CHAPTER 16 ~ STRAINED

Catherine went to work that morning certain that her restless night, finished by her horrible nightmare, showed on her face. Yet determination to exonerate Vincent, no matter what, permeated and galvanized her. She would start by contacting the latest crime victim saved by the slasher, the woman attacked by the two boys, and getting a description of her savior. If it did not sound like Vincent, that would be the end of it.

And if it does, she thought, entering the office, I won’t wait for him to come to me.

Catherine went directly to the computer room, finding Edie already at work on her computer.

“You look sadder than my last date,” Edie remarked with a chuckle, fingers flying over the computer keyboard as Catherine sat in the empty chair beside her. When Catherine did not even acknowledge her teasing, Edie asked sympathetically, “Anything I can do?”

“I need to see the file on a Mrs. Beatrice Dalby,” Catherine stated with no preamble.

“That’s the… cleaning lady saved by the slasher, right?”

“Right.”

“I didn’t know you were supposed to question her.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why?” Edie paused typing, turning slightly to look at Catherine.

Catherine glanced at Edie, looked down for a moment, then met Edie’s gaze.

“Let’s just say I have a very dirty apartment,” Catherine said. She watched Edie shake her head, smiling and huffing a sigh.

“All right, Cathy.” Edie began typing again. “I’ll print it up for you.”

“Thanks.” Catherine stood. “Would you mind bringing it out to me? I haven’t even been to my desk yet this morning.”

“Just this once.” Edie gave her a friendly smile.

“You’re the best,” Catherine commended, turning to leave.

“Don’t you know it,” Edie returned.

Catherine went to her desk, hanging her coat over the back of her chair and tucking her purse in a lower desk drawer, then sitting with a sigh. She pulled the next of Joe’s files in front of her, opening it and scanning for pertinent information. When Edie brought her Mrs. Dalby’s file, she paused her investigation to find out how to contact Mrs. Dalby. On discovering that she worked nights for a downtown office building, providing after-hours cleaning services, Catherine decided to go see her there after work. In the meantime, she spent her day digging through the files Joe gave her, while Jason Walker’s opinions and Vincent’s not coming to see her swirled together with her nightmare in discordant background noise for her thoughts. Every time the nightmare Vincent’s snarling visage flashed through her mind, she fought back a spike of fear.

He will never hurt me! she told herself repeatedly. When her fear only increased, she shoved it down deep, refusing to give it credence. No! He will never hurt me!

If only she could convince her heart to cling to what her mind knew to be true.

* * *

Vincent felt Catherine’s fear rise in steady waves as the day progressed and began to regret not going to her. He wondered if Father and Mary had the correct notion, that this fear consuming his Catherine could have been abated with a visit from him. But then that nightmare had exacerbated it. A piece of him believed that she now feared him fully, as so many others had. It felt odd to realize that his inner self scoffed at that idea, convinced that her trust remained unwavering and that very little effort on his part would amply demonstrate his gentleness.

He jerked his ruminations quickly from that train of thought.

No! he told himself. Her fear is real. Like everyone else’s. Experience had been a thorough, if vicious, instructor.

* * *

When her workday finished, Catherine took a taxi to the high-rise where Mrs. Dalby worked. She met the security guard and one of the cleaning crew in the lobby.

“May I help you, ma’am?” asked the security guard, approaching her.

“Yes.” Catherine showed her identification to the guard. “I’m with the District Attorney’s office. I’m looking for Beatrice Dalby.”

“Bea is up on the fourth floor,” offered the cleaner. “Probably in the boardroom.”

“Thank you.” Catherine smiled at the two men, then took the elevators to the fourth floor, went to the boardroom, and walked in. She found Mrs. Dalby collecting garbage and wiping the table, her cleaning cart close by.

“Mrs. Dalby?” Catherine confirmed. When Mrs. Dalby glanced at her, she approached and continued, “I’m Catherine Chandler, with the District Attorney’s office.”

Mrs. Dalby looked at her, pausing her work, asking, “When are you people going to leave me alone? I got work to do. I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

“This won’t take long, I promise,” Catherine said kindly, watching Mrs. Dalby resume her work, moving down the length of the table. She followed down the opposite side, beginning, “You say you never got a good look at the slasher.”

“Don’t call him that!” reproved Mrs. Dalby, gazing at Catherine. “That man saved me.” She rounded the table, passed Catherine, and worked on the other side. “And all you people want to do is hunt him down like some animal. Where were all you people when those boys were kicking on me?” She paused her reproach, wiping down a leather chair. Then she looked back at Catherine. “I didn’t see him. I told you people that. I told you and I told you. The lights were going on and off. What kind of a subway is that, we can’t even keep the lights on?”

“Well, surely when the lights came on, you saw something, if only for a second.”

“I was on the floor, hurting. I still have bruises where those boys kicked me. I didn’t see no part of that man.” Mrs. Dalby turned back to her work.

“You’re protecting him, aren’t you?” Catherine surmised. Concern for just what that could mean fanned the flames of her fear and settled on her face. She stepped closer, murmuring, “Mrs. Dalby, I’m not even supposed to be here.” She watched Mrs. Dalby pause her labor, gazing across the room at some unseen memory. “This is personal for me. I have a friend. I think…” she sighed, a near sob. “I don’t know what to think. I’m afraid that he was involved. If you could tell me what you saw, anything… his face… his hands…”

“His face,” repeated Mrs. Dalby, shaking her head, her own fear and uncertainty clear. “His hands… he didn’t have hands… just claws. And his face… I’ll never forget that face. He wasn’t a man. He wasn’t a human man at all. He was like… like… an angel.” Her lips curved up slightly, her face softening a bit. Then her fear came back, twisting her expression. “A terrible angel, come to save me.”

“A terrible angel,” Catherine repeated, worried. “Thank you,” she whispered, nodding, then heading toward the door.

“You won’t tell them, will you?” Mrs. Dalby implored, twisting around, watching Catherine go.

Catherine stopped, turning back, assuring her, “No.”

“I got to ride that same train tonight, Ms. Chandler.”

Catherine nodded her understanding.

As Catherine left Mrs. Dalby, determination filled her to go see Vincent. Once home, she changed into jeans, a flannel shirt over a long-sleeve thermal top, and hiking shoes. Then, careful to be unseen, she went to the basement and descended the ladder to the threshold, closing the access panel behind her as she went. She considered sending a message on the pipes, informing Vincent that she was coming, but decided against it, since her last message went unheeded. She entered the tunnels, trusting her memory to guide her back through the way she had come out with Ellie. Traveling carefully, she watched for familiar sights, but the journey felt longer than before. She recognized several areas, but they seemed to be in the wrong order, and never led where she thought they should. Finally, she reached a point where nothing was familiar; she was lost.

Chill crept into her; she shivered, wishing she had brought a jacket. Afraid of becoming more lost, she sat on the ground, her back to the tunnel wall, waiting. That Vincent had not yet come to her bolstered her belief that he was terribly hurt and angry. Her steadily increasing fear – of how he now felt about her, of being lost, of maybe never being found again – taunted her with the nightmare image of him roaring at her.

“Vincent,” she whispered, “please come find me. I’m sorry.” She knew he felt what she did, so she clung to her desperation to prove her trust, to see him again, to see anyone again.

The ten minutes on her watch had felt like forever when she finally heard young, happy voices coming down the path. A boy, she guessed around nine years old, ran around the bend not far from her, his head turned, looking behind him with a laugh in his throat. He faced forward again and saw her, stopping in his tracks.

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“You know who I am,” exclaimed another boy of around the same age, rounding the bend. Then he stopped, also staring at Catherine. “Was he talking to you?” he inquired of her.

“Now, boys,” called a voice Catherine knew, “let me catch up to you.” Mary came around the bend. “Well, hello,” she greeted, surprised. “What are you doing down here alone?”

“Mary?” queried Catherine, rising to her feet.

“Oh, yes, that’s right, you never did see me, did you, Catherine.” She turned to the boys, telling them, “This is Vincent’s friend, Catherine. She’s the one he saved some months back.”

“Oh, I remember you.” The first boy smiled at her. “I saw Vincent bring you down. I’m Geoffrey.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Catherine replied. She took his offered hand, receiving a firm, grown-up grip, which told her someone had coached him.

“I’m Kipper,” the second boy stated, extending his hand and delivering a similar handshake. “I got tea for you once.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Catherine wrapped her arms around herself and began rubbing her arms to stave off the chill.

“Are you cold?” Mary questioned. She pulled a handmade shawl off her shoulders. “Here, wrap up in this.” She draped the shawl around Catherine.

“Thank you, Mary. I was on my way to see Vincent, but I somehow got turned around.”

“Well, you just come with us.” Mary smiled, leading the way down the tunnel.

“I can guide her from here, Mary.” Vincent came around the bend toward them. “I know you and the boys are headed elsewhere.”

“All right, Vincent.” Mary glanced between Vincent and Catherine, letting them both know she was aware of the tension between them.

They traveled together to the next tunnel junction, the boys laughing and playing, the adults quiet and troubled. Then, Mary took the boys one way and Vincent led Catherine another.

Vincent walked in front of Catherine, his gaze straight ahead. He remained silent, afraid that anything he could say or do would only frighten her more. He resisted the urging of his inner self that wanted to do something, anything, to allay her fears, himself afraid that to try would only intensify the problem.

Several times, Catherine reached out, almost touching Vincent, then pulled her hand back. She wanted to talk to him, not to his back, yet she did not know where to begin. She knew this tension between them stemmed from her fears, her doubts.

Vincent led Catherine to the tunnel entrance of his chamber, then extended his hand, indicating she should enter first. He watched her enter, cross the chamber, and turn around. He followed her but remained just inside the entrance. He leaned against the exposed metal strut next to the doorway, hands on the strut beside his hips, legs stretched before him, ankles crossed, gaze fixed to the floor.

“Vincent,” Catherine began, not knowing how to continue as Vincent just stood there. She sighed, turning her own eyes to the floor.

Finally, Vincent said, “It’s a good thing we found you, Catherine.”

“I thought I’d remember. I must have… gotten turned around somehow. Everything seems so different… strange.”

“The ways change, Catherine. For every safe road there are a hundred paths that lead only to darkness.”

“I had to come,” Catherine whispered, looking up at him. “I had to see you. I was afraid…”

“I know,” Vincent softly replied.

“You didn’t come,” Catherine asserted. “I called, I banged on the pipes. You never came.”

“I could feel your fear, Catherine.” Vincent finally raised his eyes to hers. “Even now… I frighten you.”

Catherine stepped toward him, shortening the space between them by half, reminding him, “You taught me to face my fears always, Vincent. Tell me…”

“What should I tell you? That I am not this… shadow, this… man-monster that you hunt? Must you hear the words before you trust?”

Catherine heard his soft, gentle tone, but felt the sting of his words. Still, she gave a single, barely perceptible, nod.

“Hear them, then. It is not me. Catherine,” he pulled away from the strut, taking two steps toward her, “I would never hurt you.”

With her fear still elevated – from being lost, from the terrible memory of her nightmare that had plagued her all day – for a split-second Catherine’s mind displayed the angry, snarling Vincent of her nightmare. She gasped as he approached her, stepping away from him.

Vincent paused, sighed, and stepped back, dropping his gaze, then walked past her to the other side of his chamber.

“No, Vincent, no.” Catherine immediately realized the pain her initial reaction caused him. “I’m sorry!” She turned toward him, tears in her voice, “I didn’t mean –”

“To pull away? I know.” His rough voice betrayed his fight to control his volatile inner self, raging at the fear that kept her away from him and desperate to lash out at something, anything, to make it hurt as badly as he did. His hand flew up, ready to smash the lamp hanging from his ceiling, his body tensed. He stopped, forced himself to relax, lowering his hand, blowing out a harsh breath. He turned, paced a few steps away from her, then back, trying to release some of his pent-up tension.

“I know your heart, Catherine.” His eyes met hers. “But sometimes the words that are not spoken are the truest words of all… however much they hurt.”

“What are you saying?” Catherine whispered.

“We both know what these hands can do…” Vincent raised his hands up, looking at them, “have done. Catherine… if your heart does not trust, then no words I speak could help.” He dropped his gaze, then grabbed his cloak. He stepped close to her again. This time she did not recoil.

“It’s time for you to go home.” Vincent headed toward the entrance of his chamber, then turned back, ensuring she followed.

Catherine felt the weight of Vincent’s words, knowing they were true, but at a loss at how to convince her heart, and him, that she trusted him. She followed him out, stifling her tears.

Vincent continued into the tunnels without waiting for her to catch up to him.

Once they reached the uninhabited sections of tunnels, Catherine said, “Vincent, please let me explain a little bit. I know it probably won’t help, and I’m not trying to justify my doubts, just clarify their origin. The people the vigilante attacked looked like they had been clawed to death. The pictures I saw reminded me of how you had defended me. I knew it couldn’t be you, but I just wanted to see you and hear you say it. Then fear clawed at me, of how my need to hear it would surely hurt you, maybe anger you, make you doubt my faith in you. Tonight I spoke with the woman who was saved in the last attack. She said the vigilante didn’t look human, that his hands just looked like claws.”

She looked up into his face when Vincent paused his steps and turned to her. Her chin quivered. She dropped her gaze to the floor. “You didn’t respond when I called you last night. And I had a terrible nightmare.”

“I know,” Vincent murmured.

“I’m sorry, Vincent.” Catherine’s voice crept softly from her as she raised her tear-filled eyes to his solemn gaze. “I’m sorry you picked up on the nightmare. Tonight, when I got lost before you came to me, that fear of how upset you must be… I’m sorry I let that fear consume me. I do know you will never hurt me.”

Vincent glanced at the floor, then nodded once before resuming his steps.

The rest of their walk back was quiet, melancholy. When they reached the opening to the brick-lined tunnel that would take her to her threshold, Vincent stopped.

Catherine pulled the shawl off her shoulders, holding it out to him, saying, “Mary let me borrow this. Will you return it to her, please?”

He nodded, taking the shawl from her hands.

“Vincent…” Catherine stepped toward him, desperate to convince him of her trust.

Vincent moved back, dropping his gaze to his hand, studying it a moment, before turning it over, running his thumb along his claws. Then he looked up at her.

“Good night, Catherine.” Vincent turned and walked away.

“Vincent!” Catherine called out, reaching for him; he kept walking. The finality in his voice made her certain she would never see him again. Sorrow overwhelmed her fear on the way back to her apartment, where she sat on her couch and cried.

* * *

Vincent forced himself to walk home, restraining his inner self which wanted to run, rage, rend at the loss of Catherine. It also wanted to return to her and prove she was safe with him, demonstrate how gentle he could be, that he would never hurt her, until she never doubted again. Vincent forced his inner self to quiet, understand her perspective, give her time, and hope this was not the end.

He took the long way back, wandering, diverting his path when he heard others, except when he handed Mary’s shawl off to Brooke, asking her to return it. He sought solitude. Time passed unmeasured. Eventually, he went to the Whispering Gallery, where the tunnels contained an abyss that dropped into bottomless mist, spanned by several bridges, both natural stone and man-made with wood and ropes. A breeze filtered through this gulf, bringing whispers down from the world above, snippets of conversations or music.

He sat on the edge of one of the wooden bridges between two posts missing a section of safety rope from the rail, his legs dangled over the side, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. He sat, listened, thought, and calmed his inner self. He looked up for a moment when he heard Father approach from a tunnel entrance on one side of the bridge, a torch in one hand, his cane in the other.

“Vincent? Are you all right?” Father asked.

Vincent eyed him wordlessly for a moment, then glanced down before turning his gaze back over the abyss, remaining silent.

Father put the torch in a bracket on the wall beside the entrance.

“I’ve heard the children talk of this place.” Father approached Vincent.

“It was our secret place when I was a child. I used to come down here with my friends.” Vincent huffed a gentle laugh. “We thought it was magic.”

“Magic?”

“All the tunnels. If you stand in just the right place, you can hear sounds… whispers from the world above… people on the subway… children playing in their homes… lovers walking in the park… sounds of a thousand different lives… if you know just where to stand. The magic places, we called them.”

“It’s Catherine, isn’t it?” Father supported himself, one hand on his cane and the other on a rail post, carefully kneeling one leg down beside Vincent.

“I can hear her fears whispering to me, no matter where I stand.”

“She cannot help being afraid, Vincent. Her world is built on fear. It’s all they know. With the lives they’re forced to lead… if they weren’t afraid… they’d be insane.”

“I know.”

“We have something they only dream of… a safe place, a secret place…” Father let his gaze wander contemplatively around the cavern, “beyond their… madness…” he looked back at his son, “and their fear.”

Vincent considered Father’s words, leaning his back against the post beside him, one foot flat on the bridge, an arm on his upright knee, facing Father.

“Sometimes I would run down here when we played hide-and-seek. But before the game was over, Father, they always found me. Even here.” He turned his gaze back out to the abyss.

Father reached out, grasping Vincent’s arm in comfort. He tried to stem the tide of worry blossoming in his heart over this new relationship and the distress it brought his son.

* * *

Catherine fell into bed, exhausted and emotionally spent, her balcony door open for fresh air. Her thoughts swirled with facts, speculations, imaginings, trying to make sense of the subway slasher case. Vincent confirmed it was not him; deep down she always knew it could not be. It must be someone else – but who? When she finally dozed off, dreams filled her restless sleep with random, bizarre images.

A cloaked figure, face hidden behind a hood, a shadow in darkness, turned to her, suddenly replaced by her Vincent, roaring angrily while defending her. Defending her from the shadow?

The cloaked figure, face still hidden, approached.

Vincent’s honest statement, “It is not me.”    

The cloaked figure turned to look at her again.

Mrs. Dalby named him, “A terrible angel.”

“Have you done anything?” Catherine asked Jace.

“Not as much as we’d like to,” Jace replied.

The cloaked figure approached as Jace’s refrain repeated, “Not as much as we’d like to. Not as much as we’d like to. Not as much as we’d like to.”

Light shone on the cloaked figure, lighting Jace’s face under the hood.

Catherine bolted upright in bed, the pieces falling into place. Jace’s disdain for the justice system; his belief in fighting back against crime; his insistence of the slasher’s justification; his wall of weapons and proficiency with them.

The claws! she thought, remembering a pair of metal claws, shaped like a bear’s paws, with straps to tie them on hands, hanging on the wall of Jace’s office. She just needed proof. She went out on her balcony and looked over the park, wishing she could tell Vincent her suspicions; tell him how sorry she was for her fears. Wishing she could simply see him again.

She choked back a sob at the fear that she would never again have that privilege.