CHAPTER 15 ~ SOUGHT

Back at the office, Catherine settled in at her desk, continuing her inspection of the files for any potential leads. As she worked, memories of Vincent’s attack on Belmont and his men swirled together with Jace’s assertions. She could not dismiss, however much she wanted to, that Vincent was capable of such actions, but neither could she believe that he was prone to them. She remained certain that he would not take Jace’s cavalier stance regarding such behavior. Jace, who nearly rejoiced in the presence of the Subway Slasher, was a more likely suspect than Vincent, truth be told. But Jace maintained a high profile in the community; it would be difficult for him to pull something this big off. She could not yet guess how he could have managed it.

For her own confirmation, she needed to talk to Vincent; however, fear clawed at her as that thought took root. Not fear of Vincent himself, but of hurting him with the accusation, of making him angry, or worse disappointed, with her need for corroboration.

He is not involved! she adamantly told herself. He is good and gentle. Verification of his noninvolvement is all I seek.

* * *

Catherine’s turbulent emotions whispered in Vincent’s heart as he stood near Father’s desk in the library, watching the council members take what seats they could find. All knew what they planned to discuss, but the hushed whispers indicated that opinions varied on what should be done.

“Thank you all for coming,” Father began, sitting at his desk and waiting a moment as the mild chatter ceased. “I know we’ve all been watching the situation with the attacks on the subways.”

“Or the defending of innocents by a stranger who doesn’t stick around for credit, depending on who you ask,” put in William.

“Heroes don’t go looking for trouble,” stated Winslow. “I’m all for defending innocents, but four attacks in under a week says pattern behavior to me, not just a response to a problem you happen across. He’s looking for battles. Good people don’t do that.”

“Be that as it may, this person poses a significant risk to us,” Father continued. “And not only for our safety as we go Above. If the authorities decide to investigate too deeply into his subway access, we risk exposure. We need to decide how we should respond to this. If we can discover anything, perhaps a word in the ear of the right person can send the authorities Above in the right direction, so they don’t look too closely our way.”

“Does he have an M.O.?” asked William. “Particular trains he attacks on? Certain days or times?”

“We can find that information in the newspaper reports that have covered his actions,” Vincent said.

“Let’s find out, then station sentries in the connecting stations,” Winslow advised. “And maybe in the empty spaces between, maintenance access ports and such. Since we only want to find out how he’s coming and going, make sure they know not to confront him. Just stay hidden and message on the pipes after he’s gone.” He looked at Vincent. “Will you tell your friend Catherine? She works for the D.A., right? She should be able to tell the right people what we find out.”

“We’ll decide that when we have something to tell,” interjected Father. “For now, let’s do as we have discussed and make sure everyone knows to be extra careful when they go Above. We don’t know how dangerous this man may be.”

“What about the children?” posed Mary. “Should we keep them home until this is over? I don’t like the idea of them wandering alone with this vigilante on the loose.”

“The children will be safe as long as they don’t confront him,” Vincent soothed. “So far, he’s only attacked those actively committing a crime, so we’ll tell the children to remain unseen. However, they take pride in their responsibilities. It helps them know they are valued and contributing members of our community. We shouldn’t take that from them unless the danger becomes imminent.” He chuckled. “Besides, we have some who may take it upon themselves to find this man, if they are not… more constructively employed.”

“True enough,” agreed Winslow, smirking.

“So, we tell them to hide if they see him,” Pascal said. “Then send a message on the pipes when it’s clear. Like the sentries. Speaking of which, if he’s wandering the between places of the subways, maybe we should keep the pipes quiet, except for news of the vigilante, until this is over. Why risk him, or anyone looking for him, hearing tapping they can’t identify? That could be worse than just his presence.”

“That’s a good idea,” contributed Rebecca. Then she grinned. “We can also tell the children who need employment that they need to stick around as runners, since the pipes will be quiet. That should help deter the more obstreperous ones from unnecessary dangerous pursuits.”

“We appear to have a plan in place,” Father concluded. “Does anyone have anything else to add?” He glanced around at them as each declined further comment. “Very well. We are adjourned.”

Various conversations broke out as everyone rose to return to their duties.

“Vincent, would you please help me with some heavy bundles?” Mary asked as they left the library.

“Certainly, Mary.”

Mary took surreptitious glances at the baby boy she had watched grow into a man, knowing he sensed her love and motherly concern. She was not an empath of his caliber, but her mother’s heart knew something vexed him.

Mary smiled when they reached the laundry, grateful that someone not long before her time Below had rigged a mini laundromat with a half dozen machines run by waterfall-driven hydroelectric power and gray water disposal. She opened one of the dryers, pulling out a blanket and holding out one side to Vincent.

“Is everything all right, Vincent? You seem distracted. Is something bothering you?”

Vincent sighed, taking the end of the blanket from Mary, holding it out to help fold it, then replied, “Catherine is disturbed. I can feel in her… anxiety… doubt… fear… of me. I know it shouldn’t, but… it hurts.”

“I’ve been around long enough to know the pain of having someone you love doubt you.” She put the ends of the blanket together, beginning the process of bringing order to the jumbled cloth. “May I ask, how well can you identify the source of her fear?”

“I know only that it revolves around me.”

“There are many kinds of fear. Is it fear of you or fear for you? Can you tell which? Is it fear that you could hurt her or fear that she might hurt you with her doubt or questions?”

Vincent canted his head, considering his response, then replied, “She’s not afraid I will hurt her. She doesn’t want to believe it, but she’s afraid that I may be involved in this subway affair. And I sense her desire to talk to me about it, but she’s afraid it will upset me. She’s afraid I will be angry with her.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Mary set the folded blanket in a basket beside another, already full of clean linens, and pulled another blanket from the dryer.

Vincent grasped the end of the blanket Mary held out to him, answering, “Her fear… guts me. My… inner self is in turmoil… volatile… ready to lash out… destroy the cause of her fear. Or…” he ducked his head, refusing to meet her eyes, “prove she is safe with me. I feel like I’m… clinging to reason by… a frayed rope. How can I face her? What if I lose control?”

“Vincent, consider that your… inner turmoil might be alleviated by visiting with her, clearing the air. You’ve said she grounds you. I doubt you will lash out in her presence. I think it would be better to see her than let the uncertainty build.”

“Perhaps.” Vincent glanced around the laundry, then changed the subject. “Where do these linens need to go?”

“I have two more loads to fold in the other dryers, then I need your help getting them to their respective places. Bedding to the children’s dormitories, towels to the kitchen and bathing chambers. Thank you for your help, Vincent.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mary.”

* * *

“So, how are you liking the D.A.’s office?” Charles asked Catherine as they ate together at his favorite restaurant.

Catherine tried to share dinner with her father at least once a week since she left his firm. Yet tonight she would have preferred to discuss something besides her job, or the disturbing thoughts it engendered. She hardly knew what to make of those thoughts herself. Still, her father might have some useful insights.

“I find it very fulfilling for the most part,” she replied. “Though some cases are more wearing than others. Right now, I’m assigned to the subway slasher case.”

“Well, that can’t be fun. How are you handling it?”

“Fine. I talked with a couple of people today who had… an interesting perspective. It gave me a lot to think about.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Well.” She took a bite, thinking for a moment. “The people who’ve been saved, they’re just grateful he was there. They say he’s a hero.”

“Some of the papers are saying that, too.”

“Well, what if he is?” she posed. “What if he’s just some guy, at the right place, at the right time, doing a good deed for his fellow man?”

He looked askance at her, propounding, “By killing other people?”

“I know; it’s a stretch. It raises questions. Like, why didn’t he just stop the criminals and detain them for the authorities, or only do just enough to prevent the crime, instead of killing them? Why didn’t he stay and talk to the police, to make sure they knew he was just being… a Good Samaritan?” Catherine paused again, sipping her wine, but found it hard to swallow; she remembered that was how she described Vincent. “Still, what if he was just in the right place at the right time? Would that make him a hero instead of a vigilante?”

“Isn’t it also a stretch,” he posited, “to think he could be in the right place, at the right time, four times in one week, and kill people every time?”

“Yes, it is.” Catherine sighed. “But that implies that he is intentionally placing himself in a position to intervene if something happens. Which would mean that he is chasing trouble, possibly even hunting for a kill. That idea paints this in a much more sinister light.”

“It would certainly make him more of a psychopath.”

“And what would he be trying to accomplish by it? Is he just stopping crime? Is he using what he considers… a good cause to justify indulging violent impulses? Is he perhaps sending a message – criminals beware?”

Charles smiled at her, replying, “Probably a little of each, all rolled into one.”

Catherine raised her eyebrows, giving half a nod. None of these descriptions fit the Vincent she knew, the good, gentle, patient man. Still, the wounds the slasher left on his victims were too similar to the wounds Vincent left on Belmont and his men. She could not dismiss the possibility, however desperately she wanted to.

“So, what do you think his motive is?” asked Charles. “Good Samaritan, vigilante, or psychopath?”

“I guess that’s what I have to find out.”

* * *

Catherine considered what her father had said while she took a taxi back home. Later, standing on her balcony, looking out over the city nightscape, she could not escape the urge crawling through her brain, telling her that she needed to verify that Vincent was not involved. She wanted more than anything to simply trust him, to dismiss the notion as ridiculous, but fear invaded her heart, whispering to her of what if. Fear made her question what she believed, what she knew. Fear made her ask herself if she could be wrong.

She grabbed her coat and took her length of pipe to the basement. In the tunnel, she used the code Vincent had taught her, tapping a message to him, requesting to see him. When he taught her about messaging on the pipes, he told her to pause after sending and listen for a return message, an acknowledgment that someone received hers. So, after she sent her message, she listened.

The pipes remained silent.

She waited for a full minute, then tapped out her message again.

* * *

Vincent sat in his chair, his gaze fixed on the white queen from his chess set, grasped between a forefinger and thumb. He heard Father approach and enter his chamber, felt Father watch him for a moment before stepping into the room and standing in front of him.

“Vincent, we’ve received a message from Catherine. She wants to see you. No one has responded since we’re keeping the pipes quiet for now. But since she doesn’t know that, it would be acceptable for you to reply. Did you get the message?”

Vincent remained motionless, his voice monotone as he answered, “I received it.”

Father frowned for a moment, then asked, “Are you going to reply?”

Vincent sighed, inquiring, “What could I say to her? She’s afraid, Father. Afraid of me, of what I’ll say or how I’ll feel because she doubts me. She’s afraid she might be wrong about me, that I might be involved in this situation. Yet I can’t fathom why that would be a question. So, how can I go to her without increasing her fear?”

“Don’t you think it might be better to go see her? Perhaps you just need to… clear the air with her. Perhaps she just needs to see you again, talk to you, to remember … who you’ve clearly demonstrated that you are.”

Vincent sighed again, slumping his shoulders and frowning, then murmured, “That’s what Mary said. But, Father… it hurts that it would be necessary to do that.”

Father stepped close, wrapping his arm around Vincent’s shoulders.

* * *

Catherine continued sending her message for over an hour. She stopped waiting long for a response, repeating one after another, pausing only briefly between them. Finally, she lowered her pipe, then listened, putting her ear right against the pipes; she received no response.

Dejection overwhelmed her. Vincent would not come. She knew he sensed her emotions and could only imagine how angry he must be with her to refuse her request for a visit. Head hung, shoulders slumped, still grasping her piece of pipe, she went to the ladder into her apartment building, pausing there. She turned back to the entry, hoping to hear something, or to see Vincent joining her. When desolate silence greeted her, she sighed and climbed the ladder.

Once home, she decided she needed a break from the case. She prepared for bed, then took a cup of tea, the newspaper, and a book out to her balcony. She clung to the thin hope that perhaps Vincent could not get away when she messaged him but would come to see her later. She would wait on the balcony to meet him if he did.

She sat in a patio chair, looking at the newspaper first. The headline screamed, “SUBWAY SLASHER: PSYCHOPATH OR SAVIOR?” Shaking her head, she put the paper on the table and picked up her book, knowing it would provide a better respite. As she read, she periodically stopped, looking around, and pondered how intense Vincent’s anger and disappointment must be that he refused to respond to her when she called. Remembering that he sensed her feelings, she tried to rein them in, but her fear crescendoed as she worried about how irate he must be over her doubt. So, she escaped into the book, losing all track of time.

Eventually, she closed the book, setting it on the table, pondering the situation as she watched for him. Then she fell asleep.

* * *

Catherine slept in her patio chair while Vincent crawled up the side of her balcony, straddling the ledge. Then she awoke, giving him a pleased smile.

“You came!” Catherine rose as he stepped onto her balcony, going to him, hugging him tightly. “Oh, you have no idea how much I needed to see you.” She smiled, clinging to him. When she realized he did not return her embrace, she pulled back slowly, looking up at him. “Vincent? What’s wrong?”

Vincent growled, then snarled angrily at her. His jaw opened; his growl deepened.

“Vincent?!” Catherine gasped, fear spiking through her. She tried to step away, but he grabbed her arms, pulling her closer. “No, Vincent. No. No! Aahh!” She screamed, dismayed, terrified, trying to get away. He shoved her into the patio chair, roaring furiously.

* * *

“Aaahhh!” Catherine screamed, jerking awake, the nightmare fresh in her mind. Dawn sunshine flooded her balcony, where she still sat, completely alone. Vincent had never come to her. She straightened up, looked around, then buried her face in her hands and wept, distraught that her fears and doubts had led to this.

* * *

Vincent bolted upright in bed, yelling, “Catherine!”

He had dreamed of her, a lovely dream. They walked through the tunnels holding hands; they talked, laughed, played. They sat by the waterfalls, enjoying the serenity, as he held her close. They danced in the Great Hall, just the two of them, waltzing over the floor.

Then the dream had morphed. He went to her balcony; she greeted him, pleased, embracing him. But he snarled, grabbing her arms mercilessly, growling angrily. She screamed, terrified, anguished; he roared, angry, cruel.

Then he jolted awake.

Vincent sensed Catherine’s fright at her nightmare fade to sorrow in her wakefulness. The man-monster terrorizing her city, who she had to find, stirred thoughts and doubts in her that she hated, could not believe, yet could not dismiss. And in avoiding her, because of his own fear, he made her fears worse. Tears welled in Vincent’s eyes, for the fear that tried to divide them, for the trouble she faced that brought the fear with it. As his inner self roared in grief, he let the tears fall.