KALEIDOSCOPE II
Cynthia Hatch

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PART 17

The question of whether the business of the Criminal Courts Building made it a likely place to be accosted or an unlikely one had never crossed her mind. But Tuesday afternoon, waiting for the elevator, she heard her name and turned to find three men closing in on her. the most prominent figure, one that shocked her, both because she never expected to see him here and because he looked so disconcertingly like a poster come to life. The same carefully cultivated tan, the silver striped tie that matched exactly the premature gray at his temples, adding a touch of dignity to the still youthful face, the trademark smile that had graced countless campaign ads in recent weeks.

"Byron! What on earth are you doing here?"

'Hello, Cathy. I had a meeting in the area, but actually I was hoping to run into you. You're looking very well." He'd taken her fingers in his well practiced politician's grip. 'I wanted to congratulate you on the good work you're doing toward finding this art thief.'

She extracted her hand and said cautiously, "We're all doing our best, Byron. but there's a long way to go yet.'

"Still, it's gratifying to know that there's someone working on the case who's sensitive to the issues involved. Can I assume that's some of the results of your investigation?" He nodded toward the fat file folder she held in her hands, the banal chronicling of infractions by one of the city's slumlords currently under prosecution.

"No, it isn't,' she said emphatically. The candidate continued to regard the file with interest, as one of the men with him snapped several quick pictures. "And I don't appreciate being used as a photo opportunity, Byron." No wonder he'd chosen to run into her in the lobby; Joe would never have stood for what he'd undoubtedly label "grandstanding" in the DA's office.

"Please, don't misunderstand. A show of solidarity here could be beneficial to us both. The media has been less than kind the last few days. A vote of confidence from our camp could help take the pressure off and show the public that you people are hard at work.'

And assure that you get your picture in the paper again, she thought. "I don't see where it will help anyone to have the investigation politicized."

"Ah, Cathy, everything is politics. Haven't you found that out in your work yet?" The remark's cynicism was mitigated somewhat by the ruefulness of his smile. "I haven't had a chance to speak to you since Charles' death. I wanted to let you know how sorely he's missed by many, many people. He was a good man, a genuinely ethical man."

"Yes . . . thank you, Byron. I appreciate that. I'm afraid I really need to get back to work. Congratulations on your nomination." She took a step backward, and he flashed his perfect smile once again.

"Best of luck on the investigation. I hope we'll see each other again soon.'

She didn't answer, and he turned to make his way through the small cluster of people who'd been watching them curiously, headed for the limousine standing illegally at the curb.

Joe took her account of the incident with more aplomb than she'd expected. "He's got a point, Radcliffe. We can use all the PR we can get right now. Until something breaks on this case, as far as the public's concerned, we're just sitting around collecting our enormous paychecks. So what have you got lined up this afternoon?"

"Nothing too concrete, Joe. I thought I might talk to a few gallery owners and art schools, to see if they might know of a disgruntled artist wandering around or a critic with a real hang-up about 17th century painters," she shrugged, acknowledging that the investigation had drifted into the category of straw grasping, "unless you've got a better idea."

"I wish I did. Go for it, Radcliffe. The idea's no crazier than anything else to do with this case."

And no more productive, she admitted, after hours of rushing from one side of town to the other, questioning people who were all too willing to speculate. There seemed to be no shortage of disgruntled artists, but their complaints were so similar --under appreciated, underpaid -- that they began to sound more like part of a job description than a motive for committing a bizarre crime, and, although the critics seemed to be universally categorized as unscrupulous characters, no one could come up with a criminal case against any of them.

She grabbed a bite to eat, while waiting for the one person she still thought worth interviewing to return home. Gilbert DiLillo had been characterized by an uptown gallery owner as "seriously disturbed," although whether this was an accurate description of his mental state, or merely a comment on his unusual artistic style, wasn't clear. He was given, she'd been told, to depicting yellow cabs in the styles of various schools of art, and since this presumably included the Dutch genre, she felt duty bound to follow it up.

He was home when she knocked on the door of his basement apartment, and while the picture hanging in a place of prominence over the couch was certainly eye-catching -- several Rubenesque women draped lovingly over a battered taxi -- its creator seemed prouder of another achievement: his recent purchase of the coveted medallion that proclaimed him a full-fledged cabdriver.

She returned to the still humid streets with nothing to show for a day's work, except perhaps that some of the unturned stones had been turned, revealing no clues. Maybe it was best to think of this case as a process of elimination. If everyone involved with the investigation exhausted as many possibilities as she had, sooner or later they would have interviewed everyone in New York, and whoever was left would have to be their man.

She was a little surprised at her own good humor. After all, it was uncomfortably warm, she had developed no promising leads, and even the small stacked heels she'd chosen to wear had begun to hurt her feet. Perhaps, she decided finally, it was because her subconscious must have taken note of something that was just now entering her awareness, erasing her discomfort, shaping a clear and enticing design that seemed orchestrated by fate.

It was only a block or two to Long.'s grocery store. Long was a helper, someone who knew her. someone whose shop concealed an entrance to the world below. She could pass through that entrance with his blessing and with none of the risk associated with the routine use of the Central Park threshold. Turning with lightened steps toward her goal, she felt like a woman on a mission, whose path had been picked out by something beyond herself.

At first the little grocer assumed she'd come to request provisions for his friends below. It was all she could do to dissuade him from thrusting upon her a few plump oranges and a huge head of broccoli that she couldn't quite imagine juggling on the trek below. Bad enough that she had her oversized handbag to contend with, but she slung it over her shoulder and descended the ladder from the shop basement into the passages below. It wouldn't be the first time she'd traveled this route, and she was confident she could find her way to the central tunnels.

The stuffy air soon gave way to the cooler, strangely fresh atmosphere that told her she'd reached the hidden passages. Over the months she had. almost subconsciously, developed the knack of knowing where she was by the kind of structures she passed through, their materials and age, even the color of the rock that lined the walls, and it was with a sense of pride that she at last found herself at a familiar junction. The left passage would take her eventually to the hub of the community, and her own hesitation momentarily baffled her.

For a moment she stood, eyes closed, and let the feeling that had stayed her steps, speak to her. It had been her logical mind that directed her towards the familiar chambers, but something else, something far more powerful was coaxing her another way. The building excitement, knowing that she soon would be with him was joined by another -- the belief that an inner awareness, her own sensitivity to their bond was drawing her toward him. She hoped it was true and tried hard to concentrate on its tiny voice, quelling the anticipation that might bring him to her, eager to see if their connection would make it possible for her to find him on her own.

Accordingly, she took the tunnel straight ahead and soon found herself in unfamiliar territory. The passage narrowed, twisting and turning in the bedrock, but there were torches here, so there was no real fear of getting lost beyond the underworld's perimeter. Still, after traveling some distance, blithely relying on her own instincts at every junction, her certainty faltered. After all, she told herself reasonably, should a woman who spent her valuable time interviewing the creator of 'Still Life with Meter Running" really trust her intuition?

In the corner of her eye something flashed past an arched opening, swift and silent as an animal, but bigger than any likely to be found here. Irrationally, the thought of Mouse's possum people came to mind, but the squeals and muted voices that followed sounded very human, and she crept forward to peer around the stone wall.

The tunnel that crossed here sloped sharply from above, ending several yards to her right in a spacious area where the ground leveled off again. In the middle of it crouched two of the tunnel children, watching a third remove a pair of old-fashioned, metal skates from his battered shoes. She recognized Toby, struggling with the leather bindings and ancient key, and Nathan and Molly patiently awaiting their turns. When the heavy skates had been removed, Nathan took them eagerly and started to clamp them onto his own soft boots.

'Not now," Toby instructed. 'You can't roll up the hill. First, you walk up. Then you put 'em on."

The three turned to make their way up the incline, and Catherine stepped out from the shadows, calling out to them.

"Hi, Catherine" Molly's black curls bounced, as she ran toward her. "We're skating, and it's my turn right after Nathan."

"Good for you. When Toby went past me just now, I thought he must be a bird or a deer, he went by so quickly."

"I was going faster than that," Toby alleged. 'Faster than anything in the world."

"Well, I'm going to go faster than anything in the whole universe," Nathan predicted.

"How fast am I going to go, Catherine?" Molly clearly felt outdistanced in the race for superlatives.

"Maybe faster than a subway, Molly." She was pleased to see that the reference to something they knew, something that was awe-inspiring in its speed, made the little girl's eyes dance in anticipation.

"Would you like to skate, Catherine? You can go ahead of me, if you want to," Nathan offered gallantly.

"That's really nice of you, Nathan, but I don't think I'm dressed for it." She looked at the rusty iron skates, remembering her own lovely white leather ones, replaced every year, both roller skates for summer and ice skates for trips to Rockefeller Plaza in the frigid days of winter, the dainty costumes with skirts that flared delightfully when she turned. "Do you just have the one pair?"

"Uh-huh, but they've got this key thing, so they go big or little. Everybody can wear them."

She smiled, touched by their pleasure and their unquestioned willingness to share, determined that come Winterfest, they'd find a few extra gifts that would allow them to share the fun as well as the waiting.

"You won't fall down," Molly assured her. "It makes you stop when the hill stops, so your dress won't get dirty."

"I was thinking more of my shoes, Molly." She indicated the low-heeled pumps. 'I don't think they were made for skating, and besides I was on my way somewhere. I'm afraid I don't really have time to skate right now."

"Vincent didn't either," Nathan said, bemused, as if wondering how grownups could resist the lure of so much fun.

"You've seen Vincent?"

They all nodded eagerly. "He's down that way," Toby pointed.

"He's working or something."

"Okay. Have fun, and be sure you lock the skates tight, so they don't come off and make you trip." What was it, she thought, that made you temper the most light-hearted activities with warnings as soon as you became an adult? It was as if all the cautious advice ignored in childhood just lay waiting to be repeated in the tones of your own parents the minute you were old enough to recognize the fragility of life.

She set off down the passage that Toby had indicated, flushed with expectancy and the joy of knowing that her intuition had been right all along. She no longer questioned the subtle urging that led her to choose one direction over another, until the sounds of metal ringing against rock, an unidentifiable hissing, and the thumping of her own heart told her she had almost reached her destination.

The walls fell away from one side of the path, opening onto a large open space, whose floor was several feet below her. How large the cavern might be was hard to tell. It billowed with a fine mist, that almost obscured the figures moving through it. Steam, she guessed, from an excess of water hitting the warm pipes.

She knelt on the ledge that the narrow path had become and picked out the shapes of two hulking men, one end of a rough column of stone balanced on their shoulders. They were maneuvering it toward a gaping hole in one wall that appeared to be the source of the obscuring fog. The other end of the massive pillar rested on the shoulders she knew so well. Even with the brief glimpses the view allowed her -- a flash of a torso there, a booted leg, some small motion captured quickly as a camera's click -- she could never have mistaken that figure for anyone else's. The way he moved, every inch of him that had been memorized deep in her heart, made it unnecessary to see his face or the mass of tawny hair that now came into view for just an instant before the great cloud hid it again.

The two men in front positioned their end of the stone into the ruptured wall and stepped aside. Immediately, the rush of steam diffused, pouring out around the edges, forcing them to jump back ducking their faces away from the hot mist. At the far end Vincent leaned into the stone. She could almost feel the tremendous effort in every sinew as he drove his weight against the rock, embedding it farther into the wall.

The incredible strength at his command echoed through her own slim body, shaking her, and the sudden glimpse of a small white bandage on his right hand, there -- she was sure -- only because of her own plaintive request, brought tears to her eyes. As a symbol of his love, it spoke to her as clearly as the soft. leather pouch around his neck. Kneeling on the cold stone, she felt inexplicably weak, undone physically and emotionally by the sight before her.

With a final Herculean effort he buried the great stone beam into place, and the hissing sound died out. Someone she hadn't even noticed behind the thick fog that still filled the room -- Kanin, she guessed, by the glint of a reflection off his eyeglasses -- called, "That's good. Let's seal it up."

The two men bent to an iron tub and began scooping out something that they applied to the wall, but Vincent didn't join them. As the huge stone disappeared into the crevice, he had turned. She still could not see his face, but with a rush, she knew he was searching the clouded space like someone who hears his name called, unexpected. Heart pounding she watched him take shape through the scattering mist. the familiar rhythm of his stride, light as a dancer's, yet undeniably powerful, stirring the rivulets of joy within her that threatened to overflow. At last his eyes pierced the greyness, already focused unerringly on hers.

He stopped just below her, head tilted slightly, his face a subtle mirror of her own wonder and elation. "I thought for a moment you were a vision in the mist."

"The mist is gone, and I'm still here."

"Yes." His eyes slanted up at here, twinkling. The quiet syllable held a deep pleasure -- in her presence, in the mysterious power that had led her to this unlikely place.

"I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I might as well stop by," she shrugged, beaming at him. "I hope it's all right."

"It's more than all right. Catherine, but this neighborhood, as you call it, is not the easiest to reach. You could have gotten lost." He grasped the rim of the ledge and using the strength of his arms, swung himself up to sit beside her.

"No, I don't think I could." She looked at him. serious now, and he returned her gaze with a brief intensity that made the journey down here seem like nothing. "I won't say I didn't have my doubts, but some of the children told me I was on the right track."

"The skaters?"

"Mm-hmm. Vincent, they were so . . . " He arched a brow at her, and blushing, she finished the statement, " . . . cute," adding determinedly, "Well. they really were!"

"I don't doubt it," he assured her with great solemnity.

"Is this part of Mouse's project?" The cavern had cleared now, and the three men were busy sealing up the hole, studiously ignoring the two of them.

"The best part, Catherine -- its successful completion. I should report that to Father. Perhaps you'd like to join me -- that is, if your business in the neighborhood is finished."

"As a matter of fact, it is. I think I have exactly what I came for."

He stood without comment, offering his hand. "Kanin," he called.

Kanin turned toward them, already smiling. "We're fine here, Vincent. Go ahead. Nice to see you, Catherine."

She acknowledged his greeting, wondering why she was so prone to blushing today. They headed back the way she'd come, and she told him the circumstances that had led her here. He listened with deep interest, fascinated with the portraits she painted of the eccentric people in the world above.

As the narrower passages closed around them, the sense of her hand enveloped warmly in his increased; the moments when she brushed against him leapt into her awareness, making her forget what she'd been about to say. The dull stone walls were suddenly etched with vivid pictures, bright as the painted tunnels: the way his muscles had strained against the burden of stone, the harmony in his movements that exuded such sensuality, entrancing her on some level she was powerless to control.

She hadn't seen that, couldn't have seen any image so detailed in the steam clogged cavern. Nevertheless, she knew those visions were accurate, could feel even what her eyes had been unable to see. They haunted her still with a persuasiveness that was making it hard to breathe, and she realized that his steps had slowed.

He stopped, turning to her, but his eyes were lowered to some spot between them. "Catherine," he said, and she noted the uncommon tightness in his voice. He didn't continue, perhaps thrown off course by the betrayal of his own voice.

"I'm sorry, Vincent," she said huskily. "I really am. I'm not trying to feel this way -- it just happens."

"Yes." He released her hand, pulling her head to his shoulder, holding her with a tenderness meant to acknowledge the inevitability of the desire humming through the bond without responding to it. "That place we spoke of- where turning back becomes impossible --it is so close, Catherine."

"Yes," she breathed into the warmth of his neck.

"But there are things yet to be faced, to be understood between us, before we dare approach it again."

"Then we should talk about them, Vincent, get them out in the open."

He sighed. "The words, Catherine, elude me -- like ghosts, they slip away, unspoken. I long to grasp them. to make them my own, but when we're together I cannot reach them."

"It's all right," she whispered, clutching him tighter. "Just give it time, but for now, I don't know how to stop this. I can't help wishing you were holding me. kissing me, and when we're alone like this..."

She felt the involuntary shudder in the powerful body that held hers so delicately, the immensity of the willpower he summoned to combat it.

"The children, Catherine, the skaters are not far ahead. They might be persuaded to join us on our journey back. Would you mind?"

"No," she pulled back. smiling at him, surprised that the prospect of company should come as a relief. The tension swimming through her was nearly unbearable, and if it couldn't be satisfied, the best she could hope for was a distraction. The other alternative -- of simply staying away from him -- was not only unthinkable, but would make little difference to the feelings coursing between them. Even apart they thrummed at her consciousness and, she knew, at his. Even in sleep.

He allowed himself only a fleeting kiss on the top of her head before he turned and led her quickly to the inclined passage where the three children, still hard at work at their play, greeted them with gratifying enthusiasm.

Molly had just reached the bottom of the hill. Obviously, she'd taken the trip in a crouching position, wise for one so small, but her gaily patterned skirt had swept up the fine dirt of the tunnel floor, almost obliterating the bright colors at the hem.

Catherine knelt to help the little girl brush the worst of it away.

"Vincent's all dirty too," Molly pointed out proudly, as if this indicated some endorsement of her disheveled state.

Was he? Catherine glanced up at him. Of course. There was evidence of work just completed -- rock dust and mud -- on his chest, on his arms, on the tough fabric of his jeans. It didn't surprise her that she hadn't noticed and didn't care.

"Vincent's a grownup. He can clean himself off." Nathan said.

Yes, he'd better do that, she thought, busying herself at shaking out the little girl's skirt. The vision of turning these same attentions on the figure standing behind her sent unsettling ripples of possibility tingling through her, and she was glad to be turned away from him.

"We should both clean up," Vincent agreed. "Catherine and are going back now."

"Can we go with you?" Toby asked eagerly.

She couldn't help but grin at Vincent, as he responded. "We'd be grateful for your company, Toby."

"Can I have a ride?" Molly implored. "Piggyback?"

Vincent knelt beside her, eyes twinkling. "I don't know, Molly. You've gotten to be a very big girl. You may be too heavy."

She giggled with delight, always conscious of her lowly status as one of the 'little kids'. "That's okay. I bet you could even carry William."

Nathan and Toby guffawed loudly at the image this inspired.

"I'd rather carry you," Vincent assured her.

"But only if you take these off." Catherine interjected practically. She untied the bulky bindings and handed the skates to Toby, as Vincent swung the little girl onto his shoulders. The two boys moved to either side of her, unselfconsciously taking her hands, a gesture that touched and pleased her enormously, as they all set out for home, the children's cheerful chatter lending the little procession the air of a parade.

In the central tunnels, Vincent extricated Molly's dainty fingers from his hair, swinging her. giggling, to her feet and the children scattered to their rooms. Alone again, they entered Father's study to fred Mary gathering up a supper tray.

"My goodness, Vincent." her warm eyes took in the evidence of his struggle against the encroaching water, "you must be exhausted. Have you had anything to eat?"

"Yes, Mary. Thank you."

"And Catherine, would you like something?"

"No, thanks very much. I had dinner before I came down."

"Well, you certainly look as fresh and pretty as always."

"Catherine's work has been every bit as trying as our own, Mary. Perhaps more. The problems she faces cannot be solved as easily as ours."

She would hardly have classified the physical labor she'd witnessed as "easy," but it didn't surprise her that he should do so.

Mary's sympathetic glance included them both. "Well, you two sit down and relax. Father should be back any minute now. Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

They assured her they were fine, and with a doubtful look she left the chamber.

Catherine smiled up at him. "She almost makes me feel guilty for not wanting anything."

"Mary's greatest pleasure comes in caring for us all. Her need to do that is a gift to everyone she loves."

Alone now, just the two of them, Catherine felt her own need rising dangerously close to the surface. His presence beside her seemed to fill the vast chamber, shrinking it to a size that constricted her breath.

His eyes told her he was perfectly aware of her turmoil, and she wasn't surprised when he led her to a chair and returned to one at the opposite side of the table. He sat down, propping his foot on the rung of the chair beside him. tilting his own backward. For a moment he looked at her, and she struggled unsuccessfully to hide the blush that resulted, helpless to pull her gaze from the cool blue that unaccountably ignited a fever in her blood.

Immediately he dropped his gaze to a small piece of pyrite that decorated the table. Picking it up, he sat quietly turning it in his hands, his attention seemingly absorbed in studying its bright facets.

Her tightly held breath escaped in a slow sigh. Released from his eyes, she thought she could begin to master the insistent yearning that threatened the serenity they shared, but as the moments stretched out and the silence, her confidence eroded. The silence in itself was eloquent: neither trusted themselves to speak, knowing that the words that wanted to be spoken would do nothing to ease the tension. The ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud, the messages ringing on the pipes strangely far away.

He looked to be totally relaxed, physically anyway, and she tried to summon an equal composure, studying him for some clue that would help her duplicate it, but the effort persisted in producing the opposite effect. Something about his raised knee. the power constrained in the dirt encrusted fabric of his jeans that no casual posture could hide, was working its way into the midst of her tumultuous feelings, inviting them to run rampant through her consciousness, wreaking havoc on her already frazzled nerves.

"Vincent," she said finally, breaking the charged silence in a voice that sounded strangely unlike her own. "Could you . . . would you mind not sitting like that?"

His eyes met hers, surprised. He glanced at himself, clearly mystified by the request and turned back, as if not certain he'd understood her words. "Catherine?"

His puzzled expression, the total innocence in the beloved face, brought an embarrassed smile to her lips. "Never mind. It's okay. I don't think there is a position you could sit in, or stand in, or... Don't worry about it, Vincent. I know I'm not making any sense."

She could tell he was trying to find some way to contradict her last remark and reassure her, but his inherent honesty was making that impossible. He truly didn't see the sense in her comments, and Father's voice suddenly ringing from the stairway came as a welcome interruption to them both.

"Vincent, you're going to break that chair. How are you, Catherine?"

"I'm fine, Father." She noted how automatically Vincent straightened up, allowing the chair to rest on all four legs again, and as Father joined them to sit down with a heavy sigh, she wondered how many times this scene had been played out over the years.

"So, tell me. Were you able to stabilize the pipe?"

Vincent nodded. "It is wedged securely in place, Father."

"Good, good. You know, you look as though you could use a washing up. If Catherine doesn't mind the poor substitute of my company, I'd suggest you go do that now."

"Of course." He glanced at her, and she smiled, unable to look away again until he'd left the chamber.

"He was always doing that, you know," Father resumed with a small smile. "As he started to spurt up -- leaning back in that chair, stretching those long legs. He didn't know his own strength in those days. The struts were constantly cracking. I can't think how many times Cullen had to repair it, but he finally broke the habit with that incredible stillness that came upon him in adulthood. It was almost as though, having reached the extent of his full powers, he gained an uncanny ability to control them. I often envy his quietness, his ability to draw such an aura of calm about himself." His reminiscence gave way to a small frown. "That he should revert to that now -- he must be suffering some pressure, some tension."

She knew he was looking to her for an explanation, and she told herself that was natural, that the implied question was motivated by concern, not suspicion or distrust. It was only her own knowledge of the situation that made his look seem accusatory.

"I don't think what's . . . bothering him . . . is really a problem. Father. It's nothing you need to worry about."

"I see." He dropped his eyes, and she wondered if he did see, not sure whether to hope he grasped the truth or not. She wished Vincent had never left the room. He would know what to say, how to guide the conversation into the safest waters. She had little trouble mustering that skill in the courtroom, but here there was too much personal risk. The conviction that her fate, her very life, depended upon what happened in this hidden world, gave every statement a significance that caused her to flounder uncharacteristically.

"Your visits here have been more frequent of late."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, not at all. Believe me, it is infinitely preferable to the alternative -- of Vincent's exposing himself to danger above. You are welcome here, Catherine. I only hope you don't become reckless, forget the importance of passing between our worlds with the utmost caution, both for your safety and for ours."

"I came tonight through Long's shop." She felt like a child, supplying only selected facts. The truth was she hadn't been as careful as she should be, and the fact that she doubted he knew the entrance to her building was still blocked, filled her with guilt. Cathy, do you know who broke Grandmother Chandler's little shepherdess? Maybe it was Ginger, Mommy. Ginger likes to sleep on the mantle.

"Good. I don't mean to question your good sense, Catherine, or your trustworthiness. It's only that -- difficult as it may be to believe --I do know something of the distraction, the total absorption that comes with being in love."

The phrase lay between them, as the fact had done for a long time, but precious for having been acknowledged. It touched her that he should use the words and, unfortunately, made her sense of guilt all the more acute. "I'll be careful, Father."

"Yes, I'm sure you will. It's a pity you weren't able to join us at the general meeting. It proved to be a rather telling example of our small democracy at work -- tedious, but telling all the same. I'm afraid most of the children had fallen asleep before we were able to reach agreement."

"I really wanted to come, but what was decided? Was the petition granted?"

"It was," he said. smiling. "And -- I venture to think -- for the right reasons."

"That's wonderful. You have your engineer. Maybe that will make things easier on... on all of you. When will he move in?"

"He, Catherine?" Father eyed her with feigned astonishment. "Why ever would you assume such a person to be a man? An attorney, a professional woman, like yourself, presuming engineering to be a male province . . . Clearly, your world hasn't made as much progress as I thought."

Catherine had the grace to blush at the good-natured barb. "I'm sorry. I don't know -- I just thought that kind of job . . . It really is a woman?"

"Oh, very much so. The standards above have slipped deplorably. I fear that very soon women may be allowed to stray from the realm of nursing and actually be permitted to practice medicine. It's the inevitable decline, you see, brought on by women's suffrage. Tell me. has that been revoked, or are women still allowed to vote in your world?"

"Okay, okay," she laughed, throwing up her hands. "You caught me." She knew he was making fun not only of her mistaken assumption, but the antiquated view of the world that he suspected she attributed to him, and the fact that he was teasing her so, letting her see a side of his personality that she'd seldom glimpsed, increased her sense of his acceptance. She felt suddenly that they were really friends.

"Forgive me for jesting, Catherine. but I sensed a bit of uneasiness when I arrived. It's good to hear your laugh. Her name is Gilllan -- Jill we called her. She came here with her mother, when she was very small. It seems the husband had run off- left them penniless, without resources, and a helper brought them to us. Her mother, Greta, made a life for herself here. She became quite an accomplished seamstress. Some of the clothes you see here today are undoubtedly of her design, but several years later an uncle died, leaving his construction business to Greta, and she felt duty bound to go above, so, of course, she took her daughter with her. Jill grew up with a knowledge and affection for the business, going on to study at the university. Her mother passed away earlier this year. and Jill decided that she wanted to make her home here with us."

"Was there some reason? Was she unhappy above?"

"I think not. She simply regards this place as her true home and feels she can contribute to its welfare. Not everyone who comes here, Catherine, is fleeing the world above. For some our way of life is an attraction in itself."

The remark was gently made, and she wondered if it was her own over sensitivity that was responsible for its sting. "I can understand that. I'd like to meet her. I don't remember Vincent ever mentioning her name."

"Oh, well," he dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "There's no reason that he should. Jill was several years younger. Just the sort of age difference of which young boys are most likely to be intolerant."

"I can't imagine Vincent being intolerant of anyone."

"No." A smile smoothed the lined face, as it often did when he spoke of his favorite son. "No, Vincent was never intolerant. He always treated the younger children with the same kindness you see in him today, but heaven knows most boys don't have his patience, and his . . . special gifts made him quite capable of keeping up with the older boys -- Devin's age. He was determined to be with them -- to be part of their adventures, and, needless to say, the rest did not suffer the younger children gladly. They were too intent on daring each other into foolhardy exploits. Much of the grey hair you see here dates from that period, I assure you."

"Was Vincent responsible for any of those?" She was comfortable now, enjoying the prospect of hearing stories of a Vincent she never knew.

"More than his share, dear Catherine, never doubt that. But in retrospect I must confess that most of them came, not from any real mischief on his part, but my own fears for his safety. When I think of the hours I spent, certain he'd come to some horrible end . . . Well, it's difficult to describe what a parent goes through. Someday, if you have children of your own, you'll understand."

Silence dropped into the room like a stone. The harmless intent of the statement created little ripples that circled outward, carrying with them larger implications that neither wanted to address. If, she thought, if I have children . . . if I do, Father, I may very well have reason to understand the fears you refer to, because if I do, they will be his children. Please don't expect me to pretend otherwise, because it just isn't possible.

He shot her an uncomfortable look, but pushed forward in an effort to break the tense silence he'd unintentionally created. "In point of fact, it was often a comfort to me to know that Vincent was included in their escapades. However dangerous their activities, I could rely on his good judgment, his unerring instincts, to temper the rashness of the rest."

"For some reason I've never adequately understood, he had a way of getting around my misgivings, of somehow convincing me that my fears were misplaced, despite perfectly good proof to the contrary." He sat pensively a moment, mulling over this failing in his otherwise rational approach to life. "Ah, well, I suppose we all have our weaknesses, and I confess to granting him certain privileges that none of the others could have wrung from me."

Catherine smiled inwardly. Father apparently saw his faults in child rearing as excesses of leniency, while Vincent still chafed under the restrictions that had become a part of his own self-image. Strange that parents and children could be so close and see their relationship so differently, but it wasn't uncommon, she was sure. She'd begun to understand so much more about her own father's image of her, as opposed to her own. Separating those seemed to be the key to becoming your own person.

"I won't say he never made me angry," Father continued, "but it was always so difficult to stay angry where Vincent was concerned." He chuckled, slowly rubbing his hand across his beard. "I remember one time in particular -- in this very room... Well, I won't bore you with that."

"Father, nothing you say about Vincent could possibly bore me. Tell me, please."

'Very well," he leaned forward, clearly delighted to have such an eager audience for his cherished memories. "He was about seven years old at the time -- sitting in that very chair he's just undoubtedly strained beyond endurance, although this was long before he was capable of that. His little legs didn't even reach the floor, and he was sitting there, kicking them -- I can picture it quite clearly, but it wasn't his kicking that caused the conflict."    

***********

"Vincent, would you stop that please. I can't tell you how annoying it is."

"Why can't you, Father?"

"Well, I can. I just have. So please tell me -- in your own words-- what you learned today about Benedict Arnold."

"He was a traitor."

"Very well, what else do you know about him?"

Jacob saw the rise of the child's chest, as he drew in a deep breath, and sorely feared the boy was preparing another round of the shocking conduct he'd displayed since entering the room.

These times, when Vincent chose to sit with him instead of joining the other children at their play, were typically pleasurable. Sometimes it was a little unnerving, the soft spot in his heart that expanded whenever the boy was near, and usually their conversations were the high point of his day, but this latest twist was disturbing.

"He was a wolf in sheep's clothing," the small voice explained.. "He wanted to be rich and have his cake and eat it too, so they said he was a Tory."

"I see," Jacob said slowly, working on the theory that by not reinforcing the aberrant behavior, it might simply disappear. "And how did Arnold react to their mistrust?"

"He cut off his nose to spite his face."

"What -- precisely -- did he do. Vincent?"

"He gave his fort to the enemy."

"Good. and was he found out?"

"His goose was cooked."

"Did he face his accusers, Vincent?"

"No, he ran -- with his tail between his legs."

"'Vincent."

"He escaped -- by the skin of his teeth."

"Vincent! That is enough. I told you I wished to hear the story in your own words. This stream of -- of proverbs -- clichés is mere nonsense, to say nothing of irritating. You are perfectly capable of relating your lesson without resorting to them."

Small legs still swung with restless energy, but the blue eyes that peered up at him from beneath a mop of fine spun gold were startling in their serenity. "You said they were true. You said they were codes that everyone understood -- like the pipes."

"Yes, well, that may be, but it is still a lazy person's way of talking, Vincent. You have a perfectly adequate vocabulary, so there's no reason for you to use them."

"What if someone doesn't understand my vocab.., vocab . . . my words, Father?. You said they would understand the codes."

"I don't see why anyone shouldn't understand your own words," Jacob said evenly, "and they're far more likely to listen to them, than to such banalities."

Vincent found a way to still his restless legs by sitting on them. "Why would they not listen to the truth?"

"Father?" Jacob was saved from immediate reply, as Walter, the tunnel world's cook bounced down the little stairway. "Well, hello there, young master Vincent, how are you today?" He brushed an affectionate hand over the yellow thicket, a gesture that few found able to resist.

"Fit as a fiddle," Vincent replied solemnly, ignoring Jacob's warning glance.

"Well, aren't you the smart one -- quoting literature at your age? Listen, Father, we've got a cart load of vegetables stuck on that lift at 43rd. It should have been lowered an hour ago, but it hasn't budged."

"A watched pot never boils," Vincent intoned softly.

"It was slipping before, was it not? I thought someone had been assigned to check the mechanism."

"A stitch in time saves nine," piped the voice in the chair.

"Well, whoever was supposed to do it obviously didn't. That whole shipment's going to be inedible if somebody doesn't get to it soon."

"He who hesitates is lost."

"Well then, find a way to get it out, man." Jacob's growing irritation had little to do with the trapped vegetables.

"How?" Walter shrugged, helplessly.

"By hook or by crook." One of his legs had succeeded in escaping and was now swinging back and forth, making rhythmic thumping sounds as his foot struck the rungs of the chair.

"Do you know where it's stuck, Walter? If it's still accessible from above, send someone up there -- carefully. It's a dangerous time of day."

"Look before you leap."

"If we can't get it moving, maybe we can get in from the top."

"Pig in a poke," said Vincent.

Jacob had refused to acknowledge the commentary emanating from the big. oak chair, until this last remark drew his perplexed frown. Its intended target, however, was absorbed in watching his feet bounce off the rungs.

"We couldn't get much out that way, but I had such plans for supper -- maybe a couple of cabbages."

Kick. kick. "Two heads are better than one."

"Yes, well, whatever you can salvage."

"It's really hot up there today, and the stuffs gotta be cooking. I wish now we'd brought at least some of it down direct. We really needed those provisions, Father."

Vincent was now examining the chair rung for possible damage, hanging over so far that his hair swept the floor, so far that they were almost spared the muted warning about putting all their eggs in one basket.

Trying to concentrate on the crisis at hand, Jacob nevertheless felt the twin distractions of exasperation and fear, the urge to swat the little bottom, balanced so precariously in the air, and the fear that its owner was about to land smack on his golden head.

"Do what you can, Walter. If there's no danger of being seen, and you can get in through the top, by all means do so, but if there's any risk at all, it is not worth taking. We will simply have to make do with less food. There's no sense in jumping out of the frying pan into the fire."

The blond head popped up, and Vincent settled in the chair again, his fidgeting stopped, the clear eyes fixed with open interest on his father. Walter hurried obediently from the room, and Jacob hesitated a moment, loath to meet his son's expectant gaze. Best to try for a tone of authority -- not pomposity, an excess to which he was regrettably prone when his dignity was threatened.

'Now then, young man -- about your behavior -- you know better than to interrupt."

"I was talking to myself, Father."

"It was rude, nonetheless. May I assume I can trust you not do it again?"

"Yes." Still the impossibly blue eyes looked at him expectantly.

Jacob avoided looking at the bright little face, as he settled himself on the corner of the desk. "I suppose, Vincent, that you observed Just now my rather unfortunate choice of words to Walter. One could argue that the distraction of your unsolicited contribution to the conversation had some bearing on my ability to express myself in a more articulate fashion."

So much for trying not to sound pompous. He half hoped the child wasn't following any of this. If there was one thing worse than lazy figures of speech, it had to be this kind of excess verbiage that put the listener to sleep -- or made him think the speaker a conceited bore.

"But in fairness, Vincent, this could well be an indication of how firmly such adages and maxims can become entrenched in even the most eloqu--...well educated of men. Let this be a lesson to you...to us both . . . on how easily one's self-expression can be corrupted by them, but, given the persuasiveness of such bromides in our culture, we can see, too, that occasional lapses are inevitable and should perhaps be forgiven."

"I forgive you, Father."

"That's very good of you, Vincent," he said. feeling perversely relieved. "Now what on earth did you mean by 'a pig in a poke'?"

"Nothing, Father. I liked the sound of it. Pig in a poke," he repeated with a note of satisfaction.

"Well, it won't do to go falling in love with the sound of your own voice. There are times when it is much wiser to say nothing, times when silence is . . . well . . . golden."

"You can say it in your own words, Father," Vincent encouraged him loyally. "I think I should go play with Devin now."

***********

"I remember quite clearly, standing there by the steps, realizing the kind of phrase I had just spoken, knowing it was useless to hope he hadn't noticed. He noticed everything. I dreaded turning to meet those eyes that seemed to see right through to the heart of things. I half expected him to accuse the pot of calling the kettle black."

"But he didn't."

"No. He spared me that anyway. It wasn't that he enjoyed seeing me hoisted on my own petard, as it were." Father smiled ruefully. "I believe he was simply experimenting, testing a part of the language that held some fascination for him, and once I had actually used one of the deplorable phrases, his curiosity seemed satisfied. I don't recall his ever resorting to such platitudes again."

"And what happened to the vegetables?" Catherine sat, chin in hand, leaning on the table, soaking up every word with rapt attention.

"You know, I haven't the faintest recollection. Strange, isn't it, that I have no memory of how we solved our crisis, yet I can see that obstinate little face peering up at me still?" He leaned back in his chair, looking pleased with the images time had chosen to leave most vivid in his mind. "He was always so curious about everything, so avid to absorb all there was to learn. It used to worry me -- his eagerness to experience all life had to offer, regardless of the risks."

And it still does, Catherine thought, though she didn't say so, "Fortunately, he has always displayed a considerable faculty for self-discipline, as well, and that, I venture to think, is the reason I haven't gone completely grey."

"Yes, he certainly does have that," she said with complete sincerity.

"For which we should all be grateful. As a wise person once advised me, Catherine, one should look before he leaps."

His expression was kindly, but it held a hint of shrewdness that left her searching for an appropriate answer, until she realized that Vincent had re-entered the room.

"Ah, Vincent, you look refreshed," Father greeted him.

"I feel refreshed." The swift glance he cast her direction told her why, and a delicious warmth curled softly through her with the knowledge, as he resumed his place at the table.

"You did well to return. Catherine is such a receptive audience. I might have regaled her all evening with tales of your childhood."

Vincent looked at her, questioningly.

"All children misbehave," she said with a coy smile.

"What have you been telling her, Father?"

"Well, obviously nothing too terrible. She hasn't bolted and fled the chamber."

"It was a charming story, Vincent. Nothing that requires you to worry."

"But does it require your forgiveness?"

'Oh . . . yes." She could feel the color rising in her cheeks again.

"Definitely."

"Good. Father, have you told Catherine the news?"

"About Gillian? Yes, a little. I expect you will meet her soon, Catherine, and like her, but I believe she's just settling in."

"Already Mouse has begun to pursue her -- in hopes of learning her secrets."

Father chuckled, "Yes. the sorcerer's apprentice. I'm afraid when he learns she has no magic spells, that there's actually a discipline required in her work, he may be sadly disillusioned. But tell us, Catherine -- have you had any success in finding the Vermeer?"

"No. Everything's come to a screeching halt. We haven't heard from the man, and it's quite possible we never will. He may have decided what he wanted wasn't worth the risk. Sometimes even sensational crimes like this one aren't solved or explained. Our thief may have disappeared forever."

"And the painting as well."

"I'm afraid so."

Father grimaced, doubtless feeling a reinforcement of those convictions that had led him to reject a life above. "Well. at least for the time you spend with us, Catherine, such sordid facts can be put aside. Shall we find something more pleasant to discuss?"

"I'd love to, Father, but I really can't stay. I only stopped by to...to..."

"Catherine came to see for herself that the damage below had been controlled.'

"Yes, well that's very commendable," Father said drily. "And I assume, if you must leave us so soon. you will have no trouble in finding an escort."

"None," Vincent said, rising to come and stand behind her.

She stood and smiled warmly at the older man who was not entirely successful in hiding a speculative look, as be bid them goodnight. "Thank you for sharing your memories with me tonight, Father. I enjoyed it."

"There is nothing more pleasurable to a parent, Catherine, believe me. Go safely, now."

As she started from the room, conscious of Vincent just behind her, feelings tumbled and turned disquietingly: the magnetic sense of his nearness, a quiet happiness at the acceptance she had found here, the thought that they soon would be alone together, the familiar dread of the parting to come. And something else. Something that welled up unexpectedly and, as they stepped out into the dim passageway, unaccountably choked her with tears.

"Catherine?" He grasped her shoulders, turning her to face him, his eyes filled with sympathy and alarm. "Tell me."

"I don't know -- I . . ."  She looked at him helplessly, a tear coursing down her cheek. Abandoning his efforts to read an explanation in her face, he folded her to him, Silently out waiting the brief storm of her weeping. "It just suddenly hit me," she said at last, "that there is no one left to tell stories of me when I was little, no one who remembers . . . or cares. I know it sounds ridiculous and self-centered, but it's almost as if the girl I was never existed. With no one to cherish those memories, it's like she never lived."

He cradled her close, his voice low and soothing as music. "She lives in you, Catherine. In your laugh, in the way your eyes sparkle when you're happy or filled with wonder at some small thing, in your openness to all of us." Tenderly, he moved his thumb across her cheek, obliterating the evidence of her sadness with such reverence that it seemed even her tears must be precious to him. "I have seen that little girl. I know her loving nature, her spirit . . ."

"Her stubbornness?" She managed a weak smile.

"Yes, that too. She is loved still by everyone who sees her in the woman you've become. She is loved, Catherine, more than you can ever know."

"Oh, Vincent." She wound her arms around his neck, clinging close to him, letting the strongest emotion of all sweep the others away, a love that felt limitless, timeless, a love that no power in the universe could diminish. After a moment, she gathered her thoughts. "I don't know what came over me. My emotions these days are so close to the surface, fragile somehow. I could understand that, if things were going badly, but they're not, Vincent. I'm happy, truly happy. I don't see why I should be so hypersensitive."

"Happiness is the most fragile emotion of all, Catherine."

She searched his face, finding only his quiet strength, the sweet, beautiful pools of his eyes, deep with love and sympathy. "I guess maybe it is. And we'll just have to treat it gently -- with respect -- so that nothing can shatter it."

"Catherine, the stories of your childhood . . . There is still someone left to tell them, and someone to hear them. I would cherish those memories as if they were my own."

She hugged him swiftly, for his understanding, for his boundless capacity to make the world seem right. "I want to tell you everything. I feel like we could talk forever and never say half of what we'd like to. But you realize that my own recollections of things that happened when I was little will have a certain bias?"

He took her hand again, and they resumed their journey upwards. "And the same stories told by a parent would not?"

She laughed. "I see what you mean. When Father was telling me about you -- it was supposed to be about you misbehaving and how annoyed he was, but at the same time he was obviously immensely proud of you, and the fact that he likes to tell that tale at all shows how much those memories mean to him."

"Catherine, don't suppose I never genuinely deserved his anger. I know there were times that corporeal punishment was a clear and immediate danger, that it took all his self-control not to indulge in it."

"Oh, yes," she laughed. "He said that too, but speaking of children, what about Gillian? Do you remember her?"

He nodded. "Like a bee, buzzing everywhere at once -- and often as gladly welcomed."

"Was she a pest?"

"To some she was. We thought of ourselves as very grown-up, Catherine, very brave and daring. Unfortunately, Gilllan saw herself that way as well, but she was much younger, small for her age. Devin called her 'the pixie.' She only wanted to be included, and I don't doubt that she could have held her own in many ways, but that in itself can be a blow to boys intent on playing at being men."

"Some of them never get over it," she smiled, thinking that even Greenwald seemed more immature than obnoxious, when she was here -- with Vincent -- feeling the world right itself into a balance under his serene gaze. his quiet confidence.

"Once we built forts at the far ends of a tunnel beneath the Chamber of the Winds. We spent days -- each side attempting to storm the other's walls and capture their flag."

"Were you armed by any chance?" she asked, knowing the answer already. Ammunition was a must for the kind of bravado he was describing.

"With mud," he acknowledged. "Great gobs of it. It had rained continually that year as well, and the tunnel we chose was awash with it. Anyone rushing close enough to hit an enemy was just as likely to slip in the attempt and end up more filthy than his target."

"That must have gone over really well with the grownups," she grinned.

"We managed to do away with most of the evidence -- in the pool beneath the falls. No one suspected how bad it really was. Gilllan was determined to join in. She was so quick and so small that she actually came in under our defenses. Devin didn't see her. I didn't see her, until she tumbled over the wall, demanding to join our army."

"How demoralizing."

"To Devin it was. He was furious and refused to let her stay."

"But you wanted to let her. Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"It's true I wanted her to stay, but your thoughts are far too generous, Catherine. My position was motivated less by kindness than the opinion that we might have in Gilllan an effective weapon -- one equipped with the element of surprise that could be turned on our opponents with the same devastation it had wreaked on us."

"Well," she said loyally, "'it may not have been noble, but at least it was logical."

"And futile," he conceded. "Devin was too stung by the insult to listen."

"You let him send her away?"

"He was bigger than I was, Catherine." he said. as if this was all the explanation necessary in the world of rowdy, young boys.

"That is hard for me to remember," she confessed. "It must have been a terrific shock for Devin -- the first time he saw you all grown-up."

"As it is to most people," he said mildly. "Devin picked Gilllan up and virtually dumped her on the enemy's doorstep, as close as he dared to go."

"That's awful. The poor little thing -- what did she do?"

"The only thing she could do," he smiled. "A few hours later she led an assault of the opposing army. While they charged our position, pinning us down under a barrage of mud, Gilllan slipped back over the wall and made off with our flag."

"Good for her," she laughed. "I have to admit that story gives me mixed feelings. I'm glad Gilllan got her revenge, but I'm sorry you had to be one of her victims. It's really upsetting to think of this all caked with mud." She reached up and ran her fingers lightly through the soft hair that swept his shoulder. "I do love your hair, Vincent. Have I ever told you that?"

He shook his head, his expression at once pleased and shy.

"Well, I do." She felt there was a lot more she could say in that vein, but it hadn't really been her intention to bring their conversation into the here and now. With the feelings loosed inside of her. intense and unpredictable, it was better to talk about the past. the intimacy of their conversation lying only in the feeling that with each little story from the past, they were giving each other a part of themselves.

So absorbed had she been in the process, that it was a surprise to note they'd reached the Central Park threshold. She eyed the steel door with a twinge of guilt. "Vincent, I don't think Father's aware of how often I've come and gone this way lately. He was reminding me tonight of the importance of not establishing a routine, the risk of calling attention to an entrance."

"There is more than our security at risk. The park for all its beauty is a treacherous place. It troubles me that you have no safer access to us."

"I should check on that. I'll make some discreet inquiries tomorrow -- to see if the Denton file is closed. If it is, it should be safe to open the passage under my building again."

He merely nodded, but she felt the relief that accompanied her promise, as he tripped the lever and the humid air of the outside world touched them.

"The moon is full again. Vincent. Please don't come any farther -- it's too dangerous." His acquiescence, she suspected, came less from any fear for his own safety than a desire to ease her concern.

"Friday night there will be a small gathering in Father's study --a time to talk. to perhaps share some new accomplishment with others in the community. You would be welcome, Catherine, if you care to come."

She smiled -- at the inevitable warmth the prospect brought to her heart and the oblique manner in which the invitation was extended. "I'd love to be there, but what about you, Vincent? Would it please you for me to be there, or do you really not have an opinion on the matter -- one way or the other?" Her gentle teasing was meant to acknowledge his reluctance to express his own wishes and to tell him how much she longed to hear them.

"It would please me very much," he responded with the ghost of a smile, "if you were to be there."

"Then I will be. See how easy it is, Vincent?" She stroked his arm, looking at him lovingly. "Don't be afraid to say what you want. I need to know that. More than anything in the world I want to make you happy. It's what brings me happiness."

Her words brought a rush of emotion to his eyes. She could feel the effect the simple statements stirred in him and was not surprised when he didn't speak, content to look at her as if he were still trying to grasp the miracle of their love.

"I don't want to forget, Vincent. There was something I was going to give you. Remember what you said, when you found out Father had been telling me the worst about you?"

"I do," he answered, recovering his voice and his humor.

"I'm ready to accept your request, if you'd care to make one."

He nodded. "Then I request it, Catherine. Please . . . forgive me."

She placed her hands on either side of his face, rising to press her lips to his, thrilled at the gentle enthusiasm of his response.

"Thank you, Catherine," he said with dignity, letting the hunger that stirred between them go unremarked under the pretext of this ritual.

"It was no trouble at all," she assured him, blushing, glad for the playfulness that eased between them and allowed the irresistible pleasure of a kiss, while holding those other feelings at a safe distance. "I'll see you Friday. then."

She took a few steps backward, hating to leave the love, the intensity in his eyes, but she found, when she forced herself to turn toward home, that she could feel them still, as deeply real as the beating of her own heart.