CHAPTER 13 ~ NEEDED

Catherine entered the small conference room, sitting beside Joe and across the table from the new detective, Greg Hughs, desperately trying to pull her focus from the book lying on her desk, newly purchased that afternoon on her lunch break. Eleven days since Belmont and his men tried to kill her. Eleven days since three of them died and one was arrested. Eleven days since she had seen Vincent. A piece of her claimed that was ten days too long, for the last. The book would change that.

“So, Detective Hughs,” Joe posed, “what happened to Lieutenant Herman? All I heard was he got transferred.”

“He did,” Hughs replied. “Got appointed to a special task force. I’m not privy to the specifics, but it has something to do with the mob. I’ve replaced him, so I’m following up on his open cases. Today, I’m here about the Mayfair incident.” He opened the file in front of him, scanning it as he continued, “Last week, Martin Belmont, of Mayfair Escort Services, was found, together with two associates, at the murder site of Carol Stabler, who had come forward as a witness against Belmont. He and his men were found dead from suspicious injuries and a fourth man was arrested near the scene.” He looked at Catherine. “I understand you were pivotal in bringing Ms. Stabler forward and that you accused two of Belmont’s associates of assaulting you several months ago?”

“That’s correct,” she answered. “Ralph Manconi and Lyle VanGelder were the men who abducted me, though I don’t know who was driving the van. Manconi was the one who cut my face, VanGelder broke my ribs with his knee, and both of them took turns punching me. It took a few weeks for the bruises to clear up. They had meant to attack Carol but mistook me for her. They somehow figured out their mistake and attacked her later that night. I made the connection to Carol, and she gave me Belmont’s link.” She dropped her gaze to the tabletop. “I set her up at the brownstone, thinking she’d be safe. I don’t know how they found her.”

“Well, I can help you there,” Hughs informed her. “Forensics has confirmed that Belmont’s gun, found at the scene with his prints on it, was the weapon used in Ms. Stabler’s murder. Since VanGelder, who was arrested trying to flee the scene, was facing life in prison as an accessory to her murder, together with the assault charges against her and you, he cut a deal. Thirty years instead of life to confess to following Ms. Stabler, reporting where she was, and driving the men away after Belmont dealt with her and you. He won’t admit that he knew Belmont meant to kill you both, sticking to his ‘I thought he just wanted to scare them’ story, and swears he was never in the house, so he doesn’t know if you ever showed up or what caused the noise that brought us in.”

He turned his eyes on his notes, flipping through a few pages. “Since the others are dead, there’s no corroboration one way or the other. He did verify that the fourth man, Steven Clark, was driving the van when you were taken. Or I made an educated guess which he confirmed, however you want to look at it.” He looked at Catherine, his eyebrows rising as he gazed at her for a long moment. “Is there anything you want to add to VanGelder’s statement, or any way you want to challenge it?”

“I’m glad he’ll be off the streets,” Catherine declared.

When she said nothing else, Hughs nodded, looked between them, and said, “Herman thought the deaths of Belmont and his men were suspicious. I see three murderers who won’t reoffend, in a city where you never know when someone’s illegal pet leopard is going to escape and hurt someone. I don’t know that we’ll ever find the truth, but between you, me, and the fencepost, I’m not overly fussed about it.” He closed the file and stood up. “If anything new comes up, I’ll keep you apprised. Thanks for your time.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Joe replied, offering his hand.

Hughs shook Joe’s hand, saying, “Mr. Maxwell.” Then he took Catherine’s hand, holding her gaze and remarking, “Ms. Chandler. I imagine we’ll see each other again.” A moment later, he left.

“Well,” Joe remarked, looking at Catherine. “That went better than I expected.”

“Quite. Back to work?” At Joe’s nod, she returned to her desk, relieved and grateful that Hughs would not be hunting for answers. Vincent remained safe.

Eleven days since she had looked in his eyes, heard his voice, held his hand. She did not know the code used Below on the pipes, but guessed someone Below knew Morse code. She smiled softly, running a finger over her book. Figuring out how to send a brief message should not be too difficult. Eleven days would end tonight. Her smile spread as she thought, “Besides, I have to share my good news. Right?”

* * *

Vincent prowled around his chamber, muscles tensed, steps silent, a scowl etching his visage. He seized a book, opened it, closed it, slammed it down. He paced a circle around his table. He snatched up the cast-metal white queen from his ornate chess set, stared at the miniature lady, slammed it down. He paced another circle. He flopped into his chair, stood up, paced another circle.

“Vincent, just go see her.”

As Mary’s gentle voice yanked him from his vexation, he spun to face her. She stood in the opening of the entrance tunnel into his chamber. A knowing smile adorned her face.

“How long have you been standing there?” His voice escaped more gruffly than he intended.

“Long enough.” Her tone remained kind. She turned slightly, gesturing behind her. “You didn’t see me in the shadows, being preoccupied as you were. I had a question for you, but it’s not that important. You have other things on your mind right now. It’s Catherine, isn’t it?”

Vincent slumped into his chair, his gaze downcast, his elbows on his knees, saying, “I want to see her. And she wants to see me. I can feel it. For the last few days, she’s contemplated trying to send a message on the pipes. Her intent has been clear and strong. Today, it took on a new… determination.”

He raised a hand, so the tips of his fingers just touched his chest. “A part of me… craves her, Mary. Her presence… her touch. When she holds me… it’s like a balm to my soul. Things settle in me. That… always restless part of me… quiets.” He looked up at her. “But, Mary, it’s dangerous. What if I lose control?” He looked away from her. “Sometimes it craves… more.” He turned his gaze to his hand, frowned, then ran his thumb along his claws. “I never want to hurt her.”

Mary entered his chamber, sat on the edge of the chair opposite his, and leaned toward him, counseling, “Vincent, we all have to battle our… inner self sometimes. We have to… use our mind to master our heart. And I know with you, it’s more distinct, more… dual-natured than for the rest of us. But I also know you have a very strong mind and a very good heart. You know that all we really have in this world, all that really matters, is our relationships with others.” Mary paused, looking away for a moment, then met his gaze again. “So, if her friendship brings you comfort, don’t let that slip away. Let it become what it will become.”

“Father believes it is too dangerous. For me… and for our world.”

Mary smiled softly, letting her gaze drop before saying, “Father is one of the most intelligent men I have ever known.” She stood up, stepping close to Vincent, laying her hand on his shoulder as he looked up at her. “But, even with all of his compassion, he doesn’t always grasp the affairs of the heart.” She smiled knowingly, then left his chamber.

* * *

Catherine ate a quick dinner, then went to the brick-walled tunnel just beyond the entry to the sub-basement of her apartment building, her threshold to Below. One hand gripped a narrow, short length of pipe, an elbow joint fitted on one end; the other hand fingered her new book about Morse Code, resting in her jacket pocket.

She eyed the pipes running up the tunnel wall from the floor through the ceiling.

Each night for the past week she had stood here, listening for any sound, any clue of activity, hoping to see him, but the pipes stayed silent this far from the hub of activity, and he did not come to her. She had even gone to the entrance to the deeper tunnels, considering simply going for a visit, but while she had paid close attention when Ellie walked her home the last time, uncertainty about whether she could remember the way stopped her from trying.

So for the last two nights, she had gone from merely listening to trying to figure out how to send a message to Vincent, wishing she could tell him she wanted to see him. She had raised the pipe in her hand several times, intent on tapping something, anything, just to draw attention. Only the thought that they would dismiss her random banging, or that it could disrupt a truly important message, kept her from attempting it. She had the courage; she lacked the code. So today, she bought her book on Morse Code – something she never needed to know before.

Something simple, she thought. V, SOS, C. She did not like using the universal code for a non-emergency but did not know what else to do, since a longer message would have been harder to send and might have been more difficult to interpret once it reached Below. Since Vincent knew her feelings and could find her, she believed he would understand her message once he heard it. And she refused to let another five months go by before she saw him again.

She raised the pipe in her hand, ready to strike.

“I believe you wanted to see me?” Humor crept into Vincent’s tone.

Catherine spun around, dropping the pipe, seeing him standing just inside the tunnels, leaning against the opening, head stuck through, wearing a mildly amused expression, arms and ankles crossed. She smiled, approaching him.

“How long have you been standing there?” She grinned up at him.

“Long enough.” He returned her smile.

When she stretched her arms out to embrace him, he grasped her hands instead, determined to be cautious with affection, ignoring his despondency and the concurrent roar of protest from his inner self, which wanted to pull her close, hold her tight, and breathe her in. Then he saw her smile falter. “Come.” He hated the disappointment he sensed her stifle, and kept hold of her hand, leading her back to the pipes. “I told our pipe master to dismiss any messages he hears from this pipe tonight. I’ve decided to teach you how to contact me.”

He sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling her down beside him. He felt her gently clench his hand when he released hers, perceiving her reluctance to let go. “Let’s start with the basics.” He grasped the length of pipe that Catherine had dropped.

Time passed unnoticed while Vincent taught Catherine how to message on the pipes, letting her practice until she was confident in her understanding. They both enjoyed the peaceful comfort of simply being together, sharing a mundane aspect of life. Under the focus of the pipes, they felt a subtle shift in their relationship, a settling, from newness and uncertainty into friendship and ease.

“Very good,” Vincent exhorted her proficiency. “Now you have a firm grasp of our pipe codes. With some regular practice, you’ll be able to send and receive as well as anyone Below.”

“Thank you.” Catherine grasped his hand again. “So, how are things Below?”

“Good. Mary sends her greetings. And things Above? Have you enjoyed any symphonies or ballets? How is work?”

“I haven’t had a lot of time for social outings. Work is busy. I need to tell you, a new detective has replaced the one who was looking into the case surrounding Carol’s death, when you saved me. Lieutenant Herman was apparently appointed to a special task force and Detective Hughs is less concerned with how her murderers died. So, you needn’t worry any longer about authorities investigating the tunnels.

“Also, watch out for a vigilante that has emerged, targeting criminals on the subways, killing them with a knife or some other sharp implement when he finds them threatening others. A handful of people have been helped, but the crimes are what a policeman would arrest for, not kill over. The vigilante seems to be going beyond justice.”

“We’ve heard of this person. Some of our people who use the subways or go Above for business have brought word of his activities. Please be careful, Catherine.”

“I will. I haven’t had any direct involvement with the case yet, and if I do, I doubt I will interact with any potential suspects.”

“That’s good.” He stood up, noting she would not release his hand. “It’s getting late. I should let you get home to rest. I know it’s Friday, but I also know you were up early for work.”

She rose when he did, wishing their time together could continue, already missing him. She clung to his hand, wondering when she would feel the comfort of holding it again.

“Thank you for coming to see me and teaching me how to use the pipes. When can we get together again?”

“I’m not certain. With fall coming, we’re preparing for the seasonal flooding that comes with the rains.”

“I understand. Just as long as it’s sooner than five months.” She smiled up at him, then moved to get the embrace she had wanted since first seeing him again.

He returned her hug, unable to resist, wanting to give it as much as he knew she wanted to receive it, resting his cheek atop her head. When he stepped back, gently releasing her, she smiled up at him.

“Good night, Catherine. Be well.”

“Good night, Vincent. You, too.”

She watched him go, then picked up the pipe and took it home with her.

* * *

Half-dimmed lights illuminated the empty subway station in the wee hours of the morning. A train sped along the tracks on approach to the station, headlight barely brightening the track, wheels squealing against the rails. One car – lights flickering, garbage and old newspapers littering its floor, graffiti defiling its walls and doors – held three passengers awaiting different stops.

Beside a set of doors, a seat held a large man, sporting casual clothes, a gray beard, and glasses, reading a newspaper held wide-open in his hands. Across from him and a few seats down, a businessman sat with his own daily print folded into a tall rectangle. Further down from the businessman, with a set of doors between them, an elderly woman rested, purse in her lap, head leaning against the wall.

The train rattled along, rocking rhythmically, until the brakes squealed, slowing it to a stop at the station. The businessman collected his coat and briefcase, then moved near the doors to exit. As he disembarked, two scruffy, teenage boys – one husky, the other trim – boarded. The trim boy watched the businessman walk away until the doors of the train closed. The husky boy began to stare at the man still on the train.

The man glanced up at the boys, then returned to reading his paper. The husky boy propped his shoulder against the hand pole near the man, scowling down at him. The trim boy walked between them, hopped onto the bench to squat beside the man, and leaned close to him, then he shifted his sunglasses down. He glimpsed the man’s newspaper, then stared at him.

The man gaped at the trim boy. He cast his gaze on the husky boy, whose posture remained unchanged. Then the man huffed a sigh, folding his paper closed, and rose to leave. As he passed by, the husky boy stepped into him, forcing him a step back. The man looked at the boy, then shook his head, continuing to the door at the end of the car.

“Ain’t you got no pride?” taunted the husky boy, watching the man walk away.

The man looked back once but made no reply as he left the car.

The husky boy and his trim friend shared a malicious grin. Then the boys noticed the woman still in the car.

The woman watched how the boys treated the man, but when they turned their eyes on her, she looked away, trying to stifle her fear.

The boys stalked the woman. She watched them come, eyes wide, body tense. The husky boy leaned on the pole in front of her, as he had done with the man. The trim boy rested his forearms on the arm rail beside her seat, crowding her, his face inches from hers.

“Who you lookin’ at?” demanded the trim boy.

The woman dropped her gaze away from him.

“Hey, lady,” the husky boy said, “we’re talking to you.” He stared at her, spinning around the pole to sit right next to her on the bench.

“Got a match, lady?” the trim boy asked, sticking the butt of a cigarette between his lips.

“No!” the lady cried out, looking up at the trim boy. “Please!”

“Bet you got a match in the bag, lady,” remarked the husky boy as he pointed at her purse. “Why don’t you give it to me?”

The trim boy put the cigarette into the pocket of his denim vest, watching his friend taunt the woman.

“No matches,” the lady pleaded, shifting her eyes to the husky boy, tightening her hold on her purse. “Leave me alone.”

“Let’s have a look.” The trim boy reached for the woman’s purse, clutching it in his fist, trying to yank it out of her arms, but she held on tight, fear shining in her eyes. So he fisted his free hand, feinting a punch at her head.

“Aahhh!” the lady cried out, throwing her hands up in front of her face.

When she released her purse, the trim boy snatched it up, rifling through it.

“Oh, ba-by…” mocked the husky boy, taking her hand, still raised to protect her face. He laughed derisively, dropping his hand, turning away from her.

“Nineteen dollars!” exclaimed the trim boy, clutching the woman’s money, like she had no right to keep it from them.

The husky boy whipped his head back, glaring at the woman.

“She’s got nineteen dollars!” the trim boy declared again.

“That’s bad,” responded the husky boy.

The trim boy turned the woman’s purse upside down, shaking it until its contents scattered across the floor, as his friend laughed.

“No! Please!” the woman cried out. She dropped to the floor, trying to collect her things. She heard the boys’ mocking laughter as they stood over her. “Please! Don’t hurt me!” the woman begged when the husky boy grabbed her coat, pulling her up to kneel between them. “Please! Please!”

As the lights continued flickering, the boys began kicking and punching the woman.

The door at the other end of the car banged open. Someone entered, slamming the door shut.

“What was that?” The husky boy turned toward the sound. When the lights flashed on for a moment, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped open.

A cloaked figure – animal face, hairy paws, sharp claws – roared, charging them.

The intruder shoved the husky boy away from the woman; his head smacked into a wall. When the trim boy turned to help his friend, the intruder swiped at him, his claws slashing open the boy’s throat and chest. The trim boy grasped his throat, collapsing. The woman screamed, trying to back away. The husky boy pulled out a knife, jabbing at the intruder, who evaded with a twist, grabbing the boy’s hand, wrenching it backwards. The boy grimaced, crying out, his hand opening of its own volition; the knife clattered free. The intruder dug his claws deep into the boy’s torso and abdomen, then dropped him to the floor.

The intruder turned to the woman. She knelt, cowering away from him, arms raised in fear and defense. Without a word, the intruder passed her, exiting the car.

The woman smiled after the intruder, grateful to be safe.