PART I

He was going to be sick.

In this last half hour -- surely the longest of his life -- he had been called upon to feel too many things, to absorb the most violent emotions he had ever known, and to act as he must to avert further tragedy. There had been no time to give into the nausea that waited to claim him the moment the shock subsided. As if it had.

He still felt removed from the proceedings, as though the events here had no place in reality. He clung to the desperate hope that this was all a nightmare, as a child might do or a person who had never seen what he had of tragedy, of life and death, as a person who had never known what it was to preside over a war between those two great mysteries and to wield a certain, timorous power that could influence the outcome. Terrible for a mortal man.

But the stones were sharp at his back. He could see his hands clammy, shaking as they must not do if he was to sway the outcome of the battle ahead.

"Are you all right, Father?"

That was Pascal, his pallid face etched with fresh anxiety, as Jacob pressed back against the wall to let them pass.

"Yes, yes -- just get him out of here -- and quickly... No... wait!"

It was difficult to move in the tight passage with its jagged walls, its sloping roof. The six men clutching the make-shift stretcher could not stand upright. He slid sideways, reaching out to grasp the shoulders of their motionless burden. No rise and fall at all in the massive chest, but he bent, pressing his ear once again to fur matted with blood, and after a few seconds he heard it again, faint as before and impossibly paced, but even.

"Yes, all right -- quickly now." He straightened up and let them pass.

Their progress was alarmingly slow, dreamlike again, but it would be quicker once they emerged from this wretched labyrinth, fit only for the catacombs of the dead. He breathed deeply and concentrated on fighting the queasiness that threatened to render him useless.

He had seen horrible injuries, sliced with scientific detachment into the bodies of the living and the dead, known the despair of losing the physician's battle and the tragedies of personal loss, but nothing had prepared him for tonight. Nothing could equal what had happened here for sheer, unfathomable horror.

A wild impulse seized him to go back into the cavern, to look again, but he knew it was no more than a primitive wish that the world should be as one would have it. So the savages might paint pictures on their lairs of the things they desired.

He had seen with his own eyes what had happened. He had spent long, excruciating minutes by the side of his fallen son, waiting for Mouse to bring the others. Only walls streaked with crimson. Only a rubble-strewn floor and a finger of the ubiquitous abyss insinuating itself into the sepulcher like an invitation to hell.

Above him the stretcher had disappeared into the next passage. He fumbled for his walking stick and set out to follow the others. Must find composure by the time they reached the hospital chamber. Must push down the memory and concentrate everything on pulling Vincent from the jaws of death. The courage to change the things that must be changed and to let the others go, but of course there was no way to let it go. The implications were so far-reaching... No, a step at a time, that is all he could allow himself to consider, and the first step was so treacherous that it would require everything he had to give. Could it possibly be enough?

He cursed the affliction that made his progress so damnably slow, but when he gained the top of the slope and turned the corner, the stretcher bearers were still visible at the far end of the tunnel.

He hoped Mouse had remembered the rest of his instructions -- to have someone contact Peter Alcott immediately. Pray he was not out of town or in the midst of his own duty to influence the battle on another front. Mary would be waiting. She knew what to do, had been there during that other time.

Never had he imagined that those dark hours in Vincent's adolescence would offer comfort, but they remained the single beacon of hope in this crisis. This had happened before, or something very like it, and his son had survived -- against all indications, medical and rational -- he had survived.

Even knowing that, when he'd rushed to the body lying still on the crescent of floor and found in it no pulse, no hint of breath, no discernible heartbeat, he had known pure terror. All his ministrations had produced no effect for what seemed an irreversible stretch of time. Only a madman -- or one who had seen this phenomenon before -- would have lingered as long as he did, his ear pressed to the still heart and finally, finally caught that first faint, impossible whisper.

The memory of that other time brought with it the painful knowledge that he had been all but helpless in the battle. Had he learned anything in the ensuing years that could help his son now? If he had, he didn't know what it was and couldn't be sure whether they were still facing the same challenges.

Vincent was stronger now, more capable of monitoring the changes in himself. Capable? Oh, yes, he had full knowledge of his own imminent downfall, so much so that he had taken it upon himself to bid farewell to those he loved, those he would die to protect.

A fresh wave of despair washed over him. The injustice of it all, that one so sensitive should be subjected to this hideous torment, yet retain awareness of his own deterioration, see it mirrored in the frightened stares of his friends and know that he had become their enemy as well as his own.

In the end the differences were all that mattered.

The passage widened, making it possible to stand upright again, though he hunched involuntarily above his cane. Up ahead the men were hurrying now that the ground had leveled out. Should he call to them, ask them to stop, so he could check just once more? Useless, really. What could he do if the elusive sound in Vincent's chest had ceased? Nothing more than he'd done already. Better to get him to the hospital chamber as quickly as possible.

All his life had telescoped into the next moments. Everything he had, everything he knew must be focused on pulling his son from the mysterious condition that claimed him. That was the first step -- the physical... but mentally? Dear God, it was impossible.

The pain in his hip dulled beneath the agony of guilt. Assuming Vincent survived this second and more intense assault on his sanity, what awaited him in the rational world? And who had acted so unwisely as to cause it?

No, he couldn't dwell on that now. If he did he would soon be as lost as his son had ever been. All he could offer now were his medical skills and a determination that would have seen him gladly exchange his life for that of the still, wounded figure on the stretcher.

Teeth gritted, he walked with swift, painful steps, managing to keep the others in sight, but try as he might he could not prevent the nightmare from playing over and over in his mind.

His vehemence had been genuine when he'd begged her not to go, seeing before him in that moment yet another person dear to him in fearful danger. The agonized sounds echoing up from darkness were coming faster, wilder, at once piteous and blood-chilling, the sounds of a creature utterly beyond reason, beyond hope. That anyone, much less a delicate, unarmed woman, should venture near the source of that mindless raging, was unthinkable, and yet in that gentle, lovely face there was such strength, such single-mindedness.

To restrain her would be its own kind of murder, he had thought then. She had only one passion, one objective. Nothing else meant anything to her, and to thwart that would somehow destroy all that she was, all that he could see blazing in the soft green eyes.

And what other means did they have to fight this thing? It had worked before -- Catherine able to pierce the drug-induced delirium when he himself had failed, able on several occasions to call his son back to lucidity from the depths of his fury. Yes, it was the only option open to them. Vincent could not be reached with reason; he could not be subdued physically without lethal danger to those brave or foolish enough to attempt it. Only the strange, inner voice that spoke between these two could possibly have the power to waken again his gentle, loving spirit.

Oh, it had made perfect sense at the time, and if his own desperation had been extreme as the bellows of agony wrenched at his heart, it was no more than Catherine was feeling.

She understood. She would not think him callous for wanting to use every means at hand to end this catastrophe. Neither of them would hesitate to risk everything for Vincent. He knew that in the moment at the gate, when it seemed the steel bars could not possibly hold against the infuriated animal strength, and that face -- hardly recognizable now with its maddened eyes, its unhealthy shadows -- had turned toward him with blind hatred.

He hadn't flinched when the arm pulled back, claws tensed, ready to descend with what surely would have been a death blow. No courage had been required; he'd had no secret intuition that the blow would never come. There was simply no choice. In his love for Vincent, he could only try to reach him in the darkness, no matter what the cost.

And he had seen that same unconditional commitment in Catherine's eyes, when he had attempted to dissuade her. It was not a matter of weighing the consequences; there was simply nothing else she could do, nor could she live with herself afterwards if she'd given in to reason. He understood that. Had anyone tried to interfere with his own marginal efforts to get through to Vincent, he would have fought them, hated them for not comprehending that he must try everything, however hazardous.

And so he had let her go.

Ah, yes, it was all easy to characterize now, to justify, to rationalize and none of it mattered. None of it could change the fact that he should have stopped her, should have called the others and had her forcibly removed, should have gone into that hellhole himself and tried one last time, because no amount of mental exercise could change what had happened, and what had happened meant the end of everything: of the extraordinary woman who had changed their lives, of Vincent, should he survive this illness, of his own ability ever to draw a peaceful breath again as long as he lived.

The distraught little entourage had reached familiar territory. Several figures appeared, hurrying down the broad stone steps to help with the stretcher. It wouldn't be long now until they reached the hospital chamber, and he wondered if they'd succeeded in finding Peter. Mary would know what to do. Already she would be preparing a bed, gathering the instruments needed to monitor and maintain whatever miraculous spark Vincent summoned on his own.

If he couldn't really understand this affliction or cure it, he could at least make the patient comfortable, tend the more superficial wounds and try night and day to get through to him, assuming what they carried now was not merely an empty shell.

He grimaced, casting off the thought, moving as quickly as he could up the endless stairway. It was foolish and counterproductive to drain himself imagining the worst, when the best would require enormous energy and composure. If only he could put those other images away, but they kept returning with photographic detail, playing over and over like a continuous loop of film, and there was no way to dismiss them as he could the morbid speculation.

These were facts, the things he'd witnessed, and their ramifications were more terrible, more deadly, even than the upheaval in Vincent's soul. They, too, had the power to provoke madness, and -- he had no illusions about it -- the power to kill.

Again and again he saw his brief confrontation with Catherine, felt his fear and the hope that sprang from the strength of her determination. How small she seemed in that moment, how fragile -- like love itself -- and it was love that left her no choice but to follow Vincent, love that gave her a curious glow to his eyes, as she turned away and started down the trail, a fearful and courageous warrior on a terrible quest.

He had watched her as long as he could, wondering if he should try to stop her, knowing he wouldn't. The hopes of all of them rested on this one slight figure in a raincoat, growing smaller and smaller as she made her way through the coarse, foreboding passage, the shadows gathering darker and deeper around her until she was out of sight.

Moving then, because it had suddenly seemed unbearable cowardice to linger safely in the background and because he must be there if there was any way at all to help. He had pulled himself along by the jutting rocks, still trying to catch sight of her, refusing to absorb the implications of the scattered clothing he passed on the way.

As the light grew dimmer, he was less sure if the movement ahead was really her or merely an illusion, but he pressed on, the ever-mounting roars almost deafening him as they funneled up the narrow channel.

Ahead there was an opening into darkness, but as he reached it and squinted frantically inside, he saw that there was a faint, hellish light flickering in the cavern and saw that it rose from a sulphurous glow -- yet another opening into the treacherous abyss.

He squinted and found Catherine moving only a few yards away. The roars could be felt now as physical vibrations, but where was Vincent? The sickly light faded and then flared weakly again to reveal walls dabbed with scarlet. Stones still fell, as if lately loosened by a tremor.

These things he saw in an instant or two of strobe-like illumination, and then a figure rose from the shadows. It turned at Catherine's scream, naked to the waist, shining with blood and sweat. The muscular arm had tautened to steel; it moved with the speed of panic, the strength of insanity, the reflex of a wounded animal in the direction of the sound.

All so incredibly swift, all in the time it had taken him to draw a single breath at the cavern's entrance.

Why then did the image that followed, that repeated itself over and over again in his brain without losing one bit of its horror, sink into slow motion? It was as if he were being forced to watch frame by frame an obscene film that unfolded with sluggish, painstaking detail, drawing out the moment and the terrifying emotions that seized his heart in a death grip.

Seeing that arm arc out as Vincent whirled, watching it sweep the thing it came in contact with out and over the lip of the abyss, and follow through with no sense at all of what it had done.

Had either of them -- even for the slightest instant -- had any awareness of what was taking place? For the rest of his life, he knew he would pray that they had not. If a devil existed, beyond the ones he had seen at work today, he would gladly sell his soul to him just to be sure of that.

Did Vincent have awareness of anything at all? He sincerely doubted it. What had thrashed about in that cavern had not even retained an animal's cunning instinct, much less the ability to see and understand. The evidence of that was on the gory walls, and Vincent's own lacerated flesh. Pure agonized rage in an efficient machine, flailing at any and everything in its path, that was what had dominated the cavern, no sentient being with the power to differentiate one image from another.

And Catherine. Had she had time to realize what was happening? Could she have been conscious in the second that saw her swept from the solid floor and into nothingness? Once more he had to fight down a wave of nausea. It was far more likely that she'd lost consciousness the instant that the lethal fist had connected, known nothing as the ground pulled away and her body had begun its endless fall.

He was trembling again. Must pull himself together. There were anxious faces all around him now. Through the opening ahead he could see that Vincent was already being rolled onto the bed.

Good, yes, that was good. No need for the operating table -- if only it were that simple. And he must summon all his strength -- for Vincent and for the good people gathered here who looked to him to set the tone. He had his obligations as a doctor, a father, a leader and a friend. On those things must his thoughts be bent.

There would be plenty of time later -- whatever happened now -- to listen to the inevitable breaking of his own heart.

* * * * *

The chamber was at last blessedly silent. As he perched for a moment on the bed next to Vincent's, he could not remember when he had last sat down. All night he had been walking, climbing, standing. Amazing really to find himself capable of that. Adrenaline, he supposed.

The others had withdrawn to their beds, convinced at last that there was little they could do. He rubbed his aching knees and drew a certain comfort from his surroundings, one born more of tradition than the current situation. The gleaming surgical instruments lined up precisely once more on the little table, the cots with their boiled sheets, pristine against the cool grey walls, even the IV on its silver rod -- a stark atmosphere with few variables, the domain of medicine where one could feel a sense of control, the field of battle and all the familiar weapons reassuringly at hand.

And a good comrade to fight at your side, he thought with gratitude. Candlelight flickered across Peter's glasses. He was still wearing his suit coat, though the tie had disappeared long ago, and he looked every inch the competent physician as he stood quietly, fingers pressed to Vincent's wrist.

The only discordant note in the hospital ambiance was the thick leather straps that bound the patient's arms and legs to the metal bed frame -- a necessary precaution, he reminded himself, though he chose not to look at them for long. There was no way to tell when Vincent awoke -- if he awoke -- whether he would be himself again or the raging creature that had thrashed about the buried cavern, heedless of its own self-inflicted wounds.

Those at least had been treated in the last hours. Numerous clean, white bandages glowed in the flickering light. Incredible that no bones had been broken, though the condition of his hands was enough to make a father weep. They'd had to shave some of the thick fur away -- and wouldn't he hate that? As for his hair -- something must be done about that as soon as possible. Caked with dirt and blood, it snarled around his head in depressing contrast to the rest of the room and to Vincent himself who had been suitably bathed.

He suspected his son had always had a secret pride in that wild mane of hair. As a child, Vincent had turned singularly uncooperative at any suggestion that it might be easier on everyone if it were just a bit shorter. Not that he'd spent any significant time on grooming it. That hadn't come till later, that hadn't come until....

Yes, first thing in the morning, they must see what they could do to clean it up a bit.

"Come here, Jacob. Take a look at this."

He rose quickly and bent over his son's silent form -- mouth slightly open now, the sandy lashes motionless against his cheekbones. God, he hoped they were right not to take stitches in those lacerations. Deep as they were, experience had taught him that Vincent's recuperative powers were something to be envied by the average person. His tissues renewed themselves with remarkable speed and efficiency, and, in fact, the wounds appeared nicely closed, as if the clotting of the most unusual blood had seamed the flesh together.

There was still only a barely definable rise and fall to the brawny chest, but he knew now that a mirror held to the parted lips would show a faint mist.

Vincent was breathing. His heartbeat had become increasingly more pronounced since they had arrived here, though it was still disturbingly languid.

He hadn't moved a muscle or made a sound during the entire procedure -- the examining and the cleaning and the medications that should have hurt like fury -- even the correction of two dislocated fingers -- and the shoulder.

But now he saw what Peter was looking at -- the steady movement of Vincent's eyes beneath their bruised lids. What a simple, reassuring thing. He looked across the bed at Peter, some of the tension relaxing from his face.

"It's the damnedest thing, isn't it Jacob? You and me, after all this time, still pretending we can figure out what makes Vincent tick, still expecting him to follow some pattern we've seen in a textbook. This isn't a coma. I don't see any reason to suppose he won't wake up at any moment."

"No reason, except that his heartbeat, his respiration would barely sustain a sparrow. "

"You know better," Peter smiled wearily. "Only tiny bodies require that kind of pace and this is hardly a tiny body. Vincent's system may be far more self-regulating than ours -- you've seen that in the way he heals so quickly. It may be doing precisely what it needs to do for his present condition no more, no less -- very efficient."

"Mere supposition, Peter. The fever's lower now -- I can't see why he doesn't wake up."

"Exhaustion. I think it's just simple, mental and physical exhaustion. Give it time. We're not doing him any favors by wishing him awake -- to what? A whole lot of pain. He's too dehydrated to have an ounce of strength. Let's get some fluids into him while he can't object and assume he's having pleasant dreams. Come on, you know it's all we can do."

"Yes, I do know, but it doesn't make all this any easier."

"Having your own son as a patient doesn't make it any easier. This whole episode -- it's paralleled what happened before?"

"More or less." He sat down again and Peter came around to join him, stretching out his long legs, removing the horn-rimmed glasses. "I'm convinced the origins are mental, psychological if you will -- and the physical deterioration an effect of that. "

"How can you be sure? There may be a chemical problem, a hormonal imbalance, that precipitates the psychic breakdown."

"I don't think so. Things have... happened recently, incredibly stressful events that would put a strain on anyone's sanity and with Vincent... with the exceptional demands already made on his coping mechanisms... well, it has simply taken every bit of his stamina to function as long as he has. He has a tremendous will, Peter. It may be that he has been bringing every faculty to bear on this turmoil, this conflict in his mind at the expense of his physical health." Peter was looking at him with curiosity. "I don't care to get into it all right now, and at this juncture, I'm afraid it's basically irrelevant. The point now is to save his life."

"I know. We'll do that, Jacob, or we'll help him do that. Everything looks good in light of what happened in adolescence -- the vital signs stopping, starting again. There's no reason to expect the outcome will be any different this time."

"Perhaps." He stared at the still form on the bed until he could be certain that it had expanded with another deep, slow breath. "It was a simpler time then, Peter. He was dealing with very basic emotions and instincts, and now... he's been through so much, had so many conflicting demands to assimilate. I only pray that the Vincent we know is still in there -- reachable."

"He also has a grown man's judgment and an incredibly strong constitution to help him weather it all at this stage. Maybe his mind has the same superior ability to heal itself that you and I have seen in him physically since he was a child. God, remember that time he broke his wrist?"

"On that wretched rope swing of Devin's, yes. It was madness to have it there over the rocks, but I didn't actually punish him. I thought a broken bone would be consequence enough."

"And a week later, they sent for you, and there was Vincent swinging over the chasm -- to prove to you how safe it was. "

He summoned a tight smile. "It was good of you to come, Peter. I can't tell you what a comfort it is just to have you here."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else." Peter gave him an encouraging pat on the back and rose, stretching his lanky frame. "I'm not on call tomorrow. I'm not even all that tired. Why don't you get some sleep, and I'll wake you if there's any change at all. We can take shifts for a while if you want. Once Catherine's here we'll be lucky if either of us gets near him again. Were you waiting for morning to contact her?"

He had moved back to Vincent, once more checking his pulse. "Still dreaming." he said with a smile. "There's a very active mind in there, Jacob. Let's hope they're nice, soothing dreams."

The sick feeling had returned. Had it ever really left? It had been there all night, held at bay by the things that could be changed. The hands that had moved over Vincent's body with such skill were shaking again, and he clutched them together, afraid that their trembling would spread to his entire body.

"Peter," he said hoarsely, "perhaps you should sit down again. There's something I have to tell you."

* * * * *

Dawn. It must be dawn, and a greyness had crept in even here. It clung to everything like a lank veil, chill and tenacious as a spider's web. The candles seemed daunted by it, their flames giving off a thin, watery light in the silent study.

How long had it been since Mary shooed them from the sick room, shocked at their ashen faces? Jacob had lost track of the number of times he'd filled his glass from the great, bulbous decanter. Never since coming to the tunnels, never since his college days had he tried so earnestly to get drunk, but it wasn't working. He felt coldly and brutally sober.

Peter sat hunched across from him, staring with red-rimmed eyes into a glass that was still half-full. Jacob couldn't remember refilling it once, and he doubted his memory was wrong. He could remember so many things... so clearly.

There was a sound at the entrance, and Mark appeared. The gash on his forehead plainly visible.

"What?" Jacob barked. "Is it Vincent?"

"No, no change. We just wanted to know if you'd like something to eat. You've been up all night. "

"Mark, please, I told you -- no interruptions. Only if there's some change in Vincent's condition. Now go back to the junction and make sure no one comes in here, do you understand?"

"I understand." The man withdrew, and Jacob thought listlessly that he should have been gentler, but the thought passed.

Peter hadn't even looked up, but suddenly he spoke, and there was conviction buried in the raw unsteadiness of his voice. "You'll never get away with it. "

"I have to get away with it."

"How? How in God's name do you think you can pull it off? Have you got some wild idea that you're really omnipotent? Down here, maybe, but there's more than that to consider."

"I know that. I'll need your help."

"My help? I don't feel capable of helping anybody right now. I don't know how to deal with this. God, that whole family... what did they ever do to deserve this? Catherine's mother, Jacob. She was beautiful, intelligent, one of the gentlest people I've ever known. She'd had a rotten childhood, but she rose above it -- a survivor -- and then to be struck down with cancer when she was still so young -- and Cathy was so young. And Charles. He was the kind of person you can't imagine dying -- ever. He was too single-minded, too confident to ever let anything stand in the way. It was just straight ahead with Charles, as if he expected things to fall in line the way he wanted, and so they did. Dead -- just like that. And Cathy -- she was the best of both of them. Her life had just begun. It seems like only months ago that I held her in my hands, and she was this squalling, beautiful, perfect, new little person." He covered his face for a moment and then sat the brandy snifter on the desk. "Look, I'm sorry, Jacob. I know how much you cared for her."

"More than you know, Peter. Certainly more than I ever let her know." There was a bitterness in his tone that drew a sympathetic look.

"She knew." Peter said gently. "We can drive ourselves crazy second-guessing what we should have done and said when it's too late. It's hard enough, old friend. Don't do it to yourself."

A stiff nod in response.

"Is there any chance at all you could be mistaken about what you saw?"

"No... I was standing only a few yards away. And she didn't merely slip into the pit -- she was flung into the center of it. You've seen the abyss, Peter. It intrudes here and there at every level of this place, and God only knows where it ends -- if it ends. Certainly it penetrates into the molten layer of the earth. I can only hope... I believe -- that she had no time to suffer."

"My God." With a shudder Peter reached for his glass and drained it. Several minutes passed before he said. "What you're proposing... it would mean that none of her friends -- up there or here would even be allowed to mourn her."

"We would mourn her -- you and I, Peter, in our hearts. It's already begun. "

"She deserves more than that."

"She deserves to be alive, but we can't change what's happened. I can't... I won't see that compounded by another tragedy."

"You're talking about lying. You're talking about living a lie for as long as you live. "

"I'm talking about my son's life! Do you seriously think that he could withstand that burden? If the man he was still exists, if he survives the current crisis, only to be met with this news, do you honestly believe he could survive it? It would kill him. Peter -- one way or another -- it would destroy him."

"How can you be sure he didn't realize what he'd done?"

"I'm sure. I saw his face. There was no comprehension of any kind in his eyes. The Vincent we know had been totally eclipsed by something that attacked itself with the same ferocity it turned on everything in its path."

"But you said he collapsed immediately afterwards. Wouldn't that suggest cause and effect -- a reaction?"

"If it was a reaction, it was not on a conscious level. I believe that -- I have to believe it. It's the only chance we have that might save him."

"Maybe not. Maybe if we changed the facts a little, said she merely slipped -- that it was an accident --"

"Oh, please." In his agitation, he rose, moving around the desk. "You know Vincent. You know how he thinks, how he feels. Would he believe himself any less responsible if her death were accidental? She was there because of him."

"He doesn't know that."

"He may remember that he sent for her. Dear God, even if he doesn't, it wouldn't change anything. He would blame his loss of control, blame the fact that he loved her, knew her. I very much doubt that he could survive the loss of Catherine regardless of how it came about. His whole life has come to revolve around her, around the love they shared. They were part of each other, Peter, in a way that defies all logic. Vincent's passion, the intensity that has allowed him to hold on despite his inner conflicts, are completely focused on Catherine. Take that away and we've lost him as surely as we've lost her."

Peter stared at him for a long time. The lines in his face had deepened, his hair stood at odd angles where he had run despairing fingers through it. There was little hint of the self-confidant man who had stood at Vincent's bedside. "You're right," he said at last. "I know you're right, but I don't see how you can prevent his finding out. How are you going to explain her absence?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I only know that I must try, that it's the only hope of saving my son. Please, try to understand that."

"I do." Peter said softly. "Believe me, Jacob, I do understand... and I know that Cathy... would want us to do everything we could to spare him. If you think this could work then... yes. You know I'll do whatever I can to help you, but have you thought about what this will mean? Not just now, but in the years to come? You two have always been so close. To face him every day of your life with this secret between you, it's an inhuman burden. It's too much to ask of yourself."

"Perhaps I need it, Peter," he said with a humorless smile. "Perhaps, it's the penance I deserve for letting her go -- alone -- into that cavern."

"No... I know how you cared for her, and what you said about Vincent's feelings -- they were true for Cathy, too. She couldn't have walked away from him when he was suffering. I saw her, Jacob, when she was caring for him at her apartment. She wouldn't have given up, no matter what the cost."

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat. There would be time for more tears later on -- a whole lifetime -- but now he had to think, had to plan what he was going to say. Vincent might awaken at any moment. Whatever had possessed him to wish he were drunk, when it was going to take all his faculties to construct a durable lie?

He picked up the fat decanter and stowed it back in the cabinet. "The cost she paid was far higher than any I shall have to suffer. We owe it to her to see that Vincent doesn't have to pay it as well. Are you willing to carry the lie up there into her world? Because we will have to do that to some extent to assure its survival down here."

"It can't be too complex, Jacob. If it is, someone will get suspicious and start investigating. I'm not sure how long we can prevent that in any case."

"A simple solution for an incredibly complicated problem," he nodded sadly. Simple like life and death, heaven and hell -- and no choice between.

"Wait -- how did Cathy get here? Did anyone else know she had come below?"

"Nearly everyone. Pascal showed us the way -- Mouse had been following Vincent, you see, but I'm the only one who actually saw her go into the cavern. I... I've already begun the lie, Peter. Surely you noticed Mouse hovering around the hospital entrance while we were working. You saw me speak to him."

"I assumed you were reassuring him. The boy clearly worships Vincent. He was worried. "

"Worried -- and confused. Mouse's thoughts are always clearly written on his face, and I could see that he was puzzled about something, wondering why Catherine wasn't with us. He was simply itching to ask at the first opportunity, so I told him that her approach had agitated Vincent, and we'd thought it best that she leave at the last junction. "

"He believed you?"

"I've never given him any reason to doubt my word. He trusts me." Yes, already beginning -- what he must become to see this through. An invisible barrier already rising between himself and those whose love and respect he had worked so hard to earn, so thin that he could feel it slicing through his own soul. A divided man, as Vincent had always been divided. "I want to check on him again and then perhaps we should force ourselves to eat something, so we can think clearly."

"Of course." Peter unfolded his lanky frame from the chair, smoothing his hair, adopting his professional expression for the benefit of those who didn't know what bitter tears had been shed here tonight.

Silence hung like a heavy burden between them as they made their way down the dim corridors.

"Any change?" Jacob asked as they entered the sickroom, where Mary sat, one soothing hand on Vincent's, though he remained motionless.

"Nothing obvious... but he seems peaceful enough. I think he feels a little cooler. "

"Yes, you're right. His breathing's been clear, no sign of difficulty?"

She shook her head and stepped aside, so that he and Peter could repeat the procedures that had become perfectly coordinated between them in this long night, a silent duet of skilled hands and sharp eyes that searched the mystery of the patient's condition, looking for familiar signposts that could lessen the discomfiting sense of their own limitations. At last their eyes met over the bed.

"He's stronger, Jacob. It's all speeding up very slightly."

"Yes," he sighed -- with relief, with weariness, with the fervent wish that Vincent would waken with recognition in his eyes and the fear that he might do so and find those standing over him unprepared. "Mary, would you mind staying with him a while longer? Peter and I need time to discuss this further, and we should have some breakfast."

"You should have sleep, too, Jacob -- you and Peter both. Of course, I'll stay with him, and later on, if you think it won't disturb him, I'd like to wash his hair." There was a melancholy expression in her gentle face as her voice fell to a whisper. "He's proud of his hair, I think. It would embarrass him that it looks so terrible."

What would he do without Mary? He knew the tenacity, the implacable strength that lay beneath the tender persona, and he laid an affectionate hand on her arm. "You're right, as usual. That would be a very good idea."

"Well, later then -- maybe after Catherine gets here. I'm sure she'll want to help."

"Yes, later, Mary," Peter said smoothly.

Jacob had clutched, unable to say a word. With the reassuring pressure of Peter's hand on his shoulder, he let himself be guided from the room.

* * * * *

He sat in an attitude of prayer beside the bed, but he wasn't praying, nor even thinking.

The prayers had all been uttered: thoughts were useless things, each leading to one more fraught with despair, all of them spiraling toward disaster of one kind or another. What could be done had been done. Now it was a matter of fending off exhaustion, clearing his mind in hopes that it would respond quickly and effectively to the challenges yet to come.

The hospital chamber was empty now, but for himself and the patient. Peter had retired to the guest chamber which had been his these last three days. Bless him. They both knew there was little to be done, yet Peter had insisted on being here. The time he never seemed to find for a vacation had been claimed without hesitation, so that he could lend his moral support to a friend in need.

A small sound punctured the silence -- something between a sigh and a groan. It was not the first time. Jacob welcomed it with a frisson of gratitude and hope, fastening his gaze once more on the beloved face. For two days now, these vague, unremarkable noises had occasionally risen, and they seemed to Jacob wonderfully ordinary -- the kind of sounds anyone might make while dreaming.

The fever had gone now, if it could be called a fever in any ordinary sense, accompanied as it was by that impossibly quiet heartbeat, that unhurried pulse. Vincent's physiology seemed to defy all the rules, making intervention a tricky process, making the skills Jacob took for granted seem meager, even faintly ludicrous. What good was his wealth of knowledge if it couldn't be used to save his own son?

Already the cuts and bruises were fading. Vincent's hair lay clean again and free of tangles. No reason that it shouldn't when he lay so utterly still.

Jacob squinted, wondering if it was only a trick of the light that made it seem the golden lashes had flickered. Several seconds passed before he realized that there was a slit of blue showing beneath the lids. Rising, he moved toward the bed, his heart pounding, and Vincent blinked, slowly. His eyes opened fully for a moment, trained on the face above him, and then as quickly closed.

His lips moved and, had Jacob not been hovering quite so near, he might have mistaken the soft sound for merely breath, but he was near, and he did hear it -- the single faint word -- "Father."

No poetry, no eloquent oration could have stirred him with more power than that single word, barely articulated.

He moved back, feeling as though an enormous burden had been lifted from his shoulders, a black weight from his heart. As he stretched out on the waiting cot, he thought that perhaps this time he could actually sleep, untroubled by nightmares or the tears that welled silently in the corners of his eyes.

* * * * *

As soon as the others were stirring in the morning, he made the decision.

"I want him moved to his own chamber -- right away."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Peter tugged the stethoscope from his ears and pulled the blankets back over Vincent's chest. "It's not possible to restrain him as easily there. Just because he seemed lucid last night doesn't guarantee he won't be dangerous next time he wakes up."

"It does mean that," Jacob said firmly. "I've seen this before, Peter. The pattern is very much the same. The battle has been fought and -- this time at any rate -- Vincent has won. Our job now is to welcome him back to reality, and that is best done if he wakens in his own chamber, in his own bed. This place will only serve to remind him of... of how close he came to losing."

Peter nodded. "I suppose you're right. The restraints certainly haven't been necessary so far. I've never seen anyone quite as immobile, this side of a coma, but perhaps that will change now."

Change it did. In the afternoon Jacob at last took the time to sit down with the children and answer their questions as best he could. When he returned to Vincent's chamber, the subtle alteration of the figure on the bed touched his heart -- with memory, with recognition and relief.

Vincent had been lying on his back when he left, not having stirred when the four men -- with grunts and groans and hands made clumsy by the loving concern they bore for their wounded friend -- transferred him here this morning. Now he lay on his side, knees drawn up slightly. His hair had tumbled across his face, so that he no longer looked like a statue -- or the effigy of a fallen warrior carved on a silent tomb.

Mary smiled, rising from the chair where she'd kept vigil in his absence. "It won't be long now, Jacob," she said, laying a comforting hand on his. "I've asked William to keep the broth heated. Vincent will be taking some soon, I'm sure."

"I hope you're right. Peter thought it was a mistake to remove the IV, but I can't help thinking he'll awaken any moment. The more normalcy we can provide in his surroundings, the easier it will be for him to deal with what's happened."

For a moment he feared what Mary would say next. Her brow had puckered. Surely, she would raise the question that he had succeeded in vaguely sloughing off during these tension-filled days. Normalcy indeed.

He had said little to the others that would explain Catherine's absence. There was another more immediate crisis to confront, one that could conceivably bring a tragedy to their lives from which no one, perhaps not even the tunnel society itself, might ever recover. If Vincent came back to them, there would be time enough -- oh, endless, bleak oceans of time -- to live the lie.

"It's so unfair. Vincent is the gentlest, most compassionate person I've ever known -- aside from you, Jacob. You taught him that. No one could have been a better father. To see him tortured this way and you having to watch it... it's enough to shake your faith. "

Her mouth trembled, and Jacob pulled her into a firm embrace. "Perhaps our faith is being tested. We cannot let it go. We all have to believe that this darkness will pass, that perhaps it may never come again. Your faith strengthens us all. Don't abandon it now." He pressed a loving kiss into the soft-piled hair, and let her go. "Now, if -- and when -- Vincent regains consciousness, we'll want to get as many liquids into him as we can. Would you mind checking with William to see that there's fruit juice available? If not, perhaps he could send to one of our helpers."

"Of course, I will." Chin tilted determinedly, Mary smiled again and patted his shoulder. "And I should hurry in case he wakes up while I'm gone."

If only he could bolster his own courage as easily as hers.

Jacob moved to the bedside, settling in the chair Mary had vacated. Vincent appeared to be breathing quite normally now. This might have been any morning, and he might have been waiting here patiently for his son to awaken to the usual joys and duties of their fragile world.

Except that he might not awaken. Except that it might not truly be Vincent who opened his eyes. Except that -- when he did -- it would be to a world more changed than he could ever bear to know.

* * * * *

Late afternoon.

Precisely how he knew that Jacob couldn't say. He'd often wondered whether ignoring the timetables above, changing the routine so that everyone rose at midnight and settled down again at noon, would quell the instinct that told him -- told all of them -- whether it was day or night. Even those born below had a sense of it, as if their bodies still listened to the rhythms of nature above.

But, of course, they couldn't help knowing -- the frequency of messages, of rattling subway trains, even the water rushing through the pipes all pulsed in the background of their lives. How tenuous this separate existence really was.

They were dependent on their friends above, on the very air that kept them from burrowing farther into the earth. Over time the connections had multiplied. More people above knew of their existence. More people below felt free to venture out into the open air when the need -- or the longing -- claimed them. Sometimes he wondered how long they could go on before the wrong person became curious and sought out their secret, and it ceased to be a secret altogether.

He shook off the pessimism. Security had been breached before and no doubt would be again, but it didn't mean they wouldn't survive. The instinct for survival was great in all of them. And as all things seemed magnified in the person of his son, he prayed that the basic drive toward life had withstood the shattering of his mental balance, that it could withstand what awaited him in the waking world.

Presented with the question of life or death, of madness or sanity, he had hardly considered the grey that might exist between black and white.

Vincent had recognized him. Surely that meant that his faculties were intact. Or was it perhaps the most complex response of which he would be capable? The thought that Vincent might awaken as a child again, that his educated, agile mind could have been reduced to a simpleton's limited perceptions, stabbed him with the viciousness of an unanticipated blow, and he pressed his fingers against his eyelids, as though thought could be obliterated as easily as sight.

When he looked up again, he found himself regarded by familiar blue eyes that left his face to scan the room, and when words were spoken, they were not the reflexive response to something that those eyes had seen. They were the proof of memory, of abstract thought, and of priority.

"Where is Catherine?" Vincent whispered, and, reflexively, Jacob Wells began to weep.

He reached out and grabbed one bandaged hand, pleased that the answering squeeze was firm; the fingers bent naturally with no hint of pain. "Forgive me," he said thickly and paused, willing the tears to stop. "It's merely that I'm so relieved to hear you speak, but you mustn't tire yourself... please. Vincent, just lie back. We'll have plenty of time to talk when you're stronger."

"It was... like before... only darker, more... "

"You mustn't think of that. It's behind you now, behind all of us, and it's essential that you not dwell on it. You must concentrate on resting and getting well. How do you feel? Is there any nausea? If you think you could hold it down, I would like you to take some nourishment, some soup. Can you do that?"

Vincent started to speak again, frowning slightly into the shadows of the room, but when he looked again at Jacob, his expression eased. Compassion stirred in the blessedly clear eyes.

I must look half mad, Jacob thought -- too little sleep, too much grief and fear. The tears had barely dried on his cheeks.

"I'll try, Father."

Even hoarse from disuse -- or from the savage sounds that had ripped from his throat days ago -- Vincent's voice remained inexplicably soothing. How strange that Jacob should find himself the one being comforted here, for Vincent was humoring him, of that he had no doubt. He only hoped that he could maintain this distraction for a little while and that Vincent could, indeed, tolerate a bit of broth.

He rose and hurried to the entrance, summoning Mouse, who, he knew, would be lingering somewhere nearby. The boy was pathetically eager to carry out his mission in the kitchen. The world had righted itself in his view with the announcement that Vincent was fully conscious, and Jacob returned, half expecting to find the patient once again asleep.

"Father, tell me... what happened."

As unwelcome as the question was, it was preferable to having Vincent searching his own memories.

He started to sit down again, but thought better of it. Perhaps by standing, he could convey an air of authority that was sorely missing in his spirit. Grasping for the reassuring manner essential to physicians, he willed himself to speak with something approaching matter-of-fact simplicity.

"As you say, it was very much like before. There was fever, delirium, a rather violent response to those around you, but we were quite prepared. We did our best to see that you brought no harm to yourself or to others. We did not entirely succeed, as you can see." He nodded at the bandaged hands and hooked his mouth into what he hoped would pass for a rueful smile. "Nothing that won't be soon healed, I'm certain. And then, it was as that other time, you lost consciousness. Your body simply adjusted itself" -- no need to mention the hellish fact that his vital signs had ceased altogether -- "and for these three days we've been watching you slumber, wondering when you were going to resume your fair share of the work load."

Had he gone too far? Was his wan attempt at humor too great a contrast to the tears for credibility? There was no response from Vincent. At first Jacob thought he might have drifted back to sleep, but after a moment his eyes opened again. "Worse," he whispered. "So much worse... this time."

"Then your triumph is all the greater." Jacob stroked a strand of hair from his son's marred cheek. "I really must insist that you not try to talk until you've regained your strength."

"Catherine…"

"Catherine is not here just now," he said briskly, turning toward the entrance. "Ah, here's your supper." He hurried to take the covered bowl from Mouse, who hovered tentatively in the doorway, eyes wide with curiosity. "He's much better, Mouse, but not quite up to visitors yet. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Going to be okay?"

"Certainly. Why don't you run and tell the others the good news?"

Vincent was effectively silenced by his efforts to drink the broth, which he did with surprising appetite. How adaptable his body was, Jacob thought, as he kept up a soothing, largely unnecessary stream of encouraging comments. With mixed feelings he watched the strength fading in the powerful hands that cradled the bowl. No sooner had it been emptied than Vincent sank back into the pillows. In seconds he was sleeping peacefully.

As he turned to set the bowl on the table, Jacob noted that his own hands were shaking. His knees, too, were quaking in delayed reaction to this first crucial test. He was sure that what he'd told Mouse was true. Vincent was well on his way to recovery. He had moved again into the light, and it was he -- Jacob Wells, doctor, humanitarian, loving father -- who must soon take the first step into a terrible darkness.

The reprieve lasted longer than he might have hoped. Vincent didn't fully awaken again until the next morning, and the night wasn't wasted. Jacob spent it planning what he must say, regaining his own strength with a surprisingly restful sleep in his own bed.

It was Peter who sat with Vincent through the night, an uneventful one for a medical man. Far easier for him to plead ignorance to the questions that Vincent might ask if he chanced to wake again. He wasn't called upon to do that, and at an early breakfast he challenged one last time the wisdom of Jacob's plan.

"I don't want to see Vincent destroyed, but I'm not willing to lose you either. Have you considered what a terrible toll this will take on you, day after day, year after year? You're an honest man, Jacob. To maintain that kind of deception will require continually fighting your own natural instincts."

"Something Vincent mastered long ago. I can only hope to do as well -- for his sake. And you're quite wrong, Peter, about my capacity for deception. Have you forgotten how long I kept the truth from Devin? Or that I managed to hide my own background all those years from Vincent? Good lord, man, this very community is an exercise in deception, keeping it a secret from the world above. No, I think you overrate my integrity."

"Not your integrity, Jacob, never that, but you're talking about deceiving the person closest to you, a person who's damned near psychic when it comes to the people he loves. And you can't get around this simply by ignoring it. He won't let you. You're playing with the most important issue in his life."

"Which is precisely why I must succeed." Jacob finished his tea, setting the cup down with a decisiveness that threatened to shatter the saucer.

"All right." Peter admitted defeat. "I'm on your side. You know that." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Would you like me to be with you when you tell him?"

"No... no, I have to do this alone. I don't mind telling you that I doubt I could have gotten through these last few days without you. You have my eternal gratitude for that, but the medical crisis is past. I've kept you here long enough. You have patients waiting above."

"And my part to play in this conspiracy," Peter added dryly.

"I regret that Peter. If --"

"Please, Jacob, I wasn't complaining. You have my promise that I'll do my utmost to smooth things over. Don't forget, I've managed to keep a few secrets in my life, too."

"So you have." Jacob rose, clasping the taller man in a bear hug.

"Send for me anytime you need me," Peter said in parting. "Otherwise I'll check back with you in a few days, and I'll be praying for you, Jacob -- you and Vincent."

* * * * *

Jacob's initial surprise at finding Vincent awake, propped into a sitting position -- "He did that himself," Mary whispered -- was soon replaced by a renewed appreciation for a phenomenon he could never fully hope to understand. Vincent could not be classified. Nor could the patterns that his illnesses -- and healing -- followed.

When coaxed to try solid food, he proceeded to eat a hearty breakfast with no sign of difficulty and insisted on going to the bath chamber unaided. Although Jacob lingered outside ready to spring to his assistance, he emerged under his own steam a half hour later dressed in shirt and breeches, his hair a profusion of damp ringlets.

Mary and Jamie fluttered about, changing the bed in his absence. A pot of daisies and coral-colored snapdragons had materialized -- from God knew where -- on the table. The fire was freshly stoked in the iron brazier. Vincent stood staring at its livid, molten glow for a moment when he returned, dominating the room with his size and that indefinable aura which seemed always to surround him and of which he seemed perpetually unaware.

Jacob's relief outweighed his frustration that all attempts to impose the air of a sickroom were turned aside. Vincent rejected out of hand the suggestion that he sleep, refusing to return to the freshly made bed. He chose instead to sit in the venerable armchair, conceding only to the lap robe pressed upon him by eager hands.

Through all of this -- Jacob's cautionary pleas, Mary and Jamie's conversation which had taken on the bubbly twittering quality of care givers who know the crisis has passed, Vincent spoke scarcely a word.

There was no lack of alertness in his expression, but his thoughts were bent elsewhere, of that Jacob was certain. Once or twice he found himself the subject of an intense wordless scrutiny that caused his heart to hammer with trepidation, but he hid it under a brusque stream of instructions.

A pot of herb tea had been sent for and the patient encouraged to drink as much as he could.

"I brought you these -- a bunch of different things -- poetry and stuff," Jamie said, indicating a stack of books purloined from Father's library.

"Thank you, Jamie." The voice was soft, replete with the simple sincerity that other voices never seemed quite so capable of conveying, but his eyes were turned with unblinking concentration on Jacob's own.

Discomfited, his voice sounded unnaturally loud as he said, "Since you're determined to be up, there are many people who would dearly love to stop in and say 'hello,' to see for themselves that you're recovering. Mouse, for instance --"

"No."

The single syllable hung in the air, unmitigated by explanations, and Mary shot Jamie a wary look. "We should go now, too, Jamie. Just let me know if there's anything you need, Vincent. I'll look in on you later."

The two women left, and it seemed to Jacob that a dense silence had descended on the room, quite apart from the clanging of the pipes.

Courage, the determination he'd felt when he'd left Peter earlier, seemed to have vanished under the bustle of activity, fled perhaps with the women's benign presence. A shameless urge to deflect the inevitable came over him, and he picked up a book from the stack Jamie had left.

"Madame Bovary. Interesting choice. You know, there are many who consider this the most perfectly crafted novel of the 19th century, perhaps of all time."

"Where is she?"

Jacob set the book down again. The question had been uttered almost without inflection. Perhaps it was the lack of identifiable emotion that made it seem spare, sharp, an arrow that struck so true it would be useless to wrench it free, for no stanching of the blood could affect the internal damage.

"She's gone away, Vincent. She's left New York."

There -- it had begun -- the rest of his life, when the relationship with his son would be built on a lie. And he thought with relief that the statement had rung with an authenticity born of desperation.

What had he expected? A gasp of shock, perhaps a roar of pain, certainly a barrage of relentless questions in keeping with the intensity Vincent had been leveling on him these last long minutes. But only silence followed.

Indeed, he felt himself released by the palpable scrutiny as Vincent turned away. Eyes lowered, he sat motionless for so long that Jacob thought wildly it might have been too much for him -- the morning's activity, the brutal announcement. Perhaps his mind had simply shut down again and he was asleep.

A movement of Vincent's mouth, a brief worrying of the lower lip, disabused him of the notion, and as the silence stretched out, a second more horrible explanation came to him.

Did Vincent know he was lying? Was it possible his ravaged mind held some memory of the fatal moment, that even now it was flickering into consciousness, revealing the truth that could only destroy him?

The tension was unbearable, and yet Jacob felt powerless to break it. His throat had closed, and he could only sit staring at the motionless figure, abstractedly noting how the candlelight deepened the coppery glints in his son's wet hair.

"Tell me," Vincent said at last. "Tell me... exactly... what happened."

Jacob swallowed, unsure yet whether this was a test of his perfidy or an honest desire to know. In any case, the die was cast and he could only play his turn.

"How much... how much do you remember, Vincent, of what's transpired these last weeks? Do you recall, for instance, your efforts to go above, when I... uh... met you at the gate to Central Park?"

"I remember."

"Do you recall going to Catherine's apartment -- collapsing there?"

"Parts of it," came the whispered reply.

There were far too many emotions entangled in those three words for Jacob to decipher. He plunged ahead. "And saying good-bye in the study, asking the others not to follow. Do you remember that?"

"Clearly. "

"And after that? Samantha spoke to you, I believe. You talked to her."

"No... yes... I think so. There were things... visions, dreams. I have dreamed, Father, it seems incessantly these last days, and I'm not sure where one begins and the other ends. How can I tell when some of the things I know to be true have no reality for me? And the dreams... there was truth in them, more real than I've allowed myself to see."

For the first time there was a note of confusion, even a look of appeal in the troubled eyes Vincent turned toward him. Jacob began to hope that he still held a modicum of control that could influence what happened next.

He rose from his chair and picked up the heavy carafe. "Here, you're not drinking your tea." He poured a mug and set it close to Vincent, who made no move to pick it up. Jacob's throat was filled with cotton wool, and he poured a second cup, yet it was beyond him to take a drink. He very much feared that he would be the one who could not hold it down. "It's understandable. You were running a very high fever, which can bring dreams, even hallucinations. In retrospect, it could be difficult to sort them out."

He would not have been surprised at a withering retort. It did very much sound as if he was talking about an ordinary illness, no more than a normal person's bout with the flu. His son did not believe in glossing over unpleasant truths, but he was not in the least prepared for the response that came.

"I killed her," Vincent said.

He had gasped before he could stop himself. His hand found the bed behind him, and he sank onto it, fearful of the sudden weakness in his knees. "What... what do you mean?"

"I killed Catherine," Vincent repeated quietly. "In the dream -- I killed her as surely as if I'd done it with these." Raising his hands, he curled the claws toward him, fixed on them with an expression Jacob couldn't see behind the curtain of hair.

A wretched sort of hope was gathering in his chest. As if. Vincent had said "as if." His son's brutal honesty would put no such fine point on what had actually occurred. "I don't understand."

"I failed her. I... did something unforgivable. The price was her death."

"I see," Jacob said, though he didn't at all. What mattered was that Vincent had classified the tragedy as a dream, as surely it must be, a dream quite apart from the gruesome reality that had actually taken place, but it was important to be sure. "Do you remember going down below the catacombs, shedding some of your clothing along the way?"

"My clothes? No... But I remember, I know... I had to destroy him."

"Who, Vincent?"

The shaggy head shook slowly. "I don't... I'm not.… " Abandoning the effort to explain, he said simply, "I don't even know if I succeeded."

Jacob repressed the urge to probe deeper. Vincent's voice had begun to betray his exhaustion, and it was enough to be certain that he had no valid memory of the tragedy. "You did succeed in overcoming the darkness, Vincent. That's all that matters. The battle's won."

"At what price, Father?"

A shiver brought him to his feet and then to the table to pick up the untouched cup. "You're not drinking this, and you really must."

For a moment he thought Vincent might strike it from his hand. He was once again staring at him with that palpable intensity that would not be denied. "Why? Why did she leave?"

With careful deliberation he put the mug back down and returned slowly to his chair. "When you went below you were not yourself. The cavern -- where you sought to hide from all of us, to protect us... the walls were streaked with blood. In your delirium, Vincent, your rage became focused on the only available victim. The wounds on your face and hands -- they were self-inflicted."

"Catherine witnessed this?"

"Uh... yes. Yes, she did."

"How? If I sought to remove myself from all of you, how did this happen?"

"Well, Mouse followed you, you see -- out of love, concern. Pascal led Catherine and myself to where he was waiting... to you."

"You let her come, knowing the danger?" The exhaustion in Vincent's voice was gone, replaced by an ominous undertone that was reflected in his tightening grip on the chair. Anger was rising in him. Jacob could feel it like an electrical force in the room. "How, Father? How could you do that? How could you even bring her below when you knew what was happening to me?"

"It was you, Vincent. You sent for her. Don't you remember?"

Perhaps it was a cowardly thing to do, pointing that out. He felt cruel for saying it, even if it was the truth. In any case, it had the desired effect. Fire faltered in the blue eyes. The hands, that had been poised to push out of the chair, relaxed. Vincent brought one to his face in an attitude of despair. "I... yes. I do remember, but that was before... before I knew how close I was to losing. You should not have come -- not you, not Mouse... not Catherine."

"We could not simply abandon you, Vincent. We only intended to be nearby should you... should you need us, and, of course, that is what happened. You lost consciousness, and we were able to bring you safely back."

"But not before she saw me as I was... the madness... the blood." The brief surge of anger had taken its toll. The words were mere whispers.

"I'm afraid that's true. It was a shock to her, naturally, as it was to me. Neither of us had ever seen you... well, so bent on self-destruction. It broke our hearts, because we were so powerless to help. In that moment I think Catherine realized that the only hope for you, for both of you, lay in her going away."

The protest Jacob had anticipated here didn't come. Vincent didn't even look at him, and he pressed onward, afraid a pause might drive the well-rehearsed arguments from his mind. "You must understand that this is in no way a punishment. Catherine did not mean it as a rejection of you or the love that you two share. On the contrary, I believe this crisis served to point up something we have all of us -- myself included -- chosen to ignore. Catherine's presence in your life -- for all the wonderful things it has given you -- was also a very real factor in your loss of control. It may pain you to hear that, but if you search your heart, you'll know it's true."

Jacob almost unconsciously pulled backward, expecting a wave of passionate denial if not downright anger, but the figure in the chair scarcely stirred.

"I am tired, Father. I'd like to sleep now."

How much easier it would have been to face hostility. This unforeseen air of resignation, the weariness in Vincent's posture and his tone, wrenched at his heart. What kind of father was he -- indeed, what kind of doctor -- to push a patient so recently at death's door? "Of course, that's exactly what you should do. We can discuss this further when you're rested."

Vincent ignored the move to assist him, though whether it was meant as a personal slight or merely self-determination, Jacob couldn't tell. The miraculous energy displayed earlier was gone as Vincent moved heavily to the bed and without another word lay down, pulling up the comforter.

His eyes closed, and with a start Jacob realized he had actually fallen asleep. His breathing was deep and even, as careful hands tucked the blankets around him.

"Sleep well," Jacob whispered.

The chamber seemed to him turbulent with emotions. He did not want to stay here -- not now with the dark thoughts roiling in his brain, but it was a cliché that buzzed through his head as he sought the cool, impersonal passages.

"This hurts me more than it hurts you." A parent's lament, and he was not at all sure of its validity. He only knew the role he'd fashioned as guardian angel of his son's survival felt strangely like an executioner's.

* * * * *

Vincent slept through until morning.

Mary was just leaving when Jacob entered the chamber. "He seems stronger, Jacob, and he ate his breakfast, but he's very quiet. Do you think it would cheer him up to have visitors?"

"Not just yet. Please, could you make certain that we aren't disturbed?"

"If you think it's best." With a sympathetic glance toward Vincent, who had once again chosen to sit in the chair, she left them, and Jacob began the comforting routine of examining the patient and redressing his wounds, though several were sufficiently healed now to make that unnecessary.

"I dearly wish that more of my patients had your recuperative powers," he said heartily.

"Then perhaps you should choose less human patients."

He let that one go. It was not in Vincent's nature to play for sympathy or beg contradiction with self-pitying remarks. Still, it told him a little of his son's state of mind. His doctor's role completed, he sat down, stretching out his legs, and became again a father.

"Vincent, I have wished often over the years that the miracle of nature which made your body so nearly invulnerable had extended that invulnerability to your soul as well. It's your soul that is most human, most capable of suffering. I weep for that -- even as I thank God for giving me so fine a man as my son."

"Part of your son is a man, Father."

"The best part, the only part that matters."

"If that were true, you would not believe that Catherine and I must end. Please, you cannot have it both ways. Am I a man to love as any other man may love?"

The question, gently posed with no bitter edge, nevertheless left Jacob floundering for a response that would not sound nakedly cruel.

"It was not really a question," Vincent said, smiling slightly. "I know the answer quite well."

"That is not the only issue here. You must see, Vincent, that your insistence on protecting Catherine, in her world as well as ours, has brought you continually to the edge of your humanity. The wonder of it is that you haven't lost control before now. Surely, you can see that."

"My protection is all I've had to offer her. "

"Nonsense. That's utter rubbish, Vincent."

"What then should I give her? A lover's kiss? The home she longs for? Gold? Jewels? What, Father?"

"I believe," Jacob began evenly, "that you gave her what she most wanted -- your love, your respect and encouragement, quite apart from your physical intervention at great risk to your sanity -- not to mention your life -- every bloody time the woman got herself into trouble!"

The vehemence had risen in his voice even before he knew what he was saying. He had felt it, thought it so many times, but speaking of it now, when it was too late, when Catherine had -- with perfect loving selflessness -- paid the full price, made him feel faintly ill. As if such an accusation could bring anything but more trouble to a monstrously troubling situation. But there was no anger in Vincent's face, nor in the soft words that finally broke the stillness.

"Catherine did not ask for my protection. I gave it freely. She had no cause to consider --"

"But she did consider it." Jacob hastened to add to her credit. "She did tell me toward the end" -- unfortunate choice of words, that -- "how she shared the responsibility for what you had to do and the feelings that resulted."

Vincent only shook his head. He drew in a deliberate breath, as if breathing was something he had to think to do. "Where has she gone?"

"To Europe... the Mediterranean, I believe." The downcast eyes, a slight tremor of the mouth tore at Jacobs heart.

"That explains it," Vincent said softly.

"Explains what?"

"Her presence within me... so faint, almost like memory."

"Yes, well, I'm sure that's inevitable under the circumstances."

How well he knew that feeling. Was there ever a moment when the sense of Margaret was not as accessible to him as his own breath? "As hard as it is for you to accept, this may be for the best -- for Catherine. A chance for her to live her life more fully. You must try to give her that gift, Vincent. Love her enough to be happy for her."

In the past, such advice had met with obstinate refusal. Vincent's feelings had roiled against him, raw and painful to behold, though his actions had proven more reasonable than his emotions. He had always deferred in the end to Catherine's choices.

"Father, do you think I've never tried? More than once I've told her that she must find another life, but her belief was so strong, her faith in what we share... and my weakness was so great."

"Love is never a weakness, Vincent." Reaching out, Jacob stroked one battered hand. "But letting go can be its greatest expression. I think... that this was inevitable. I've always thought so. As close as you had become, as much as you loved each other, there were bound to be feelings -- desires -- that could not be acted upon. Struggling against such instincts would drive any man to the edge of madness."

Jacob had expected a full-blown battle. Many were the arguments he'd collected over the last few days, convinced he would need every one of them to appeal to Vincent's rational side. He had counted on his son's unselfish love to eventually sway the outcome, but not before a painful outpouring of emotion against which he was prepared to steel himself, to accept the blows, to offer what poor comfort he could. It confused him that the war seemed already won. And he wondered what weapons had been employed -- certainly not his own.

As if reading his thoughts, Vincent whispered, "I know what has to be, Father. I have faced the truth not perhaps in this world, but in my dreams."

Pain was evident in the curious confession, and Jacob couldn't know if probing would make it worse or offer some release. He sat silently, waiting and Vincent added, "In my dream there was a child -- Catherine's child... my child."

How odd it seemed to finally have this subject raised. It had been there even before the incident with Lisa, only to be spoken of obliquely or implied in a look that passed between them. Sometimes Jacob felt as though it hovered in the air, an invisible presence, never to be validated with words. The issue was real, and so was the hurt that accompanied it. He nodded sadly, "You dreamed of making love to Catherine."

"No... not even that. I only knew that it had happened, and because of it, I lost everything."

"How, Vincent? You know, it's often helpful to talk about one's nightmares, to vent your fears. Perhaps you should tell me a little of your dream."

"It was only that... because of what I did to her, our bond was lost. I was powerless to help her, to find her... and she was killed."

"By whom?"

"A man from above. His name was Gabriel."

"Ah... from 'above' indeed. The angel whose duty it is to herald the end of the world." Jacob nodded, glad to find a resonance that might help him to distance Vincent from the pain he clearly associated with these visions. "Well, certainly, a loss such as you describe would seem the end of the world, your world. As I recall my Bible, it was Gabriel who told Mary of the miraculous birth to come. Were there echoes of those passages in your dream?"

"No," Vincent spoke sharply. "This man was no angel, and he knew nothing of the child… not at first. There was a black book -- a clue in an investigation above. Joe Maxwell was almost killed because of it, and then... then Catherine."

Jacob pushed back his chair and stood up, as if the movement might somehow lift Vincent too from the depths that claimed his spirits. "Forgive me," he said, pouring a glass of the fresh-squeezed orange juice that William had miraculously produced, "I know how painful these visions are to you, Vincent, but I hope you won't mind if I give you my own impressions -- an objective viewpoint. It might help to demystify their power."

Vincent didn't answer, nor did he take the glass of juice that Jacob scooted before him.

"I'm sure in your reading of anything and everything that you've encountered the term 'little black book.' It's generally taken to mean a man's record of the women he's courted -- their names, addresses -- his conquests, if you will. Perhaps it represented your jealousy of the men in Catherine's life, the fear that one of them might take her away from you. Joe Maxwell, for example."

"Joe is her friend."

"Of course, but he is also someone she cares for, someone who was part of her world in a way you never could be. It's understandable that on some level you might find that threatening."

"Elliot Burch was there as well." Vincent's tone was leaden, as if he had no appetite for the game Jacob was determined to play, but his response allowed it to continue.

"There, you see. Certainly of all the men Catherine has known. Burch has given you the greatest cause for concern. What was his role in all this?"

"He tried... he tried to find her killer. And he died in the effort -- because he loved her. He meant to betray me, but -- in the end -- he saved my life."

"Mm. It seems you're not entirely sure whether to regard this man as hero or villain. He died for her... and yet you lived. How did that make you feel, Vincent?"

"Guilty," Vincent whispered, staring at the glass of juice as if it were some unidentifiable object.

"I shouldn't be at all surprised if that guilt wasn't already there -- perhaps unrecognized. After all, you stood between him and Catherine, knowing full well that he could give her all the things you couldn't."

"It doesn't matter, Father. Elliot... doesn't matter."

"No, I suppose not. Please, drink the juice." Vincent did, moving like an automaton, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "I'm still not sure why -- in this dream -- you blamed yourself for Catherine's death."

"I told you, Father. I destroyed the connection between us. When it mattered most I could not save her. And the child... Gabriel wanted Catherine's child, because... because it was mine. He took it from her and from me, and my searching seemed endless. Nothing was as it seemed. Our world was violated. There was snow everywhere," he added in a whisper. "Snow in the tunnels."

"Well, certainly that should have told you it was all a dream." Vincent's despair was so palpable, he might have been recounting real events. Feeling it, Jacob struggled to lighten the mood. "We may have our problems, Vincent, but digging out after winter storms has never been one of them. Believe me, it's one aspect of life above that you can count yourself fortunate to have missed."

Vincent didn't respond to the levity. He seemed unaware that Jacob had even spoken, following some dark trail of his own. "Snow penetrated our world... bringing destruction and death."

"Does that have some significance for you? Was there a time when you were above, when something happened -- in the snow -- something that might have weighed on your conscience only to surface in sleep?"

"No... nothing."

"Perhaps a winter's night in the park --"

"Snow was a man, Father -- an assassin... and he was below -- inside."

"Think carefully, Vincent." This discussion seemed suddenly vital. With no hope of changing the grim reality to which his son had awakened, the least he could do was to help him make peace with his nightmares. "Why should that particular imagery trouble you? There must be a reason."

Vincent only shook his head. The singing of the pipes became the dominant sound in the room. A minute passed before he whispered, "When you shake it... inside it snows."

"I'm sorry? What did you say?"

Vincent repeated the odd phrase, turning slowly toward him. "There was a man, a simple man -- not like the others. He helped me to find my way back to you... back to Catherine."

"Wait... this was before she was killed?"

"No, Father. Not in the dream. When I... when I was injured above -- in the explosion, I had made my way below. Only a single door separated me from these tunnels and safety, yet I hadn't the strength to open it. This man -- Howie -- helped me do that at great personal risk. One of the others found us, the one who was determined to kill me. He would have succeeded but Howie intervened, I could not see, Father. I didn't know... and then the shots rang out.

"He was killed?" Jacob said, appalled.

Vincent nodded. "As he... as he died he said something very strange. It made no sense to me. He said, 'When you shake it, inside it snows.' I had forgotten that until now."

"I see. Well, whatever he meant by it, I can understand why the memory should rise to torment you, but you were not to blame, Vincent. In your condition there was nothing you could have done to save him. So what happened to this Snow in your dream?"

"He... died. I took the body above."

"No more snow in the tunnels then. What else can you recall?"

"The man who gave Catherine her job -- the District Attorney she admired -- even he was evil."

"Well, that's to be expected. I'm certain you've had very mixed feelings about Catherine's work and the danger it involved. I'm almost afraid to ask," he added lightly. "Did the rest of us fare more kindly or were we revealed to be villains as well?"

"No... but my struggle seemed solitary. I felt close to no one, except... "

"Except...? Absurdly, Jacob hoped that even in the dream -- this nightmare that seemed designed for self-torture -- it would be his name that Vincent spoke.

"There was a woman. Like Catherine, she worked with the police above. She befriended me, helped me. It was she who found my son. Her name was Diana."

"Ah, Diana -- goddess of the hunt," Jacob smiled.

"She destroyed Catherine's killer when I could not."

"Well, of course, she did." Vincent didn't seem to hear. Brow furrowed, he appeared lost within his own thoughts, and after a while Jacob added, "There were other skills attributed to her, particularly in her Greek incarnation as Artemis. One of her duties, as I recall, was to heal the sick and afflicted."

"I... I don't remember," Vincent said vaguely.

"Of course, you do. A part of you does. That's patently obvious, because she was also the protector of newborns. We read those legends together, Vincent, you and I -- how she sent a wind to detain Agamemnon at Aulis, because he had killed a rabbit on the verge of giving birth."

"Agamemnon was not in my dream," Vincent snapped.

"Don't be too sure," Jacob smiled, briefly. "I know you think I'm merely talking to hear the sound of my own voice, but it isn't true, nor do I mean to belittle the significance of this dream or the way it's made you feel. On the contrary, Vincent, I'm simply trying to help you understand it. Go on now. Tell me the rest."

"At first I resented her intrusion in my life. I could think of nothing but my grief, want nothing but revenge, the destruction of those who had harmed Catherine. I did not want her sympathy or her reason. It was so difficult to trust, yet after a time I began to. She killed, Father... and it was wrong by all the precepts she had sworn to live by... yet, she was not evil. Her choice saved the life of an innocent child. It saved mine. And she became my friend."

"Well, certainly goddesses are above the laws that govern the rest of us," Jacob said, but he was beginning to recognize in Vincent's description something far closer to home than the lofty protocol of Mount Olympus. "Tell me, what was she like?"

"Strong, different -- with the look of another time. She might have stepped from a renaissance painting -- or a fairy tale."

"Please, go on," said Jacob, intrigued. "Describe her to me."

Vincent gazed off into the shadows, as if conjuring the dream image in the air. "Long hair -- titian. Blue eyes. She had great courage -- and compassion, but she was not like Catherine. She seemed... cut off from others, alone. There were things she could sense, beyond the realm of ordinary people, and she was tireless in her love, in her pursuit of justice."

Jacob said nothing for a long time. He sat absently stroking his beard, until his silence at last drew Vincent's curiosity. "What is it, Father? What are you thinking?"

"Only that your description sounds very like someone I know. It sounds like you, Vincent."

The astonishment in his son's expression was the first real hint of emotion beyond the ones that weighed so heavily upon him, and Jacob was gratified to see it. "Perhaps, this woman was meant to represent a facet of yourself. You say you wanted revenge. That's certainly far more characteristic of your darker impulses, a side of you that mistrusts the rational, merciful man."

"But she, too, killed Father -- this woman killed outside the limits of the law."

"As you have done," Jacob said gently, "but you say she wasn't evil, that what she did had to be done. You accepted her as you must learn to accept yourself. Perhaps your subconscious was attempting to make peace between those things within that you find so hard to reconcile."

"There was little peace in my dreams," came the grim reply.

"So I gather, but there was hope. This dream image stood by you when you were lost in grief and anger, a symbol perhaps of the strength that made it possible for you to continue even as you grieved for Catherine."

"There is nothing in me that could continue, Father, if she were truly lost." Jacob only nodded, sorrow welling in him again like a tide. He could scarcely contradict the comment, when he had based his entire course on the belief that it was true. "Vincent, it seems to me that all your greatest fears and your desires, even old regrets, took life in this dream. The yearning that you and Catherine might love in the physical sense, that there could be a child of that love. And your fear that such an act would mean her death. You were punishing yourself in this dream -- with the worst loss imaginable, punishing yourself for the feelings you may not even have acknowledged. Let go of it, Vincent. There is no shame in feelings. You don't deserve the hideous retribution you've doled out for yourself."

"Do I deserve this one?" Vincent said softly with one of the saddest smiles Jacob had ever seen. "To be able to love her only by letting her go?"

"No." Throat constricting, tears springing to his eyes, Jacob reached out to smooth the tousled hair. "You don't deserve it, Vincent. Never believe that you do, but perhaps it is the only way."

"I know... I knew that even before you spoke to me. There were times, Father -- when I touched her, when I held her close... I wanted so much...." Jacob could feel the shudder that passed through the stalwart body and was afraid his own emotions would soon overflow, but with a visible effort Vincent composed himself. "It seems that even nightmares may have their purposes. Please, don't look so unhappy, Father. I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Yes. I know you will. Why don't you rest now, Vincent, and perhaps later on you'll feel up to having visitors. The children in particular have been very concerned. They understand so little of what's happened. It would do them good to see that you're up and about, and it might do you some good as well."

"Of course, Father. I'd just like to sit here a while -- alone."

Alone. A terrible word, Jacob thought as he rose to take his leave. How much worse Vincent's aloneness was bound to be, now that he had known the joy of a woman's love. And how alone he himself felt, wrapped in the cocoon of his own careful lie.

As he moved into the shadows, he thought with bitter irony that even in his dream Vincent had been denied the experience of making love. If there were, indeed, omnipotent powers on Mount Olympus, the concept of justice seemed to be beyond them, and their empathy for lesser beings had all the earmarks of a cruel joke.

* * * * *

"Cathy call in this morning?"

Half an hour till he had to be in court. Pick up the Channing file, better check with Moreno one more time about the extradition waiver, maybe grab a hot dog out on the street.

"Not yet. That flu's nasty stuff, Joe. What is it -- swine or Asian or one of those? My roommate had it, and she didn't crawl out of bed for a week."

"Not what I need to hear, Escobar." Two others down with the same thing, Gable on maternity leave and where the hell was Hanson? Should have been back from Bensonhurst an hour ago. He finished rolling down his sleeves, hastily buttoning the cuffs. "Let me know if she calls -- find out how long she expects to be out."

"I will. Don't worry, Joe. I've got all her files. I'll see that she's covered."

"Owe you one, Rita, thanks."

Into the office for his coat. Stuff the folder into his briefcase and try not to look at the pile of messages next to the phone. Hope John wasn't in conference.

He was off, his mind occupied with a dozen things that damned well better get done, and he didn't think of Catherine Chandler again until returning to the office.

It was almost 5:30. The lightweights, the ones born to the bureaucratic mind-set, were starting to leave. Thank God, there were people like Cathy -- and Rita -- who thought of this as something more than a place to pick up a paycheck, people who stayed until the work got done, no matter what the clock told them. There were a half dozen of them still busily at work in the staff room, and as he finally sat down to sort through the messages that had multiplied like rabbits in his absence, he noted that there wasn't one from Cathy.

The next day, too, she didn't report in.

"Give her a call, would you, Charlene? In case she needs anything. She's by herself in that apartment."

"Rita already did, but all she got was the machine. She's probably sleeping."

"Yeah, probably."

Still, it made him uneasy. He realized he didn't know enough about Cathy's private life to assume that there was someone she could count on in a situation like this -- to look in on her, see that she got what she needed. He didn't want to lean on her, keep calling until she got the impression that it wasn't all right to be sick when they were so short-staffed. Nobody deserved the time off more, but it might not be a bad idea to stop in after work -- just as a friend.

He was coming out of the conference room in mid-afternoon, when Charlene intercepted him on the way into his office. "Cathy's still under the weather. Joe. It will probably be another day or two before she comes in."

"You talked to her?"

"No, her doctor called."

"Her doctor? Why would her doctor call? Are you sure it's only the flu?"

Charlene shrugged. "That's what he said. You know, he's the one who gave expert testimony for us a couple of times -- Cathy's friend. He says she just needs some peace and quiet for a couple of days."

"Alcott?" How could he forget? Old friend of the family -- the one that delivered her. He felt the tension leave his shoulders. Obviously she was in good hands -- didn't even have to lift a finger to ring the office with her own personal physician on the job. The guy probably still made house calls.

He didn't think about it anymore till the next afternoon, when they were searching high and low for the original notes of a report that seemed to have lost something in the translation.

"They're not in her desk, Joe. I've looked through everything."

"Well, give her a call, will you? We gotta get this thing straightened out before Moreno asks for it."

Rita never got past the machine. "I left a message, though, and asked her to call us as soon as she can."

But Cathy didn't call back.

Not even listening to her messages. Probably doctor's orders, but somehow it didn't seem like something she'd do, even if she was feeling lousy. Cathy was always conscientious.

Even later, when the notes they were looking for turned up on a secretary's desk, the feeling of something not being quite right wouldn't leave him.

So she was getting terrific care from an old friend. It was one thing not to bother her and another to act like he didn't give a hoot how she was feeling. He'd stop by after work tonight -- just for a minute, say hello, ask if there was anything he could do.

But work extended beyond the office that evening. At 7:30 he stood in the ladies' room of an uptown restaurant -- all lilac and white rococo mirrors. The slender body in its impeccable silk suit, had been folded at impossible angles around a mauve toilet bowl.

There were seven of them peering into the stall, men in uniform and out, all dull dark colors against the plush pastels. They said she was the wife of somebody the DA's office had been investigating for the better part of a year: that's the reason they'd called him down here.

And less than two hours later he was up on 92nd, standing in a driving spring shower while the blood of two derelicts, still lying in a makeshift shelter of cardboard and trash cans, drizzled out into the puddles. Their throats had been cut while they slept, and the beat officer kept clucking darkly that he bet it was the start of a pattern and that they had a serial killer on their hands and with something that volatile, it was best to get everything clear with downtown from the get-go.

It was nearly 11 before he could think about going home, but he'd meant to stop by Cathy's. Not at this hour. She'd be in bed for sure. Hopefully, she'd call first thing in the morning or better yet, he'd come in to find her, pale but intrepid, going through the pile-up on her desk.

But she wasn't there the next morning, and she didn't phone.

Repeated calls to her apartment got the same recorded message. Finally, he dialed Peter Alcott's number. If Cathy was incommunicado, he could at least get an update from her doctor, but Alcott wasn't in. In fact, his service informed him, the doctor was taking a few days vacation. He wasn't leaving town, was he? Joe wanted to know -- only to be told they weren't able to give out that information.

There was something confusing about all this, and he wasn't going to have a free minute to try and figure it out until court was dismissed this afternoon. Rita had her hands full trying to do her own work and Cathy's, too, or he might have asked her to drop by the apartment now, but 6 o'clock, come hell or high water, he was going up there and make sure she was all right.

He had half a mind to send a patrol car over there just to set his mind at ease -- talk about subtle. Oh, sure, Radcliffe, take all the time you need, but a few days off and we send in the cops.

She had phoned in, after all, that first day. Her doctor had confirmed it. Hell, what did he want -- a note from her mother? There was a risk in this profession of reading something sinister into the most ordinary events. There was just the slightest chance that he was becoming paranoid.

Nevertheless, when he dashed into the staff room late that afternoon it was with every intention of dropping off the paperwork and heading straight for Cathy's.

Damn. Someone was waiting in his office. Through the open door he could see a man in a well-cut suit, easy air of command in his stance. This could be trouble. The visitor turned at his approach -- there was the obligatory power tie and above it the sharp features of Dr. Peter Alcott.

"Joe." Flash of a courteous smile that didn't hold. Firm handshake. "Peter -- is this about Cathy? Has something happened?"

"Could we talk for a minute -- privately?"

"Sure." He closed the door, feeling paranoid again, and went to his chair.

Peter sat down, crossing his legs. Even the crease in his pants was immaculate. Suave. That was the word they used for guys like Alcott, the ones that always made him conscious of his own blue-collar roots and the fact that he'd never bothered to develop a sense of style. Not that he didn't like the doctor. He looked like somebody who'd seen a lot of the world, but it hadn't rolled off of him the way it did some distinguished-looking men, leaving them bland. The deep-etched face was shrewd, but kind, honest.

"What is this -- is she worse?"

"No." Peter raised a long-fingered hand in a soothing gesture. "Nothing like that. There's no need to worry about her... but I am sorry to tell you that she won't be coming back to work."

"She needs more time? She can have whatever it takes, but I don't get it. If there's nothing to worry about.…"

"She can't come back here."

"You mean for now... forever... what?"

"She's exhausted, Joe -- physically and emotionally. These last two years have been terribly stressful for her -- not just the job, but the attack, the death of her father. It was taking its toll, and frankly, I couldn't stand by as her physician and friend and watch it continue. I've advised her to get away from New York -- from everything, and she's done that. I realize this puts you in an awkward position, but I wouldn't have insisted if I didn't think it was crucial to her health. Please don't think badly of her. I assure you the responsibility for this sudden departure is entirely mine."

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Never mind the soothing bedside manner. Never mind that the man was hardly beating around the bush. Whatever he'd feared, it wasn't this. "It's not like Cathy to let someone else do her dirty work. She couldn't even call?"

"You have every right to be angry --"

"I'm not angry. I'm just trying to understand."

"Of course, but again -- the way this was handled, however badly it may seem, is due to my decisions, not hers. I don't want you to judge her. You realize that I've known Cathy all her life. Her parents were two of the dearest friends I've ever had. When Charles died so suddenly, she was left with no family, Joe. None."

He let that sink in a minute, and Joe absorbed it as an exotic, almost eerie concept. How often he had felt bereft at the loss of his own father, but he was damned near awash in family -- on both sides, aunts and uncles, cousins too numerous to count. They were all there in the background, layer upon layer of relatives. Nothing short of a nuclear holocaust could curtail the bloodlines he claimed as his own -- family all over New York, in several states that he knew of, not to mention in the countries that had produced his ancestors. In Cathy's family, it all ended with her.

"You can understand that I feel a responsibility toward her that goes far beyond merely being her doctor. Aside from the fact that I've always been extremely fond of her personally, there's a sense of obligation to her parents. When I saw that she was anemic and perilously close to exhaustion, possibly even a mental breakdown, I had to do what I believed was best for her. As it happened, she had friends about to sail for the Mediterranean. They were only too happy to include Cathy, and there simply wasn't time for her to contact you. I advised her to leave with them immediately. It's the best thing for her, Joe -- a leisurely cruise, away from everything that might remind her of what, surely you realize, has been a very rough couple of years."

Then she was really already gone. The suddenness of it was a little hard to take in. "This is... I just wasn't expecting anything like this."

"Weren't you really, Joe?" Alcott's eyes narrowed. "I'm aware that Cathy considered you much more than a boss. She's spoken often of your friendship. I find it a little hard to believe you didn't see any signs that she might be losing her grip."

"Hey, I'm not the doctor here," he shot back defensively, but Alcott wasn't offended. He looked neither accusatory nor condescending -- only genuinely interested.

Was it possible that he'd purposely not seen what was going on with Cathy, because he didn't want to? "Now that you mention it," he said more quietly, "she did seem preoccupied lately, nervous. I had a feeling there were things she wasn't telling me, but you've got to understand, as close as we've been -- and there's nothing I wouldn't do for her. She came through for me when nobody, and I mean nobody else, wanted to get that close -- there were always things she kept to herself. This wasn't the first time she was real evasive about what was bothering her. I'd gotten used to that."

Alcott nodded. He didn't seem the least bit skeptical.

"I didn't think this was any different," Joe went on, absently running a hand over his hair. "You gotta expect there's going to be times in this job when things just pile up. They get to you. We all go through that, and Cathy was more sensitive than most. The kind of stuff she's been dealing with here -- well, it's not exactly what she was used to. I understood that, but every time it seemed to be getting to her, it didn't last very long. She'd bounce back, ready for action, like a seasoned veteran. Even that time -- what was it? Must be a year ago now -- when she threatened to quit if she couldn't take a leave." Funny, Alcott must have known about that, but he could have sworn from his expression, quickly hidden, that he was hearing it for the first time. "Even that time, she was only gone for a few days and then it was business as usual. When her dad died, I was really worried about her, but same thing -- a little time off, and she was back to work with a vengeance. "

"Joe, I'm not blaming you. Please, believe me. I only brought it up, because I think if you consider what you're saying, you'll see that what's happened isn't all that surprising. Things have, as you say 'piled up,' and it's important that she have the chance to recuperate."

Joe nodded. "I'm sure you know what's best for her, it's just that... well, I'm going to miss her, that's all. Is there a chance, do you think, when she's had some time, that she might want to come back? I mean we can make it a leave of absence. It doesn't have to be permanent."

"I wouldn't do that," Peter said gently, and Joe saw a flash of that sorrow in his eyes that saved Alcott from looking like a tough street-fighter. He was reminded suddenly of the priests in the old neighborhood who, after a lot of years, seemed to bear the stamp on their careworn faces of all the confessions they'd ever heard. "Don't hamstring yourself here, Joe, waiting for something that might not happen. Cathy has friends in Europe. It's possible she may decide to stay there. Who can tell?"

"Oh." Joe nodded again at a loss for what to say. It was hard to even access what he felt at the moment, except bone-tired. "Well, listen, I appreciate you coming by to tell me all this. I'll put through the paperwork and let Moreno know. Is there someplace we can forward her last paycheck?"

Alcott had risen and for all his smooth demeanor, Joe sensed suddenly that the man was every bit as wrung out as he was. "If I find a way to contact her, I'll let you know." Firm, warm handshake, another flicker of that smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes. "Good-bye, Joe. Thanks for all you've done for Cathy."

It was all over so quickly.

For a moment after Alcott left, Joe stood dazed and then the sense of urgency returned. There was something important he had to do... he'd been going to Cathy's, and the realization washed over him, strange and discomfiting, that there was no need.

Hands plunged in his pockets, he circled the desk with its piles of paperwork that never seemed to diminish. Plenty to do, as always, but his concentration was shot. Suddenly he needed to be far away from this place.

Not even tempted to take his briefcase, he left the office and hit the streets, walking the 20-odd blocks to Milo's, bucking the rush-hour throngs. It felt good to be working up a sweat in the heavy evening air. He didn't like the agitation that had scattered his thoughts, or the sharp sensation of loneliness that had settled over him at Alcott's announcement. Senseless to feel that way. He'd always known she'd leave someday, but Cathy had brought something special to the work -- and to him -- that it felt just plain lousy to lose.

A blast of cold air and a stale beer smell greeted him as he swung open the wooden door to Milo's. No ferns here. No abstract art or dainty furniture. Everything was solid, dark. The tables, the high-backed booths, even the massive mahogany bar bore the marks left by generations of working-class guys -- you hardly ever saw a woman in Milo's.

It was in taverns like this one that his dad and uncles used to unwind after their shifts, places where life was affirmed again in familiar faces and the laughter that mingled in the blue smoke. Interlocking circles appeared everywhere on the plank tables, bled into the wood by countless glasses and bottles over the years like cryptic runes. Sanctuary.

Jeez, he was behaving like someone had died.

Solly wasn't behind the bar. "He's got -- you know -- arteries," said his successor. "Comes in a couple of times a week now."

Joe nodded glumly into his beer. Nothing stayed the same. You weren't supposed to expect it to.

It was shortly after he ordered his second beer that they came in -- Kyle, who'd given him such a rough way to go when he was starting his pro bono work, and Dan, from the 23rd precinct who'd been studying law at night for as long as Joe could remember.

Things improved then, as the three of them took possession of the corner booth where they'd passed so many raucous hours together, getting loud and crazy after the numbing seriousness of the workday. That hadn't changed.

It was impossible not to grin when Dan got going on his version of squad room politics, and the sparring with Kyle had gone on for years now with Joe accusing him of compromising his ideals for a cushy east-side practice, even as he couldn't quite squelch a twinge of envy.

Kyle's suits came from midtown, you could tell, not some outlet in Flatbush, and when he escaped the city on weekends, it was in a sleek little sports car that Joe would have given his eyeteeth just to park. In return, he had to weather endless jibes about bureaucrats and the failure of the DA's office to pin down whatever miscreant was currently making the news.

The arguments were always loud and rude and without malice. Kyle knew his success impressed Joe, that, in fact, he took a certain vicarious pride in it -- that his buddy had made good, and beneath Kyle's barbs there lay a genuine respect for Joe's life in the eye of the storm, the real nitty-gritty of their profession.

Tonight they each bought a round and wolfed down the thick roast-beef sandwiches, piled high with hot peppers, that were still a house specialty, even with Solly among the missing. By the third game of darts they'd stopped betting, because Joe almost always won now, though he hadn't been that good when they first started coming here. Well, Dan could scarcely practice while he was on patrol, and Kyle's decorator probably hadn't thought to include a dartboard in his elegant office.

Joe felt a lot better by the time he started for home. Something to be said for male bonding, he supposed, and wondered again when he was going to get a chance to branch out and try bonding with a female for a change. It seemed a formidable prospect.

How in the world were you supposed to figure out what a woman was going to do next?

* * * * *

Moreno took the news of Cathy's departure with less surprise than Joe expected and only a few peevish comments about employees who failed to follow proper procedures.

"Do you know how to reach her, so we can get the paperwork taken care of?"

"I think she's off on some private yacht -- on her way to Europe. I assume she'll get in touch eventually."

"Well, when that happens, will you see that she gets the right forms -- and returns them? And you better start going through the resumes before we're hit with another hiring freeze."

"So how about it, John? If she gets it together and comes back, do we give her a second chance?"

Moreno fixed him with a sharp look above his half-rimmed glasses. "Joe, we're civil servants. We don't breathe unless it's in triplicate, but we're not crazy. There aren't too many people like Chandler banging on our door. What do you think?"

"Right." He smiled. He felt better.

There was always a chance, then, that things might someday be like they were. Small as that chance seemed, it was better than nothing.

He began to let himself hope that Cathy was really having a good time. One of these days, there would no doubt be a postcard -- a blinding white seacoast and water too blue to be real.

Joe wondered if any of those things ever seemed quite real unless you'd seen them yourself. Well... maybe someday. After retirement, after that family he'd always assumed waited somewhere in his future, after he met the girl of his dreams. But for now, he'd be lucky just to get through the backup before the statute of limitations ran out on half their pending cases.

The mild mood held that afternoon as the files on his desk were relegated to their separate stacks. They looked orderly, even if the cases they contained were anything but. It held until he looked up to see Elliot Burch striding across the staff room as if he owned the place, headed straight for him.

Burch wore a beard these days. His hair was long. It brushed the collar of the cool summer blazer that made him look like he belonged on the deck of a pleasure cruiser... no, that was not a connection Joe cared to make.

And the two thyroid-cases accompanying him -- was he supposed to think they were along to give legal counsel? Their conservative suits and sternly knotted ties must be damned uncomfortable in the sweltering heat, and the illusion of respectability was all for nothing.

Body guards. Pure and simple -- as if Burch was the governor or the president. Where did he get off barging into a government office like it was the corner grocery? It was enough to make him want to slam the door in their faces.

Instead, he rose and came around the desk. Burch would only claim his rights as a taxpayer and, therefore, Joe's boss, and that really might tempt him to lose his cool, considering how much money Citizen Burch's shenanigans had cost the tax-paying public.

Joe channeled his rising anger into a patronizing smile as the trio unceremoniously crossed the threshold. "What is it this time, Burch? Let me guess -- you're turning the Statue of Liberty into a shopping mall, and you want us to control the protesters."

Burch ignored the sarcasm, but his henchmen's eyes narrowed. So maybe they got paid to get mad for him too. Wouldn't want the great man to strain himself frowning.

"A moment of your time, Joe, that's all I'm asking."

"Is there some reason you can't make an appointment like anyone else?"

"This isn't about business. It's about Cathy Chandler."

"Is that so? Well, if it isn't a legal matter, maybe you could tell the old family retainers here to take a hike."

Another steely look from two pairs of eyes, but Burch raised his hand in a small wave of dismissal. "Wait for me downstairs," and the two men backed away without a word. Burch pulled the office door to behind him. "I want to know where she is. There's no answer at her apartment, and when I called here they said she'd resigned. What's going on?"

No doubt Burch thought he was being diplomatic as hell, dispensing with his goons, confining his tirade behind closed doors, but the fact remained he had barreled his way in here, acting like he had a right to some private consultation about a subject that was none of his business. "They told you Cathy resigned. What makes you think I'm gonna tell you any different? Been playing games so long you don't believe anything anybody tells you?"

"It's true, then?"

Joe didn't dignify that with an answer. "Cathy doesn't work here anymore. It's not a secret, but beyond that I don't have to tell you a thing."

Burch drew in a deep breath, and Joe sensed he was trying to soft-peddle his aggressive attitude. The truth was he didn't look particularly arrogant at the moment: he looked worried. "I know. I know you don't, but I also know you're a good friend of hers. I like to think I am too, and I just want to know if she's in trouble."

"You've got a weird idea of friendship, Burch. As near as I can tell you've brought her nothing but grief every time your paths have crossed."

Burch didn't deny it. He seemed peculiarly non-defensive, almost as if he really meant what he was saying, but he made no move to leave. It occurred to Joe that he was only prolonging this by not giving him an explanation, whether he had a right to one or not, and it wasn't like there was any big secret.

"She was tired. Burned out. Her doctor advised her to get away from all this, that's all. She's halfway to Europe by now. "

Burch started to say something and stopped. Probably meant to ask if that was really the truth and thought better of it. After a moment he shook his head.

"I'm just surprised. I was with her not long ago and she didn't give any indication that she was slowing down."

"You saw her?" Joe forgot to hide his surprise. It astonished him to think that after all this time, after everything that had gone down, Cathy was still seeing this guy.

"She asked my help with something," Burch said vaguely, "a problem she was having. It doesn't matter, but she seemed as determined as ever. I didn't get the impression she was planning a major change."

"Maybe she didn't think she had to consult you."

This time the sarcasm brought a sharp look, but Burch's tone was conciliatory.

"Look, Joe. I know we've had our problems in the past, and I don't blame you for questioning my motives, but we both care about Cathy. I just want you to know that if she needs any help, if there's ever anything I can do, I want to do it."

"Well, it's just a little hard for me to figure out what that would be -- unless it's backing off and leaving her in peace."

Even that didn't spark a sharp retort. It was just possible that Cathy had found her way to whatever decent qualities lurked under that carefully honed facade.

He nodded and turned toward the door. "Thanks for telling me, Joe. I'm glad... I'm glad she's pulling away from the risks of this job. If you're her friend, you should be, too."

Joe stood looking after him, wondering if that remark was supposed to get under his skin the way it did.

True, he could console himself that someone he cared for was no longer in danger. There were plenty of things that couldn't threaten her anymore.

And one of them, to his way of thinking, was Elliot Burch.

* * * * *

In the years, the decades, since Peter Alcott had been coming below, he had used a dozen entrances.

The one he liked least was near his club. He could still remember the time he'd ventured down, and, seeing no one on the platform, leapt to the tunnel floor, inches from the track. From there it was only a few yards journey to a utility door that led below. Only that time, someone had seen him.

He'd heard the alarm raised as soon as his feet hit the ground, and only his quick disappearance and the fact that the witness sounded profoundly drunk had prevented a search.

The route he preferred, though it required a long walk to the main tunnels, began in one of the hospital's multiple basements. It wasn't hard for a staff doctor to convince whatever orderly or maintenance person he happened to run into that he had a right to be there.

This was the route he had taken today when his rounds were completed. It had the added advantage of leading through exclusively dry passageways. There were no steam pipes, no clammy corridors, dripping with condensation to gather at his feet in stagnate pools. His wing-tips would be spared, his suit presentable when he emerged again.

He hadn't heard a sound when, rounding a corner, he suddenly found himself face to face with someone else.

"Vincent! Good lord, you startled me. I didn't expect to see anyone in this section -- much less you. Are you sure you're well enough to be trekking way out here?"

"Good morning, Peter. I'm well, thank you. "

He certainly looked well. The scratches on his face and hands were nearly healed, the sickly shadows had faded. In fact, the question seemed faintly ludicrous.

Vincent's massive shoulders effectively blocked the passageway. Even motionless he gave off an impression of raw energy. There was nothing of the frailty to be expected from a patient who, just days ago, had been critical. Only his eyes held a haunted quality that might have been the residue of physical pain -- or something else entirely.

"I don't know, Vincent. The way you recover from trauma is enough to make me feel like a failure with my other patients." Peter clapped an affectionate hand on his arm. The biceps beneath his hand was impressive as ever. "But I'm glad to see it. I guess there's no need to tell you how worried we were about you."

"Father told me how you stayed with him, with me. I'm grateful."

"Well, so am I -- that you're mending so quickly. Is he available? I'd like to talk to him."

The sudden fear dawned that Vincent might offer to accompany him. Peter hadn't been prepared for this encounter, for the questions that might be fired under the discomfiting scrutiny of those diamond-bright eyes. And what he had to say to Jacob could not be said in Vincent's presence.

"You'll find him in his chamber."

Thankfully, Vincent seemed to have lost interest. His gaze wandered. One hand played absently at the leather pouch hanging around his neck.

"Take care of yourself," Peter said, moving on with an eagerness he tried not to show, but when he looked back Vincent was slowly walking away without a second glance.

Jacob was alone and anxious to hear how Peter had managed his part as conspirator. They sat together at the octagonal table, talking in lowered voices.

"I think it went well," Peter concluded. "It's enough for now, but as time goes on there are bound to be questions. When there's no word at all from Cathy someone -- Joe Maxwell, for instance -- may contact me again. What do I tell them? That she's fine and sends her best? They'll want to know how to reach her. Or do I say I haven't heard from her either and risk their getting curious enough to investigate?"

"What would they find?" Determination made Jacob's voice cold. "There is nothing to find -- not in Europe, not even here if they knew about us."

"No... no, there isn't." Peter grimaced. "You know, as one of the executors of her father's will, I had a copy of the instructions. At that time Cathy's apartment was still in Charles' name, and the fees were paid routinely by their attorneys. I doubt that she had any reason to change the arrangement."

"Good."

"But sooner or later those attorneys are going to need something signed or discussed. They are going to wonder why she hasn't been in touch."

"Please, Peter. We can only take this one step at a time. What you've done has helped enormously, I'm sure, and to be perfectly frank. I'd rather not dwell on the future."

"Of course, you're right. How is Vincent, Jacob? I saw him on the way here, and I must say he looked robust."

"Physically, he's fine. Emotionally... I'm not so certain."

"He's not dangerously depressed?"

"Depressed?" Jacob considered a moment. There was such weariness around his eyes that he might have been the one who'd come close to death. "Resigned might be a better word. This crisis has caused him to face some unpleasant truths. He knows now that there were feelings building in him, feelings that were inevitable given his relationship with Catherine, and he realizes that even unacted upon, unacknowledged, those passions were tearing him apart. He accepts that what has happened... what he believes has happened... is for the best."

"Accepting and liking are two different things. Are you sure he isn't unhappy?"

"He's miserable," Jacob shot back, "perfectly miserable, but he believes he's doing this for Catherine, that the only gift he has to give her is the freedom to forget him. Over the years, Peter, I've observed that all of us react to crises, even life-changing ones, along patterns that are familiar to us. Vincent's empathic nature, his own limitations, have led him to put the welfare of those he loves above his own -- all his life. As horrible as this situation is to him, it is familiar. He knows how to do it."

"Even at the expense of his own happiness? That's a rotten way to live, Jacob. It's tragic."

"It has always been tragic." The coarse woolen scarf around his neck had loosened and Jacob tugged it close, as though a cold wind blew here. "He has been used to that as well – suffering, the tragedy of his aloneness. Those things are facts of life to Vincent. Perhaps he sees them as his fate. But he is alive, Peter, and whole. It's more than I dared to hope."

"Is it enough?" The question sounded so blunt that he almost regretted posing it, here in this chamber of softly wavering light. Across the polished surface of the table his dear old friend's face was pinched with anxiety and buried grief.

"I pray that it will be. He's been very quiet since his illness. Sometimes I see the distraction of his pain drawing him inward, but he doesn't isolate himself from the others. I suppose because the children were so frightened, he's taken care to spend a great deal of time with them, reassuring them. He's insisted on fulfilling all those duties that were his in the past. He's there for anyone who needs a sympathetic ear. There is fulfillment in that, Peter. I know it. We can only hope it is enough to sustain him."

"How can you be sure he's not just going through the motions?"

"Perhaps he is, but Vincent is far too sensitive to the needs of others not to be pulled into their concerns. Sometimes," and here he darted at Peter such a strange look that it seemed he questioned the wisdom of continuing, "sometimes, when I come upon him patiently comforting a child, or in those moments when he seems almost to melt into the shadows while others quarrel or pour out their troubles, and then quietly with a few, well-chosen words he stems the conflict or casts light upon the darkness … At those times, Peter, I'm reminded of nothing so much as a figure from an illuminated manuscript -- selfless, golden, pure of heart. A saint, perhaps, or some powerful angel, wrenched unjustly from heaven. Foolish, I suppose, yet there is a lightness about him -- despite his physical presence -- that almost gives the impression he is not of this earth... " He stopped, as though afraid this confession might be greeted with derision.

Yet Peter understood very well what he was saying. He had sensed something similar himself many times in Vincent's presence -- an aura of invulnerability that had nothing to do with his strength or size.

Incorruptible. It was not a label he could put on many men, but there was something in Vincent, something that had been there even as a child, that spoke of spiritual resilience. Still, there was more to him than godliness or even humanity. It worried him to think Jacob might forget that.

"I know what you mean. I do. But it could be dangerous to forget the rest. No one knows when that rage might surface in him again. You have to watch him carefully, Jacob."

His companion stared dully at his own bleary reflection in the table top. "I'm not at all certain that it will. That lightness I spoke of... I wonder if it doesn't come from emptiness. He seems empty now... of so many things."

Sorrow and uncertainty hung in the smoky air, and Peter felt a flash of anger that three good people, people he loved, should have suffered so perverse a fate. "Look, Jacob, I was scheduled to go to a medical convention in Mexico City next week. Before all this happened, I'd thought I might stay a while, do some sightseeing, make a vacation of it, but I'm not sure I should leave when you're going through such a bad time."

"Nonsense," Jacob straightened, regarding him once more with an air of resolve. "Of course, you should go. I doubt very much that anything will change here, and you have your own grief to deal with. You needn't worry about us, Peter. You've done more than I had a right to ask."

"You're sure? It would be easy enough to stay."

"Peter, please, I have quite enough guilt to deal with as it is. It will please me to know that you at least can get away from all this. By all means go." The decisiveness necessary to his role as leader here was once more in evidence. "Now that I think of it, this trip might be rather timely. If Mr. Maxwell should come up with additional questions, he won't find you available to hear them. That's perhaps for the best."

"Maybe it is," Peter conceded. "I'm not an attorney. I'm not sure I know enough to keep a step ahead of someone like Joe, but hopefully that won't be necessary. I think he's satisfied."

"Thanks to you," Jacob said gruffly, rising to embrace him. "I'm not sure how I'll ever repay you for your willingness to join me in this madness."

"You can thank me by taking care of yourself. And it's not madness, Jacob. You're the sanest man I've ever known, and the bravest. Just make sure you give yourself the room to heal, the way you've given it to Vincent."

He withdrew, carrying with him the image of his long-time friend, a man of incredible vision and accomplishment, dressed in the remnants of other lives, surrounded by his beloved books and the other-worldly glow of a dozen candles.

There were times above when he thought he must have dreamed this place with its simple priorities, its gentle people, and its extraordinary heir apparent. A prince who would be saintly, if it weren't for the darkness that lay in wait to destroy both prince and man and, perhaps, the very innocence he protected. As it had destroyed the thing he cherished most.

Peter's throat tightened at the thought of Cathy, and his strides took on the power of anger. If only there were some place to direct it. Not at Vincent, who held no more responsibility for what had happened than a storm could be blamed for uprooting the trees. Not on Jacob and his rash course of action. Jacob who sought only to preserve life and sanity.

And how well he knew the uselessness of railing at fate, yet around him was the evidence of men's resiliency against it. A home carved from obdurate stone. A haven of serenity fashioned by people who had known little of justice or compassion in their former lives. It was a miracle, this place, and if it seemed to him a dream, he was proud to call friend the man who'd had the courage to dream it.

Silently, he prayed that the nightmare was over.

* * * * *

"It's warped." Cullen hissed his exasperation. "What numskull left it in this godawful place? There's a reason nobody wants to live here. The walls are always wet. It's no healthier for a good piece of wood than it is for people."

His companion gave no response, and Cullen seemed to require none, continuing his examination of the massive sideboard -- French walnut, he'd said, though the design was certainly Austrian -- making small disgruntled noises in the process.

Vincent heard everything Cullen said. Resting his weight against the wall, oblivious to its dampness, his mind was divided as it always seemed to be of late. Not the burning, dramatic division of light from darkness, good from evil that had almost been his undoing, but a subtler fracture that he kept to himself.

No great effort was needed to keep a balance between the two, so dependent were they on each other, and together they served to override the pain that threatened to engulf him in moments of weakness, moments when his own unquenchable need rose up to obliterate hers.

He thought his soul must have come to resemble those cavern walls whose strata were clearly defined in multi-hued bands, thick and thin, each with its own unique properties. The earth's history, layer upon layer, reinventing itself -- the whole redefined.

Outwardly, he gave everything to those around him -- his time, his caring, the counsel they sought and the love they deserved for standing by him when he had ceased to be their champion. When he had been their enemy.

The strength of his body, the judgments of his mind. He took credit for neither of these things -- one an obscure trick of nature, the other the legacy of Father's tireless teachings and, he suspected, the fact of his separateness that lent a certain objectivity to his viewpoint. All of these he gave unstintingly and yes, his protection; he would offer that as well, if the need should arise.

And all of it he gave to her. In his mind, in his heart, whether she knew it or not. If ever she were to return on some distant day, perhaps bent with age, but not faded -- never that, he would not tarnish her hard-won happiness with evidence of a wasted life. She must never think that her own peace had been bought at the price of his bitterness and cold descent into despair. These things he did -- his modest contributions to the welfare of those around him -- were the only monument to their love he could safely build.

None were hard to do. He did them with half a mind, the other intent on the vision that inspired them. A vision of Catherine -- safe at last, no longer torn in her loyalties to two worlds, finding serenity and eventually the happiness she deserved.

These goals hovered always in his awareness, golden and sacred as blessed icons. They were his credo, the basis of this new life that guided all he did, and what he did, in turn, must always be worthy of that vision. Yet he tended to dwell on them primarily in the abstract. Efforts to visualize more concretely the steps that might lead to Catherine's fulfillment too often brought pain surging to the surface.

The layer beneath. That was pain, his own selfish longing for a life that could never be, his own aloneness, all the more sharply felt for the brief time -- and oh, how brief it seemed now -- when he had known the perfect blending of two souls, two hearts.

Within limits he could find joy in his imagination, as he did now, picturing her on an exotic shore, her beauty the only vibrant living thing among the chalky cliffs and the fluted columns, mute witnesses to ancient days, against an azure sky.

He saw her hair, blown like spun honey about a face that glowed in the salty air. Her eyes shone. Perhaps she smiled, as she had smiled so often at him, for him, because of him, and who did she smile for now? Who might -- even at this moment -- be stepping toward her, causing the color to rise in her cheeks, her lips to part unconsciously with her quickening breath?

He jerked away from the wall and saw that Cullen was struggling to lift the heavy cornice back to its perch. "Cullen, here -- let me." He brought one shoulder up hard beneath the beam, hoisting it back into place, then stood willing his mind to empty as Cullen refitted the pegs.

"I can shave the doors down a little so they'll close all right, but that can be done anywhere. We ought to get it out of here before there's any more damage. Where's it going anyway?"

"Lena," Vincent answered. "Lena asked if she might have it."

Cullen eyed the piece critically. "You sure the ceiling in her chamber's high enough? This sucker's pretty tall."

"Mouse measured it."

"Oh, yeah? With what -- an altimeter?"

Cullen grinned at his own joke, and Vincent searched for an answering smile but failed to find one. He must try, must manage on occasion to project some semblance of pleasure or the others would only begin to worry again.

Especially Father, he thought as he tilted the sideboard so that Cullen could jam the long dolly under it. Father's manner these last weeks had truly alarmed him, though he did his best not to show it. More than weariness, more than the aftermath of crisis. Jacob's eyes seemed to Vincent haunted with grief, even fear. Why this should be so, he couldn't guess, and each time they'd been alone, each time he'd sought to steer the conversation to a deeper level, he imagined that the older man's discomfort increased.

His fault, of course. It must be. Something that troubled Father still about the nightmare his son had visited upon them all. Somehow the sense of intimacy between them was lost, though the love remained, and this, too, he must bear silently. Another price to be paid for losing his vital hold, for allowing -- somewhere inside him -- feelings he had no right to possess, not for Catherine, not for anyone.

He welcomed the resistance of the unwieldy cargo against his body as he shoved it out of the store room, the too-small wheels of the dolly threatening to careen into a wall at every turn. All his concentration was required just to keep the sideboard from teetering off its makeshift transport, perhaps crushing Cullen, who was doing his best to guide it through a maze of tunnels.

"If this thing doesn't fit," Cullen grumbled, "I'll be damned if we haul it back up. Somebody else will just have to squeeze it into their room."

But fit it did -- against one long wall of Lena's chamber.

"It's beautiful. I never thought I'd have anything like that in a place of mine. It's pretty old, isn't it?"

"At least a century," Cullen puffed, at last scooting the dolly aside as Vincent tipped the massive cabinet away from him. "A real antique."

"Well, that's okay. I like it anyway. Thanks a lot."

Cullen grinned. "If it's all right I'll stop by sometime tomorrow and file down the doors so they'll close better."

"You won't make a mess, will you?" Lena glanced around her domain with a slight frown. The few furnishings appeared lovingly cared for. Several examples of pretty embroidery, Lena's own work, brightened the bed, a chair, baby Catherine's cradle.

Vincent hoped the pride she took in these scant possessions signaled a deeper sense of pride in herself. That had been taken from her so young, and once lost, was a difficult thing to regain. It occurred to him that Cullen, too, had hit bottom and been required to struggle upward to self-respect again. Of course, he was much older than Lena, but they might have much in common. They might understand each other very well.

These thoughts were going through his mind as he prepared to follow Cullen out the door, surprised when Lena laid a hand on his arm.

"Could you stay a minute, Vincent? I'd like to talk to you."

She retreated into the center of the room, as he turned back. "What is it, Lena?" he said, inclining his head politely. To his surprise, she flushed and turned away.

"I heard about Catherine -- how she went away, how she's probably not coming back."

He didn't reply. What was there to say? And hearing the truth spoken aloud numbed him into a stolid silence.

"I just want you to know I would never do anything like that. I don't mean anything against Catherine, I really don't. Without her I'd most likely be dead now and my baby, too. We all do what we have to do, you know? But I wouldn't do that -- especially when you were so sick and all."

She looked at him with an expression of anguish, almost of pleading, but through the frosty veil that had settled over him, he could not make out what it meant or how he was expected to respond.

"I know how you love her and everything, but it sounds like she's made her choice, and she's gone, and well... I'm still here. We could have something together -- you and me -- something good. I know it. I love you, Vincent, and I know how to do things that will make you happy, and it doesn't matter if you don't love me be --"

"It should matter... It should matter fiercely --"

She was staring up at him, her eyes wide, and he realized suddenly that he was towering over her, gripping her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. The coldness had warmed to anger without warning.

Appalled, he let go of her. "Lena... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that." He pressed a hand to his eyes. It wasn't gone -- that blind fury wasn't gone and never would be, and why had it surfaced now? He wanted to leave, to run himself into exhaustion, but when he dropped his hand and saw Lena watching him, tearfully rubbing her arm, that impulse too seemed shameful.

"I had no right to touch you in anger. Forgive me... please."

"It doesn't matter."

For just an instant the anger threatened to rise again, and then he recognized it for what it was and realized, too, that turning his back on Lena would go against everything he had pledged to do, to be -- for Catherine, for the memory of their love.

Drawing in a calming breath, he searched the chamber for a place to sit. The dainty straight-backed chairs looked as if they might fold under his weight, and he chose at last to cross the room, leaning against the newly settled sideboard.

"Lena," he began softly, "it matters very much that you don't allow me -- or anyone -- to mistreat you in anyway."

"I didn't say I liked it," she said with a small show of defensiveness. "It just doesn't surprise me, that's all. I've gotten that all my life. You know, like some people attract money, some people get in accidents all the time? Me -- I get guys taking a whack at me."

Vincent winced. "Do the ones who attract money always deserve it?"

"Not so's I can tell," she replied with a sharp little laugh, but her eyes, as she sank to the nearest chair, looked sad to him. "You mean, maybe I don't deserve to get pushed around either?"

"No one does," he said quietly.

Lena shrugged. "So what am I supposed to do about it? Should I slug you?"

It was Vincent's turn to shrug. "If it would make you feel better."

"Not really." She gave him a tremulous smile.

"You must never make the mistake of believing you deserve it."

"What about you, Vincent? What do you deserve?"

The question took him by surprise. For a moment he could only blink at her and attempt to calm the emotions her innocent probing had churned up. "For me, it's different. Everything is different, but, Lena, you can have a full life if you choose. You must learn to accept only what is best for you -- in the same way you want only the best for your daughter."

"Like an example, you mean."

"Yes... and for yourself as well. You have a right to happiness, Lena. You deserve to love a man who can love you in return."

"You do care about me, don't you, Vincent?" There was nothing coy in her voice. It was quiet as a child's, as if she feared that affection offered to her -- of any kind -- must in the end prove a sham.

"Very much."

He let the words stand on simple sincerity, and after a moment she appeared to accept them. "Okay, I guess what I don't get is, if Catherine's gone, and we care about each other -- even like friends -- why can't we give it a try? Maybe it'll turn into something else. That happens. People learn how to love each other." She said it with more wistfulness than conviction, as if such possibilities existed in the same realm as magic wands and fire-breathing dragons.

The anger was gone now. In its place he felt only sadness -- for Lena, for himself, for all those whose hearts yearned toward completion.

"For some, it's possible, yes... but not for me." He wished he could make her understand. Her look of distress battered at a heart already bruised with self-reproach, but she hadn't given up.

"Catherine's not a selfish person," she announced so emphatically that anyone would have thought he'd said she was. "At first, when I met her, I was so screwed up, everything seemed so hopeless, I didn't think about it, but later after she went to all the trouble to get me in down here, I realized how special she was. She didn't have to do any of that -- for me, a complete stranger. And then, when she told me she loved you --" Vincent felt the passing comment like a jolt of electricity, but Lena didn't seem to notice, "-- and she knew I did too... well, I don't guess you can get less selfish than that, and I don't think that just because you two couldn't work it out she'd expect you never to sleep with a woman again."

It took only a few seconds for Vincent to choose his reply, yet in that brief time such a fascinating potpourri of emotions made themselves felt that he never blinked. Lena assumed he and Catherine had been lovers -- in the fullest sense of the word. The fact that they hadn't should have stirred up melancholy, and on some level it did, but he had lived with that all along. Never had he considered that anyone would think they had been intimate -- and accept it. A part of him rejoiced in the notion, however fanciful. A part of him felt like smiling.

Lena -- who stubbornly believed in possibilities.

"I never have," he said softly.

"You've never...?" Lena's face went slack with astonishment and that, too, brought to some place seldom explored in his psyche, the urge to smile. "I don't get it. Why not?"

"Look at me, Lena," he said in the same gentle voice, as if the issue under discussion was one that might be hurtful to her, not himself. "I am not like other men."

"If that's supposed to be a strike against you, guess again," she said, recovering. "You don't know the guys I've been with."

"Nevertheless, it is not -- it never has been a possibility for me."

"Why? You mean the way some people think it's wrong to be with anybody who's not the same religion or the same race?"

"It's more complicated than that. In those situations, people can decide for themselves whether the problems that might result are worth it. They know what those might be. I don't know -- nobody knows -- precisely what I am, how I happened to be. It's a truth that cannot be ignored."

"And that makes it wrong?"

"That makes it... unwise."

How strange it felt to be saying these things to another person, yet it seemed to him the only way to turn Lena's attentions elsewhere. He did not wish to go any further, to speak of his tenuous grasp on passion, on instinct, the fear that carnage might result if he relinquished control. He didn't want to frighten her unnecessarily, and he wasn't eager to feel again the pain that accompanied that subject.

"I don't think you're telling me the whole truth," she said, defeated. "I think the truth is that even if Catherine never came back, even if you could make love to whoever you wanted, you wouldn't do it, because of how you feel about her -- how you'll always feel about her."

Slowly, he pushed away from the sideboard. When he reached her, he paused and bent to leave a light kiss on her bowed head. "Yes, Lena," he murmured huskily, "that too, is the truth."

Quietly, he left the room.

* * * * *

The nights were the worst. When the hubbub of activity died down, when no one sought his companionship or his help. No matter how he pushed himself during the day (far more than was prudent, Father insisted), he could not reach the haven of sleep without crossing a treacherous territory of agonizing thoughts and shattered hopes in which he wandered utterly alone.

To be without her was to be without himself -- or a larger part of himself than anyone had guessed. The friend who worked beside them bore his face, spoke with his voice, loved them as he had always loved them, but he was fashioned out of bits and pieces -- not a whole man at all.

A vast part of him seemed empty, hollow, and he wondered what loathsome force might someday try to take advantage of that, rushing in to fill the void. That must never be allowed to happen.

Perhaps he would truly never see her again -- even in the years to come when other loves had found their way to her heart. Perhaps, even then, it would be too painful for them to meet. If that should be true for her, then he didn't want it, would not wish for it, though for himself... for himself no pain would be too great, but that a single sight of her would be worth the cost.

He imagined her an old woman -- like Elizabeth -- hobbling with a sprightly air to the Central Park entrance, tapping out a long-remembered code, sitting with him a while where the warm summer sunshine grazed the culvert's floor, telling him of adventures and of her grandchildren.

Or closer in time -- perhaps a dozen years from now -- standing at the gate, less youthful and yet in a way more beautiful for the lines that etched the pattern of her smiles forever on her face. They might stand beside her -- her children -- sworn to keep their mother's exciting secret -- for so he would have found it as a child -- exciting.

They would look like her -- like no one else but her. And he would tell her how their world still flourished and had grown, and she would know her leaving had done no harm to anyone.

Once in the cold, silent reaches of the night he had wondered if someday she might bring him, wanting Vincent to be happy for her, wanting him to know what a fine man she had chosen to share her life, wanting them to know each other. He had tried to imagine himself pleased that she would find this important, pleased with her choice and had found his fingers curling into his palms, digging in with a physical pain that could not block out the agony in his heart.

Since then he tried to imagine only her happiness -- not the man who might give it to her. He pictured her in a bright summer frock, sitting in a sidewalk cafe, lying in an Alpine meadow among sweet grass and tiny yellow flowers. He saw her standing for long moments utterly absorbed before a painting in the Uffizi, threading her way through the narrow columns of the Alhambra, or the stony streets of Pompeii. Catherine framed by stately monuments, alight with laughter among exotic crowds. Catherine painted with the glow of a Venetian sunset.

These pictures brought him peace. They drove him mad. One moment they would be his reason for going on, the next a reminder of his loss. At such times reading didn't help. The words couldn't hold his attention. Music carried with it such deadly keys to his emotions that he could scarcely bear its treachery.

He seldom went above, afraid that if he did his legs would betray him, carrying him inexorably to that balcony with its dark, silent rooms, and perhaps there he would forget every noble intention to live a life in which she could see no shadow of her leaving. Perhaps there her absence would be so acutely felt that, distracted, he would falter on the perilous descent.

So he went no further than the threshold of the park, and there he would stand looking out into the darkness that had first brought her to him, or at the grass rimed with moonlight, imagining her under this same moon. And if it rained -- so much the better. He would venture outward until the slanting lines cut cold across his face, perfect tributaries to his tears.

But by morning he would be himself again, turning upon the anxious faces of his friends, a clear untroubled expression. The pattern had been set and been perfected, and it was only the prospect of seeing it mirrored again and again down the dark, remorseless tunnel of years that filled him with terror, and made the taking of a single step seem utterly beyond his powers.

At such times he reached within for that spark that remained of her. It told him nothing of her feelings, as if the whole of their bond, once pulsing with a rich tapestry of emotions, had shrunk into a tiny pinpoint of light.

But the light was Catherine, and it was enough to warm his frozen heart and give him the courage to live another day.

Although the others spoke of her freely, of things she had done, experiences they had shared, they avoided references to her absence, to the events that had led to his aloneness. But he understood why Mary had taken to making him a soft, silk tunic, why William kept coming up with his favorite dishes. Pascal complained -- for the first time in Vincent's memory -- of his loneliness in the pipe chamber, and Mouse seemed continually to crave help with projects that in other days would have remained his gleeful secret.

Only Father seemed immune to this process of drawing Vincent in. He never overtly avoided a meeting, but the old feeling of absorption wasn't there. Vincent had the fanciful sensation that they were skating together over thin, smooth ice in their conversations, and that below them lay murky waters that Father was frankly terrified to plumb.

Vaguely, he thought that he should follow up on the odd impression, but Father thwarted every attempt he made to pierce the surface, and Vincent's divided concentration, the soul-deep weariness so carefully hidden from the others, rendered him unequal to the task.

Far easier to take problems as they came, and react to those who spoke to him, moving on to the next. Out of these individual encounters, he tried to weave a convincing image of himself, whole and healed. It put their minds to rest and freed him of their concern.

And those he loved were spared the knowledge that much of him was not here at all, but lost somewhere in the searing sun of the Mediterranean -- as far away as heaven.

* * * * *

Joe stared at the taco shell, heaped with beef and beans and half a dozen liberally applied garnishes. He thought it could easily feed one of those extended families in the projects.

"When you said 'salad bar,' I thought for a minute you were reforming."

Jenny Aronson flicked him an unabashed smile. "Well, it is a salad. It's positively Victorian, Joe, the way you expect a woman to pick at her food. When Cathy said you were an old-fashioned guy, I didn't think she meant antiquated."

"Cathy said that?"

"Mm," Jenny lit into the salad with gusto. "She meant it as a compliment. You know, that you had solid traditional values, that kind of thing."

"Yeah, well, most of the women I know are always dieting. Remind me to invite you to my mom's sometime. She thinks nobody should get up from the table without putting away a couple of pounds of pasta."

"I like her already," Jenny grinned.

Joe applied himself to the Caramba Combo. He was glad for Jenny's company. In a weird way it brought Cathy closer. Over these last weeks, it had almost begun to seem that Catherine Chandler was someone he'd imagined, so thoroughly had she disappeared from their lives.

When Jenny had called, puzzled at the lack of response at Cathy's place, alarmed to hear she'd quit her job, he had quieted her fears, explained the best he could, but he was glad when she'd suggested lunch.

"You know," she said suddenly, as if picking up the drift of his thoughts, "I'm really relieved in a way that Cathy's done this. I never could understand how she could put herself in so much danger time after time. I'm glad she had the sense to call a halt when it was getting to be too much, but it's still hard to accept the way she did it. I mean, sometimes we'd go weeks without calling each other, but it feels funny that she didn't tell me she was leaving."

"I'm with you, Jen. I felt the same way, but like I told you, her doctor said it was a quick decision. I got the feeling he'd almost railroaded her into it for her own good."

"Well, more power to him. I'm glad he did, but, you know, Joe, it seems like by now she would have found a chance to send a postcard -- something. It just isn't like Cathy to leave her friends in suspense."

Joe shrugged. "Maybe she left it to Alcott to smooth things over. I can't say this is way off base for her. To tell you the truth, Jen, she's always been a little bit of a mystery to me. There've been times when she wasn't exactly where she was supposed to be. I got the feeling there was more going on in her life than she talked about at the office."

"You did?" Jenny looked thoughtful. "I've felt like that, too. As close as we were, it seemed these last couple of years that she was always holding something back, something she wasn't willing to share with anyone." She laid down her fork. "Come to think of it, that's what seems so strange. That she would leave when --" She broke off suddenly and picked up the fork again, but she was only toying with the food.

"What?" Joe leaned across the table, sensing that she knew something he didn't, an uncomfortable situation for anyone paid to be suspicious. "Come on, Jen, if there's something that's not right here, I need to know."

Dark eyes met his, hesitant for a moment, and then she sighed. "It's just that Cathy was seeing someone -- someone special, I think, and it seems odd that she'd up and leave in the middle of a serious relationship. I mean, when you're feeling stressed, isn't that when you need to be with the people that care about you?"

"She was seeing someone?" Joe felt like she'd left him a couple of paces behind. Not that the news was particularly shocking: he'd simply had no clear picture at all of Cathy's private life.

"Remember the night she was kidnapped and you asked me to stay with her? Well, I didn't."

"You didn't?"

"I didn't. She practically pushed me out the door. She said she wasn't going to be alone."

"You sure that's what she meant?"

"I'm sure. The meaning was perfectly clear, and it was a surprise to me, too. I had no idea she was involved with anyone, but I figured it had to be pretty serious for her to call him up in the middle of the night, and he was obviously on his way."

"You don't have any idea who it was?"

"Not a clue."

"So maybe they broke up. Maybe that was one of the things that was getting to her."

Jenny shook her head helplessly. "I guess it could be. I wish she'd confided in me more."

"For all we know she took him with her," Joe ventured, unwilling to leave any possibility unexplored.

"How many people can just drop their work and take off like that with no notice? It doesn't seem very likely."

"Unless it was somebody independently wealthy who could come and go as he pleased."

"Elliot Burch," Jenny said speculatively.

"No, I know for a fact it wasn't Burch. He came by the office, trying to find out where she was."

Jenny looked relieved. "That's good. He seemed like more trouble than he was worth -- and I know he's worth a lot. I could tell Cathy cared about Elliot, but I think she mostly felt sorry for him. She's always been a sucker for people in trouble."

"Yeah." Joe nodded glumly. That failing -- if it was one -- had made her darned good at her job and a friend he didn't want to lose. "What about these people she's gone off with? You two travel in the same circles. You know anybody that might have a yacht?" He felt the naiveté of the question as soon as he said it. Jenny and Cathy grew up in a world whose inhabitants were as likely to have a pleasure cruiser as his friends were to own a car.

"Quite a few," she admitted. "And just because they're friends of Cathy's doesn't mean I necessarily know them."

"Well, Alcott must know. You might ask him."

"I tried -- right after I talked to you. I phoned his office, but he'd just left for a conference in Mexico. He won't be back for three weeks. By then we're sure to have some word from Cath."

"I hope so. Moreno's on my back about the paperwork."

They ate in silence for a while, but he noticed that Jenny's appetite seemed to be fading. It wasn't like her not to snarf up everything on her plate. Tiny lines were working between her brows. "Hey, cheer up, Jen. She'll be back. Before you know it she'll show up with a tan and a lot of boring slides. Isn't that the way it works?"

"How would you know, Joe? You never take a vacation." Jenny smiled but he could see her heart wasn't in it. "I can't help it -- something doesn't feel right about all this."

He swallowed the last of the refried beans, almost afraid of asking her to elaborate. "You're not having some kind of... well, you know... psychic thing, are you?"

"I don't have psychic things, Joe. Not like you mean. Just dreams sometimes. I don't know what it is really -- probably nothing. Probably I just miss her."

"Yeah, well so do I."

"It must seem even stranger to you," Jenny said, suddenly sympathetic, "after all, you're used to seeing her every day."

"Strange isn't exactly the word for it. We've been turning the office upside down looking for some testimony that never got into the computer. Cathy got a continuance on the case just before she left, but it's coming up again, and none of the follow-up was in her desk."

"I'll bet it was in her brief case, and she just forgot it. She sure wouldn't take it off to Europe."

"Could be. If it doesn't turn up tomorrow, I'm going to have to go up there and try to retrieve it."

"To Cathy's apartment? How are you going to get in?"

"Court order -- to recover state's evidence."

Jenny's eyes lit up. "Well then you can look around. Maybe she left something that would tell you who she was going off with, where we could reach her."

"Whoa, Jen. It's a court order, not a search warrant. I get the briefcase, I leave. That's it."

"Some investigator you are," she said critically.

"She's got a right to privacy just like everyone else." He couldn't believe how self-righteous that sounded. "Even from us."

"Sure," Jenny said, but he wasn't sure she was convinced.

* * * * *

Often he sought the Chamber of the Falls.

The reasons it drew him were many and ever-changing, so that he was never quite certain which were authentic and which only desperate attempts to justify the stolen moments here.

The spot existed only for its beauty. No practical purpose called the tunnel dwellers to its splendors. Solitude here was almost assured, but there were many places, some known only to him, where others seldom strayed. Perhaps it was the deep, cleansing breaths he could take here, spiced with a hint of foreign breezes, the tantalizing taste of ocean. Beneath the soaring arc of its cathedral heights, the sense of this world as a tomb faltered. No press of low-slung rock, no perfectly circumscribed spaces, fashioned by the hands of men.

Here he could stand on the brink and let the wild wind, the roiling waters fill him with a sense of power once more. Or feel himself dwarfed into a thing of insignificance by the vast space and the falls' eternal roar. Either illusion was welcome. Either swept him for a moment from the divided creature he knew himself to be.

On this ledge he and Catherine had spoken of the future. In her eyes there had been everything he ever dared to dream and so much more. Her courage that day -- the courage to go above again and face the things that might have defeated her…

Strangely, in that moment of parting, their dream of a future together had never seemed so bright, so dazzlingly possible. Her strength restored, she would find a way to make peace with her life above and someday... someday…

With what a sharp, melting sweetness he remembered the courage, the trust in her eyes fixed so innocently on his. The tender struggle of her heart, as clear to him as his own, between what must be done and the fear of causing pain.

A delicate balance, and how well she managed it. If only he could have done the same, if only he had been equal to the trust that glowed that day in her eyes. But he had let it slip -- his vital hold on what was best in him. He had allowed the dark, the animal cravings to claw their way too close... too close…

Again he would sit on the brink above the river and cradle in his hands a rose, frozen for eternity in its perfection, remembering how once before she had seemed lost to him. And then in a moment such as this, there had come such incandescent joy, such a vibrant reawakening of all they shared, that surely he had taken flight and touched again the earth only to hold an angel in his arms.

No such miracle visited him now -- no renaissance of the spirit lifted him from his solitary aerie above the water. The rose remained, memories enfolded in its petals, a dream enshrined forever in its heart. With careful fingers he placed it back into the pouch, wondering how brutish hands such as these, tipped with deadly claws, could have come to be entrusted with so delicate a treasure.

It was a form of self-torment he recognized at last, to sit in this place reliving that moment and feel no summons back to love, back to life. And he would wrench himself from the spot, pacing the high ledge, descending finally by spray-slicked stones that barely gave a foothold to the rocks beneath.

The icy mists closed around him. The falls thundered in his ears, spilling their bright rain, silver with remnants of sunshine from the world that gave it birth, a world he-could never walk, a world that held her to its jealous heart.

Head thrown back against the rasping stones, he would at last let it come, feeling its power build within his chest like the relentless flood of the river, forcing open the teeth he clenched against it. All the pain, all the grief, all the hopeless, deathless longing rising in a crescendo of inhuman sound to drown in the roar of the falls.

So might a man drown in his memories.

* * * * *

"Ms. Chandler used to take off a lot in the old days," the super was saying, as if Cathy was an octogenarian who'd once enjoyed a flaming youth. "But not since she got the job -- with you folks, right?"

"I guess so." Joe waited impatiently as the man sorted through his keys. The 'folks' would get their butts handed to them in the morning, if he didn't come up with that testimony. It had to be here. Radcliffe must have been pretty strung out not to think of it, not to see that Alcott got it to them.

"Well, it's here somewhere," the man assured him, peering myopically at each numbered key on the ring. "Craziest thing -- the 18th floor and all the apartments are in the 20s. Guy that built it must have had a sense of humor."

Joe thought it more likely that he just couldn't count. He was getting antsier by the second, and he almost jumped when the elevator door opened behind them.

"Hi, Joe," said a bright voice. Jenny Aronson -- looking very businesslike, very determined. What she didn't look was ashamed of herself for turning up where she had no good reason to be.

"Jen, what are you doing here?"

"I just happened by. Lucky we ran into each other."

Maddeningly, the superintendent had turned, losing his place on the key-ring, to regard the newcomer through narrowed eyes. Obviously, he took his job seriously. Ten minutes he'd spent studying the court order, though Joe was becoming convinced the guy couldn't see worth a darn. "And who's this?"

"Oh, it's okay. I'm an associate of Mr. Maxwell's. You must be Mr. Krauss. Cathy told me how nice you were about letting her in when she'd forget her keys."

"She's a real lady -- Ms. Chandler. One of the best tenants we've got."

"Can we get on with this, please?" Joe interjected, opting not to rain on Jenny's parade. What she hoped to accomplish by being here, he couldn't imagine, but he wasn't about to say anything that would slow down this already bumpy procedure.

"Okay, sure. I've got it right here," Krauss said a full minute before he, in fact, located the crucial key. At last it was in the lock and the door opened. "I'll just wait in the hall," he added, averting his eyes, as if the legal paper had prohibited anyone other than an officer of the court from even glancing into the apartment.

Joe pushed past him, finding the light switch, aware that Jenny was following close behind. He saw what he was looking for almost immediately. The brief case lay open on the dining room table. Papers were spread around, as if Cathy'd been reading them just before she left. He made straight for the table and with a rush of relief saw that the missing testimony was right on top. He was gathering up the pages when the first faint stirrings of a chill made its way through the hair on the back of his neck.

Beside the briefcase lay a plate with a half-eaten sandwich. A scrim of white mold had formed on the coffee in the cup next to it. He stood staring at it, trying to satisfy himself that Cathy would have taken off without cleaning up. Or Alcott. Why hadn't he seen to it that the place was put in order after consigning her to an extended vacation?

He looked up, scanning the room with a practiced eye. Everything neat and tidy. A carton sat next to the wall, clearly not part of the furniture. Hadn't there been something different there before? Jenny had disappeared.

He tried the doors that led to the balcony, but they were sensibly locked. So he'd just assumed that the decision to leave so hastily had been made here in her apartment. Maybe not. Maybe she'd gone to Alcott's office, and he'd made the arrangements from there. Only she'd have had to come back here. She --

He launched himself from the little platform of the dining area, even before Jenny's shriek died away.

In the split second it took him to rush into the bedroom, his stomach climbed into his throat. Anything. Experience had told him anything, however unthinkable, might be waiting through those doors. In a flash he took in the bed, neatly made, and Jenny standing, white-faced, before the open closet.

"What?" For a moment he felt only relief. No ghastly surprises met his eye. The clothes hung neatly on their hangers. Nothing at all seemed out of place. But that was the problem, wasn't it?

"Her suitcases, Joe. Look, they're all here. And her clothes, her shoes, everything." Jenny's voice was tinged with hysteria. "How could she go to Europe and not take anything with her?"

Never had a crime scene seemed so sinister for its neatness and order. But it wasn't a crime scene, he told himself. It was weird, it was indisputably weird, but there was no evidence that any crime had been committed.

"Calm down, Jen," he ordered, grasping her shoulders. She stared at him like a frightened deer. "I know this looks strange, but there's bound to be an explanation. Peter Alcott's a friend of hers, right? He's known her all his life. He looks out for her. He's a highly respected man. If he says she's all right, she's all right."

Jenny nodded uncertainly. "I know. I know Cathy trusts him completely, but, Joe, this doesn't make any sense."

"I'll give you that." He looked past her to the suitcases on the shelf, the summer dresses hanging crisply in a rainbow of colors. "But we can't jump to conclusions here. Everything that's freaking you out is circumstantial evidence. On the other side there's the testimony of a witness so reliable we use him to build our own cases. Just relax, okay?"

"Okay." Jenny shuddered. "But we're here, Joe. Search warrant or not, we have to look around."

"Yeah." He dropped his hands, and his mouth settled into a grim line. No way was he leaving without a cursory check for something that might relieve their anxiety -- or give him a concrete reason to investigate.

They were on thin ice here. He ignored Jenny as she darted to the nightstand and began to look through the drawers.

In the bathroom he wasn't surprised to see Cathy's toothbrush or the few items of make-up that were probably not typically abandoned by women going on a trip. He was glad, though, that Jenny hadn't seen them.

"Anything?" he said, emerging into the bedroom, where his "associate" had completed her search.

"Nothing. Not even any pictures of men. Maybe you're right. Maybe she wasn't seeing him anymore."

Joe glanced quickly through the small desk. Let Jenny concentrate on the maybe-boyfriend. There were two things he was looking for, and he prayed neither one would be found. Slipping into the living room, he made a cursory search that included the briefcase again. The tension in his gut began to unwind as neither of the tell-tale items came to light.

"Hey, you folks about done in there?" The super's voice, mildly suspicious, wound through the open door. He'd almost forgotten the guy was waiting.

"Haven't found it yet," Joe called, grateful that the man's sense of propriety had thus far kept him outside. Swiftly, he scooped up the briefcase, snapping it closed, shoving it up against the couch where it wasn't visible from the doorway.

Jenny came into the room and headed straight for a shelf from which she took a photo album, flipping through its pages.

Nothing was written on the message pad near the phone; the top sheets bore no impressions. He found the volume control on the answering machine and turned it down as far as it would go. The tape was full - mostly messages from the office, a couple from Jen, but there was one farther back that caught his attention.

"Cathy, Peter. Don't bother to pick up. Just wanted to tell you the blood work should be back late this afternoon. I may be stuck here pretty late, so why don't you come by the office?"

He played it again. Presumably Cathy had gone, and it was there that the decision was made for her to take off with friends. Just because, for the life of him, he couldn't think of a logical reason for her to leave everything behind, didn't mean there wasn't one.

"Joe, her curio cabinet!" Jenny was staring at the spot occupied by the cardboard box. In her anxiety, she hadn't even lowered her voice.

That was it. That was what used to be there, he remembered now. A big glass cabinet, filled with Cathy's collection of paper weights.

"Come on, Jen. I don't think anybody broke in to cart off Cathy and a major piece of furniture."

"But that collection. It was worth a lot. Joe."

He went to the box and, kneeling, removed the lid. From a nest of tissue paper, he gently retrieved a marble egg, holding it up for Jenny's perusal. "It's all here. Maybe the cabinet needed repairs or something. She could have sent it out."

"I remember there were a couple of work orders for 21B, not long before Ms. Chandler took off." The helpful comment came from the doorway where the super stood staring into the room.

Guiltily, Joe rose to his feet. "Work orders?"

"When a tenant's got service people coming by, they have to notify us, so we'll know it's legit. Ms. Chandler'd been home sick for a few days, so she probably let 'em in herself."

"Yeah, probably." Joe patted the papers sticking out of his pocket. "We found what we needed. Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Krauss."

He grabbed Jenny firmly by the elbow and steered her out into the hall, turning to watch as the door was locked again. No sign of forced entry. Of course there wasn't.

A warning look kept Jenny quiet on the elevator's long descent. When Krauss left them in the lobby, the dam burst. "Joe, I don't like this. Something isn't right. I'm starting to get worried."

"Starting?" Joe teased. "Look. I know -- I was getting a little paranoid myself up there, but aside from the fact that Cathy seems to travel pretty light, there's not a thing that contradicts what Peter Alcott told me. Her purse wasn't there. Her passport wasn't there. Those were, the only things she positively had to have with her to leave the country. Anything else could be replaced."

"But why, Joe. Why not take her own things?"

"Beats me, but there's an easy enough way to find out. We just ask Peter Alcott"

"But he's in Mexico."

"So they don't have phones in Mexico? I'll call him first thing in the morning."

"Oh." Jenny looked slightly mollified. "That's a good idea. You'll call me as soon as you've talked to him?"

"Hey, I don't need another stressed-out female on my conscience. I'll do it right away -- promise. Try not to let your imagination run away with you, okay?"

Jenny's good humor rallied a little. She threw him a haughty look. "If men had a bit more imagination, the world would be in a lot better shape."

"The world will survive, Jen. We'll survive, and Cathy'll be just fine." He believed that, though he might have wished for less imagination than he had.

Then maybe that half-eaten sandwich wouldn't bother him so much.

* * * * *

"Vincent, my goodness, is it raining up there?" Mary materialized before him wavering in the torchlight at the junction.

"Raining...? No... I don't know." That worried look. He had seen it on her face before, concern for him, nervousness. Suddenly the memory fell into place and inwardly he shook himself, bringing his scattered thoughts into line. Was he always to be regarded with that cautious concern? A source of trepidation, rather than a friend to be trusted? "I'm sorry, Mary. No, I haven't been above."

"You haven't been down to the falls, have you?" she said with such a look of maternal reproach that he slipped an arm around her shoulders, urging her to walk beside him.

"Do you know how often you asked me that question as a child?"

"You and Devin... yes, more times than I'd care to count. And do you remember how you used to answer?"

"No... tell me."

"The very same way you're doing now -- by changing the subject." Her tone was accusatory, but a smile teased at her lips.

"Your patience was remarkable then. By now it's almost legendary."

"Well, I suppose it's something -- growing old enough to be a legend."

"You never age," he said with sincerity. "To me you are the same as you were when Devin and I first tried your patience. So much has changed about this world, about ourselves, but your caring -- for all of us -- has been a constant, more valuable than you can know. We should tell you so more often."

Now she was smiling. "Love never changes, isn't that what Father says?"

Father. The word brought a touch of coolness to their warm exchange, and he didn't respond.

"What is it Vincent?" Mary slid a solicitous hand across his chest. Her soft hair brushed his cheek as she peered up at him. "Have you two quarreled?"

"Quarreled? No. It's only that he seems preoccupied -- almost fearful when he talks to me, as if he harbored some secret he didn't wish me to see."

"Oh, Vincent, I think you're imagining things. He's tired, of course, and concerned. After all, he was afraid he was going to lose you."

"No... there's something else. I can feel it."

"Well then, why don't you ask him? There's no time like the present," she added pointedly, as they drew close to the study entrance.

He sighed, but looked down at her fondly. "You're right," he said, "as usual."

"He'll be glad to see you Vincent, you know he will, and it will give you two the chance to clear the air." With a parting pat to his chest, she moved from under his arm and, smiling encouragement, turned to continue down the passage.

Glad was not the term that came to mind as Father looked up at him with a start. It seemed to Vincent that uneasy would have been a better word to describe his expression.

"Father."

"Vincent -- wherever have you been? You're completely drenched."

"Not drenched, Father. Merely damp."

"Well, you should dry off. Your resistance is likely to be low just now. You might catch something."

"I seldom catch anything. You know that."

"Yes... but there's no sense in taking chances." He picked up his pen, tapping it absently on the scarred wood. "At least go and change your clothes."

Vincent paused before the desk, effectively making it impossible for the older man not to look at him, yet he managed not to do so. "Is there some reason, Father, that you're so anxious to be rid of me?"

"Rid of you?" The pen stopped in mid-tap. "Don't talk nonsense, Vincent. I'm your father and quite recently your doctor. I simply want you to take care of yourself." Vincent continued to look at him, making no move to leave. The silence lengthened, and at last Father rushed to fill it. "I thought you'd rather broken this habit of going above."

Habit? Is that what he considered his visits to Catherine? "You mean, because I no longer have reason to go there?"

Lips pursed, Father nodded shortly. "I had hoped you would be content now to remain below -- in safety."

"Content?" Vincent shot the ill-chosen word back and saw the flinch as it found its mark.

"What I meant was -- I don't think it's a good idea for you to return there, to a place that must stir up memories. It can only make you unhappy."

Did he remember saying those words before -- at a time when the world was new? Vincent reached down and gave Mouse's tube of colors an idle spin. "My memories are not dependent on a place. I carry them with me -- always."

"Yes, I realize that, but I don't think it would be wise to search them out. You must look toward the future, Vincent."

Could he truthfully not guess what a barren prospect that seemed? A future without love, without light, without joy, without Catherine. For a moment Vincent regarded him as a stranger, this distinguished looking man with his world-weary eyes, his look of sharp intelligence and caring. And something else that reminded him of why he had come here.

"There's something you're not telling me, Father. Something that is causing you pain."

"Oh, Vincent, for heaven's sake, you're imagining things." Father leaned back in his chair, failing to carry off the illusion that he was at ease. "If there's anything bothering me it's that you're standing here courting pneumonia when you should be in your own chamber getting ready for bed."

"Thank you for the advice, Father," Vincent said with a silkiness that few would have recognized as sarcasm. It pleased him perversely that Father did, that he was opening his mouth to respond, no doubt with some conciliatory phrase that would mean nothing, hide everything. Whirling, Vincent strode out of the chamber.

Jacob watched him go with a sharp sense of loss and despair for his own clumsiness. He had handled things badly, yet the fear that came over him every time he thought of Vincent searching his memories…

He was almost certain that the lethal one, the image of Catherine's fate, had never even registered in the madness, but if there was any chance at all that it could surface, all of this would have been for nothing. The truth could be fatal, and Vincent would know that he had been blatantly lying to him all along.

A bitter laugh churned in his chest. As if that could make any difference in their relationship. Their rapport was being fumbled away. It was hard to imagine feeling any more alienated from his beloved son than he did now, and the damnable part was, he could do nothing to help him through this, nothing but pray.

With a sigh, he cradled his head in his hands. "Be well, Vincent," he whispered into the guttering candlelight, into the ringing emptiness of the room.

* * * * *

"No, I'll wait," Joe said, drumming his fingers along the phone cord. Somewhere on the other end of the line there was a faint murmur of voices. He couldn't tell what language they were speaking, but it was weird thinking the sounds were coming from another country, one he'd never seen.

But he had a pretty good idea what it might look like. Tropical sun -- or was it still night there? The hotel lobby probably had a tile floor, and there'd be palm trees or cactuses, maybe a parrot or two. A wistful glance out the office window showed that nothing here had changed. Still raining. Grey sky. Grey buildings. A faint sound brought his attention back to the phone.

"This is Dr. Alcott."

"Peter -- Joe Maxwell here. I hope I didn't get you at a bad time."

"Not at all. What's the problem, Joe?"

"No problem really." He wondered if Alcott was buying that, after being paged in a city halfway round the world. "There's just something here that I don't understand, and I hoped you could explain it to me. When you saw Cathy, when you sent her off on that cruise -- was that at her place?"

A slight pause might only have meant that Peter was surprised he'd bothered to call with such a question. "We were in my office, Joe. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I had to get into her apartment the other day to retrieve some files, and I noticed that her luggage was there -- and her clothes."

Another pause or maybe it was just the delay in transmission. Sometimes, if you got one of the old lines, seconds could pass before you heard what the other guy said. That didn't usually happen anymore with fiber optics.

"I told you, Joe, it was a very spur of the moment thing. Cathy mentioned that she had friends going to Europe. I insisted she call them right then and there, and it turned out they were leaving in just an hour or two. I think they'd scheduled a bon voyage party at the docks. The only way she could make it was if they swung by and picked her up on the way. I remember her saying something about the wife being her size -- that she wouldn't really need much to wear until they got to Europe and she'd buy it there. I know that sounds pretty off-the-wall to guys like you and me, Joe, but, believe me, Cathy used to do impulsive things like that all the time a few years ago."

"Uh-huh. So what about her passport, Peter -- she carry that around in her purse?"

This time there was a definite crackling on the line. What he wouldn't give to know if it was genuine. Peter's voice came a little fainter. "No, no, she didn't. She kept it in her safe deposit box. Her bank's just a couple of blocks from my office, and of course she had to stop by there to withdraw cash for the trip."

"What time was that?" As he endured the delay, his fingers probed nervously at the loops in the cord.

"About 4:30 -- maybe 5."

"And the bank was open?"

Crackle. Crackle. "It was a Friday, Joe. Remember?"

Even with the poor connection he could sense Alcott's indulgent smile. He was probably shaking his head at the way people like him could make mountains out of molehills. "Just one more thing, Peter. What was the name of the people she went with? Do you know?"

"... don't... didn't mention... "

Alcott was fading out completely, though the gist of it was clear enough. Joe thanked him with a hasty good-bye, but before he could hang up, a woman's voice came over the line. She sounded very faraway. "I'm sorry, sir, but the connection's been broken. They're experiencing torrential rains in Mexico City. Please hang up and try again later."

He let out a long breath and lobbed a coffee-stained napkin at the waste can. A near two points. That would teach him to make rash assumptions.

The weather in vacationville wasn't one bit better than it was right here.

* * * * *

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

-- William Shakespeare