PART III

Joe pounded down the concourse, threading his way between baggage-laden travelers. Two -- not one -- but two accidents holding up traffic before they'd even made it through Astoria, and why was it that the flight you wanted was always scheduled for the farthest gate?

Up ahead he could see a knot of people standing near the waiting area and prayed they were there to meet passengers from Mexico.

"Flight 451?" he asked breathless, as he reached the ticket agent.

"Just arriving, sir."

With a sigh of relief he glanced up at the window, where the jetway was being extended to the door of a 767. These last three weeks had seemed like months. After having to hold back so long, it would have been just great if he'd been too late to intercept Alcott.

He took his place with the people standing at the end of the restricted area. From here there was a clear view of the passengers as they deplaned, and there was no way anybody could slip past him unnoticed. Still, his tension mounted. What was taking so long?

At last they began to appear, sporadic a first, then in a jostling crowd no more orderly than you'd see in the subway. Expecting Alcott to fly first class, he tried to count, but at least 20 passengers had passed him by now. They were already into the coach crowd. So maybe the good doctor was frugal with his money.

A lot of suntanned faces. A lot of sombreros and piñatas. Families with tired little kids. Some well-dressed guys who looked like they might have been attending the same medical convention as Alcott. Around him there were squeals and laughter, as people connected with each other, creating momentary bottlenecks and then drifting off.

At last he was the only one standing there. The jetway was empty. A ticket agent was moving to close the door. "Is that it?" he asked her. "You're sure there's no one else on board?"

"That's it, sir. Were you expecting a party who didn't arrive?"

"You could say that."

"It was a pretty full flight. Maybe they decided to take a later one."

"Can you check that for me?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Passenger lists are confidential, unless you're with the pol --"

He already had his badge out. All the anxiety that he'd tried to tell himself was out of line was back in full force. "I'm with the DA's office and this could be real important."

"Of course, sir."

He followed her to the desk, where she began to pull up manifests on the computer. "Is this something we should alert the flight crew about? If there's a dangerous passenger on board, they need to know."

"No, that's not a problem -- just somebody we need for questioning real quick." Alcott's name didn't come up on the remaining flight tonight, nor was he scheduled on any other airline. If Alcott had taken a powder, he was never going to forgive himself. "What about earlier flights? Can you still pull up the lists for those?"

"Certainly." Her fingers were already flying over the keys. What if it wasn't there? He began to wonder if he could impose on her to check Mexico City flights to other destinations -- like to anywhere in the whole known world. "Alcott... Peter Alcott?" she said suddenly.

"Yeah." At this point, her discovery took him by surprise.

"He took an earlier flight that arrived at 3:30 this afternoon."

"You're sure he boarded?"

"Absolutely."

"Thanks -- you've been a big help."

Once again he took the concourse at a run. So Peter hadn't disappeared into the wilds of Bolivia. What was he doing changing his flight plans? Maybe he suspected they were onto him.

The Queensboro bridge was laced with lights when he crossed it again, pushing the speed limit as hard as he dared. He tried to tell himself that this whole mystery might be a figment of his imagination. He tried, but the feeling in his gut wouldn't go away. There was no shaking the sense that the night just settling over the city was going to be a long one.

* * * * *

Shadows fell across his shoulders like cold clouds.

He had left behind his armor of beaten metal that might have caught whatever meager light penetrated to this far outpost of his kingdom. Fitting that a monarch who chose to explore his realm in anonymity should leave behind the golden emblems of his office.

He was sovereign here, though these humble, incredulous peasants might not know it yet. He was come like King Richard to reclaim his throne and soon -- very soon -- he would reveal himself, in triumph stepping into their small, colorless lives at the moment of their greatest confusion, their greatest grief, and sheep-like they would bow to his authority.

There was little chance of encountering any of his subjects in this desolate area far from their habitat, far from his own. Still, inborn furtiveness kept him to the gloomy margins of the caverns he passed through, sliding from dark to sheltering dark with sharpened senses.

A monarch should know his kingdom -- even its farthest reaches -- and his probing mind had for days now hummed with curiosity. He must confirm his theories, see for himself the place that had made it possible for such a valuable hostage to fall -- heaven-sent, it seemed -- into his hands.

The north shaft, Tamara had said. Poring over his own meticulously executed maps, he had deduced where its origins might be -- in an area inhabited by no one, an inhospitable warren of low twisting passages where the air was stale, the atmosphere one of unmitigated gloom.

That anyone would choose to wander there was a mystery, but that Catherine Chandler, a creature who wore about her an aura of sunlight, should have elected to do so intrigued him utterly. Leaving the comparative freedom of cavernous spaces, he ducked into a low-mouthed passage and felt himself immediately trapped. It seemed to go on forever with few connections to other routes, no sudden release into spaciousness, like a funnel pouring its contents into some inescapable crucible.

The sense of entrapment grated on his nerves, and he paused straining for sounds that might indicate he was not alone. Of course, there were none -- only the wind whistling uninhibited through the narrow tubes, and after a moment he moved on, hunched ape-like beneath the sloping roof.

When at last the narrow passage opened up, and he stood at the threshold of his destination, triumph coursed through his veins. Just as he'd calculated. The bleak enclosure took its only illumination from the sickly glow of the north shaft, opening here as he had known it must.

He moved into the cavern, standing upright now and ramrod straight as befitted a monarch. At the rim, he looked down into the abyss with its curling vapors and smiled. So this had been the means by which the woman had been delivered to her destiny. Had something pursued her here? Or had she merely lost her footing on the crumbling ledge? And why here?

He turned and walked along the half-moon floor. A pile of rubble gave him pause. It looked as though something had wrenched its way into the wall dislodging a small avalanche. Curious, he continued to pace -- eyes narrowed -- searching every inch of the rough floor for signs of human passage, for some clue as to what might draw a person here. The dust was scuffed and scored, too disturbed to leave a clear footprint.

Lifting his eyes to the rugged walls, he felt his heart quicken and stepped forward, long white fingers tracing the rusty streak that appeared there -- mysteriously out of place. Like coming upon the primitive totems left by a prehistoric race. Lascaux. Alta Mira. Oh, yes, very like.

Eagerly he edged along the wall finding another symbol and another. The facts began to meld in his mind.

What had Jacob said? That Catherine had followed his son into exile, that she had found him in an advanced state of delirium, his fury turned on himself, that Vincent had collapsed at last and been carried away. He hadn't connected it before -- the incidence of Vincent's downfall with the woman's disappearance, but they must have coincided; they must have happened simultaneously right here.

He turned back toward the center of the cave, studying the circumstances in this new light. Vincent out of control. Catherine daring to approach him. And then her plunge toward oblivion. An accident?

Perhaps -- or perhaps the direct result of violence. Vincent's ferocious rage unsoftened by her solicitous presence, unresponsive to the love she offered in exchange. Ah, the thought was delicious; it was the very proof of his beliefs -- that love had no power against his son's innate savagery. He fairly trembled with this confirmation that his own instincts had lead him unerringly in the right direction.

Soon. Very soon, he must put into place the last -- and most vital part -- of his plan, and he had no doubt, no doubt at all, that it would succeed. A great happiness, a great peace warmed him as he abandoned the cavern, all its secrets yielded up to him, as everything he cherished, everything he coveted would soon be yielded up to him.

* * * * *

"He shouldn't have gone off like that when they loved each other so much. It was his fault she died."

"No, it wasn't. He had to go away, but he came back."

"What good did that do -- when she was dead?"

"She wasn't dead."

"He thought she was."

"That was her fault."

"Wasn't either. Tell him, Vincent -- it wasn't her fault was it?" Samantha turned to a higher authority, brown eyes blazing an appeal.

"No, it wasn't her fault -- or his." Vincent rose from the bed, where he'd been unobtrusively sitting out the debate, and joined the two children at the writing table. "The story tells us that finding fault can be like a sickness, feeding on itself long after the original quarrel is past. Such hatred for its own sake can destroy even the innocent."

"I'll bet they were sorry," Geoffrey said. "Romeo and Juliet's parents -- I bet they wished they'd just been friends all along."

"At least they found a nice count for Juliet to marry," Samantha supplied in the interest of fairness. "Which is better, Vincent, a count or a duke?"

"Count Dracula," Geoffrey suggested, grinning. "Maybe you could marry Count Dracula, Sam."

"Maybe you could marry an ugly, old toad."

"Dracula? Toads? I thought you were studying Shakespeare today," Mary said from the doorway.

"Romeo and Juliet," Vincent confirmed. "We were discussing the persistence of old rivalries."

"Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Geoffrey, it's your turn to help in the kitchen. William's waiting for you. "

"Oops -- I almost forgot." Geoffrey jumped up. "We're going to make gingerbread, and he lets you lick the bowl. Thanks, Vincent. See you later." At the door he paused and looked back at Samantha who was still sitting at the table. "You want to come too, Sam?"

"Well... if you really need the help... " Closing her book with a great show of nonchalance, she slipped daintily from the chair.

"In answer to your question," Vincent advised her as she passed, "a duke is higher in rank. "

"And if you marry one, you get to be a duchess, right?" Samantha absorbed the information with a bemused look, as if she might be compelled to choose from any number of eligible peers on her journey to the kitchen.

"Old rivalries, hm?" Mary said, when the children were gone.

"But, as you can see, not very deep ones."

Mary smiled and began to gather up the papers that the children had left behind. "What about you, Vincent? Have things gotten better between you and Father?"

How to answer that. Their last conversation had been reminiscent of former times -- with Father there to soothe his anxieties. The old affection had risen up easily between them, yet he'd been so intent on his own fears that he'd made no effort to search out the source of Father's. "Yes, Mary, things are better. The last time we talked, he seemed himself again. He was a great comfort to me -- almost cheerful. Still, I wonder what can have troubled him for so long."

"Perhaps he was just waiting for you to turn to him, Vincent. People like to feel needed. I'm so glad you did that. It would be terrible if you two shut each other out." She picked up the book that Geoffrey had left behind. "What a lot of children have turned these pages -- and adults, too. Do you remember the time that Michael played Romeo? I think that's when he fell in love with literature."

"I remember. All the girls wanted to play Juliet." Vincent took the cracked, leather volume and the newer paperback that Samantha had been using and returned them to the bookshelf by his bed.

"And Laura -- how thrilled she was when she was chosen?"

"All the passion of the words was there in her hands."

Mary smiled nostalgically, "With Rebecca reciting the script, content to let Laura have the spotlight. I wonder how she's doing?"

"Rebecca?" Vincent took the papers from her, turning to a small wooden chest on the bottom shelf.

"No -- Laura. I'm sure she's all caught up in her plans with Jerry, but it would be good to hear from her, just to know that she's all right."

"She's well, Mary. Father received a letter from her not long ago."

"Oh, I don't think so. Vincent." Mary slipped the pencils into the table's shallow drawer. "I asked him just recently if he'd heard from her, and he said he hadn't."

Vincent's hands froze on the lid of the little chest. Ice seemed to drift up his spine as he turned back toward the center of the room. "When," he said slowly, "when did you ask him?"

"Why... it was just yesterday -- yesterday afternoon. What is it? Is something wrong?"

Wrong? He stared at her, oblivious to her puzzled expression. Everything was wrong. How had he let himself be so easily persuaded that something was right? Anger was churning up through his stomach, thawing the coldness, anger and a nameless fear that was like kindling to the rising sparks. "I'm sorry, Mary," and his voice sounded half strangled to his own ears, "I have to go."

Lies and more lies and inexplicable feelings tapping at his heart, his brain. Ignoring Mary's perplexed look, he charged from the chamber, hands flexing at his sides.

* * * * *

Joe drove straight to Alcott's apartment, but there was no answer, and the doorman said he hadn't seen him. A call to the hospital got him the news that Dr. Alcott wasn't scheduled in for two more days.

Now what? The phone booth felt like a cage. He had the nagging feeling that he'd let Cathy down. The telephone book had been ripped off, and he fumbled through his wallet for several minutes before finding Elliot Burch's card. Maybe just maybe he'd have some info. What were the chances he'd be in his office this late? Not knowing where else to turn, he dialed the number and was surprised when Burch's secretary answered.

"He said I should put you through if you called, Mr. Maxwell, but I'm afraid you just missed him."

"Do you know where he was going?"

"Yes, he had an appointment with Mr. Manning at his office. Would you like that address?"

Joe took it down and considered calling, but it wasn't far from here, and if he didn't take some kind of action soon, he was going to explode.

* * * * *

Heat waved behind his eyes, even as Vincent forced himself to slow from the dead run that every muscle was urging him toward. Anger, hurt -- the nature of the feeling churning within eluded him. And, after all, what difference did it make? Perhaps they were the same in the way that all overwhelming sensations were the same in the end, commanding mind and body, even the very beating of one's heart, with no deference to reason.

It was dangerous, this feeling. He knew it and so would not run, though the ungoverned power caused his long legs to eat up the well-worn passage with hard, angry strides. He must gain control, must calm himself and think before reaching Father.

But what was there to think? What was there to know? Catherine was lost to him and so, it seemed, was the only other person who had ever really understood -- at least part of -- who he was. His concern had been met with deception. His trust with betrayal. Not in weeks had Father seemed so genuinely himself as he did at that moment when he lied so glibly about the letter. Lied -- and smiled.

Smile and smile and be a villain. The quote crept insidiously into his mind, bringing with it a flash of memory that knotted his stomach -- the false father, mocking him, drenched at last in his own blood. Had he known, even as he struck the fatal blow, that it was a chimera taunting him and not Jacob Wells? Long after the madness, after he was himself again, he had been sure of it. His empathic powers were as involuntary -- and as reliable -- as breathing: they had never failed before. Rather, he thought, their soft insistence had been drowned out by the wild clamoring of thoughts that Paracelsus had orchestrated.

Paracelsus. Another violent alarm struck at his solar plexus. Why? Where were these brief surges of feeling coming from?

Madness. Was that what Father saw that caused him to withdraw his trust? All these weeks Vincent had guarded his secret sorrow, tried not to infect the others with the vastness of his emptiness, yet Father knew him better than anyone. Better perhaps than he knew himself. Had he seen beyond the pain to signs of encroaching madness and built around himself a wall of denial that would not let Vincent come too close?

Answers. He must have answers before all the certainties were gone. They were slipping away with such speed. His fists closed tight, as if to grasp the last remnants of them. The deadly nails bit into his flesh. Before his swimming vision a figure appeared.

Cullen.

Cullen whose face in the shuddering torchlight suddenly gave way, telling him more clearly than words how he must appear -- a demon on a brutal mission.

"Vincent...? Hey, man, what's the matter? Is it --" All the color drained from Cullen's face as he shrank back against the wall to let him pass. He did not follow, and Vincent didn't acknowledge him in any way.

Ahead, he could see the yellow glow from the study. He homed in on it with a terrible single-minded purpose, his breath coming stronger with anticipation. He might as well have run here for all the good his measured pace had done. There was no dissipation of the roiling energy; it only seemed to increase with nearness to his goal. Dangerous and pain-driven. How could reason have hoped to catch up with its swelling power?

What did he know of reason?

Enough to slow. Enough to pause at the entrance and grip the stones of the archway like a drowning man clinging to a raft. Scattered thoughts tried to exert themselves, pummeled on all sides by bright bursts of outrage and fear, and which were the brighter, he could not tell. Beyond this threshold lay answers, but just as surely there lay the horror of what he might do to obtain them with his feelings careening out of control.

If Cullen hadn't stepped aside, would he have plowed right through him? The knowledge that he could not answer that was as frightening as an affirmative. No. No, he must not do this. Not now. Not this minute. The very strength of the urge to continue served as a warning bell.

Safe. No one was safe -- least of all himself.

He drew a shuddering breath and released his grip on the rough-hewn rock, indifferently, noting the raw scoring of his hands. Coming here was the very opposite of what he must do, where he must go. Somewhere far away from the others. Somewhere where he could be utterly alone to try to untangle the fear and rage twisting through his mind, and barring that, to at the very least make certain their tentacles did not reach out to choke his friends.

Sanctuary. He knew just the place. With bitter irony and a kind of fascinated horror he conjured up the vision and, whirling from the entrance, at last allowed himself to break into a run.

* * * * *

To Paracelsus, the journey upward from the secluded cavern seemed shorter, brighter. His steps were buoyed by the sweet odor of victory that clung about his thoughts. When he emerged into the wider expanses beyond the catacombs, he forgot his intention to stay to the shadows. What need for precautions when he could feel invincibility emanating from every pore? He knew them all so well -- his victims, his enemies. They were no match for his intellect or his instincts. In truth, they had never stood a chance.

A sound pierced his euphoria, unidentifiable but out of place, and with long practice at self-preservation, he withdrew into a shallow niche. From here he could view the entire cavern in secret, but for a moment the distorted acoustics made it impossible to pinpoint the direction of the noise.

Several passages emptied into this room, and his eyes darted from one to another. He was safe here, unobserved, a circumstance that gave rise to a gratifying sense of power. He relished the sensation, yet when the figure appeared on the opposite side of the expanse, a momentary terror ripped through his complacency.

Vincent.

His expression was stormy. The power seething around him like an energy field reached out even here to chill his blood. Yellow hair streaming out behind him, his cloak billowing like a black sail, he didn't pause but rushed straight for the tunnel Paracelsus had lately traveled and disappeared from sight.

For a moment he remained, stunned by the unexpected, by the realization of how close he'd come to discovery. He shook off the chill, his brain working furiously to make the most of what he'd seen. Vincent was upset. That much was certain. What had disturbed his balance, he could not know, but it was perhaps incidental. The fact, the indisputable fact, was that something had shaken his usual serenity. Something was challenging already that delicate and foolish veneer of humanity, and now he was once more seeking the exile that had almost been his undoing before.

The knowledge seemed to him a gift, a miraculous gift of fate that confirmed the righteousness of his own campaign. He eased out of his hiding place and began to hurry back towards Tamara's lair. The execution of his plan had still been some days off. He was by nature a cautious man, unwilling to act until all the factors were in his favor, but this... this unexpected boon must not be wasted. Vulnerable already, Vincent was unlikely to find peace in his chosen haven, the site of a hellish hour that must surely come back to haunt him, further threatening his grip.

Oh, no, it must not be wasted. The plan must simply be accelerated. The final decisive battle must be waged now -- tonight. The gods had chosen to bless his quest and in so doing had given him the means to ascend to their level.

Lucifer in heaven. A fallen angel ascended once again.

* * * * *

Half a minute later, and Joe would have missed them. As it was he recognized Burch at the wheel of a Mercedes that was just pulling away from the building when he drove up. Had to be Manning with him. Now what were those two up to?

Telling himself it might have nothing to do with Cathy Chandler, he slipped back and let another car come between them. Easy enough to follow in city traffic and he didn't have anything better to do. He fell back farther when they pulled into the park but almost blew it when they suddenly drew to the curb in the middle of nowhere.

He pulled in behind a bend in the road and got out, watching them from behind his car. Both men were casually dressed. Burch had some kind of small pack thrown over his back, and Manning was struggling with... a dog?

Since when did your basic tycoon hire one of the city's top private detectives just to help him walk the dog?

* * * * *

There was a current running through him tonight, as if his body were held together with hot wires.

Catherine could sense it, though nothing had changed in his demeanor. He stood, cold and expressionless, looking down his nose at her, a bowl of soup cradled in his skeletal fingers.

Huddled on the bed, she tried to match his unreadable expression, hoping he couldn't sense her own underlying emotions -- alarm at the new tension he was trying to hide, at the fact that he'd chosen to bring the infamous supper himself.

"Eat quickly now," he commanded. "There's work to be done."

She took the bowl and as slowly as she dared skimmed the spoon across the surface. His gaze never wavered, and she was obliged to take a small sip, inwardly pleading that he would leave.

"What is it, Catherine? Is there something wrong with the soup? Is it not to your liking?"

"No... it's just a little hot."

"Would you like me to blow on it for you?" There was such sarcasm in his tone. She prayed he hadn't begun to doubt her subservience. Could that be why he had come himself? Steeling herself, she took another spoonful.

"I shan't leave until you've finished."

In that case, she judged, it would behoove her to jettison the reluctance. If she must drink it anyway, better to do so with every appearance of enthusiasm. Still, he never turned away. Never -- she could almost swear it -- even blinked, and the horrible conviction came over her that he would not leave when she was finished, that he intended to stay here watching her, and she would have no opportunity to rid herself of the insidious drug.

When the bowl was almost empty, she handed it to him, heart pounding with an anxiety she did not want to feel.

"Very good, Catherine. I must say you have become a most agreeable companion. I shall miss our little talks. There's only one small thing I require of you for now. Beneath that unfortunate gown. I believe you wear a crystal. I would like you to give it to me now."

Rebellion rose in her with such force that she feared he would see the truth in the stiffening of her muscles. The crystal was all she had -- all she had of Vincent, of herself, of the truth. Paracelsus had taken it from her once before, and everything in her fought against surrendering it again, yet it was only a symbol of things that must be protected at any cost, however high the price.

Slowly, she reached up and undid the clasp, pulling the pendant from her neck and handed it to him without a word.

"How kind of you," he said with false gentility. "Oh, and by the way, you needn't worry that I will use it to lure your precious Vincent. That is your role, after all, is it not? You have my word that he will never see it."

What was he up to? She couldn't make sense of it, but suddenly it didn't matter, because he was leaving, actually leaving her alone. She waited till the murmur of voices in the room beyond told her he was talking to Tamara and then sped to the bathroom for the distasteful duty that ensured her control of the situation.

When she emerged, it was with a growing feeling of hope and excitement. He had said he would miss her. The moment of liberation must be drawing near, the moment when she would be free to go to Vincent's chamber and tell him everything that had happened. She sat back down on the bed praying that it would be tonight.

* * * * *

Elliot Burch would have made an elegant cat burglar, Manning decided.

Slim and athletic-looking in jeans and a dark turtleneck, he was peering into the pipe like a thief sizing up a darkened house.

The chances that there was anything of value in there seemed slim; in fact, they seemed close to zero. Rats more likely and a nasty smell. Here in the sheltering concrete arms that framed the culvert, they weren't likely to be seen. Good thing, too, with their flashlights and tools and this crazy dog wrapping the leash around his legs again.

"You sure this is the way to do this, Elliot?" Maybe his own doubt was infectious. Maybe they'd just walk out through the soft summer night and get a drink.

"I'm sure, but I won't hold it against you if you want to pull out."

"Can't do it. I had to spend all Saturday afternoon with this mutt before Sanders would consider loaning her out. Besides she's getting paid more for this caper than I am."

"Not any more," Burch upped the ante without so much as a blink and began moving into the pipe.

Manning had little choice but to follow. The dog must have sensed that there was purpose now in their movements. Stretching the leash out as far as it would go, she got down to business, her long ears trailing on the damp concrete.

* * * * *

"Did she enjoy having your company for dinner?" Tamara tossed at him derisively, as Paracelsus emerged. Clearly, she found her slightly repugnant pursuits -- continually adding some foul-smelling chemical or another into the basic clay -- more interesting than his own plans, but he wasn't offended. Not tonight. Not with everything going more smoothly than he had imagined it could.

"Bring me a pen," he ordered. "Paper and an envelope as well. And then I want you to take the girl to the pool where you bathe. See that's she's cleaned up for her romantic assignation with my son."

"Tonight?" Tamara gaped at him foolishly.

"Yes, tonight. An opportunity has presented itself that adds a measure of security to my plans. It would be foolish to let it pass. Now, Tamara."

His tone sent her scurrying through the narrow opening. When she returned he was sitting at the table smiling to himself.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" She placed before him a sheet of vellum, a creamy envelope, a silver inkwell, rich with filigree, and a heavy antique pen. "I mean, she's drugged. She's not very stable. What if she slips in the pool and drowns? How am I supposed to prevent that?" Her slightly shrill intonation indicated she was well aware what the consequences would be if she allowed such a thing to happen.

"Tamara, Tamara," he chuckled, enjoying her consternation. "I truly must question how you survived so long on your own in that world up there. Your gullibility is the sort of weakness that the world above exploits with perfect impunity. I wonder that you weren't sucked into some lethal snare long before you fell under my protection."

Her expression was a perfect battle between protest and confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, my dear Tamara, that Catherine is not now -- if, indeed, she has ever been -- under the influence of your much touted soup and its secret ingredient." The expansive mood was cause for celebration, surely an occasion for indulging in his one vice. He fished from his pocket a slim cigarette case and matching lighter of burnished gold. He had taken the first satisfying puff before Tamara found her voice.

"It's not possible. I've watched her drink it down myself."

"As I have, and I am sure that even as we speak, she is retching up its contents as she has undoubtedly done for some time. In all your hours alone with her, Tamara, did you never take note of the fact that she is a most resourceful young woman, a strong woman?" Really, with her wide-eyed stare, vacant as one of her masks, Tamara could be frightfully irritating.

"You're saying she was stronger than you -- that she outsmarted you?"

"Certainly not. Your knowledge of gamesmanship is sadly lacking, Tamara. One does not want to lose, but neither does one derive true triumph from an easy victory. A worthy opponent is essential to enjoyment of the game, and Catherine has proved herself a most amusing strategist. I particularly liked her refusal to escape at the moment offered to her. That was a sophisticated play -- intellect overriding one's own instinct for survival. Yes, considering the few options open to her, she has conducted herself quite admirably." He drew another long puff, flicking the ash onto the stone floor.

"So what's the point? Why go through this charade of playing with her mind, getting her to do what you want, if you suspected she'd find a way around it? I can't believe you like the notion of her laughing at you."

"You're quite wrong, Tamara. In fact, that was the essential purpose of our little charade, as you call it -- to give her the illusion that she knows my intentions, to build her confidence. Remember what I told you about playing upon a subject's strengths instead of weaknesses. Tonight she will leave here convinced of my plans, thinking of nothing but pouring her heart out to Vincent, though I fear she may find him in a less than sympathetic mood. But no matter his reaction, while he is concentrating on Catherine, I shall make the final move -- check and mate in one."

"I thought you expected him to tear her apart."

"Oh, I do. I'm more confident of that than ever. Belief in his own humanity is slipping through those remarkable fingers -- so clearly designed for better things. One more tipping of the scales, and he will be lost in a quagmire of rampant feelings that he is utterly incapable of sorting out. I have seen him, Tamara. He is in an agitated state. Perhaps he will simply strike her down with no impetus at all. Or perhaps the events of this evening will provide the final push. In any case, I can count on his being distracted by Catherine's reappearance. That was my purpose all along, but distracted and far from the others -- that is a gift." He stood up, grinding out the cigarette under his heel and sat back down to take up pen and paper. "Now, do as you were told," he said coldly.

"Take her to the bathing pool? But if she's only pretending to cooperate, she could try to get away."

"And reveal her strategy at the end game? I think not. Take care that she doesn't, Tamara. If she left now, she would go to the wrong place. She would not find Vincent, and it is necessary that she do so. Only the miraculous return of his lady love can guarantee his absolute oblivion to everything else that might transpire. I need time -- time in which Vincent poses no threat."

"No threat to what?"

"To the ultimate goal of the game," he said, with ill-concealed disgust for her obtuseness. He opened the inkwell and smoothed out a single sheet of paper. "The goal has been the same from time immemorial. Even you should know it, Tamara. One must capture the opposing king."

* * * * *

Joe was finding it a little hard to formulate a theory.

In the absence of hard facts, a decent hunch could be a starting point, but so far nothing he'd come up with held water. At first he'd thought Burch and Manning were hoping to blend in with the casual park scene, but when they'd strolled down into the ravine he changed his mind.

Meeting somebody maybe, where they wouldn't be spotted by passersby, but nobody else showed. The two of them just stood there talking and looking at the storm drain. In a couple of minutes, they had disappeared inside.

Oh, now this is weird, he told himself.

It got even weirder when they didn't appear again. He waited another five minutes and then retrieved his flashlight from the glove compartment and descended to the culvert's mouth.

* * * * *

"Father, where the hell's Vincent?"

Jamie's braid whipped across her shoulders as she bounded down the steps. Like a cat, Jacob thought, flicking its tail in irritation.

"Jamie, there's no need to express yourself with such appalling inelegance. Vincent isn't here. I haven't seen him. "

"I'm sorry. It's just that he was supposed to meet me an hour ago. Cullen's been emptying out that storeroom where things were getting warped, and I was supposed to get a dresser. It weighs a ton, so Vincent promised to help me bring it down. "

"Perhaps he forgot."

"Uh-uh, Vincent never forgets things like that."

"Well, then, he's probably been delayed. Did you send out a message on the pipes?" If she had, he hadn't noticed it. He'd been too lost in thought this last hour, unable even to concentrate on the work before him.

"A long time ago, but he didn't answer." For the first time Jacob realized that her blustery manner was meant to hide genuine anxiety. "I don't understand why he hasn't answered me."

"It's dark out by now. He may have gone above."

"Everybody knows Vincent never goes above anymore."

"Do they?" He hadn't known. He knew very little of his son's private life lately and even less of his deepest thoughts. Some of Jamie's concern was taking root in his troubled mind. "Go to Pascal. Have him send out a general request -- for anyone who's seen Vincent to report in. He may simply have ventured off beyond the pipes, but someone will have seen him."

"Not if Vincent didn't want them to," the girl said darkly.

Nebulous fears made his voice as testy as Jamie's. "Why should Vincent wish to hide his whereabouts from any of us? Run along now. Pascal will solve the mystery in no time."

"I hope so." Jamie didn't look convinced, but she hurried off, leaving the pall of her uneasiness behind.

Too much had happened lately. He was beginning to lose his natural optimism. Things could go wrong -- terribly and irrevocably wrong -- slipping, before one knew it, beyond all help. What, on another night, might have caused him a bit of paternal worry, now seemed ominous, fraught with dark possibilities that he dared not even imagine.

He tried to return to the schedule he'd been struggling with since supper and realized that now more than ever his concentration was hopeless. He found himself listening for Jamie's general alarm on the pipes.

Vincent was probably at the falls. Yes, most likely. He'd simply forgotten his promise and gone off to commune with nature at her noisiest. Of course, he wouldn't hear the pipes. The thought of him climbing about on that treacherous cliff was hardly reassuring, but at least it was a fear that Jacob had grown used to over the years.

It was necessary that he, of all people, keep a positive outlook. The others looked to him for guidance, for reassurance that all was well. His confidence inspired their own, yet there were times lately when he greatly feared his life-long determination had perished -- like so many things -- with Catherine Chandler.

* * * * *

The big culvert, nestled beneath the park, ended at a gate and what looked like a dead end. So much for explorations, Manning thought, but Burch was already fumbling along the wall. In a minute he had located a lever and a whole circular section pulled away revealing another pipe, this one softly lit.

"A lot of it's lighted," Burch explained, as they followed it to the next junction. His voice rang hollow in the tube. "Everything's in here -- gas lines, water, cable. It's like the heart of the city in many ways." He hesitated at the next crossing -- this one a four-way -- and then moved confidently off to the left.

It wasn't much farther, though, that he stopped, frowning at the three choices that confronted them. "I know we came up this way, but -- damn." Reaching in his pocket, he drew out a brightly colored scarf. Manning didn't have to ask who it belonged to or why Burch had kept it. "Come here, Posy. What do you think of this, girl?"

The bloodhound sniffed obligingly at the silk.

"Seventy-two," Manning reminded him. "Seventy-two hours at the outside -- that's all the time they have to pick up a scent. Cathy Chandler's been gone for weeks."

"I know, but if for some reason she's hiding out here, there may be a chance she came this way recently."

Manning thought it doubtful. Posy apparently did too; she scrabbled around for several minutes, searching for some trace of the scent the scarf gave off before turning back to the men with a mournful look.

"Now what?"

"We'll just have to take a stab at it, and if we get nowhere, we come back and try a different way." Burch pulled out a note book and scribbled a crude map of their progress so far.

"You do the honors this time, Cleon. Pick a tunnel -- any tunnel."

* * * * *

The icy waters broke over her head, exhilarating, adding to the sensation that the long impasse of weeks was about to be broken, that freedom was close at hand.

Above her on the rocks, Tamara hunched like a vulture, watching her every move. Catherine didn't care. Soon, very soon, she would be in his arms, the nightmare behind them. She ducked again in the waist high water, as much to shock her tightly controlled feelings back behind their protective barrier as to enjoy the bracing sting of the water. To feel clean again -- after so long.

Tamara had given her a cake of soap and a plastic bottle of shampoo, common brands from above, which seemed peculiar in this exotic spot.

She had been surprised and wary when Tamara came to the bed chamber and removed the chain from her leg. It was all part of the plan, she supposed, an effort to make her presentable as a sacrifice to the blood-thirsty deity Paracelsus presumed to reside in Vincent's soul.

The man himself had been sitting at the table in the chamber of the masks, so intent on what he was writing that he had given her only the most cursory glance as they passed.

Tamara had steered her roughly through the slotted stone behind the work bench where she'd caught the glimpse of a darkened chamber, probably Tamara's own and then the passage had split into four -- like the tines of a fork. They had taken the second from the right which ended abruptly at the bottom of a tall, lightless shaft. A single torch hung in a sconce, green with mold, but the slender falls that tumbled down one wall, the clear, clean water seemed like heaven.

She gave only a few seconds' thought to Tamara's eagle-eyed surveillance before whipping off the gown and submerging herself in the waters. It's your head she's after, she reminded herself with dark humor, determined to enjoy the pleasures of the moment.

She soaped her hair several times, rinsing it beneath the cool rush of the cascade, momentarily disappointed to find Tamara waiting at the edge with a huge towel. Grimacing, Catherine stepped from the pool and took it, wrapping the towel swiftly around her, accepting a second one with which she dried her hair silently and, she hoped, meekly.

She didn't feel meek. She felt power returning to her. The opportunity to at last act again -- on her own behalf, on Vincent's -- was perhaps only minutes away. It was all she could do to keep the elation from showing in her movements.

"I brought you these," Tamara said, thrusting into her hands a familiar sweater and slacks. These -- these were the things she was wearing on that fateful night, and they looked none the worse for wear. "I cleaned them," Tamara said shortly, perhaps recalling how she'd said they'd been destroyed. Probably keeping them for herself, Catherine guessed, "All but the coat -- the coat was a mess. You don't need the coat."

No, she didn't need the coat. It must be midsummer by now. The realization stung her -- so long. It had been so long. Hurriedly, she put on her very own clothes.

* * * * *

It was different this time, Vincent noted. Despite the questions whirling in his brain, the fear, the confusion, he did not feel as he had felt weeks ago making this same trek. Then the very walls had seemed alive, pulsing and contracting like the entrails of some hideous monster. He knew it, though his memory held only brief flashes of the journey. There had been fever and chills, an uncontrollable shaking in his hands and hallucinations that seemed somehow as real as himself.

Tonight the upheaval remained within. He did not stumble, though his heart was stumbling. He did not roar out his pain, though pain there was. No fiendish apparition goaded him from the shadows, yet a part of him would have welcomed it -- something upon which to focus his enormous frustration, someone to share his aloneness, which now seemed complete.

Down he went through the blue-black shadows, his way lit only by the cold light of reason. Desperately, he tried to keep it from going out, knowing it to be the last bastion of humanity. If that light were extinguished, there would be only the slip into darkness, back into a primordial code of mindless savagery, no better than a beast's.

Yet what he saw in that tenacious light chilled him and offered little hope. Catherine was lost to him, not because she had found someone who could give her the happiness she deserved. He had expected that, known it was inevitable from the beginning. He had even hoped for it in some lofty citadel of his heart where nobility prevailed against tumultuous feeling.

And he had dreaded it with a passion that shocked him.

But no one had lured her away from him. That moment might still have been far in the future. What he was, what he was capable of becoming -- or incapable of holding back -- had driven her off. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars but in ourselves....

It was his own troubled psyche that had betrayed him -- betrayed them both -- until she had seen the hopelessness of continuing. His inability to control the secret longings that tortured him had made it necessary for her to leave. He knew the pain it must have caused her and wished that the peace she hoped to give him through such sacrifice had truly come to be. But it had not. There was no peace. There was nothing without Catherine.

In that cold light of reason, too, stood Father, a man who had devoted his life to nurturing the beleaguered soul of his adopted son. And now he had turned away as well. No longer did they meet as equals with easy affection and mutual respect. Father, too, it seemed had given up the battle, withholding his true thoughts, his former trust. Vincent suspected his physician's acumen had noted in him some sign of morbidity that neither love nor science could hope to cure.

It was useless to blame Father for what he couldn't help but see. Wrong to feel such anger toward him. Deep down his heart must be breaking to see the efforts of a lifetime crumbling. If it helped him to create this barrier of lies between them, then it was wrong to wish it otherwise.

And how long would it be before the others, too, saw what Father must have seen? How long before all the people he cared for kept a wary distance, knowing his humanity was doomed, expecting any moment a violent and immutable retreat into madness?

At the cavern's entrance, he paused trying to recall the last time he had sought its refuge. The memory didn't come, lost in those last moments of fury, he was sure. He stepped inside. The glowing mists writhing upward in the pit briefly cast the dome into high relief. Crossing the dusty floor, he spotted a fall of crumbled rock and wondered how it came to be there.

The place reeked of desolation. He had been right to come here, a creature doomed to solitude, skulking to a lair that held no memories of love, of warmth, of human contact. Here he must calm himself, must try to understand what was happening to him, yet it was difficult to think with the garish streaks leaping at him from the walls. The proof of what he'd done, of what he'd been, of the thing he seemed destined to become. He closed his eyes against them, fighting the fury that wanted to protest his fate.

Yes, there was sanctuary here, but where -- in all the universe that condemned him as an aberration -- where was there the promise of salvation?

* * * * *

Paracelsus was still in the outer chamber when Catherine and her sour escort returned, only this time he was standing, waiting for them.

"Well, Catherine, are you ready now to go to Vincent, to make sure that your fondest dreams -- and his -- come true?"

She nodded, "I'm ready."

"Excellent. I'm afraid I must ask you to wear this blindfold, a precaution, you understand, against someone in the future finding this place. Tamara does value her privacy, but you needn't worry. I myself will guide you where you need to go."

She stood quietly while the blindfold was fixed in place and then his hand closed on her arm, and they were actually leaving, actually heading toward the entrance that had beckoned so long and frustratingly in her captivity. Tamara didn't say a word and Catherine scarcely felt a polite leave-taking was in order.

"One step, Catherine, and another -- eight in all." His disembodied voice was almost jovial at her ear.

He really thinks this is going to work, she thought, as the cooler, more vibrant air told her they had reached the outer passage. She hoped he wouldn't take this opportunity to regale her with more of his grandiose plans. She needed to concentrate, to try and record in her mind the direction they took, any sounds that might help her to identify the place in the future.

It soon became apparent, however, that either Tamara's home lay in a hopeless tangle of labyrinths or he was deliberately doubling back and taking unnecessary detours to confuse her. At least she was spared his rhetoric. Paracelsus was unnaturally silent, perhaps envisaging the drama he expected to put in motion this night.

They went up and then down again, via sloping corridors and chill staircases of stone, but she was certain that for the most part they went up. Precious little to go on, but something.

She calculated that half an hour must have passed when at last he halted, releasing her arm. "Now you may remove the blindfold," he said, imperious as always.

Catherine obeyed, trying to hide the trembling in her hands. It was eagerness, not fear that caused their shaking. Eagerness and the crush of emotions waiting to spill out the moment she was safely away from Paracelsus. Her feelings it seemed knew that their long captivity was about to end. It took all her strength to keep them from flooding out along their bond, out to their proper home in the man she loved.

Would he be angry with her at first -- for going away, for not sending word? No, of course he wouldn't be angry. Hurt, perhaps, but then she would tell him what had happened, tell him that she had never meant to leave him, that she never would. She would warn them all that Paracelsus was alive, that he hadn't dropped his mad plans to regain power.

Could she deal with Vincent's rage when he learned what Paracelsus had done to her? Could she stop him from tearing off alone? Maybe it would be better to wait and tell them all at once, let the council decide, but first she had to see Vincent, had to assure him of her love, had to assure herself that he had survived last spring's ordeal.

All of these thoughts were buzzing around her brain as she blinked in the dim light. They were in a vast cavern, but she couldn't recall ever having been here before.

"Now, you may go to my son."

"I don't know this place," she objected. "I... which is the way to the tunnels?"

"There are tunnels all around you, but if you mean those inhabited by Jacob and his flock, it is not necessary that you find your way to them. The person you seek is quite nearby. Does nothing at all look familiar to you?"

She had the sense that he was toying with her, and her confidence faltered a little, but she scanned the vast space with its shadowy nooks and outcroppings of solitary stone. Here and there a deeper shadow hinted at a space beyond, and it was on one of these that she fastened, noting that an approach from the other side might have made it instantly recognizable. She was almost certain that Pascal had led her and Father here on that spring night -- the night she had last seen Vincent.

But why would he return there?

"It's quite true," Paracelsus said, as if he'd been following her thoughts. "The boy has chosen to revisit the site of his torment. I saw him pass myself -- earlier tonight. Go to him, Catherine. He may need you. I regret that I won't be able to wait for the outcome of this little liaison. I have an appointment to keep above, but you know what you must do."

She needed no encouragement. Afraid that running might be inconsistent with her supposedly drugged condition, she walked across the cavern, feeling Paracelsus' gaze with every step.

* * * * *

Joe had to admit it. They'd given him the slip.

Not intentionally. He was sure they hadn't known he was following, but he'd been banging around in here for longer than he liked to admit, and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Burch and Manning.

From the look of the place, he was the only one who'd ever been crazy enough to come down here. Interesting, though, the way all these tunnels snaked around right under the city. If people knew about them, they'd probably opt for this as a way to get around. It was sure less crowded than the sidewalks.

A couple of times he'd had to admit he was lost, but then he'd recognize some place he'd been before -- or thought he did. Still, in all his explorations, he'd never seen another way out, so chances were good that Burch and Manning were still down here, too. Why, he couldn't for the life of him guess, but on the chance that it had something to do with Cathy he was determined to stick it out.

There -- up ahead. He could have sworn a shadow moved across the junction. Too big to be an animal, too small to be Burch or Manning. Just keep cool, he told himself. No sense in imagining monsters and bogeymen. There's nobody down here but one renegade real estate developer and his sidekick -- and one deputy district attorney who ought to have his head examined.

* * * * *

Although Paracelsus thought her to be carrying out his own mission, Catherine couldn't help but fear that it was all a trick, that somehow he would reach out and stop her before she could enter the tunnel.

The entrance beckoned, not with the sinister aura that had hung in its gloomy shade last spring, but like a magical door that led to everything she'd yearned for through these long last weeks.

When her foot actually crossed the threshold, and the walls narrowed around her, she almost laughed with relief, daring to quicken her pace now that she was out of his sight. Paracelsus hadn't followed. In the low passage, a natural rock fissure, she would be able to hear the echo of his footsteps if he had.

He honestly believed she was on some mad quest of seduction. Well, let him think it. He was incapable of understanding that all she needed was the sight of Vincent well and whole, all she wanted was to fall into his arms and feel him solid and warm surrounding her. To hear his voice, to feel the ruffling of her hair beneath his breath.

Entering a stretch where the ground had buckled, thrusting treacherous stumbling blocks in her path, she was forced to slow down. The roof sloped sharply lower, so that she had to stoop. This was not the way she'd imagined her first taste of freedom. She had pictured herself flying to Vincent's chamber in the heart of the community, perhaps passing people she knew along the way who would express surprise at her abrupt return.

Here there was no one. Here there was only Vincent, waiting -- though he didn't know it yet -- for her. The truth of it was almost unbearable. For so long she'd had to monitor every genuine emotion, curtail every thought that came too close to melting her resolve. No longer a prisoner, she began to run.

And she began to feel.

* * * * *

Some time had passed since the pipes first rang out their request for news of Vincent. Jacob hadn't taken his eyes from the entrance since. Someone would come: someone would know what harmless errand had drawn Vincent's attention.

And sure enough -- here was Mark, straight from sentry duty.

"Father, I have a message here for you."

"Ah -- is it about Vincent?"

"No -- at least I don't think so."

Disappointment blended with curiosity. The young man was approaching with what appeared to be a letter in his hand. Probably from one of the helpers. Everyone below had a swifter means of communication. Perhaps it was the anticipated letter from Laura. And wouldn't it be wonderful if it contained just such news as he had fabricated only yesterday?

"There was a code on the pipes a little while ago -- don't know who sent it -- just a location. The Mirror Pool. I was closest, so I went to check it out, and I found this. It has your name on it."

"Yes... yes, it does." Jacob said taking it. "Thank you, Mark. You may go." The envelope bore the single word, "Father," penned in anonymous block print. It wasn't heavy, though there was a curious lump in the middle. He slit it open and pulled out the single folded sheet. As he did, something clattered to the desk top.

For a moment he stared at the object, paralyzed. The crystal winked bright fire in the candlelight. A length of fine gold chain puddled around it. Irrational dread crept along his nerves, a blind superstitious response such as primitive beings might feel at the sight of the unexplainable, and then he shook it off, berating himself for a fool.

Of course, there were countless crystals in the world and many were worn as ornaments as this one obviously was.

But why send it to him?

Uneasily, he opened the paper. There was no salutation, no signature. It contained only six words: "Sutton Place. You know the address."

Jacob read the message several times, as if persistence could change its meaning, a meaning that evoked a visceral response far beyond the simple words. He wanted to drop the paper as if it was cursed, but his spasming fingers would not let go.

Impossible.

Quite impossible, he told himself, but the sweat was gathering on his brow. His heart had begun to palpitate. The handwriting -- he knew it, had known it for more than 30 years, samples of it were still in this chamber on the flyleaves of books that had been John's. And no one else knew of the apartment on Sutton Place -- no one with the exception of Catherine.

Prying his fingers from the page, he picked up the chain, and the crystal twirled with the motion, flashing its jeweled colors like tiny beacons. It couldn't be. He brought the chain closer, bowing his head to study it through the reading glasses.

Not a store-bought design. The subtly varied links had not been made by machine. By who then? By Mouse?

Preposterous.

There was simply no way this could be Catherine's necklace, unless... He searched the indelible picture he held of her in those last fateful moments, the one that lingered, haunting him so. Her eyes wide with fear and determination, her clothes -- a sweater and slacks, a coat. No bright ornament shone in the image. Perhaps she had left it behind in her apartment when she rushed to meet him. Someone might have gone there and taken it, someone who was using it now to torment him.

But, of course, they couldn't know what he knew. If they expected him to believe that Catherine was in trouble, they had badly miscalculated, but what were they hoping to accomplish? And who would do such a thing?

Had John had an accomplice, someone privy to his activities on Sutton Place, who was now seeking revenge for his death? The note could be a clever forgery. Its message glared up at him from the desk as if written in neon, so like, so very like John Pater's hand.

God, if this arrhythmia didn't stop, he was going to have an attack. What was there to do? He couldn't simply stay here trying to puzzle out a riddle that seemed beyond reason.

And where was Vincent?

Suddenly, that question too had frightening implications. In desperation he snatched up the note and the necklace and hurried to his sleeping chamber.

* * * * *

As badly as Catherine wanted to hurry this journey, the trembling, far worse than any in all her weeks of captivity, made her unsteady. So completely had she held back her feelings that now they nearly overwhelmed her. She'd always been an emotional person. How had she managed a repression so total as to forget how potent they really were?

Well, of course, she'd had the best of teachers.

It was important to get her emotions under control, or she'd never be able to tell him the things he must know. Maybe it would be best to keep her distance, to speak to him dispassionately and rationally, about why she hadn't been there for him, about Paracelsus' reappearance. Those things were vitally important, and she was very much afraid that if he touched her, if he put his arms around her, she would simply dissolve into tears and make no sense at all.

Maybe he wouldn't want to hold her. If Paracelsus was to be believed, he'd made his peace with her absence. Was it unfair to long for his embrace when he'd worked so hard to renounce his need of her? Maybe it would be kinder to respect the change he'd imagined in their relationship, approaching him as a friend until she'd said her piece and hoping -- and praying -- that when she had, he would see that it hadn't changed at all.

There was another possibility too agonizing to face, but it teased at the edges of her thoughts, threatening her resolve. How many times had he told her the day would come when they must end? She had never quite succeeded in shaking him from that belief. What if he saw this time apart, this proof that he could go on without her, as a victory too hard-won to sacrifice? What if he regarded it as the sensible place to draw the line that he stubbornly believed must be drawn someday? How could she bear it if, after all she had to tell him, he simply looked at her with the same loving sympathy he bestowed on the others? For a moment she saw their reunion ending -- not in the all-encompassing embrace that took her breath away -- but in a brotherly hug, a strong arm offered to support her now -- always -- but with no hint of the passion that had always roiled beneath the innocence of their slightest touch.

Stop it, she told herself. You've been listening to Paracelsus too long, focusing on your desires, your needs. The important thing now was that Vincent should know the truth. The important thing was that in a very few minutes her eyes, starved so long for the sight of him, would be gazing into his.

* * * * *

Jacob stood on the sidewalk looking up at 666 Sutton Place.

Many of the windows were lighted but not those in the penthouse. There had been no answer to his repeated pressing of the button that buzzed somewhere in that darkened apartment. The door to its private entrance was locked as well. Perhaps this was it -- the end of the hoax, simply a bizarre prank to lure him out into the summer night in these damnably uncomfortable clothes. John had worn this suit. The thought added to his uneasiness.

He felt vulnerable, exposed, here on this city street, a foreigner on a lunatic mission that no amount of logic could justify. As much as he would have preferred to dismiss the incident and accept his role as the butt of a cruel, pointless joke, he could not quite do it.

That necklace. Someone had wanted him to think it was Catherine's. Why? No one could know what had happened to her or the depth of pain the sight of it would cause him. Yet the very aptness of it as a device to shake him, to draw him into a world he despised, resonated with pure evil, the kind of evil that only one man in his experience could embrace.

The street was relatively quiet. A faint breeze stirred the trees that lined the sidewalk. To the left a narrow path ran along the flank of the building. He could see a row of trash cans lined up beside it, and instinctively he moved into its shelter until he could decide what to do. He certainly didn't want to be arrested for loitering in this obviously sedate neighborhood, but returning home with no answers at all was intolerable.

Out of the street light's glare, he began to wonder if there could be another entrance -- perhaps for tradesmen -- in the back. Taking care not to tap his walking stick on the concrete, he moved stealthily along the building. At the end of the path, a few concrete steps led down to a cellar door. With a quick glance around, he descended and tried the knob. Firmly locked.

Returning to the narrow sidewalk, he hesitated, searching for another option. As he did, a flicker of light passed over his feet. For a moment he thought he had imagined it. At ground level there was a row of basement windows, but all of them were pitch black. Hunkering down, he peered into the darkness seeing nothing but his own pale reflection, and the light didn't come again.

The window did not appear to be tightly fitted, and running his fingers over the frame, he felt a vibrant mixture of surprise and dismay to find it unlocked. It swung silently upward in his hands.

Cautiously, he peered into the opening, and objects took shape -- two deep sinks, a stack of cartons. Several pieces of furniture had been stored here in awkward poses. Beneath this very window there stood a broad rectangle that might have been a bureau. Despite the helter-skelter state of the room, this one surface was completely bare. How ominously convenient, he thought, even as he thrust his protesting legs through the opening and lowered himself gingerly downward, still clutching his cane.

He was dimly aware of the pain in his hip, but his attention was focused on the single doorway that led from the room. It was closed, though surely it had been open a few minutes before. Someone had moved this way with a light -- a candle. The faint trace of its passing scent was so familiar to him that he couldn't doubt it.

He crossed the room, managing to avoid any collisions that could give away his presence. He had learned a thing or two in the last 30 years about dwelling in darkness. I must be mad, he thought, as his fingers closed around the door knob, yet there would be no peace, not even the occasional false peace he had settled for in recent weeks, if he abandoned the quest now. He shifted the walking stick to his right hand with some idea of using it as a weapon if need be and slowly turned the knob with his left. When it had gone as far as it would go, he eased the door back in measured increments.

So great was his expectation of horror that he felt a fleeting disappointment to find himself confronted with another uninhabited room. Again there were the puzzling shapes that rose from bundled newspapers, a jagged tower of boxes, an upended sofa. There was a faint grey outline to objects here that hadn't been noticeable in the first room. It came, he realized, from a second door, opened only a crack to let in a faint reflected light.

Moving silently toward it, he peered around the edge. A wooden staircase led to a landing several feet below before angling off around a corner. The light was coming from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. The stairs looked old, solid, but he had no illusions that they would not protest his passing, a theory that proved true the moment he shifted his weight to the first step.

Whoever was below must know he was here. But, of course, he did. He had been piping the tune ever since the envelope had been delivered into Jacob's hands in his own study. There suddenly seemed little point in sneaking up, as if his arrival was unexpected. Better, perhaps, to retain a measure of dignity for the confrontation to come.

Squaring his shoulders, he held his head high and began to descend the stairs. The creaking of the boards sounded like gunshots in the silence.

* * * * *

Vincent didn't know how long he had been standing here, hunched against the wall. There was nothing in this primitive cavern to mark the passing of time. No clocks; no candles, recording the fleeing minutes with their own demise; not even the distant rumble of trains that meant civilization was somewhere on the move.

There was nothing of humanity here -- no furniture, or artifacts or books. How unlike his own chamber with its comforts and its thousand tiny details crafted by human hands or a human mind commanding a machine. Beloved treasures all, but surrounding himself with them had no more made him a man than the stone circle enclosing him now made him a rock.

The loss that more and more defined his spirit -- the loss of trust in him by those he loved -- was it really no more than the sheering away of pretense? His lifelong resistance to that other part of him -- was that the biggest lie of all and this the truth? That he belonged to the shadows and the coarse earth and the mists?

He watched his own clawed finger prod at the wall, dislodging a shard of rock with inhuman efficiency. Tossed out above the swirling vapors, it plummeted from sight without a sound, into the endless void, so like the one he harbored in his soul. A seething emptiness, too volatile to take back up into the midst of friends, too elusive to grasp and bring under control.

If it was all meant to unravel, if the haphazard stabs of emotion heralded a final descent into madness, then why must he be left with the intellect to recognize and lament it? Easier -- and kinder -- to become that witless creature who had left the proof of its mindlessness on these walls.

Yet even that was denied him.

A clenched fist slammed into the bedrock brought him no pleasure or release. The impulse only underscored the fearful truth that he could never transcend the darkness that set him apart. His very resentment of those ungovernable passions brought them to the surface, and they came of their own accord these days without even his frustration to give them safe passage.

Even here, far from reminders of his human pretensions, far from Father's baffling contempt, here where he tried to gather a quietness into himself, they came. In the time he'd been standing here he'd known the quickening sensation of fear and elation both. They sprang full-blown, like wild flowers from the rocky terrain of his spirit, but what wind had borne their seeds?

If he took himself back up to the people he loved and that wind rose, gathering into a maelstrom, what seeds might it fling among them? Blind fury? A contagious fear? Better to remain here where there was no one to frighten, nothing to harm. He tried unclenching his fist, but tension kept his entire body rigid. Not so his heart which pounded out the inescapable sensation that fate was closing around him with the oppressive walls, penning the barbarian in his rightful prison.

Eyes closed, he stared into the blackness at the center of his soul, the core that no trappings of manhood could ever fully hide, not from Catherine, not from Father. And now it seemed inevitable that those who knew him best and loved him best should have been the first to see the futility of his pose.

The despair that rose from that inner chasm, more dangerous than the abyss beside him, was his own. He could at least take comfort in that. Embracing it wholeheartedly might prevent the seeds of any more alien feelings from finding purchase.

Yet even as he sought its familiar desolation, something was happening, something beyond his control.

The blackness faltered, pierced by a sudden radiance that took his breath. Vivid as life itself, but so unutterably soft, so sweet, that it staggered him. One hand unclenched to seek the wall behind for support.

It would end now; it would fade, the way these extraneous bursts of feeling always did, and this one he would regret. This one he wished he could hold to. Exquisite -- like a distillation of all things beautiful, but as he stood there transfixed the sensation kept coming, blossoming out from some central core. It seemed to him a garden, flush with the scent of roses, had run riot in his soul, dazzling with color, unstoppable and suddenly achingly familiar.

If this was the heart of madness, then he would be mad, go down willingly into its fragrant bower and lose himself forever in the delicate petals that drifted like a fresh breeze across the reaches of his pain.

Why he opened his eyes again, he did not know. With every ounce of his prodigious strength he longed to shut out the stark reality surrounding him, to sink deeper into that inner vision, and yet his eyes opened, blinking at the lone entrance across the cavern.

And as he watched, unable to move, unable even to bid his eyes to close, the vision took life beyond the confines of his spirit and shimmered into existence at the threshold of this cavern that was his fate.

* * * * *

"I'm telling you, Elliot, we've been this way before."

"Yeah. I think you're right. We must have come from the other side."

They stood in a cavernous space where pipes of varying sizes hugged the bedrock. A twilight glow crept in from the junctions at both ends.

"The trouble with this," Burch said, indicating the notebook with its crosshatching of lines, "is that you can't tell what level you're on -- like chutes and ladders. "

Manning nodded. Sometimes the ground sloped so gently up that they had been surprised to find themselves in a location reached only by a steep staircase at the opposite end.

"Are you game for this?" Burch nodded toward a rusty ladder that disappeared above them -- one route they definitely hadn't taken.

"I'm game, but I've got my doubts about Posy here."

"Give her to me. Come on, girl. That's a good dog." The animal wiggled obligingly toward him, and Burch scooped her up, hoisting the unwieldy body to his shoulder with one arm. He began to pull himself up the ladder with the other.

Posy interpreted her awkward position as a bid for affection and twisted to slurp a noisy tongue repeatedly across the bearded cheek. He couldn't do a thing to discourage the dog's ardor -- not suspended yards above a granite floor.

"She likes you a lot," Manning grinned, starting up the ladder. He couldn't remember seeing Elliot Burch looking anything less than cool, and poised -- till now.

"If anybody ever asks, you never saw this," came the admonition from somewhere behind the big dog's head.

"Hey, I don't believe I'm seeing it now. And to think I used to consider tailing some small-time hood interesting."

At the top, Burch released his burden. Posy sniffed happily around in a circle, searching for new smell sensations. This passage was darker. It didn't look familiar. Manning turned on his flashlight.

"Come here, girl." Burch slipped the day-pack from his shoulder and crouched to unzip it. Posy nosed toward it, bypassing the scarf he pulled out, to snuffle eagerly in the bag.

"You have something to eat in there?" Manning asked. Posy's muzzle had disappeared entirely. Only the long ears flopped on either side of the pack.

"Not that I know of. What is it, girl? What smells so good?" Burch withdrew the bag and reached in, pulling out a crumpled piece of white fabric. The dog was quivering all over, pushing her face into the cloth. Suddenly she bounded away across the dirt floor.

Manning lunged for the leash and caught it. "What is that?" Clearly the anonymous cloth held some interest for Posy who was itching to move on.

"Don't you recognize it? It's the handkerchief we found in that penthouse I supposedly rented. I threw in everything we picked up that night."

"But that was a man's handkerchief, right? No monogram. We didn't know if it belonged to the victim or the suspect. It isn't Cathy Chandler's."

"No." Burch's eyes were glittering as he watched the dog tugging at the leash. "No, but it might belong to someone who's involved with her. We may have something, Cleon."

"Then let's go for it." They began to move again down a passage of natural rock. "It's the dust," he added, as Posy pursued a straight line. "Their ears pick up scent molecules in the dust. With no wind in here, the trail could be days old."

"But at least it's a trail." Burch spoke in a hushed voice, rippling with excitement. The tunnel ended at another junction, and he shot his companion a meaningful glance as the dog didn't hesitate in choosing the right-hand passage. They both fell silent: their movements became more deliberately furtive.

The tunnel was sloping very sharply up.

* * * * *

Catherine's knees were shaking when she reached the cavern's mouth. She put up a tremulous hand to steady herself and peered anxiously into the gloom. To the left a glowering light pulsed from the abyss. It was that light that made the shadows appear to move along the ridged walls. Nothing else stirred.

Her heart was beating in her throat. Her breath trembled across parted lips as she scanned the emptiness. Please, God, he has to be here, she prayed. He has to be here. He has to be safe.

One step into the grotto and another. The yawning chasm that should have chilled her with the reminder of how close she'd come to death, the misstep that had cost her weeks of imprisonment, drew only a passing glance. If sheer willpower could grant superhuman sight, then she would have it, but only the shifting glow from the pit allowed her to catch a flash of wild gold that sent her heart racing.

She stared at the spot now mired again in shadow. It wavered and the fleeting glint of blue it showed her brought an ache to her throat. Eyes misting, she managed to advance a little closer before her legs forgot how to move.

In the dark cloak he appeared one with the shadows except for the telltale brightness of his hair and his face that seemed to glow with a light of its own -- golden, beautiful beyond memory. The most expressive eyes she'd ever known were looking at her as if she were a mirage.

"Vincent... it's me." The words came out as little more than a whisper, but there was no doubt that he heard them. A tremor seemed to pass over him. His mouth opened, but several seconds passed before he could articulate any sound.

"Catherine?" he said, and for a moment she almost lost her commitment to restraint. The music of his voice alone threatened to sweep her towards him through no power of her own. "You ... you're here."

"I'm here." What was it she'd planned to say? All memory of it was gone, lost in the charged connection that swam between them.

"How... how did you find me?"

She had the clear sense that it was not really the question he wanted to ask, that words were as difficult for him to conjure as they were for her, and she realized that it didn't matter what he said. Just to hear his voice, to feel the rhythm of it once more beating in her pulse was all that mattered. "I would always find you."

For the first time he moved. His hand came up to clutch the little leather pouch he still wore in an unconscious gesture that seemed achingly familiar to her. How often had she grasped her crystal just that way in these last weeks, finding courage in its silent promise?

"I thought," he began, "I thought you were still in Europe. Father told me of your decision. There was no need for you to return... to explain."

"No... no need," she whispered. "We've never needed explanations between us. We don't need one now."

"No." The hushed word hung in the motionless air. Only his eyes, blue as a summer sky, seemed troubled by some passing wind. "The truth was always there, Catherine."

She nodded. "I know."

"You were right to make that choice -- a new life, a life away from... all this."

"Vincent... " To hear from his own lips that he honestly believed that... Where should she begin to unravel the web of misconceptions and how could she do it with him standing only yards away, looking at her, despite the brave words, as if he could consume her with his eyes? But why start at the beginning when the end was all that mattered. "Vincent, whatever happens, whatever comes -- you are my life."

She couldn't hope to understand what all the emotions she saw in him, felt in him, might mean, nor could she care any longer about the sensible thing to do. A moment ago incapable of moving, she couldn't have held back now if her life depended on it. He had taken a step forward -- involuntary, she was sure, as involuntary as the lifting of his hands toward her, and it seemed she left the ground in her headlong rush into his embrace.

Cloaked arms like black wings enfolded her; burnished hair showered around her face as she flung herself none too gently against his chest. "Hold me," she gasped, as the tears she had refused to shed in exile rushed out to dampen his thick, wool vest.

The request was superfluous. He was clutching her so tightly that neither thought nor circumstance could come between.

* * * * *

The dank, low-ceilinged sub-basement came into view as Jacob descended the last few steps.

Here at last was the elusive candle in the middle of a long, stainless steel table. Beside it lay pen and paper. A single captain's chair stood nearby. It was empty.

The candle flame spluttered weakly, trapped in its own wax, giving little illumination to the room beyond. Shadows lay thick in the corners. Here the temperature was familiar, cool, slightly damp. His odyssey had brought him close to his own world, yet he felt his hackles rise and did not move away from the staircase, whose groaning treads assured that no one could approach unannounced from behind.

There -- in the far corner -- he thought he caught a flicker of movement. "Who's there?" he called gruffly.

"Only me, Father. I was afraid you would not come."

Shock was followed immediately by an almost overwhelming sense of relief. "Vincent? For God's sake -- you nearly frightened me to death. What in the name of heaven is all this about?" he demanded, surging toward the shadowed corner.

"Why did you tell me Catherine had gone to Europe?"

Jacob froze midway across the room, a new and in some ways more ghastly fear chilling him to the marrow. "Why, because... because she did, Vincent. I explained --"

The words were choked off as something surrounded him, squeezing his chest, lifting him off his feet. With a gasp, he looked down to see two naked, beefy arms locked about his shoulders. The walking stick fell useless from his hand. He kicked out wildly to no avail, unable even to twist around and see who held him.

"Really, Jacob. What happened to your fetish for the truth? Now you would lie even to the boy you raised to be so honest, so idealistic. I am sadly disillusioned."

Gone was his son's roughly mellow voice. In its place droned the cynical tones he knew only too well, whose contempt -- after all these years -- still troubled his dreams. Once again there was movement in the shadows, and a tall figure slid into sight, his grotesque half-mask glossy as a serpent's skin in the wan light.

"John, how... how...?" Before he could formulate the words, he was dumped none too gently into the waiting chair, held there by vice-like fingers, as a rope was whipped around his body.

"Do not tie his hands," Paracelsus ordered, moving closer as Jacob was rendered immobile. "Now -- leave us."

Beyond the pool of light, he could just make out a giant of a figure disappearing into the darkness. They were alone.

"I see you are curious, Jacob, about my seeming return from the grave. Don't be. You're ill-equipped to deal with the subtleties of my art. Suffice it to say that I am here, and I intend to reclaim what is mine."

"What is yours?" Already shock was giving way to anger. "You forfeited your rights to anything of value long ago. You cannot take by force those things you covet, John. You never could."

"Is that so? Then perhaps you will be good enough to cooperate with me. Tell me, were you pleased to receive Catherine Chandler's necklace?"

"I... I don't know how you got that, but if you expect me to believe that she's in danger, that you have some hold over her, it won't work. I know better."

"Oh, yes. You always knew better, didn't you Jacob? Always so certain, so closed-minded." He leaned, stiff-armed, on the table, fixing him with a malevolent glare. "What would Vincent do if he knew you had been lying to him about his precious Catherine? How quickly would his loyalty to his dear 'father' vanish if he were to find out what a hypocrite you are?"

"You don't know what you're talking about." Fear for his own physical safety was nothing to the panic beginning to grip him. Everything was unraveling. Nothing seemed certain any more.

"Oh, but I do. We both know, Jacob, what really happened to Catherine Chandler. It is I who have accepted the truth, but you -- you spin unimaginative tales of impromptu vacations. How long did you expect that to hold up? And how cruel not to let those who cared for her mourn her passing. A terrible thing, tumbling into that abyss. I wonder -- did she fall or was she... pushed?"

Chilled to the bone, Jacob could only stare at him. Words could not make it past his constricted throat.

"You look rather ill, Jacob. Would it ease your mind if I shared with you one of my little secrets? What would you say if I told you that the fair Catherine did not perish in her fall, that I rescued her and even now keep her under my protection, that she has become like a dutiful daughter to me?"

"I would say you were lying." Sorrow and outrage at John's peculiar brand of cruelty made his voice vehement.

"Yes, of course, you would. You only believe those things you can see with your own eyes, isn't that so? A tragic flaw, Jacob. I understand Vincent was in a dreadful state when she found him that night -- much as he is tonight."

The fear and horror alternating in his brain were eclipsed by this new piece of information. "What do you know of Vincent and his state of mind?"

Paracelsus smiled at the show of interest. "I was fortunate enough to encounter him earlier this evening. He looked rather... disturbed. Something had obviously threatened his vital balance. I wonder what could have ignited his turmoil -- perhaps the realization that you had played him for a fool? Still, I shouldn't worry too much about him. Catherine is even now going to his rescue. Of course, in his unstable condition, there is no telling what the shock might do to him -- or what he might do to her. But then you don't believe that's possible, do you, Jacob? You are a logical man, a rational man, untroubled by the visions that plague me -- of Vincent annihilating that young woman, who's been through so much, of the fury he will turn on himself when he realizes what he's done."

Jacob was no longer sure what was possible, but he was sure that John would not choose to reveal himself this way unless he truly felt that he had the upper hand. "What is it you want, John? Why am I here?"

"A minor thing -- a mere piece of paper, in exchange for which I will tell you where Vincent is -- and Catherine, too, though you may not choose to believe it. Without your cooperation, I'm afraid it may be too late for both of them. If you still fail to see the truth in what I'm saying, if you persist in believing the poor woman long dead, then perhaps you will understand that if you fail to do as I ask, I will go to Vincent. I will tell him how you have lied and share with him the ghastly circumstances of his true love's death. Either way, Jacob -- your version of the truth or mine -- I fear they both will be fatal to my son if you choose to be obstinate. "

"What is it you want me to write?"

"Merely a message to your followers in which you tell them that you have regretfully decided to resume a life above, that you bequeath the reins of their society to the one who conceived their world in the first place, the one responsible for much of what allows it to function. Tell them that they should obey me as they would you."

"You're mad," Jacob hissed. "I'll do no such thing. None of them would believe it if I did. They know me -- and they know about you. You're wasting your time, John."

"No, it is you who are wasting valuable time. Every moment, every second, that you delay brings Vincent closer to the ultimate tragedy. It is his life you are bargaining with, Jacob -- his and Catherine's. Is it really worth the price?"

"I know you're lying about Catherine," Jacob insisted bitterly.

"Believe what you will." Paracelsus shrugged. "Still, there's Vincent to consider. I fear this time you'll be too late to avert disaster."

"There's no reason to assume you're not lying about Vincent as well."

"Oh, no? Don't try to pretend with me, old friend. Vincent is missing. No one seems to know where he's gone, except myself, of course. How sad. How ominous, don't you think?"

Did he know something of Vincent's whereabouts? Or had he simply heard the general alarm on the pipes? He might be using that piece of information to pretend more knowledge than he had, yet Jacob couldn't deny the conviction that John wouldn't have picked this moment for a confrontation unless he truly held some advantage.

"What you're asking is useless. No one would believe I'd endorse your return to the community -- much less your leadership."

"You told them I was dead, did you not?" Paracelsus moved beyond the halo of light, black as a shadow except for the ghastly golden apparatus. Pale fingers trailed indolently along the edge of the table. "When they see me they will know you've lied to them. They may even question your motives, your fitness to lead. Perhaps they will be willing to listen to what I have to say, but if they are not it's no matter. You have taught them well to respond with kindness, isn't that so? To turn the other cheek?"

"They know what you've done. John. They know how you murdered Lou. Winslow -- Winslow's death is directly attributable to your actions. Your assault on Catherine and Vincent... I could go on, but we both know the lives you've destroyed both below and up here. None of them would ever listen to you."

"What will they do then? Call the police? Reveal the existence of their shabby little enclave to the authorities above? Or perhaps lay aside their abhorrence of violence and simply murder me in return?" His eyes glinted like a raven's. "If they do, Jacob, if they renounce their noble intentions of living by a higher law -- your law -- then I will already have won. My way will be the only way, after all."

"You're sick, John. You're not thinking like a sane man. I would never aid you in bringing that disease to good people -- people I care for. "

"As you wish. Please remember in these last moments that I did offer you a bloodless coup. If you choose to die instead, I will have to ascend the throne without your blessing. It won't be difficult. As you've seen tonight, there are others who follow me willingly. Their unique skills will be invaluable in the event that my homecoming proves... awkward."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Jacob strained against the ropes. They didn't give at all. "Aren't you forgetting Vincent?"

"I've never forgotten Vincent," Paracelsus shot back, "not for a moment, not since the hour when you took him from me."

"And what do you suppose he'll think of your treachery?"

"Vincent... think? I'm afraid his thinking days are at an end. He will soon be beyond the petty loyalties you envision, destined for greater things -- power without limits. If you believe he will care about which of us lives or dies you are sadly deluded. No, Jacob, don't look for help -- or revenge -- from that quarter. Now -- will you write my mandate and dissolve into that world you allowed to defeat you, or will it be necessary, after all, for me to kill you?"

"You've had the chance before and you didn't take it. Jacob searched the shadows as he spoke. The mysterious giant of a man had gone, but perhaps not far. There was a vague rustle of movement from beyond the doorway through which he had vanished. His walking stick lay useless some distance away, and John, he knew, had something up his sleeve.

"Did you think that was an act of mercy, of cowardice? Really, Jacob, you've never learned to think beyond your own narrow parameters. My exile has taught me patience. I've waited for all the circumstances to be favorable to my cause. The time has come," he said, and the click sounded loud and unmistakable even before the gleam of honed steel rose slowly to point straight at his heart. "But that patience is regrettably at an end. Circumstances for me are favorable, old friend with or without your cooperation -- and tragically unfavorable for you."

Unable to move, Jacob watched the point of the stiletto advancing toward him, as if fate itself had gathered into one bright and brutal point of light.

* * * * *

A creeping sense of injustice had become frustration and finally anger. With one mighty sweep of the butcher knife, the head flew off, neatly severed from the neck.

Tamara surveyed the carnage with grim satisfaction for a moment before chasing down the skull where it had come to rest against the wall and returning to smack it back down on the waiting neck.

Never mind that it was dirty now, that one cheek had collapsed and there were chips of stone embedded in the clay. They never really satisfied her anyway -- these images made entirely of dead materials. Minerals and chemicals, ore and decayed vegetable matter. They never had the life of the real ones -- the ones where art and nature combined to make something unique, something personal. That was when she felt her true power as an artist.

What did "he" know about art? Him with his fungi and formula and nets, playing out some silly game with another silly old man. Both of them, near as she could tell, wasting their time trying to get living, breathing people to do what they wanted them to do. Dead people were far easier to deal with, far more useful and accommodating.

Tamara cleaned the clay from the butcher knife with swift, angry strokes. That Catherine would be easy to live with -- once she was dead. Tamara looked forward to telling her more about her life in Lyden, more about the things she'd seen and done before coming to live down here, and she wouldn't have to listen to any annoying questions in return.

Fine bone structure. Well, to give Clarissa her due, she'd had that, too, but not the youthful skin -- flawless, unwrinkled. She'd been considering trying something completely new once she had that head to work with -- and the hair. She'd keep the shining hair. All those weeks of pampering, and now her prize had been whisked off to an uncertain fate.

Either this Vincent -- the only one of the cast of characters he was always going on about who sounded remotely interesting -- either he would savage the girl -- maybe beyond even Tamara's skills to repair -- or something would go wrong. Paracelsus' promise that she could have "what was left" struck her now as empty. Why, he hadn't even told her where they were going.

Did he think she was one of those mindless animals to be patronized only as long as she did his dirty work? Was she expected to stay here, uncomplaining after weeks of servitude -- with no reward?

So what if she seldom left her refuge. She liked it here. And she didn't like people. They made her nervous. You never knew what they were going to say or do. People didn't come here, unless they were already as good as dead.

But that didn't mean she couldn't venture farther if she wanted to. It didn't mean she couldn't figure out where the girl had fallen from as well as he had. And for her there would be no games, no grandiose matching of wits. If Catherine was already dead, fine, but if she wasn't -- well, that could be easily remedied -- as easily as decapitating the clay bust.

A mounting excitement caused her fingers to clench on the knife's handle. What if she could sneak up on him too -- the one with the fur and fangs? What a prize that would be, and hadn't Paracelsus said he was vulnerable right now?

Tamara felt a giddiness she hadn't known since the long ago day when she'd stood at a bedroom door in a house surrounded by corn fields and savored the revenge that awaited her inside.

She needed only the knife and a bag -- a sturdy bag -- for her quest. As an afterthought, she threw in a couple of towels.

She felt like a young girl again, hurrying lightheartedly out into the unknown.

* * * * *

Narcissa rocked to and fro, chanting quietly, but when she opened her eyes the veiled sight that greeted her was the same.

The few feathers floating on the oily water. The shells, too, in their wicker dish -- even the shadows on the wall. The message was unmistakable. It drew from her a low keening sound, as she hugged herself protectively against the fear.

Who was she -- an old woman -- to be burdened with such knowledge? Knowledge that she could not share, for who would believe her? Yet to know these things and do nothing -- this too was wicked... evil. Cowering here in the safety of her charmed circle could not hold back the curse, a terrible curse that would plague her all her days, even into death. Death was here now -- in the tunnels: he would not depart alone.

Death and the evil one and good people oblivious to the danger. She rose from her kneeling position with some difficulty. Mumbling frantic incantations, she gathered up a few small objects, amulets all, and stuffed them into the deep pockets of her skirt. A stout torch would serve as a weapon, as well as a light, though it was poor defense against so powerful a sorcerer -- one who could trick death, enslave death for his own purposes.

As she set out, guided by a poisonous miasma that she alone could sense, terror walked beside her. It well might be that she herself would accompany the dark one when he left here, a poor prize for his efforts. Only a half-blind woman who would have joined him in the spirit world before too long, if nature were allowed to take her course. Better that, than the destruction of the good ones, the powerful ones who were only beginning to live. Better that, than an old-age haunted by cowardice and regret.

Fervently she called on Legba to guide her journey. She did not know where she was going, but with the help of so powerful a loa, she would go where she must.

"Ezili Freda... Ougou Feray," she muttered over and over again. "Protect your children, the bright ones who carry your image on earth. Protect an old woman who is so afraid."

* * * * *

"Voices," Manning whispered.

His companion nodded, fixed on the opening just above them. Posy was urging them toward it. Thank God, she hadn't barked. "I can't make out what they're saying, can you?"

"Uh-uh. Doesn't sound like a woman, though. We better think carefully about this, Elliot, cause we're above the subways now. That's probably private property in there, and it could get embarrassing real quick. You sure you're ready for that?"

The choice was nothing new to Manning. A PI had to walk a fine line with the public -- and the police -- or risk seeing his license pulled, but the man beside him was -- like it or not -- a celebrity. A wrong step could send his name into the headlines by morning.

Burch leaned toward him, whispering, "Even if Cathy's not in there, the dog is onto something -- someone who was in that penthouse, and I don't care if it's the bad guy or the old man. Cathy obviously knew both of them. Whatever she's messed up in, they're both involved; they may have answers, and that's what we came for -- answers."

"Okay, it's your call." Manning pulled out his gun. Their eyes met for a moment, silently acknowledging the gravity of what they were about to do, and then Burch began to move stealthily toward the door.

The corridor was dark, a cool lightless arcade of cinder block. Three separate openings betrayed a dim glow from beyond. They edged toward the first one, and Manning tensed, gun ready, as his companion peered cautiously around the corner.

Despite the dank atmosphere, sweat was gathering on Manning's upper lip. It was hell wondering if Posy would let loose with a bark and wondering what Burch could see in the basement, but he didn't have to suffer long. Without a word, Burch abruptly plunged through the doorway, and reflexively he followed, dropping the leash, stiff-arming the gun as he leapt, bent-kneed, into the room.

Now the barking started. The bloodhound made a beeline for the single person visible in the cellar, though Manning had a fleeting impression of movement in the far corner. Whoever had been standing there had probably slipped into the corridor by the far door; he might even now be getting away, but Manning's attention was riveted on the man who remained.

He posed no threat, tied as he was to the heavy chair, yet Manning couldn't take his eyes off him. The most stinging sensation of deja vu kept him rooted to the spot. It was the same sight, right down to the old-fashioned suit, that had greeted them one spring night on Sutton Place. The same guy -- tied up in the same way!

Burch threw him a look that reflected what he felt but recovered his cool as he turned to the man in the chair. "We have to stop meeting like this," he said.

This time the old guy didn't appear to have been roughed up, but his face was ashen. His voice shook as he spoke. "I couldn't agree with you more, and I am... once again... most grateful for your arrival. Would you mind untying me... please?"

"Not till you answer a couple of questions. Who are you, and what's your relationship with Catherine Chandler?"

"Take it easy, Elliot." Manning pocketed the gun. "He's the victim here -- not the perpetrator."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't really care. I just want to know what's happened to Cathy. I don't think that's too much to ask in return for coming to his rescue -- twice yet."

"No... no, I'll be glad to answer your questions," the man said, "but please... "

Posy was dancing eagerly around her quarry. Manning went to her and knelt, giving the long ears a vigorous rub. "Way to go, girl. Good dog."

Burch's aggressive demeanor eased up a little, and he bent to work at the knots. Manning suspected it had dawned on him that -- whatever the story was here -- Cathy apparently cared about this person. "Who did this to you?" he asked.

"I don't... I don't know."

"But it was the same man who attacked you on Sutton Place." Manning didn't bother to phrase it as a question. Anything else would strain the credibility of even this crazy night.

"Yes, I suppose so, but he... he wore a mask. And this is Sutton Place -- the same address."

Manning and Burch exchanged surprised looks. It had been tough enough keeping track of their underground movements; neither had speculated on what neighborhood lay above them.

The ropes at last fell away, and the prisoner rubbed his arms, shifting in the chair, though he didn't try to rise. Manning couldn't ignore the impression that he was stalling for time. "Suppose you give us the whole story," he said.

The man nodded. He appeared to be gathering his strength or -- Manning's practiced skepticism said -- concocting a smoke screen. "My name is Radler -- Jeffrey Radler. I'm a doctor, you see -- or I was. I'm more or less retired now, but I've known Catherine's family for years. They were generous contributors to my small clinic, and she has been very good about looking in on me from time to time." He paused, taking a labored breath. "One evening... last spring... I received a call that someone had been taken ill at this address. Well, it seemed a bit odd that they should phone me. It's quite a well-to-do neighborhood; residents have their own physicians, as well as the emergency services, but a doctor doesn't question such a summons. I came and was... set upon by a man in a mask who took my medical bag."

"For drugs?" Those things happened, Manning knew, but not so often anymore since house calls were virtually a thing of the past. "So what was the point of trussing you up like that, where we damned near didn't find you?"

"There was a key in my bag -- to the clinic. I suppose he wanted time to get there, to take what he wanted before I could raise the alarm."

"And did he?"

"Yes... yes, I'm afraid a great deal was stolen."

"So why'd you come back here tonight?"

"An anonymous message. It said I could find my medical bag here in this basement."

"A little risky, wasn't it -- just for a bag?"

Radler nodded. "Yes, I suppose it was foolish, but the bag has great sentimental value. It was my father's before me. I thought if there was a chance... "

"And you got jumped again."

The doctor had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yes. I dare say it was the same man. He wanted me to write out a prescription -- for drugs." Manning had noted the pen and paper on the table. It all fit, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a shrewd mind working swiftly behind the man's abject manner.

Burch had said nothing during the exchange, but now he asked, "What does all this have to do with Catherine Chandler?"

"I'm afraid that's entirely my fault. The clinic had experienced a series of small thefts prior to the incident -- during hours when we were open. I hesitated to call in the police, thinking that if the thief were a regular patient -- or perhaps even a member of our staff -- I might be able to help him without bringing the authorities into it. I mentioned the problem to Catherine, who checked a list of names I gave her and found someone who'd been under suspicion by the police department. No proof, you understand, but she thought he could be dangerous."

"You think it's the same man who did this to you?"

"I fear it must be. I had hoped in recovering my bag I might find some sort of evidence that would positively identify him."

"But you didn't find the bag?"

"No... no, apparently it was only a ruse to get me here, to force me to procure narcotics. I doubt that he intended me any greater harm," he said, looking from one to the other, "but I'm eternally grateful to you both. I don't quite understand how you happened to come along."

Manning gestured toward Posy who was lying placidly at the feet of her prey with her head between her paws. "Posy here is a bloodhound. We haven't been formally introduced, but I'm a licensed investigator -- Cleon Manning -- and this is Elliot Burch. We were looking for Catherine Chandler."

Burch held up the handkerchief. "You must have dropped this in the penthouse."

The doctor frowned. "It's possible... but why on earth are you searching for Catherine?"

"We have reason to believe she may have disappeared," Burch said. "What can you tell us about that?"

"Well, I can certainly tell you you're wasting your time," he said a bit irritably. "I wonder if you would mind handing me my walking stick?" It was up to Manning to retrieve it. Burch was totally fixed on the doctor. "Thank you so much," Radler said as he took it, rising unsteadily from the chair. He was really quite a dignified looking old gentleman. "I would hardly call it a disappearance. Catherine is on holiday -- in Europe."

"Who told you that?" Burch said sharply.

"Why, she did. I received a letter from her just the other day. Whatever made you assume she was missing?"

Burch's whole body appeared to relax. He smiled a slow, rather sheepish smile. "I think we've been misinformed. Cathy's job can be dangerous -- well, of course, you know about that -- and I guess her friends have gotten just a little paranoid."

"You consider yourself her friend?" The doctor regarded Burch with narrowed eyes: he seemed to be sizing him up.

"I care about her very much," Burch said in that soft, serious way that Manning thought was tantamount to wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Radler only nodded rather curtly.

"Look," Manning reminded them, "this is private property, and we're still trespassing. We best be getting out of here before somebody hears us." He drew out the flashlight and bent to pick up Posy's leash.

The three of them climbed the stairs to the upper basement where a brief search located the door. In a matter of minutes they were back on the sidewalk, looking up at the building with its darkened penthouse.

"Dr. Radler, this thing has gone way too far for you to help this guy on your own. It's time you reported all of it to the police."

"Yes, of course. I suspect you're right."

"If you like we can go with you to the station."

"No... please... you've done more than enough. I'll take care of it myself, but I should call in at home first. My... family will be worried about me."

"My car's back in the park," Burch told him, "but if you'd care to come with us, we'll be glad to drive you home."

"That's very thoughtful of you, but a taxi will do... " he reached for his pockets with a look of distress. "Oh, dear... I'm afraid he's taken my wallet."

"Here," Burch pulled out his own, extracting a twenty-dollar bill.

"You're really very kind. I'll... uh... I'll return the money to you straight away."

"It's not necessary. Any friend of Cathy's is a friend of mine. Just put in a good word or two for me when you see her -- that's payment enough."

For a moment Radler looked stricken. Maybe this had all been too much for the poor man. "Are you sure you shouldn't see a doctor yourself? We'll be glad to take you," Manning said gently.

"No, I'm quite all right, thank you. Ah -- there's a taxi now." A checkered cab was pulling up to deposit a well-dressed couple at the building across the street, and Burch was already signaling the driver.

They saw the old man safely tucked inside. As the cab pulled away, Burch sighed. "What do you say we get Posy here back to the car and then go somewhere for a good stiff drink?"

"I thought you'd never ask. This has been one hell of a weird night, Elliot."

"A successful night, my friend," he smiled, clapping him on the back. "We set out to find Cathy and -- in a way -- we did. I'm satisfied."

"Think it was worth my hourly rate?"

"Yours and Posy's," Burch laughed. "Besides, it might win me some points with Cathy when she finds out we rescued her friend -- again."

"No doubt, but I'm telling you, Elliot, if I come across that old guy tied in a chair one more time, I'm turning in my license and opening a Dairy Queen in Hoboken. "

"You know what, Cleon? If that ever happens, you've got yourself a partner."

* * * * *

Vincent understood nothing -- the meaning of neither her words, nor the ones he himself had spoken, which he couldn't have repeated if he tried. He did not know how she came to be here or why. This bleak cavern, his reason for coming here, so vitally important moments ago, had vanished.

His face was buried in the silken plush of hair that bunched at her shoulder. Hands wide on her back, he felt the warmth of her flesh beneath the heavy sweater. It sang in every nerve where she pressed full-length against him. Small fingers clutched at his hair, as she wept softly -- not tears of sadness. His stunned senses told him that much, and it was enough, enough to know that she did not suffer. Anything, he would give anything to see that she never did.

He wanted to end every mystery that baffled her, stop every hurt that might ever be hers. He wanted to halt them by holding her endlessly, whispering every pledge of love that seared his heart, crushing her so close to himself that nothing sad or fearful or troubling could ever touch her.

Except myself. I want to touch her. And I am the source of all the things I wish to spare her.

The truth of that realization shot painfully through his consciousness, bidding him to stop this now, to hold her just a little less fiercely; yet the good intention had no discernible effect on his body, which refused to obey the command. And Catherine. Catherine was clinging to him as if his own heartbeat must sustain them both. How could he push her away?

She was no longer crying, he realized, as she lifted her head, eyes bright with tears. If only she wouldn't look at him with such perfect trust, such love. Once he had cherished those looks, felt them like a warming fire; now they blazed through his raw emotions with disturbing wantonness.

He hadn't been prepared for this. In all the time they'd known each other he had never been so unprepared. Where were the defenses he wrapped around himself with his cloak when he headed for her balcony or when she'd met him below those many, many times? He struggled to find them, yet couldn't even summon the will to look away.

It was vital that he make her understand the danger here. That he found it so difficult to voice seemed proof of its influence. Where was the strength he had once brought to their intimate moments, the strength to hold back any feeling that might jeopardize the sweet, clear ecstasy she brought to him?

Never had he faced her knowing so absolutely what the limits were. Never had he found it harder to adhere to them. Madness. It must be the madness causing him to feel all those things he did not wish to feel, must not feel, in the very moment when she must be made to see how wrong they were.

It was time, time to tell her at last how deeply he loved her -- oh, not the simple declaration he had offered as they watched the sun set together, but the truth of it, the all-encompassing power of it that defined the limits of his soul. He must tell her of his willingness to gather the shadows that she might have a life in the sun, must tell her that her happiness was all that mattered, that there was no need for her to venture into this darkness where he was.

He must make her understand that he would suffer these feelings whose torture threatened to rend him apart and never, never act upon them, that he would gladly surrender to madness, rather than risk one flicker of fear in those gentle eyes that had seen only the best in him. It was time and past time to tell her these things, and yet he had no voice; the words fled his consciousness like stars before the rising sun.

The bright image of all she was, all she meant to him, that had sustained him these last dark weeks and given meaning to his life, now blazed before him in the radiance of reality, melting away his thoughts, his words, his will.

She sensed his turmoil; he could see it in her eyes and knew suddenly that she was about to lift her hand, to grace his cheek with the heartbreaking comfort of her touch. Bright spots of confusion spiked at his nerves. He ached for her to do that; he was grateful she did not.

She, too, seemed unable to move, as if the two of them had been caught in some vibrant snare of time that refused to release them, compelled to be unaware of anything but the resonant sense of each other and the feelings that pulsed unimpeded along their bond.

Her lips were parted, and he found himself gazing at them, mesmerized. Somewhere there were reasons why he shouldn't be doing this and long practice at resisting the temptation.

Somewhere.

But not here, not in this confusion that was all heat and softness, numbness and an agonizing tension. Her breath was coming in shallow little gusts that coiled in his blood and made it throb hot beneath his skin. He stared at her mouth, as if to glimpse those strangely compelling little breaths, but all he saw was its softness -- a delicate moistness that thundered through his body with a message beyond reason.

She was trembling now with a vibration that was not merely physical; he could feel it in her soul as well and was powerless to name it, but he could soothe it. He must. In the absence of intellect, for it had evaporated somewhere in this timeless place, some other faculty had come into being, unfamiliar, yet unambiguous as faith, and it whispered that at this moment the very essence of Catherine and what she needed of him could be found in those sweetly parted lips.

He did not understand how this could be, but from somewhere deep inside, inside of both of them, there was beckoning a language meant to transcend the loss of words.

His hands had moved to her shoulders, and a half-formed memory told him to release his grip; instead he pulled her closer. Well-learned lessons echoed from a great distance, telling him to turn away; instead he bent over her, conscious that she had tipped her face up to him, that she was drawing him with an unspoken pleading stronger than any command.

In this world that was only Catherine, there could be no choice but what she wished. A tentative brush across the forbidden softness galvanized his body and brought from her such an intoxicating sound that his senses spun with it.

Again he dared to touch his lips to hers, so that she took into herself the involuntary groan that shook him, and he could do nothing but follow, unprepared for the jolt that shot through every nerve as her mouth opened lush and welcoming beneath his own. To drown in such sweetness...

Her need poured through his veins, drawing him, unleashing the sensuous answers to all the wordless questions she was asking with her eager lips, her hands that seemed hungry for the feel of him, the friction of her body against his.

Every place she touched ached with a rich, delicious agony he had never known. It was unbearable; it was exquisite. His fingers no longer kneaded her sweater, but the satin smoothness of skin. He could feel the delicate tension of her muscles on his palms as she moved sinuously against him, soft as flame, and he was burning with his need for her, with hers for him, an indistinguishable hunger, enveloping them both in a pulsing heat.

Her face, so delicate and perfect in his huge hands, gazed up at him as if she would speak, but she did not. He would say it for her, if only he had the faculty of speech, but he did not. Her eyes, jade-green and so full of love that he felt like weeping, said it all. Her heart was in her eyes, her cheeks flushed, and he forgot the search for words. Instead, slipping one hand into her hair, he bent to take again her willing mouth.

He understood nothing and felt no need to understand. There were no choices, no right and wrong, not even any strangeness when her eyes, blazing into his, briefly disappeared as she pulled the sweater over her head and dropped it in the dust. The pants followed. She wore nothing underneath.

Wavering light sculpted her delicate body, a miracle of supple curves and shadows, too beautiful to exist anywhere but in the secret yearning of a fantasy. He longed to look at her, to fill his senses with her porcelain perfection, too sacred to touch, but already he was pulling her into his arms, and she was trembling in his hands, no fantasy, but warm, yielding flesh that spoke to his own in a language that he answered with perfect fluency though he had never guessed at its existence.

Her secrets were offered up to him with a sweet, earthy abandon that hammered through his blood, driving his every move, until her body was wet with his frenzied explorations. The rapturous little sounds she made provoked him to a state of blissful madness in which there seemed nothing strange in her dainty fingers helping him to shed the layers of clothing that he'd worn like armor all his life.

He did not understand the look that came over her as he stood naked in the shifting light or the choked little gasp that rose from her throat, where he could see the pulse beating in time with his own. What was there to understand, when she was swaying against him, whispering of a love that would never die, sanctifying his body with the warm, moist tributes of her mouth?

Head thrown back, he gave himself up to sensations that at once teased delicately at every nerve and resounded through him with volcanic violence, wanting them to go on forever, fearing he could not endure another second of it. The dizzying female scent -- it had been there before, always resolutely ignored, desperately ignored, but now it took possession of him like a drug, mingling with her deep-throated moans to send streamers of fire through his blood.

Deep, deep spiraled the message between them in a code that racked every sensibility, deep to a place that pulled from him a feral rumble, a primal demand for the surrender of all that filled his mouth, his hands, the empty places in his soul. The curve of his teeth against her skin brought only an answering assault from her questing mouth that roused a sharp, erotic thrill along his flesh. The growls he had been utterly powerless to repress only seemed to excite some primitive response that delivered her quivering and pliant into his hands.

They were searching for something -- together, searching -- with wild, single-minded abandon. Against his hardened body, her struggles were useless as a butterfly's, and he must not hurt her, must not allow the passion burning through his muscles to crush her fragile perfection, but she fought only to draw him closer, excited by the very power that threatened her, so fearless that his own fear evaporated, as they sank to the earthen floor with more desperation than grace. If he did not understand how this could be, how pale, satiny limbs could be grasping the tawny strength of his own, he had no will to try.

There was nothing to understand but the succulence of her flesh calling out to him, as her heart called to him, passionate and pure. Ocean depths and high skies, the warmth of the fertile earth -- all igniting beneath him, welcoming with unthinkable softness the white-hot tension that defined him, meeting the force he could not hold back with an intensity that saturated his senses.

He stilled her moans with his mouth, drawing them into himself where they became crashing waves in his blood. Her hands opened, fingers intertwining convulsively with his, and her trembling was like a quake in his own wire-taut muscles, propelling them with frantic swiftness to a frightening precipice, high above everything he had ever believed, everything he had ever been.

Together their bodies clenched into one unendurable sensation, an ecstasy that shattered like crystal all that had come before, forging in its rapturous fire a single flawless whole. Her cry carried them both beyond any known markers, beyond stars, beyond dreams... and left them there, drifting inseparable through a universe of their own making, a universe that only after a very long time was revealed to include the sheltering dome of a humble cavern.

Vincent understood nothing -- and knew he held everything in his arms.

* * * * *

Oh, man, he was going to kick himself if Peter Alcott was even now slipping out of the city, while he trudged around like a mole in this crazy maze.

In retrospect, he asked himself why he just hadn't confronted Burch out in the open and demanded to know what he was up to, instead of getting caught up in this game of cat and mouse.

He'd never dreamed it would be so hard to locate them once he was inside. For all he knew Burch and Manning had left long ago, and it might be high time he did the same. He hadn't seen anything that would give him a clue as to what they were after.

Not too far back he'd spotted a concrete tunnel, complete with the pipes and valves that were reassuring proof that -- at some time anyway -- real live people had passed through it. Easy enough to get spooked down here, to convince yourself that you were the only person left in the world. This place, for instance -- a natural cavern with stalagmites -- or was it 'tites'? He could never remember which was which. This could be anywhere on earth -- or nowhere at all. It wouldn't have surprised him all that much to see the missing link materialize in the shadows. Fred Flintstone alive and well and living under the Guggenheim.

At another time, he might have gotten a kick out of the whole thing, but the thought of Cathy sobered him. So did the mysterious behavior of one Peter Alcott. This little adventure was getting him no place fast, and only the thought that it might be a lead made him reluctant to give up.

Of course, he could be wrong about that. Burch might be nosing around for reasons that had nothing to do with Cathy. What those might be Joe couldn't imagine, any more than he could figure what connection she could possibly have to this place.

He'd about decided to go back up -- follow those pipes to the outside world -- and see if Burch's car was still there. If it wasn't, he'd catch up with them and demand an explanation, maybe stake out Alcott's building.

The batteries in his flashlight weren't going to hold out much longer. He was shaking it, hoping to wake up its fading energy when something flickered in his peripheral vision.

There was a figure threading its way through the stone pillars, coming directly toward him. He had opened his mouth to shout out Burch's name when the word stuck in his throat.

It was a woman. He'd seen the flash of long hair, the dim outline of a slight figure bearing no resemblance whatsoever to Burch or Manning.

Could it be...?

His heart began to pound. What if he called to her and she -- for reasons of her own -- turned and fled? He'd never find her in this forest of rocks and shadows. Better to wait till she was within reach.

He pressed back behind a jagged column and held his breath. Light footsteps were audible now, coming closer, heading straight for where he stood. His hand closed on the flashlight button. He just hoped the batteries had one more surge of power in them.

The footsteps had drawn even with him a few feet to the right when he stepped out, raising the flashlight. It spluttered into life, pinning her in its bright circle, and she let out a startled shriek.

Faded blue eyes stared at him, wide as a china doll's.

"Hey, I'm sorry." Chagrined, he released her from the beam's glare, laying the flashlight on a ledge at his shoulder, where it gave off a rapidly waning glow. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I thought you were someone else."

The woman took a step backward, still gaping at him.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you. I was looking for somebody I thought might be down here. Thirtyish, light brown hair, about yea big, green eyes. Name's Cathy Chandler. "

She looked, if anything, even more terrified. He could see the muscles working in her throat, but no sound came out. Maybe she couldn't talk, he realized, thoroughly ashamed of himself for scaling her so badly. Probably a street person who'd taken shelter down here. From the way she was clutching that canvas bag to her chest, it might very well hold all her earthly possessions, and he must look like one big threat -- a man stronger than her, younger than her, accosting her here in the dark, where murder might go unnoticed forever.

He put both hands in the air in a non-aggressive pose. "There's nothing to be afraid of -- honest."

"I don't... I never saw her," she croaked unexpectedly.

"Yeah, well, I'm not surprised. It was a long shot."

"What do you want with her?"

The question struck him as a little weird. Maybe she wasn't quite right in the head. "I'm a friend of hers. I had a tip that she might be down here, that's all. Since she's not, I'll just be heading back up. You can go on about your business."

"Oh, yes, my business." Her mouth quirked into a one-sided smile. Her gaze flicked briefly downward and, following it, Joe saw that there was something else in her hand besides the bag -- something that glinted sharply -- a knife. And what a knife, he thought, as she brought it up in front of her defensively. The thing must be a foot long.

"Just take it easy. You don't want to hurt anybody."

"How do I know you'll really go away? How do I know you won't come back with the police?"

He could swear the thing was quivering toward him as she spoke and regretted that he hadn't left himself a clearer escape route. He wasn't altogether sure he could slip around the pillar to open ground without being in stabbing distance. "Why should I want to do that? You haven't done anything wrong," he said. If you didn't count vagrancy, trespassing, carrying an illegal weapon and threatening an officer of the court. Who could blame a homeless female for wanting to protect herself?

But that look in her eyes told him she was really getting off on her sense of power over him. Experience had taught him that could be a dangerous rush in someone who was used to being powerless.

"I could kill you if I wanted to," she said shrilly, "and no one would ever know."

* * * * *

Paracelsus didn't stop to curse fate until reaching the natural caverns below. It would have pleased him to linger and perhaps overhear some explanation for the two men's intrusion. They had entered the basement from below -- as he had done earlier -- yet their clothes marked them as residents of the world above. Very strange.

And after he'd been clever enough to lure Jacob above in a move designed to distance him both physically and psychologically from the others. How he must have hated donning that ancient suit, going up into the alien streets of the world he'd never forgiven. The reprise of "666" -- he had thought that a nice touch as well. Jacob cut off from his friends, cut off from his precious community. With Vincent preoccupied far below, his success had seemed assured. To fail through sheer accident was incredible, but of course it was no accident that the two men happened by. He'd caught a brief glimpse before he slipped into the corridor; the animal with them was a bloodhound, yet he could fathom no reason that men from above should be tracking Jacob Wells -- or himself.

On the chance that they might choose to follow him, he clambered spider-like up to a shadowed ledge beneath the cavern's roof, where he crouched in the darkness. A wise precaution, though he resented the waste of precious time. If they came this way, the dog would surely follow the path he'd taken earlier. No one would sense his presence here among the bats.

A meticulous planner, he distrusted the seeming randomness of the event. Something conspired against him this night -- not the dull-witted fools who'd crossed his path. None of them was a match for him. But something larger, more mysterious, perhaps the fickle gods themselves. His eyes slid over the shadows hanging about him. What power might even now be hiding there, chuckling at his ignominious retreat?

He would not be defeated. As the minutes ticked by and there was no sign of pursuit, it became clear that the men had concentrated their attention on Jacob, who was no doubt finding it difficult to extricate himself from their curiosity. He found a certain amusement in the thought.

Jacob unable to explain his unlawful entry, a man without resources -- no job, no references, not even an address. A suspicious character. Perhaps he was even now being led to the secure confines of a police station, enduring questions he could not answer, convincing his interrogators that he must be guilty of something.

Of stupidity -- and blind luck, he thought contemptuously.

Be that as it may, Jacob's absence had been a critical part of the plan, and that at least was accomplished. He must simply leave nothing else to chance, certainly not the question of Vincent's whereabouts -- or his state of mind. Best to check on that himself before making his triumphant return.

* * * * *

"No... don't say it," Catherine whispered, her fingertips rested against his lips, and what was there to do, but kiss them, as he had longed to do a thousand times since he had known her?

"Say what?"

"That you didn't mean it to happen, that this wasn't the time or place you would have wanted. "

How well she knew him. It was a milder version of the passionate apology that had hovered on his lips ever since he had come to his senses, stunned at what had transpired here. But how could he speak words of regret, when the universe that had been perilously skewed for so long had undeniably slipped into a harmony he had thought impossible? When he felt a focus, a certainty, a happiness he had never known? When the look of passionate adoration on her face told him she regretted nothing? "It's true, Catherine... this cavern --"

"This cavern is the most beautiful place I've ever seen in my life," she said with a smile that tumbled his heart. "I'll never forget it -- as long as I live."

"It is," he said, scanning its humble ambience, searching for a way to agree with her, "a place of transition. "

"Is that what they call it nowadays?" she pressed a kiss into his palm that unaccountably made him dizzy. "Then I have to tell you that being 'transisted' by you was worth everything we've been through."

"Catherine, you must understand... I never meant... when I saw you... the farthest thing from my mind --"

"I know. Mine, too, though certain people would find that hard to believe. But, oh, Vincent, I'm so happy. I love you so much."

Her arms came around him, and he cradled her close, kissing her gleaming hair, letting the words of love flood from his soul, where they had lingered unspoken for so long.

How quickly her emotions could change. It was one of the things that fascinated him about her. That openness had changed his own life, coaxing him from the brooding that had been a life-long tendency. She rested warm and trusting against his chest. He had pulled his cloak around her, but suddenly he wished that they were dressed. It was true that he felt he owed her an apology, but he also felt deplorably capable of repeating the offense.

She sat back, taking his hands in hers, and he could see that once again her mood had shifted. Her expression was deadly serious. "There's so much I have to tell you, and some of it is very important, but please promise you'll hear me out and not do anything until we've had a chance to talk about it."

Incredible that he could have forgotten. She had gone away. He still had no idea why she had returned. "Tell me."

"What I said about never leaving you was true. I didn't leave. I never went to Europe. I never even left these tunnels."

He couldn't have been more taken aback if she'd said she'd been to the moon. Stunned, he prepared himself for what could only be further shocks to come, but with her hands touching his, the memory of what they'd shared blazing in his heart, it seemed the world had become, at heart, absurdly simple.

* * * * *

"You're not going to kill anybody," Joe said soothingly. The woman was watching his face with such manic fixation that she hadn't even noticed the hand he slid into his pocket. Only when he drew out the gun did her expression change to fear again. "Now I told you I'm not going to hurt you, and I mean it, but I want you to put the knife away and let me by."

She stared at the gun with the same fascination she'd turned on his face only moments before. "A gun. Why do you have a gun? What are you -- a murderer, a rapist -- what?"

"I have the gun because I'm with the DA's office. We don't shoot innocent people." He'd hoped that would reassure her, but the announcement seemed to have the opposite effect.

"No," she gasped. "No... it wasn't me... I never did. It was all her fault -- Clarissa -- she's the one." The knife trembled ambiguously in the air between them, and then she whirled and took off across the darkened cavern.

What was that all about? Joe breathed a heavy sigh. He should just let her go and get the hell out of here before the flashlight died, but no sooner had he picked it up, than a strange guttural cry echoed through the cavern. It chilled his blood, but he was already running toward it, almost stumbling across the woman who lay moaning faintly in the rugged path.

Horrified, he knelt and rolled her over with one hand, the other scanning her body with the flashlight's feeble beam. She must have tripped. The knife had gone in several inches just below her rib cage. Jeez, he breathed, trying to push aside the guilty knowledge that this was all his fault.

Couldn't leave the blade in there, but he knew what would happen the minute he drew it out, and he looked for something to stanch the blood. She had dropped the bag nearby. Clothes maybe. Strangely, there was nothing in it but a couple of towels, but they were perfect for the job. He wrapped the wound as best he could, knowing even as he did so that it probably wouldn't do any good. He had to try. He couldn't just leave her to die down here.

Picking up the knife by its gory tip, he slipped it into the bag. He gripped it in one hand as he slid his arms under the limp form. She wasn't very heavy, and he pressed her body against his chest, hurrying towards the utility tunnel he'd spotted earlier, praying that the flashlight would hold out long enough to get him there.

Fresh air assaulted him with his plunge into the long tube. Allowing the feel of it to determine the turns he took, he was vaguely surprised to find himself emerging into the very culvert he'd entered hours before.

It was pitch black in the park, and he was seriously winded as he stumbled up the slope to where he'd left the car, but she was still breathing when he placed her carefully in the back seat and headed for the hospital. He didn't even think to note whether Burch's car was gone or not. All the way there he prayed silently the prayers of his youth. It was bad enough when he'd had to take down a perpetrator in self-defense, but how was he supposed to live with this?

She'd probably been doing just fine till he came along and handled the whole thing all wrong, scaring her out of her wits. A poor, homeless woman who'd probably never hurt a soul.

* * * * *

"I wasn't sure how I was going to tell you that part," she admitted, coloring slightly, "about his crazy idea that if we ever made love you'd lose yourself. I thought it might embarrass you, and I was a little afraid you'd believe it."

"I did believe it," he said without hesitation. "Catherine, in my illness I even dreamed of it -- and the terrible punishments that would follow. When Father said such feelings helped cause what happened to me, I had no choice but to believe him. He said you saw me here -- that night. You saw me devoid of all reason, of any right to call myself a man. "

"I don't remember that, but if I did it wouldn't mean anything. Father may be right that your feelings were part of the problem, but only because you were denying them."

It had all happened so fast. He was only now absorbing the implications. The strange rushes of feeling that he'd taken as precursors of madness -- merely the random proofs that their bond still thrived. His turmoil when he came here, the shock of seeing her and the overwhelming desire -- there had been no shred of rational control in place, none, and yet they had made love, and it had been the most shattering experience of his life, a moment of pure passion.

And they had survived.

More than survived, he thought, with a rush of emotion that he recognized at last as true joy. His body still hummed with the memory of it. And Catherine. If he'd known that he could bring that extraordinary expression to her face he would have done so long before now. There was an electric mellowness enveloping them both. Perhaps that was the reason he hadn't erupted when she told him what Paracelsus had done -- that and her gentle entreaty to hear her out.

"Catherine, you're certain he said he was going above?"

She nodded. "Not that I'd necessarily take his word for anything, but it would be just like him to follow me, so he could see his plan in action, and I'm sure he didn't. It must have been something important if he'd risk missing possible violence. "

How easily she spoke of these things, diffusing their power to chill the blood. She wore her courage so lightly, and yet it confounded him. "You're certain he didn't hurt you?"

"Only by keeping me away from you." She smiled, snuggling closer, and he let the feelings that resulted come, made them part of the boundless love he felt for her. "But after what just happened, I realize it was a very small price to pay."

"We have to go up, Catherine." He said gently. "We must warn the others that he's alive."

"I know -- you're right, but promise me you'll let the council decide what's to be done about him. Promise me you won't take this all on yourself."

How could he deny her anything? And what a miracle that it was within his power to choose. He had controlled the first surge of fury that rose with the story she told. He had controlled it with a man's judgment. "I promise."

As they rose to their feet, there was a moment of confusion as he tried to decide whether to cover her nakedness or his own in the voluminous cloak, somehow managing to keep it wrapped securely about them both, which produced its own set of disconcerting emotions.

"Excuse me," she said with a becoming blush and slipped away from him. Relieved, he turned his back and hurried to pick up his discarded clothes, dressing with inordinate swiftness, all the time wondering where this sense of shyness had been a little while ago. In retrospect his boldness astounded him, but how could he remember his aggression with shame when it so clearly delighted her?

When he turned around, she was fully dressed, demurely studying her own clasped hands. He shook out the dusty cloak, swinging it over his shoulders, and held out his hand. Smiling, she took it and they moved toward the entrance. How remarkable that this place he had begun to think of as a tomb should have taken on the aura of enchantment.

Once in the narrow passage, he could not bring himself to let go of her, although walking would be easier if he did. Catherine, too, seemed to feel that touching was a high priority, crisis or no crisis, and he wondered if she shared his irrational need to confirm this was truly happening.

But her mind seemed to be on more practical issues as she suddenly frowned up at him through tousled bangs. "Vincent," she said, "where on earth do you suppose Father got the idea I was in Europe?"

* * * * *

Jacob hobbled down the narrow passageway with grim determination, moving as fast as he could. There was no time to lose. John had been forced to abandon his first plan, but who could guess what scheme he might fall back on in its stead.

Now that he'd revealed himself, he might think it necessary to act without delay, to surprise the tunnel dwellers while Jacob was entangled with his rescuers. Well, he'd gotten clear of them as soon as he could, had the taxi driver drop him at the nearest entrance to this world, a world he vowed passionately never to leave again.

His newfound skill at lying had served him well tonight, and wouldn't Devin laugh if he knew that he'd borrowed one of his many aliases, plucking it out of the ether where it had floated disembodied since his son had abandoned his brief law career?

It troubled him immensely that he'd passed no sentries along the way. Where was everybody? And what was he going to do if John had already made his move?

Hopefully, he hadn't yet had time to regroup and marshal whatever ghastly forces he expected to bring to bear on the community. He was wrong in thinking that one man determined its course. Jacob had great faith in the others. If a crisis were to take place in his absence the council would pull everyone together, but it would be better -- far better -- if they were warned.

He stopped to catch his breath and quell the stitch that was gathering in his side. His first impulse, as he'd slipped into the confines of the tunnels, was to tap out a warning on the nearest pipe, but he'd abandoned the idea, fearing John would hear it too.

If only he could be certain that Vincent had returned by now. If he had, John's efforts would be short-lived. The troubling thought passed over him that there might be some truth in what his nemesis had said -- that Vincent had been stricken with a crisis of his own. He didn't want to believe it, but it was very odd that he'd gone missing for so long.

He found himself praying that the sly elusions about Vincent's instability were part and parcel of the lies that John Pater spewed like venom. He had an immense capacity for cruelty, proven again tonight when he had taunted him with the pretense that Catherine was alive.

Jacob's heart lurched as he considered the possibility that John might, indeed, tell Vincent what his diabolical mind had deciphered -- that Catherine was dead, that she'd perished that night in the cavern. How in God's name had he come to puzzle that out? It was a frightening reminder that behind the evil, behind the madness, there lay an incredibly cunning mind.

But, of course, Vincent wouldn't believe him. Why should he listen to anything John had to say? After all he'd done, it was far more likely that Vincent's rage would rise the moment he laid eyes on the one who'd caused so much pain to those he loved. It depressed Jacob to think that this is what it had come to -- the guilty wish that his son would use his frightful power to destroy their enemy once and for all.

Not much farther now. Ignoring the flaring ache in his hip, he pushed forward, praying that he wouldn't be too late.

* * * * *

The books that usually dominated every surface in the chamber had been replaced by people. Drawn by a general air of uneasiness that traveled swift as smoke through the tunnels, they had been gravitating here for hours now -- adults and children, too, who should have been in bed -- sitting where they could or standing if they couldn't.

Though the council had drifted naturally together, talking among themselves about the problem at hand, there had been no attempt to formalize the gathering into a common meeting.

No one could be sure there actually was a problem.

Vincent hadn't been heard from in hours, but he had periodically required time alone all his life, and everyone knew he must be hurting with Catherine gone. Father's absence was more difficult to rationalize. He usually kept himself available to everyone, but the obvious explanation was that he'd gone in search of his son. It was hardly a secret that their relationship had been uncommonly tense lately. Perhaps they were simply having a long heart-to-heart chat away from the hubbub of the community.

These were the assurances they passed among themselves, but there was another factor whose influence had been increasing all night: a pervasive sense, shared by adults and children alike, that something was very wrong. Perhaps it was only the psychology of mass hysteria, played out on a more modest scale, but the anxiety level was rising in the babble of voices.

By virtue of possessing the loudest voice, William bellowed out for quiet, and when he had it, said. "Look, we don't even know for sure whether there's reason to be worried, but we're not going to find out with everybody talking at once. Now, both Vincent and Father aren't here -- we know that much, so let's try to piece together what's going on. Who was it that sent out the message for Vincent earlier tonight?"

"That was me," Jamie stepped forward. "He was supposed to meet me and he didn't show, so I came here to see if Father knew where he was. It was his idea to send a message asking if anyone had seen him."

"So Father didn't know where he'd gone, right?" William clarified. "Okay, did anybody report seeing Vincent?"

"Yeah, I did -- or I tried to," Cullen amended. "But there was nobody to tell when I got here. I'd run into him earlier not too far back. He looked really charged up about something -- damned near knocked me down. I went on to the storeroom -- you can't even hear the pipes in there. Olivia told me about it when I brought down the table she wanted, so I came straight here, but like I say, nobody was home. "

"Where was Vincent headed when you saw him?"

"Beats me -- I figured he was probably coming here."

"Didn't you ask him, Cullen?" Mary queried. "Didn't you try to find out what was wrong?"

"Hey, when Vincent's got that look on his face you don't push your luck. He was not in the mood for conversation. "

"He might have been on his way to alert Father about something. Maybe they left together," Pascal ventured.

"I don't think so," someone objected. It was Mark, and they all looked towards him. "I brought Father a message tonight, and that was quite a while after Vincent was reported missing. He was right here at his desk."

"What kind of message?" William prodded. "Was it from Vincent?"

"I don't know. It was just an envelope that somebody left by the Mirror Pool."

"Well -- out with it, man -- what did he say when he read it?"

Mark looked frustrated. "He didn't read it while I was in the room."

"And nobody saw Father when he left here?" The stillness in the chamber told him no one had. "Well, chances are he's gone after Vincent, " William concluded.

"That doesn't explain why he didn't tell anyone where he was going," Pascal pointed out, "or why Vincent was in such a hurry when Cullen saw him."

"I was with Vincent early this evening," Mary added uncertainly. "He'd been helping some of the children with their lessons and everything seemed fine. We were talking, and all of a sudden he got very tense. He just rushed out."

"What were you talking about?" William frowned.

Mary looked baffled. "Why, nothing important -- only how it would be nice to hear from Laura."

"Laura?" None of this was adding up in any perceptible pattern. The confusion only heightened the impression that something was out of joint. "Well, I say the sentries should get back out there. With Vincent gone we can't be too careful. And Father will be okay if he's with Vincent."

"Which he isn't."

Heads swiveled at the sound of the familiar voice.

Father! Even now he was making his way down the steps, leaning heavily on his cane. Relief was palpable in the sudden outburst of greetings, relief and a murmur of shock. He was dressed in top-sider clothes. Father had been above.

"And, no, the sentries should not take their usual posts." he said, resuming his role as leader, even before he'd reached the table where the rest of the council waited. "I want everyone brought in close to our central hub, and the sentries to stay in constant contact. I'm afraid there is a crisis, though not perhaps of the sort you imagined. Paracelsus is nearby. He may be planning a move against us."

"Paracelsus is dead," William stated flatly.

"Yes, I thought so, too, but unfortunately, I've just talked to him myself. He is very much alive."

"How?" Mouse voiced the question on everyone's mind.

"I don't know how, Mouse, and at the moment it doesn't matter. The important thing is to ensure our safety."

"What about Vincent?" Mary asked. "We thought you'd gone to find him."

"No... I... I don't know where Vincent is." Father looked weary and his eyes betrayed a particular anxiety on that score, but he went on, speaking loudly enough to be heard even in the corners of the crowded chamber. "Vincent is quite capable of taking care of himself, and we must take care to do the same in his absence. Is there anything else I should know?" He turned to his fellow council members.

"We were trying to establish who had seen what," Pascal explained, "but no one saw either of you leave."

"What about the intruder?" a childish voice rose from the back.

Father turned, eyes narrowed. "You saw an intruder, Samantha?"

"Me too," piped another voice.

"So did I," came a third.

"All right now -- one at a time. When was this, Samantha?"

A faint flush rose on the girl's cheeks as she realized everyone was looking at her. "Well... some of us were playing hide and seek before bedtime."

"Playing where?"

Samantha shrugged. "All over -- mostly near the park. But we didn't go outside," she added hastily. "I was crouching behind some rocks and a woman went by. I couldn't see her too well, but she had blond hair, and she wasn't wearing tunnel clothes."

"No way," Geoffrey protested. "It wasn't a woman. It was a man -- and he had dark hair."

Before Samantha could respond, Kipper joined in. "Don't listen to Sam, Father. Geoffrey's right. The guy had darkish hair -- and a beard."

"He didn't have a beard."

"Sure did."

"Did not."

"Now wait just a minute," Father interrupted. "Are you certain there weren't two people together -- a man and a woman?"

"No," Samantha and Geoffrey said in unison.

But Kipper countered, "Yeah, there were two, but they were both men -- a white man and a black man."

"Were you three together when this happened?" Father asked in a valiant attempt to make sense of it all.

"Uh-uh. We were all hiding in different places. Eric was looking for us."

"I didn't see anybody," Eric offered wistfully.

"Well, thank you. Eric. That's a great relief."

"If you ask me their imaginations are running away with them," the big cook grumbled, prompting Mary to rise to the children's defense.

"It's not fair. They wouldn't just make it up. Maybe they all saw different people."

"This isn't Grand Central, woman. How many strangers do you think stumble down here on a given night?"

"And the dog," Kipper added helpfully. "Don't forget the dog."

Dog?

Samantha and Geoffrey both began to insist there was no dog. Kipper was adamant that there was. Conversation erupted again all over the chamber.

Vincent missing, Paracelsus lurking about, intruders of every shape -- and species. The other council members looked rather desperately to Father, who still had not explained his own odd behavior.

It seemed to everyone that this night might never end.

* * * * *

Catherine wished that this night would never end.

Not that she wasn't tired. She hadn't moved about so much in weeks. And the turbulence of their love-making had left her body stubbornly languid, as if all the bones had melted away. Still, it was heaven just walking beside him, basking in the glow of the looks he gave her periodically -- a little stunned, but so clearly joyous that she wanted to laugh out loud.

"There could yet be a tragedy tonight," he reminded her with perfect empathy for what she was feeling, but there was no reproof in his voice. "If Paracelsus believes that he has destroyed us, he may be planning to take advantage of the confusion."

"Well, then he has a surprise coming."

"Catherine... if the council decides there is no other way... I will kill him."

"I know," she said softly. "I would have killed him myself if I could. He's truly deranged, Vincent. He'll never stop hurting people until someone stops him."

They had reached the end of the winding labyrinth, and he persuaded her to wait as he eased out into the open cavern, looking for some sign that Paracelsus had returned. After a moment, he summoned her to his side. "This is where he left you?" His expression was grim. She could see his hands flexing at the thought of her as Paracelsus' prisoner.

"He might come back," she said, slipping her hand into his, rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "We should hurry."

Her quiet words seemed to break the black spell. He looked at her and his expression softened. "Everyone will be so glad to see you again, though our world must be sleeping by now."

"Do you think we should waken Father?"

"We must. Don't worry, Catherine," he said cryptically. "It would give me a shameful pleasure to shake him from a sound sleep."

* * * * *

Paracelsus at last reached the cavernous crossroads where he had almost encountered Vincent earlier tonight. Eerie how the sense of his presence seemed to linger, as if it had been mere minutes instead of hours since he had passed.

Then Vincent had appeared merely unsettled, but what condition was he in now? Had the warring factions of his psyche already pulled him down, into blind rage before Catherine joined him? Or had her sudden reappearance tipped the scales? Perhaps in her foolish fearlessness she had tried to soothe what she persisted in seeing as a human agitation, only to become the ultimate victim and the guarantee of Vincent's transformation.

All the way through the winding passage, he strained to hear sounds from below -- a roar, cries of mortal pain, but even the stolid silence could be eloquent. The quiet of carnage, the stillness of death.

Not here.

Neither Vincent nor Catherine remained in the desolate cave which was the tunnel's only end. So much simpler to have come upon Catherine's body, proof that Vincent's more interesting side had gained dominance and that it honored no boundaries.

In the absence of such telling evidence, he began to search for clues to what had transpired here, disappointed when he detected no signs of freshly spilled blood.

Ah, but here... He knelt in the dust, congratulating himself for a keen eye and the shrewdness to perceive what lesser men would have missed. The soft earth, recently disturbed, gouged even.

Signs of a struggle.

So she had fought him. Her courage was really quite formidable, though naïve and futile as well. Ludicrous to imagine she might have drawn blood, and Vincent -- why it would have been ridiculously easy for Vincent to simply fling her into the abyss. He could picture their confrontation well -- his son confused, immersed in snarled passions, coveting his solitude, Catherine with her efforts to reach him, seeming no more than an annoying insect, or no less than the very cause of his frustration. Yes, there could well have been murder done here without a drop of blood shed.

He moved to the edge, staring down into the roiling mists. Perhaps Catherine had only delayed her rendezvous with destiny in this wretched pit. It would be fitting if she had ended up here after all. It pleased him when fate played by the rules; his cultured tastes appreciated a dash of irony.

The observation reminded him that fate had not dealt kindly with him this night -- cutting short his pleasure at watching Jacob Wells squirm, robbing him of an easy triumph -- Jacob's capitulation or his death.

He jerked around, staring into the shadows. For a moment he thought he'd heard the echoes of laughter, as if some carefree sprite mocked him in secret. What laughter could flourish here, what joy? This was a place of turmoil and of tragedy.

Turning back, he felt compelled to gaze once more into the void. The pleasure this should have afforded him failed to materialize. Instead, he felt a chill of foreboding. It would not do to trust too much in unseen powers. It was his own cleverness he must rely on and that meant considering the possibility that those two might have left this place alive. Could Catherine even now be trying to retrace her journey from Tamara's home? Had she succeeded in focusing Vincent's gathered fury on her abductor?

Let it be so. The two of them could wander endlessly, searching in vain. But if they found the place, it was no great loss. Let Vincent sharpen his claws on Tamara, a tiresome creature for all her peculiar talents. In any case, such a possibility would buy more time. He must affect a strong hold on the community before Jacob's return. Surely, fate would not be so unfeeling as to restore them both -- the monarch and the crown prince -- to their defensive positions before he could act.

There was no time to lose, and yet for a moment he felt powerless to break his fixation on the ghastly abyss. A superstitious dread claimed his spirit, no doubt emanating from the horrors this cavern had witnessed. But there was the knife, solid and lethal, within his sleeve, a reminder that his was the power of life and death and that it was time to use it. He turned to go.

And froze.

Something hovered in the doorway -- a dark shape. Too small for Vincent was his first thought. His finger went to the spring at his wrist. He squinted at the image. The torch it held moved forward above ghostly eyes.

"Ezili Freda," it chanted. "Ougou Feray."

Narcissa.

She kept coming toward him -- an aged woman in a flowered dress -- with no weapon at all save the torch. There was no fear in her face, in those staring eyes, only a fierce determination, a maniacal glow.

Cold horror gripped his limbs. She had no fear, because she was dead. She needed no weapon, because her sorcery was strong enough to move her from the spirit world to this.

The knife at his wrist was useless. His greater strength was useless as well against a thing that was not flesh and bone. She kept coming, her very fearlessness proof of the powers she had somehow harnessed, and now she was laughing at him as he stepped backward.

He felt a flash of envy greater than any he had ever known -- greater than his resentment of Jacob Wells. Oh, to master those dark arts that allowed one to truly cheat death, that allowed her to advance on him -- him, who had struck such terror in others.

Too late he felt the crumbling of the earth beneath his heel. Too late he flung out his arms in a wild attempt to regain his balance. A banshee shriek rent the air as he lost his footing, flailing wildly at nothing, sucked into the unforgiving mists.

* * * * *

Mouse couldn't help thinking it was kind of like a party.

Everybody was here -- except for Vincent -- and the men on sentry duty. Father had sent them out with orders to go no farther than the common tunnels. Two men armed with staves were just outside, and the others had gathered near the entrances. Some of the littlest kids had fallen asleep.

A little while ago, Father had let William go to the kitchen and bring back some food -- fruit and nuts and the gingerbread left over from supper. If it wasn't for everybody looking so worried, it might have been Winterfest -- without the music.

"Kind of like a party," he said aloud and got a scowl from William.

"More like a siege, if you ask me. We're not doing anything except giving Paracelsus time to set up his schemes. Aren't we just making it easier for him with all of us in one place?"

"Our numbers are our safety," Father said. "As long as we remain together, there's little he can do."

"How do we know what he can do? He can look like anybody. He can fake being dead. "

"Does he have magical powers, Father?" Samantha asked, wide awake and alert to the drama of the situation.

"What's the matter, Sam? Afraid he'll turn you into a toad?" Geoffrey grinned.

Mouse thought Father would have liked it better if all the kids were sleeping, but he answered just the same. "No, Samantha. He does not have magical powers. Paracelsus rules by fear. He likes to give the illusion that he is a magician, a sorcerer, but in reality he is only a very sick man."

"Couldn't you make him well?" Eric peered up at Father with perfect trust.

"I wish I could Eric, but no, I'm afraid my skills are no use at all with his sort of illness. Still, I don't want any of you believing this nonsense of magical spells or supernatural powers."

"What's he need with magic when he's got us all boxed up here?" William persisted. "Like shooting fish in a barrel."

"We are not fish, and shooting people is hardly John's style. He prides himself on more subtle methods. "

"Oh, right -- that stiletto he keeps up his sleeve is real subtle." Cullen cracked, and when everyone only frowned at him, added, "sorry."

"He will not be able to get close enough for the knife to be a threat." Father assured them all.

"Could blow us up," Mouse pointed out, but nobody seemed to appreciate it.

"We're forgetting about Vincent," Mary said, and she sounded full of hope. "He's sure to return soon, and Paracelsus won't dare come anywhere near if he's here."

"Yes," Father said, but he didn't look like he meant it. Talking about Vincent made everybody else feel good -- like nothing bad could happen -- but not Father. Mouse thought he just looked upset.

Funny, too, because the first time somebody said it, Father hadn't looked worried. He'd looked like he thought Vincent would come to the rescue, too. And then Mary had said something about a letter from Laura, and Father had turned white and started pushing his fingers through his hair like he did when things weren't going right.

What Laura could have to do with this was a mystery to Mouse. But lots of things were mysteries tonight. Like how there were topsiders in the tunnels and even a dog. Mouse thought he would liked to have seen the dog.

Maybe Mary had been reading his mind, because she said, "What about the intruders the children saw? Could they be friends of Paracelsus'?"

"Yeah, we don't know how many allies he may have brought down here. They could be surrounding us."

"No, William" Father hadn't said much about where he'd been or how he came to talk to Paracelsus, but now he explained, "I saw two of the strangers myself -- and the dog. They know nothing of Paracelsus or this place, I assure you. It was merely coincidence that they happened to stray here on the same night he returned. "

"That's a pretty big coincidence," Pascal said. Mouse could tell he didn't like disagreeing with Father, but he went on. "And what about the other man and the woman? It doesn't even sound like they were together. Why would so many people just happen to wander down here at the same time?"

"Maybe somebody put a sign up that said there was free food or something?" Zach joked.

"Well, whatever the reason, none of the sentries have reported these people near our home," Father reminded everyone. "I know for a fact that the men Kipper saw have returned above."

"Dog, too?" Mouse asked wistfully.

"Yes, Mouse, the dog, too. As for the others, their intentions may have been harmless as well. As it's been some time since they were spotted and all has remained peaceful. I think we can assume we'll have no more surprise guests tonight.

But Father was wrong.

No sooner had he spoken than there was the sound of voices outside in the passageway. The men near the door rose to their feet. Everyone turned anxiously toward the entrance, and suddenly there was a man standing there -- a topsider.

"Peter!" Father exclaimed.

"Hello, Jacob." Dr. Alcott was coming down the stairs, threading his way through the crowd. "I was afraid everyone would be asleep. Am I interrupting a party?

Ha! Father's friend thought it was a party, too, and William didn't make faces at him.

"Far from it, I'm afraid. Please... come in. Are you just back from Mexico?"

"I got in this afternoon, and called on a couple of patients, but I was concerned about conditions here. Is everything all right... with Vincent?

Father didn't answer the question. "You saw no one on your way down here?"

"No," Dr. Alcott looked puzzled, "in fact, I didn't even encounter any sentries till I was almost here. What's this all about? What's going on?"

"Paracelsus," Father said wearily, offering his own chair. He looked for a moment at Vincent's chair, which for some reason no one had felt like sitting in, and then sat down on its sturdy arm. "He's alive, and I fear he may be planning a confrontation. We've brought everyone together here for safety's sake."

Dr. Alcott frowned. "That's terrible… but where's Vincent?

"I... I'm not sure." Most everybody had gone back to talking among themselves, but Mouse fastened on the two men. They were smart, they'd figure out how to get Vincent back. Father had lowered his voice, so that Mouse had to strain to hear it. "He went off earlier tonight -- apparently in a bit of a state. I'm worried, Peter."

"You think he may have a relapse?"

"Things have been... difficult... between us," Father whispered, He looked very unhappy. "Vincent knows I'm keeping something from him, and today he caught me in an outright lie. I fear for his stability. He took himself off hours ago -- no one knows where, and he hasn't responded to the pipes."

"That's not good, Jacob. He needs some kind of support if he's going to beat this thing. With Cathy gone and you two not connecting...

"It's even worse than that. Paracelsus knows, Peter. He knows what happened to Catherine. I can't for the life of me figure out how he came by that knowledge, but if he's found Vincent, if he's told him --"

Mouse forgot completely that he wasn't supposed to be listening, "What? What's happened to Catherine?"

Father and Dr. Alcott both whirled on him. Oh boy, mistake. They looked shocked. They looked mad. He could feel his face turning red and floundered around for something to say, but all he could think of was that something bad might have happened to Catherine.

"Father? We've got a couple of more visitors."

That was David, sticking his head around the doorway. He looked excited, Mouse thought, but he didn't look scared. Must not be Paracelsus. Maybe the lady with a bag that Samantha saw -- or the man without a beard.

But there was only one person who could move into a room and instantly make it his own, so that you couldn't help staring at him, even when he hadn't said a word. That person stood at the top of the stairs now, and Mouse's heart made a joyful little leap even before he registered that Vincent was not alone.

One black-cloaked arm was wrapped possessively around a smaller person, who was blushing like Mouse was suddenly blushing and beaming a smile that made his own mouth break into an ear-splitting grin. Catherine was back!

And she didn't look at all like something bad had happened to her.

The noise level rose in the room. It seemed like everyone was talking at once and laughing with relief and asking questions except... Mouse turned at the sound of a gasp and saw that Father was whiter than white. He was staring, as if Paracelsus stood at the entrance all ready to blow them up or something, instead of it just being Catherine and Vincent. His mouth was open, but he didn't look like he was breathing right.

"Jacob... Jacob, are you all right?" Mary jumped up and hurried to lay a hand on Father's arm, peering into his face with an anxious expression. She picked up the cup that sat in front of him and offered him a drink of tea, but he didn't seem to see her. "Jacob, it's all right. Vincent's here, and he's fine -- just look at him, and isn't this wonderful -- Catherine's back, too." He still didn't move, though Mouse thought he'd caught his breath, and Mary kept fussing, like she wasn't quite sure what to do. "Vincent's safe, and we'll all be safe now that he's here. Paracelsus won't dare to harm us, and Catherine -- Catherine can tell us all about her trip. Won't that be nice?"

Mouse couldn't see that Mary's efforts were having much effect. Maybe Father was really sick. Suddenly he remembered Dr. Alcott. He'd know how to help, but when he craned his neck to see past Mary, the doctor seemed stuck in the same funny pose as Father.

Vincent and Catherine were making their way across the room, stopping for hugs and brief flurries of conversation. Dr. Alcott recovered first. "Cathy?" he said in a funny, croaky voice. "Cathy, is it really you?"

"Peter! I didn't expect to see you here. What a great surprise," she slipped out from under Vincent's arm as the doctor rose unsteadily from his chair. It was only as she gave him an enthusiastic hug that Mouse saw the color return to his face. He was gripping her really hard and mumbling things that Mouse couldn't hear. He looked like he was going to cry.

When he released her, Catherine went back to Vincent so fast he might have been a magnet. Mouse thought she was probably sorry she'd spent all that time in Europe.

Vincent was standing in front of Father looking at him without blinking. It wasn't a mad look, Mouse thought, but he'd seen it before. It was the kind of look Vincent could give you that made you squirm -- like you'd done something wrong and you knew there was no way you could get away with blaming it on somebody else. When Vincent got that look, you weren't going to escape until you'd thought about some things that maybe you didn't want to think about. He felt a little sorry for Father, who didn't seem to feel very good already.

"Father," Vincent said softly.

Father opened his mouth, and the words came out all breathy and not much of a greeting at that. "Oh, my God," he said. "Catherine... "

"I'm here, Father," she said smiling at him gently. Mouse could tell she thought Father was acting a little funny, too, but Catherine was always so friendly. She was holding out her hand, and Father grabbed it like it was the last piece of gingerbread or something.

"I don't know... what to say."

"Perhaps that you're glad to see her," Vincent suggested, mildly, but Mouse had the feeling it was more than a suggestion.

"I... I'm overwhelmed to see you... overjoyed, I promise you. Please, forgive me. I…"

"Paracelsus is alive," Vincent interrupted, and Mouse couldn't tell if he did it because it was important news or because he was starting to feel sorry for Father, too. "Now that we know the truth, he will not delay long before making a move against us."

"I know that," Father said, looking grateful for the change of subject. "I saw him earlier tonight. That's why everyone's here -- for safety's sake. What do you suggest we do?"

But before Vincent could answer, another commotion erupted outside the chamber.

"Dear God," Father said, still looking shaky. "Now what?"

It had been a long time since Mouse had seen the person who marched into view. The last time it was only her body, seemingly lifeless, that Vincent had carried into their midst. Tonight she didn't look sick at all -- or hurt. She looked like she felt the way Mouse did when he'd found something really neat that probably didn't belong to anybody. Her voice rang out across the crowd in the chamber.

"The spirits have heard my prayer. They have banished the darkness." She flung exultant arms toward the granite ceiling. "The evil one is dead!"

A rapt silence followed this strange and wonderful announcement. Mouse was the first to break it. Turning to Father, he asked hopefully, "Now can we have a party?"

* * * * *

Jacob viewed the activity swirling around him as if from a great distance -- or in a dream. Vaguely, he thought that he should make some sort of brief speech -- to bring closure to the evening, but his head rang with questions, and the rapid shift in reality had left him winded some steps behind.

Narcissa hadn't stayed long. She seemed quite pleased with herself, as if her strange beliefs had been vindicated by the night's events. Well, let her think what she would. She wasn't likely to change, and if it brought her pleasure to regard Paracelsus' demise as the work of avenging angels, so be it. It was good to see her so full of life again.

Vincent had insisted on accompanying her back to her lair, and of course, Catherine had gone as well.

Catherine.

He still could not quite believe that she was here. It seemed impossible, and that thought led immediately to John who prided himself on doing the impossible -- or at least creating the illusion that he could. Yes. John must be mixed up in this somehow. How odd if that were true -- if John should have unwittingly done good in his pursuit of evil. Perhaps not so odd, he thought uncomfortably, since he himself had made rather a mess of things with only the best of intentions.

If he closed his eyes, shut out part of his mind, it was almost as if the period of nightmare had never happened, as if on that fateful spring night, Catherine had indeed succeeded in walking into the hellish cavern and calling Vincent back to himself. They might have all returned to this chamber where everyone had been gathered -- just as they were now.

Mouse would have to wait for his party. The brief energy that came with relief quickly abated among those gathered in the room. Everyone was tired, emotionally drained, and it must be close to dawn. There were children to get to bed. Soon everyone but Peter had left, and he turned to Jacob now with an expression that must have matched his own.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course, I'm fine -- a little confused, but... I can't believe what I've just seen. "

Peter shook his head in complete accord. "It seems like a miracle. I have the feeling we're going to hear an amazing story."

"I'm afraid my capacity for amazement is totally exhausted at the moment -- to see her here, alive and well, and Vincent.…"

"He certainly doesn't seem to be on the verge of a relapse, does he?"

"Far from it, I should say. Peter, would it be asking too much if you were to stay here tonight? I still have no idea how I'm going to explain all this to Vincent. And Catherine will need to know what I've put you up to as well -- before she goes above. "

"I wouldn't think of going," Peter put a soothing hand on Jacob's shoulder. "Considering the way you're dressed, something tells me you have a story to tell yourself, and I'm not leaving till I hear it. We can all talk at breakfast, but you need to get some rest, my friend. I'll just check into the hospital chamber and grab myself a couple of hours of sleep."

"Thank you, Peter," he said gruffly.

He felt immeasurably torn. The night's events had left him weary, yet curiosity flowed through his body like adrenaline. So many questions, but then Vincent was going to have some of his own, and he wasn't at all certain that he was up to answering them. No word had passed between them of the lie he had nurtured so long, the lie that had all but destroyed the trusting relationship they'd always shared. But it was there. He saw it in those crystal blue eyes as they swept briefly over him, felt it in the way Vincent had spoken easily to the others, while virtually ignoring him.

He should go off to bed, but he found himself tidying up the teacups that had been left around the room, stalling until Vincent and Catherine returned. He realized suddenly that the unreality of the situation made it impossible for him to sleep until he saw Catherine again -- proved to himself that he was not simply losing his mind.

He heard their approach and looked up from his chore as the two of them entered the room. Vincent's expression was unreadable as he stopped in the center of the chamber, Catherine tucked close to his side.

Under that disconcerting blue gaze, Jacob felt a strong urge to redouble his housekeeping efforts. He was brushing nutshells into a saucer when Vincent spoke.

"Catherine disappeared the night I went into exile. No one saw her leave, but you claimed to have spoken with her. You told me -- told everyone -- that she had gone to Europe. Why, Father? Why did you deceive me?"

Jacob set the saucer down and turned toward him, rubbing his hands together in an effort to discourage their shaking. "I... I saw her fall, you see. I had made my way to the cavern some distance behind her, and I saw her... slip into the abyss."

"So you assumed she had fallen into the Mediterranean? Really, Father, your geography is as faulty as your grasp of physics."

There was no mistaking the sarcasm, however mildly spoken, but in his anxiety Jacob couldn't be sure if it was meant lightly or not. "No, Vincent, I assumed... I assumed she had fallen to her death."

There was a ghastly moment of silence before Vincent whispered, "You... thought she was... dead?"

"There was a lot of that going around," Catherine rushed to diffuse the charged atmosphere. "All of us were mistaken about who was dead and who wasn't."

"And you thought I had no right to know this?"

No chance of suspecting a lightness in that comment. It hissed off the chamber walls like steam. "It was not a question of your rights, Vincent. I felt -- very strongly -- that it was a question of your life. You were very ill. I was afraid that if you regained consciousness only to learn that Catherine was... irrevocably lost, it might affect your will to survive. As your father, as your doctor, that was my primary concern."

"So you chose a lie over truth?"

"No, Vincent," Catherine said suddenly, gently. "He chose love over truth."

Incredibly, she was detaching herself from his son's grasp, crossing the room toward him with, such a look of pained sympathy that he felt the tears start to his eyes. Her arms came around him and she was hugging him tight, her voice a husky whisper at his ear. "Thank you, Father. Thank you for loving him so much."

Speech was beyond him, as she stepped back with a look of encouragement. He could only nod, biting back the welter of emotions. Looking up, he saw that Vincent hadn't moved.

"I would like to think that you can forgive me, Vincent, that you'll try to understand why I did what I did."

"This is the secret I've sensed in you these last weeks?"

Jacob nodded miserably.

"I thought," Vincent said, blinking. "I thought you might be ill or that you wrestled with some terrible problem you no longer trusted me to share."

"Trust you, Vincent?" he said, astonished. "I would trust you with my life, you know that."

Vincent went on as if he hadn't spoken, "I could not understand your refusal to speak of Catherine, even after I told you how much those memories meant to me. It seemed to me you wanted all trace of her removed from our lives, as if she'd never existed. "

"Well... " he said with an uneasy look toward Catherine, who smiled and slipped an arm around his waist. "I'm afraid that was as much for my benefit as yours. I simply couldn't speak of her without feeling the loss. I couldn't trust myself not to break down in your presence and you would have made short work of my secret then."

Vincent still didn't move, and Catherine said, "He did what he thought was right, Vincent. He did it for you -- and for me, and I for one am grateful that he had the courage to do it."

Perhaps it was Catherine's tender urging or perhaps he had simply broken through the morass of tangled motives that had kept them all in its web, but after an agonizing moment Vincent nodded slowly, and then he was moving toward them, enclosing them both in his huge embrace. After a moment, Jacob felt the welcome press of a filial kiss against his forehead.

"I am sorry, Father, for misjudging you -- for presuming to judge you at all. As you pointed out not long ago, I have been... distracted. As always, you were right."

"You have been in a bloody great deal of pain," Jacob said bluntly, caressing his son's belovedly uncivilized hair. "We all have, and I dare say it's time we started enjoying ourselves again."

"It's funny you should bring that up," Catherine said with an unaccountable blush.

Her eyes were on Vincent who seemed to take some cue from the remark. Drawing a deep breath, he turned back to Jacob. "On second thought, Father, you are not always right, and I will be more than pleased to tell you how wrong you have been."

* * * * *

Seven a.m. and Joe was already in the office. It had been an exhausting night, but he hadn't been able to sleep much, finally deciding to take advantage of the fact and get some work done before the phones started ringing. Glumly, he sipped at his coffee, wishing his thoughts wouldn't keep running on the same track.

He'd hung out in the waiting room at the hospital where the woman had died around 2 a.m. There'd been a police report, of course, and there'd be an investigation. He wasn't really worried about that part. He'd told them the truth about what happened, though he'd fudged a little about the location. In the park, he'd said.

What would they make of somebody from the DA's staff running around the sewers? Nothing good. Not when he couldn't explain without dragging in the newsworthy Mr. Burch, not to mention Cathy and his suspicion that something had happened to her. That alone would bring Moreno down on his head like a ton of bricks. Plus, there might be other street people ducking into those tunnels for shelter: it was a lot safer than sleeping in some alley, and he didn't want the added responsibility of a bunch of cops going down there, maybe panicking someone else whose only crime was being down on their luck.

Forensics had the knife. They'd see that there were no fingerprints on it but the victim's. The angle of the wound would be commensurate with a fall. He'd be exonerated, but it wouldn't take away the feeling that he'd screwed up, that one of those citizens he was sworn to protect had died because of him.

The phone jangled, and he almost spilled his coffee. Who would be tracking him here at this hour?

"Joe -- Lennie Tate. We've ID'ed your knifing victim. Thought you'd want to know."

Did he? He wasn't at all sure that he did. Up till now he'd seen her as a lone entity with no family, no friends, no ties. He wasn't sure he was up to hearing she had kids somewhere or a grieving husband, but all he said was, "It didn't take you very long."

"Hey, this is the age of computers. They work all night, don't grumble about the pension plan, and they communicate better than the rest of us. First off, she's got no local priors, no history at all, but -- are you ready for this?"

"Just spill it, Lennie."

"Turns out her fingerprints match up with a 20-year-old homicide in Illinois. An old lady in a nursing home. "

"You mean a mercy killing?"

"Yeah, right," Tate spluttered with laughter, a feat that Joe considered close to impossible at 7 a.m. -- especially today. "If you consider cutting up a frail little widow with a pair of scissors merciful. Hold onto your breakfast, Joe. She slices off the victim's face and mails it back to her house, and get this -- turns out it was her own grandmother. Somebody recognized the handwriting on the package and put two and two together, but by the time they had a match on the prints, your lady friend had disappeared. Got herself a new identity, no doubt. We're gonna keep on it, though. Psychopaths don't generally quit after one. I'm laying odds we turn up another body or two before it's over. Anyhow, they'd all but closed the books on that one, and you come along and solve it for 'em. Guess that's why you guys get the nice offices, huh?"

"Gotta be," Joe answered, feeling a little dazed.

He hung up picturing that look of excitement on her face as she brandished the knife. Maybe it wasn't his own judgment call that had made a mess of the incident: maybe it was 20 years of looking over her shoulder, waiting for justice to catch up with her. In any case, you lucked out this time, he told himself. The black mood began to lift, and he felt a little sharper, a little more awake.

A call to Alcott's home got nothing but the machine. He dialed Burch's office and got his service.

"Mr. Burch usually comes in about 9:30," an impersonal voice informed him.

"Well, that's real nice for Mr. Burch, but the minute he checks in you tell him that Joe Maxwell wants to talk to him about his dog-walking activities."

"Dog-walking? What company are you with, Mr. Maxwell?"

The one that's going to haul his butt in here for questioning if he doesn't talk fast -- and soon, Joe thought darkly. "It's not important. He'll know. Thanks a lot."

He couldn't send a patrol car to Alcott's place. The best he could do was try to shuffle the day's schedule to allow himself some free time, and for that he needed another cup of coffee.

He'd lost count of the number of cups he'd put away when he became conscious that someone was standing in the doorway. He looked up from his notes -- and into the face of the elusive Peter Alcott.

"I understand you've been looking for me," Alcott said with a genial smile.

"Where the -- Looking for you -- ?" Joe spluttered, rising from his chair and moving toward the door. This guy was not leaving here until every last one of his questions had been answered, even if it meant physically restraining him, even if Moreno himself tried to come to the rescue. "Just what do you think you're pulling, changing flights, trying to avoi--"

"Hi, Joe."

He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the apparition that had moved into his line of vision. She was wearing a navy blue skirt and a little red jacket that he'd seen before. Honey-colored hair fell over her eyes in a casual sweep as familiar to him as the copy machine. Her eyes held their usual direct gaze, her wide smile the slightest touch of sheepishness.

"Cathy... ?" he came up with as his first brilliant utterance, and then again, "Cathy?"

"It's me, Joe. I know you're probably annoyed with me, but I'm going to hug you anyway. I've really missed you." She stepped toward him, dazzling him with her smile and made good on the threat. It took him a minute to realize he was squeezing her in return, holding onto her as if he couldn't quite believe she was real.

"Oh man, Radcliffe -- am I glad to see you!"

"Are things that bad around here?"

"Well, yeah... no... where the hell have you been?"

"Europe," she said, sounding a little puzzled. "I thought Peter told you."

Peter. He'd almost forgotten him. Alcott was standing to one side, watching them with a look of paternal indulgence. "Oh, well, yeah... he did, but I was... you know... expecting to hear from you before now -- a postcard... something."

"I'm sorry, Joe. I'm a lousy correspondent, and my doctor told me to try and put all this out of mind as much as I could. I don't blame you for being mad at me. I felt terrible just going off like that without a word, but Peter insisted."

"Guilty as charged," Alcott said affably.

Guilt? The man had no idea what varieties of guilt had been attached to his good name in the last few weeks. Joe released his grip on Cathy's shoulders. "So who was this mysterious couple you went off with?"

"Why on earth do you want to know that, Joe?"

He guessed it did seem like a peculiar question to ask, seeing as how he had yet to ask her how she was or whether she intended to return to work. "Oh, it's just that I ran into Jenny, and she was trying to figure out who it might be."

"Oh, God -- Jenny. I really should have gotten a message to her. I love her dearly, but she can be a tiny bit paranoid at times when it comes to her friends. She's always imagining the worst. I hope she didn't bug you about it, Joe."

"Me? No... no, well, you know. I kinda put her mind at ease."

"Thanks. I appreciate it... oh, it was the Paters -- the couple I was with -- John and Tam -- Tammy. Jenny's never met them."

Alcott seemed to be slowly choking in the corner, but he waved aside Joe's concerned glance, smoothing his tie and composing his reddened face into a smile.

"And you went off with them just like that?"

"You know how some people are, Joe -- it's hard to turn them down, and Peter was so anxious for me to get some rest. Everything just kind of fell into place. I didn't have to pack a thing. Tammy lent me some of her clothes."

"Well, gee, Radcliffe, that's great. I mean, I can see it did you good. You're looking terrific."

"You too, Joe. I hope you didn't take too much heat from Moreno. We managed not to run into him on the way in."

"He grumbled a little -- big surprise there, huh?" he said with a nervous grin. "But when you're under doctor's orders, what are you gonna do? He did say we'd be nuts not to take you back if you wanted to come. How about it, Cath? Any chance you'd consider that or you think enough's enough?"

"I just don't want too much to be too much," she said cautiously. "I'd really like to keep my hand in, Joe -- at least for a while, but not on a full-time basis. I thought I might approach Moreno with a contract deal -- you know, just now and then, on the kind of cases where I can really contribute something."

"Hey, I don't know why not. Sounds like a plan. I... it's great to have you back, kiddo."

"It's great to be back," she said with conviction. "I should go out and say hello to everybody. Want to have lunch later in the week?"

"You're on." As she turned to go, he recovered enough to say, "Hey, would you explain to me why a woman would go halfway around the world without her purse?"

"My purse? How did you know about that? The night I left, I was in such a rush to get to Peter's, I lost it someplace. It's not at the apartment. I must have left it in the taxi."

Joe walked back to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. Pulling out the handbag he held it up without a word, and Cathy dashed back to take it, giving him an incredulous smile. "You're a lifesaver, Joe. How on earth did it end up here?"

"Super found it -- in your basement."

"Really? I must have left it in the elevator. There are a couple of kids in the building who'd think it was funny to hide it someplace. I bet it was them. Is everything still in it?"

"Far as I can tell."

"Kids," she confirmed with a rueful shrug. "Oh, well, no harm done."

"Nope -- no harm."

"See you later, Joe."

"Yeah, see you, Radcliffe."

"You wanted to talk to me?" Joe had almost forgotten Alcott was there. "I understand you had some questions you wanted to ask." His manner implied he couldn't imagine what those questions might be.

"Uh... I did, yes, but they were about Cathy. Now that she's back, I guess... I guess I can just ask her anything I need to know."

"Of course." Peter approached, taking Joe's hand in both of his, shaking it warmly. "I can't thank you enough for being so understanding about this. I think she'll be just fine now, and we owe a lot of that to you. It's good to know there are still people in this crazy world who will stand by you in a crisis."

"Oh, sure... thank you... I mean, for giving her good advice and all."

"Anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask," Alcott added. "You can count on me."

"Yep," Joe murmured, still feeling slightly dazed as he watched his would-be villain striding confidently away. "That's what everybody kept telling me."

It was then that the call came through from Elliot Burch.

"It took you long enough to get back to me," Joe greeted him.

"Sorry, but it was a long night."

Yeah tell me about it, he was tempted to growl.

"But I've got good news. Cathy is definitely on vacation in Europe."

"Is that so?" he smiled, feeling unabashedly smug. Through the open door, he could see her laughing with a couple of co-workers. She looked relaxed, happy. No tan though, come to think of it. Must be the anemia -- or a good sunblock. "Mind telling me what convinced you of that?"

"Not 'what' -- 'who'." Burch hesitated and said a little cautiously, "You know about Radler?"

"Radler? You mean, Jeff Radler?" This was out of left field. A hotshot attorney who'd come and gone so fast Joe might not have remembered him except that he was a personable guy. He'd liked him and was sorry to see him change his mind so quickly about the job. "What's he got to do with it?"

"Nothing really -- only that I happened to run into him, and he told me he'd had a letter from her recently."

Why had he ever thought he could second guess Cathy? Radler had only been with them a short time, and it must have been a year and a half ago. He couldn't recall her ever mentioning his name since. Come to think of it, she hadn't even liked the guy, had given him all kinds of grief about his qualifications. "Why did she write to him?" he asked, bewildered.

"You know Cath. She's a soft touch. Apparently, she's been trying to help him with his problems -- unofficially."

That he could believe. "So would you mind telling me what you were doing last night prowling through the maintenance tunnels under Central Park?"

"You know about that?"

"Not much gets past us." It couldn't hurt to foster the illusion of omnipotence -- especially with someone like Burch whose resistance to bending the law was just a tad weak.

"Was that illegal?" Burch asked innocently.

"Of course, it's illegal. You think the city wants to get sued by some private citizen breaking his leg in a steam tunnel? What were you up to anyway -- you and your PI and the dog?"

"It's a little embarrassing, Joe. One of Manning's operatives got a tip that Cathy had been seen in the park yesterday. I know it was crazy, but we agreed to follow up all possible leads, right? We took the bloodhound, and she seemed to have found something. Crazy mutt led us through a couple of storm drains, and that was it. She was probably following a cat."

"You didn't see anybody in there?"

"Believe me, Joe. Nobody in their right mind would hang around in there. Look, I've got a meeting, but I wanted you to know your fears are unfounded. According to Radler -- and he seems like a sincere old guy -- Cathy really is in Europe."

"Guess again. Elliot. I'm looking at her right now." He got a big kick out of the stunned silence at the other end.

"You're...? Are you serious? She's back?"

"Just came in this morning."

"Well..."

There was a lot in the way he said that one word -- surprise, relief, elation, a kind of wistfulness. Joe couldn't help but feel for the guy. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this, Elliot. It was my fault. I jumped the gun, but I appreciate your willingness to help."

"I'm just glad Cathy didn't turn out to need it. Tell her... Tell her I said, 'hello."

"Yeah, I will. See you around, Elliot."

"Let's hope not," Burch returned with heavy irony.

It wasn't till he'd hung up the phone that Joe realized he'd referred to Radler as "old." Jeff Radler was about his own age.

Jeez, Burch, he thought, with a quick check for middle-age spread, give a guy a break.

* * * * *

The sky had purpled to a rich velvet pricked with stars. The tiles of the balcony floor gleamed in a newly risen moon, and Vincent paused taking it all in, savoring the freshening breeze from the harbor.

How beautiful it was. Nights had been lost to him in Catherine's absence, dulled as everything was dulled without her effervescent presence in his heart. The evening sparkled around him, city lights and the panoply of the heavens, the soft rustle of the wind through leaves and the muted sounds of traffic.

He was early. Party preparations were still going on when he'd left the tunnels, his patience evaporating, but she wouldn't be expecting him yet. He did not want to rush her. Her first day above, trying to explain her absence in a way that would not threaten the secret. By rights she should have been tired, but he had felt from her only a gentle exuberance throughout the day -- that and anticipation. He hoarded the feelings like jewels in his heart.

Tonight the entire community would celebrate. By now everyone realized that Catherine had never gone to Europe and that Paracelsus was somehow involved, but no one was certain of the particulars. No one save Vincent who was reticent on the subject, believing it was Catherine's story to tell if she chose. He could only shake his head at the theories being bandied about, amazed by the eccentricities of rumor.

Was it true, Sarah had asked, that Catherine found Paracelsus living above with drug dealers, that they had captured her when she came to arrest them?

"He kidnapped her, didn't he?" Cullen said. "Snatched her right out from under Father's nose when they were looking for you that night. That's why Father's been looking so down in the mouth -- cause he couldn't stop him, so he makes up this business about her taking a trip."

Vincent hadn't dignified that one with a reply, but the sidelong glance he gave Cullen, as the two of them hoisted a sagging pipe into its bracket, served to deflate any enthusiasm for the theory.

"I heard that Paracelsus disguised himself and he was working right in the DA's office -- as a woman!" Jamie studied his face closely for a sign that she was getting warm, but Vincent only commented that the pipes must be inordinately busy today.

Catherine had amnesia.

Paracelsus was a twin -- a triplet.

Mouse only looked crafty and said he was sure the dog had something to do with it.

Well, they would find out soon enough. Tonight Catherine would explain in her own words a story as strange as any of the guesses flying through their world, one certain to be commemorated in the painted tunnels.

There was so much to discuss. They had agreed that she would remain below -- at least for the night, and perhaps….

Vincent leaned out over the park, a perspective he had sorely missed, but then it seemed he looked on everything from a new standpoint -- including the baffling landscape within. A deep peace had settled in his spirit, seamless enough, he hoped, to allow no unheralded intrusions from his dark counterpart. How such peace could coincide with the electric thrill of possibilities he did not know, but it was so.

All day he had felt half dazzled by last night's events. They fit nowhere into the pattern of his life before, though he had caught himself several times trying to force them into a familiar mold.

Brilliant images glowed in his mind, inviting guilt and self-reproach. Ripping the clothes from his body, as if he hadn't spent years trying to hide every inch. Pinning her with his greater strength -- surely that was inexcusable. Unleashing on her delicate flesh all the pent-up desires of a lifetime with no poetic overtures, no romance. Taking the priceless gifts she offered as if he were plundering a treasure house.

It was shocking.

He waited for the punishing waves of doubt and shame that surely must come, but they did not. Instead, he felt again the swelling currents of her desire -- pulling him, begging him -- her graceful hands molding his body to her as if they were starved for what they touched. He saw amber flesh laced with limbs soft and white as cream. If there was madness in those moment, he could not deny that it was a mutual madness, a wild, involuntary response to their long separation. However, reprehensible his behavior might seem, the efforts to summon regret failed utterly, lost in a sea of wonder.

The memories were doing nothing to ease his impatience. If he stood here long enough, reliving those moments, he might begin to believe in their impossibility, imagine that what he knew to be true was merely wishful thinking. Suddenly, he had to see her, even if she wasn't quite ready.

He strode to the French doors -- not the ones replaced just weeks ago (the thought brought the elusive twinge of guilt he'd been searching for all day) -- but the ones that led to her bedroom. He tapped lightly on the glass and almost immediately they swung open.

She wore a light summer dress and sandals and an expression that instantly told him it was all true -- everything they'd shared, everything they meant to each other. For a moment the sheer curtains billowed around her like angel's wings.

"I'm early, I know."

"Not nearly early enough." The vision flew into his arms, and he sighed, pulling her close. "I thought it would never get dark. All that time apart and today still managed to seem endless. Isn't that crazy?"

"No." It didn't seem crazy. It seemed like a miracle. "Did everything go well?"

"Everything went fine. Peter was such a good sport. He gave me terrific moral support this morning. I talked to Joe. I talked to Jenny. I think they're satisfied with the explanation I gave them."

"Catherine, it isn't fair that you should have to lie to those you care for. There have been too many lies -- "

"It was a white lie," she assured him. "It didn't hurt anyone, and there's no other way to protect you and your world. I don't mind having to do that, Vincent, for your sake. I never have. There's a greater truth at stake, and that's worth everything. "

He acknowledged the inevitability of her argument -- and its generosity -- with a grateful look. "Speaking of truth, Catherine, speculation about what happened to you has been -- to say the least -- colorful. Everyone is eager to hear the real story, but if it's too painful for you to tell -- "

"No. I want to explain it. I hate the idea that your friends might think I'd really leave you when you were so sick. I don't blame them for saying terrible things about me."

He shook his head. "Everyone knows how caring you are, how unselfish. No one presumed to criticize your decision."

"No one?"

He faltered under her direct gaze. Such intelligence in those soft sea-green depths. This must be the look she gave evasive witnesses. "Almost no one." Valiantly, he wished for that facility to conjure the white lie. It was not a skill in which he excelled.

"Come on, Vincent. You can tell me. Who was it that dared to call a spade a spade?" She didn't seem angry or hurt. In fact, he felt a wry amusement bubbling through their bond, but nonetheless, he cursed his clumsiness, shifting his gaze to her crystal, a lacy, white chair, the brightly lit towers of the city where men in power no doubt knew when to remain silent. "Let me guess... it couldn't by any chance have been Lena, could it?"

Surprise brought his eyes back to hers. "How did you know?"

"Motive," she said gravely, though her eyes were twinkling. "I asked myself who had the most to gain."

"Lena has great respect for you Catherine... and affection. She only meant to offer sympathy."

"And you know what?" she grinned, winding her arms around his waist, "I'm so gloriously happy that I'm not even going to imagine what form that sympathy was supposed to take."

His mumbled "good" was conveniently smothered in her hair as he pressed his face into her neck.

"I was afraid we might never be here like this again. Can we stay here just a little while?"

"As long as you like."

She turned in his arms to look up at the glittering sky, and contentment washed over him in sweet, clean waves. To feel her once again, resting safely against him…

After a while, she said, "Know what I think?"

"Sometimes."

That brought a smile. "I think Father is a lot more flexible than I gave him credit for. He didn't even wince when you said I'd be spending the rest of the night with you."

"Perhaps he was too numb to wince after what I told him."

"I guess it was a little unusual -- announcing to an overprotective parent that you've just made love. You're not sorry I persuaded you to do that, are you?"

"No, you were right, Catherine. There have been too many lies, too many misunderstandings. Even innocent secrets can be destructive."

"It wasn't innocent, Vincent," she said emphatically. "He may have meant it kindly and thought he was protecting you, but it hurt you a lot. It made you believe in limits that weren't even there. It gave you doubts you never should have had."

How fierce she was in her love. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the uninterrupted rhythm of their bond, so strong now, so welcome within him. Her loyalty was fierce as well, and yet he knew that what she was saying was right.

In that single reckless moment of listening to his instincts he had found that they were those of a man -- a man deeply in love with the woman who awakened them. Amazing how that swift, cataclysmic interval had changed so many things -- not merely the self-doubts he'd been nurturing at the time, but the sense of who he was, what he was.

The fear had always been with him -- that the darkness would become stronger someday, obliterating the man he tried to be. Sometimes it had seemed inevitable, for the other fed on emotions, drew its strength from the passions he could not control, and of late he had felt so much passion.

Only in losing himself had he found the truth, the truth of his divided nature: that passion could empower his better self as well. He felt whole, as he never had before, but no compromise with the other had generated the balance; it would be necessary always, he knew, to keep a wary vigilance over his baser instincts, as it was for all men. No, the sense of completeness had nothing to do with the darkness and everything to do with the knowledge that the other half of who he was stood here now, shimmering up at him, all smiles and tender feelings.

It had brought her happiness -- incredibly, despite the humble surroundings, the frantic urgency of their need for each other -- that turbulent interval in the cave had made Catherine happy.

He was not certain what dazzled him more -- his own joy or hers. In his most secret dreams, he had imagined making love as something done slowly, sweetly in an ambience of romance. Catherine deserved no less. He still felt vaguely apologetic about the circumstances, though he knew if he said so, she would only insist that it didn't matter.

The contentment they shared here in each other's arms was so beguiling that for a long time neither spoke. It was as if a single spell encompassed them both, illuminating the smallest pleasures of nearness and touch. He might have forgotten everything -- the party awaiting them below, the possibilities beckoning them toward the future. At the moment it was difficult to imagine anything more compelling than the mere fact of being together, but at last Catherine stirred, looking around the terrace at the pots flowing with greenery, the rosebush laden with blooms.

"You know I really hate to say this, Vincent, but I think my plants did better without my love and attention."

She sounded so rueful that for a moment he wanted to laugh -- he who had found it difficult to force a smile these last weeks. "Then I can only be grateful," he said solemnly.

"For what?"

"That I am not a plant."

"Not half as grateful as I am." Her smile wasn't forced at all. In fact, there was something deliberately tantalizing in it as she pressed closer -- a challenge -- and he was amazed to note how swiftly his body responded, as if he'd never disciplined himself to ignore such signals. "You know it's funny, Father and Paracelsus held such opposite views -- about everything, yet they both believed that for you to give in to your feelings would be dangerous, that listening to passion would open the way for those other instincts. It's the only thing they ever really agreed on, and there wasn't a shred of truth in it."

He said nothing, and after a moment she looked up at him. "What are you thinking?"

"Only of how I did not think at all in that cavern, Catherine. I have never done... anything with so little thought, so little control."

"Then that just shows how wrong they were."

"Still. I can't help but wonder... "

Her sympathetic expression invited him to continue, but her fingertips on his cheek were making it difficult to think even now. Or perhaps he never should have broached this subject at all when he wasn't certain of how to proceed. "It should have been different... something so beautiful... should have it's own place and... time."

"And you're wondering how it would be if we had that -- time to love each other without the sense of urgency?"

He nodded, hoping she wouldn't misunderstand. It was impossible to imagine an experience more blissful than the one they'd shared, but if there were time to think even a little, time to savor each tiny exquisite step that brought such shattering completion, time to linger in the song that was Catherine's desire, build it to a symphony….

"The problem is," she admitted, "just thinking about it makes me feel pretty urgent, but, it would be -- and it will be -- wonderful." In her enthusiasm she placed a fervent kiss on his throat, and he marveled at how quickly every hair on his body seemed to quiver in response. "I suppose we really do have to go to the party….

"You are the guest of honor."

"Uh-oh, that sounds like it might require a speech."

"Believe me, Catherine, if there's speech-making to be done, Father is always willing to take the burden on himself."

"I'll bet," she laughed. "And afterwards?"

"Afterwards... we need to talk."

"And to plan?"

"Yes, and to plan."

"That could take time."

"A great deal of time."

"And everyone will understand that we shouldn't be interrupted?"

"I imagine they will be very understanding."

"Even Father?"

"Especially Father."

"Well, in that case... I've packed a few extra things." She gestured toward a suitcase sitting just inside the French doors. It was Vincent's instantly formed opinion that the bag was in imminent danger of exploding, spewing all manner of interesting garments across the balcony.

"A few?" he echoed dryly, though his heart was soaring at the implications.

"Let's face it, Vincent. The last time I came down to see you, it was spring, and I didn't come up again until summer -- wearing the very same outfit. Now, I'm not as concerned with what I wear as I used to be, but that kind of behavior could get me in trouble with the fashion police."

"The fashion police?"

Her laughter, tinkling like wind chimes through his heart, was delightful. It failed to bother him that he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

"Just a myth," she explained. "Like leprechauns or finding the lost city of Atlantis."

"Or Father defeating everyone at chess," he offered solemnly to show he understood.

"Exactly," she grinned. "Besides, I never did get my vacation. An extended stay at Club Paracelsus is not really my idea of fun and relaxation."

"Then we must try to do better this time." He slipped his fingers through the hair that swept back from her temples, noting with fascination the change in her expression, the tiny catch in her breath.

"Oh... I'm sure it will be much better," she whispered with a huskiness that had a most startling effect on his impulses.

This time he managed to lower his mouth to hers gently, to restrain the torrid intensity that immediately pushed into life and ease them both slowly, and hypnotically through a long, luxurious kiss, noting with stunned gratification that this more languid approach to love did, indeed, seem rife with possibilities.

"We should go," he whispered.

For a moment she only stared at him. He sensed the pleasurable fog that slowed her response. "Okay. I'll... I'll meet you below in five minutes."

He retrieved her bulging suitcase, slinging it over his shoulder and stopped to kiss her forehead in passing. "Catherine, you will be there -- you won't decide to take a trip to Europe before you reach the basement?"

"Not a chance. That's Father's idea of a good time, not mine. Poor man, these last weeks must have been very hard on him."

Vincent nodded, preparing to begin his own unique trek below. "You may be right. He said something very strange to me today."

"Really -- what?" She stepped inside the bedroom.

"He said he owed Elliot Burch $20."

"He said what?" Catherine froze in the act of closing the balcony doors, regarding him with pure astonishment.

The questions he felt suddenly tumbling through her could easily make them late for their own party. "We'll talk below," he promised.

"Vincent -- wait!"

"In four minutes."

"Make it three!" he heard her call out to him behind the hastily slammed doors.

Gone again, and already he missed her presence, though he could feel her light-hearted rush from the apartment, like the flight of songbird in his heart. The separation held only a teasing torment, since it would end in moments. So must their partings always end -- he knew it now as an irrevocable truth -- with the two of them together.

Keeping his promise -- and nothing could make him break it -- required taking the most direct, if not precisely the most discreet, means of descent. A glance over the side told him fortune was on their side tonight. No pedestrians. He pulled the hood over his hair, hiding it from the brilliant wash of moonbeams. To anyone who happened to glance from a nearby window it would appear that a mere shadow glided down the corner of the building.

Vaulting over the side, he grasped the slender drainpipe in his free hand and tossed a challenging smile at the watchful moon.

"Two minutes," he whispered.

And he had every confidence that he could do it.

 

Ascent

Black images within compel the eye,
And lure the soul to follow and the will
To dine on darkness, drink the bitter lie.
A mirror to the touch is ever chill.
My darkling self the fearful look returns.
To him that fear is food and fuel and prize;
To me it is the pyre where virtue burns,
Where looks can kill and passion paralyze.
And then across the demon in the glass
There flares the lucency of love's light wings
To shatter doubtful shadows as they pass
Til once again the spirit in me sings.
Arise, fair angel, and in tender flight
Be all my heart and hope returned to light.