. "Have you seen him?"

"Vincent?" Jamie shook her head, still tugging at Catherine’s arm. "Haven’t seen him. I heard he was two or three, maybe even four levels below, working. Let’s go find Mary. She was just asking about you this morning. I know she’d love to see you."

Something was most definitely afoot. Catherine stopped in her tracks in the middle of the tunnel. "Jamie, you are a terrible liar."

Jamie began to stammer. "Um, well--"

Just then, Jacob came around the bend in the tunnel. "There you are," he said, smiling warmly at Catherine. "Vincent has been looking for you."

Visibly relieved, Jamie released Catherine’s arm.

"Funny," Catherine raised an eyebrow toward the flustered girl, "I thought Vincent was working."

Jacob coughed. "Yes, well...come along then." He offered Catherine his elbow and she slipped her arm through his. He took a step, and then turned to say something to Jamie, but she was already gone, wasting no time making her exit.

"What’s going on?" Catherine asked. "Mouse couldn’t get away from me fast enough, and Jamie was trying to drag me down to the nursery."

"All in good time," Jacob said, patting her arm.

They turned around and headed back toward the main meeting chamber. Just outside the entrance, Jacob stopped. "Wait here," he instructed. "Vincent would like you to close your eyes."

Catherine did as he asked and closed her eyes. A moment later, she felt Vincent’s hand close around hers.

He leaned close to her ear. "I have a surprise for you," he whispered.

She squeezed his hand. "What kind of surprise?"

"One that was very difficult to keep secret," he admitted.

Intrigued, Catherine let Vincent lead her into the chamber. She could hear the children shushing each other and scuffling as they jostled for position. Vincent carefully led her down the steps.

"Open your eyes," he said softly.

She did so.

On top of a table in the middle of the chamber was a beautiful, hand-crafted wooden cradle. Draped over one side was a lovely quilt, and the table held a score of other handmade gifts.

"What’s all this?" she asked.

Mary stepped forward. "When Vincent started working on the cradle, we all decided that we’d like to help, too."

Now William’s meal made sense. Her tunnel family was eager to let her know that she was one of them, and that she wasn’t alone. Their generous gestures left her deeply moved. She let go of Vincent’s hand and stepped forward. Touching the smooth finish of the cradle, she ran a finger over eight lines that had been burned into the headboard and read them aloud:

"Sweet dreams form a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams!

Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child."

　

Tears sprang to her eyes. "William Blake."

Vincent nodded, stepping forward to join her.

Cullen shouldered his way to the front of the group. "Vincent built that cradle all by himself," he informed Catherine, the pride in his student unmistakable. "He wouldn’t let me do a single thing."

Catherine gazed up at Vincent, realizing how difficult a task it must have been. "I love it."

Out of nowhere, Mouse loudly exclaimed with relief. "Glad that’s over!"

Laughter rang through the chamber and Vincent pulled Catherine close. "I love you," he whispered into her hair.

Warmth and joy spread through Catherine like a balm. Nothing else mattered in that moment except her love for him and her elation at the prospect of bringing a child, their child, into the world.

Later that evening, Catherine lay in Vincent’s arms. Despite her earlier longings, being there with him, warm and safe in his bed, was a delight in itself. Her work clothes folded neatly on a chair, she delighted in the soft luxury of the hand-woven night clothes she kept in Vincent’s chamber. Her cheek rested against his heart and his hand absently stroked her hair.

"I can’t believe Mouse didn’t crack," she said with a smile.

"I had to bribe him," Vincent replied.

"Cullen told me." She picked up her head, resting her chin on his chest. "Where on earth did you get an air compressor?"

Vincent couldn’t hide his own bit of a grin. "Burch Development Corporation, by way of a note from Jacob. Thanks to you--and Elliot’s standing order to respond to Jacob’s occasional requests—Elliot’s company continues to be very generous."

Elliot.

That gave her pause. She’d have to tell Elliot about her pregnancy soon, too. He was an important person in her life; he’d be hurt if he heard about the baby from someone else.

Catherine dropped her cheek back to Vincent’s chest and listened to the soft pinging of the pipes. Lulled by their muted, melodic tones, it wasn’t long before she felt herself drifting off. She felt Vincent reach out for the lit candle beside the bed. She heard his soft breath extinguish the flame, and the chamber was dark. Adjusting his position, he moved to tuck Catherine into the curve of his body. In a gesture that spoke volumes and was perhaps the most intimate in weeks, he placed a hand on her belly, in effect holding her and their child at the same time. Safe and warm and loved, Catherine sighed. Life was very, very good.

*****

Perched above the city in his office on the top floor of the building he owned, the grey-eyed man carefully replaced the telephone receiver and folded his hands on the mahogany desk in front of him. This new turn of events was an irritant he did not need. Leaning forward, he punched a button on the phone and activated the intercom. "Get me Sikes."

"Yes, sir," came an immediate reply.

Moments later, a well-muscled man in an immaculate dark suit stepped into his office. "Sir?" the man inquired.

"I don’t have any more time to waste on this...problem."

Sikes, a man of very few words, replied, "I’ll take care of it."

"See that you do."

Sikes nodded his head once and turned on his heel.

*****

Early the next morning, Catherine was awakened by the rich smell of brewing coffee. The corners of her mouth lifted. Vincent didn’t care for coffee, and there had to be a hundred different teas available below, but he knew she liked the strong, bitter brew and often had it ready for her when she spent the night. Stretching languidly, she rolled to her side and rose up on an elbow.

He was sitting at the table looking intently at a set of plans laid out before him, unaware that she was awake. This was a rare opportunity, and Catherine watched him openly. She loved the loose white cotton shirts he wore. She knew they were often pieced together, but they looked supremely comfortable, as did all the clothes that were manufactured below. The seamstresses had an amazing knack for using cast off material in the most productive way, and she was sure Vincent’s large, muscular frame wasn’t an easy one to fit, yet his clothes always suited him perfectly. He lifted his head, suddenly conscious of her gaze.

"Good morning, "she said sleepily.

"Good morning," he replied, smiling warmly. "Are you hungry?"

Catherine shook her head. "But I’d love a cup of that coffee."

He reached out and tipped the pot, filling a mug. Rising, he went to her, setting the mug on the bedside table before sitting down beside her. "How did you sleep?"

Catherine dropped back into the pillows. "Wondrously," she sighed, smiling up at him. "But even better than sleeping was waking up here, with you."

Vincent reached out to brush at the stray wisps of hair that fell near her eyes, his fingers lingering along her cheek, the pad of his thumb caressing her chin. "I quite agree," he said softly.

Catherine’s heart gave a very decided lurch. How could one touch, one simple, gentle, non-erotic touch send her senses reeling? "How did you sleep?" she managed to ask, her voice husky, hardly more than a whisper.

"In happy dreams," Vincent replied, quoting Rossetti.

Desire fairly crackled around her. This was not the time for poetry. She met and held his gaze, gratified to see his eyes darken under her scrutiny, his breath catching in his throat. Catherine was no seductress, but she loved this man--and he was a man, extraordinary, yes, but a man nonetheless. They had worked hard to explore and then remove the boundaries to their love and had succeeded in conquering all doubt and fear. To deny the sensual current that arced between them was not only ridiculous at this point, it was also non-productive.

"Catherine--"Vincent began, but she cut him off, reaching up to put her fingers to his lips.

"Me first."

He nodded, acquiescing.

"I know you don’t remember that we were lovers," she began, watching his face to try to gauge his reaction. "But we were. Very happy, very passionate lovers." A crooked smile crossed her lips. "And in very short order, that fact will make itself clearly evident." She moved her fingers from his lips to rest her hand against his cheek. "I’ve missed you."

Vincent didn’t know exactly what to say. He’d felt the pull that drew him to her many times since his recovery. He wasn’t a child or naive or an innocent. He knew their love was fully realized and that the pull he felt was just as much sexual as it was emotional. They were mates in both body and soul, bonded on all levels. What he didn’t know was how to re-establish that connection. His illness had been powerful and destructive. What if he should relapse? How could he trust himself not to harm her should he lose control?

"I know what you fear," Catherine continued, sensing exactly where his mind had led him. "Even without our bond I can feel the fog that clouds your judgment and makes you second guess your feelings." She drew herself up then, pushing back the covers. Pulling her legs up, she sat cross-legged in front of him. "But you can’t live like that, Vincent. You have to let it go--for yourself...and for me, too"

"If only it were that simple," Vincent said, shaking his head. "I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you, if I ever—"

"That needs to end right now," Catherine said harshly. "I’m no stranger to you or the challenges you face. I’ve been patient with your recovery, but we’ve been through too much and have come too far to retreat back into a world of fear." She placed both hands on his shoulders, her eyes flashing with a ferocity that startled him. "You’re diminishing all that we have endured, all we have fought so hard to gain. There is no room for it in our lives, Vincent. I can’t--I won’t live like that. I will soon have a child to consider, and I won’t raise that child under the specter of fear."

She was right, of course. He knew she spoke the truth. This had been building for weeks now, and he knew it was time to face the final obstacle remaining from the dark days he and Catherine had traveled together. Either he could continue to live with what might happen, or he could make the leap of faith that would set them back on the path which they had fought so hard to walk.

Vincent raised his hands to cup her face and gazed into her stormy eyes. "I’ve said this before. You are amazing." He gave her a lopsided grin. "A little fierce perhaps, but definitely amazing."

"I am no such thing," she insisted. "What I am is a woman in love."

"Then we are lucky indeed," Vincent whispered, gently pulling her toward him, "because I am a man in love."

Their lips met, and nothing else mattered...

*****