Dancing in the Shadows

Ayiana

Chapter 4

Diana Bennett's building was old and musty, with the grime of decades shoring up its walls. Joe double-checked the address against the slip of paper in his hand and hit the buzzer.

"Hello?" Her voice was cool. Professional. And vaguely annoyed.

"Hi, it's Joe Maxwell. We talked this morning?" There was no response. "Hello?"

"I told you I can't do it."

Joe thought of Cathy, missing, hurt. Maybe worse. "Look, I have no place else to go." He took a breath. "Please?" There was another long silence. "Hello?" He hit the buzzer again. "Hello!"

Finally, she answered in short, clipped words clearly meant to convey her impatience. "Fifth floor." The door lock buzzed open.

He didn't give her a chance to change her mind. She was his best hope of finding out what had happened to Cathy, and the fact that he'd had to step on a few toes and call in a few favors to get her address only made his relief that much more acute.

The elevator creaked its way up, the doors finally opening on a closed gate. On the other side, a woman watched him. Her legs were braced wide, her arms folded across her chest, and if there'd been any doubt in Joe's mind about her mood, one look at her cleared it up. She had the trim look of an athlete, but she hid it behind a bulky, shapeless sweater and faded sweatpants. Still, she was attractive in an easy, nature-girl kind of way, and younger than Joe had expected.

She looked tired. And irritated. And she made no move to open the gate.

"Where'd you get my address?"

"From your watch commander."

She raised an eyebrow. "Call in a favor?"

"A big one." Had it been a mistake? She’d been firm with him on the phone, almost rude, but he'd come anyway, hoping he could change her mind if he talked to her face to face.

"You realize this is completely unfair."

The stiff set of her shoulders and the cold wariness in her eyes did little to encourage him. He sighed. "All I'm asking you to do is take a look at something."

"You're asking me to set aside one case for another, and I can't do that."

He stepped forward, staring at her through the metal grate. "Not even for one day?"

She looked away. After a moment, she reached for the gate and slid it open. "Let me show you something."

She led him to a large desk covered with papers. A bulletin board on the wall behind it displayed an assortment of news clippings and pictures.

"This is where I've been for the last four months," she said. "Meet Sally Rogers." She pointed to one of the pictures. "Ten years old. Grabbed waiting for her mom outside the school." The little girl stood between her parents, an impish grin on her face, dark hair shining in the sun. "A hundred and seventeen days. And nothing. Not even an anonymous tip." Diana's shoulders were stiff, and her eyes, when she glanced at Joe, were dark with frustration. "Until last Sunday, when the guy started sending stuff to her parents. A lock of hair. Piece of clothing. A shoe." She took a breath. "Yesterday a package arrived with a small finger inside."

A shudder went through her, and her voice dropped. Little Sally Rogers couldn't have asked for a more passionate advocate.

"Lab says she's still alive." With a sigh, Diana turned away from the bulletin board to lean against the desk. "What can I do for you, Joe Maxwell?"

He shook his head, his eyes still on the picture. What had he been thinking? Of course this little girl’s case was a higher priority than Cathy’s. He’d let personal feelings get in the way of professional responsibility, something he’d accused Cathy herself of doing on more than one occasion. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."

Diana sighed, and her gaze slid away, going once more to the photo-covered bulletin board. When she looked back at him, there was a silent apology in her eyes. She gave him a wan smile. "Sometimes I push too hard."

"No," Joe said. "I was wrong to come here. I'm sorry." He moved toward the elevator. He needed time to think, to try to get some perspective on the case before it destroyed him.

She followed him over, resting an arm against the doorframe. "So," she said. "This woman. Was she important to you?"

He nodded warily. "We worked together. But it was more than that."

"Romantic?"

He shook his head. Whatever he might have felt, he’d always known that Cathy only viewed their relationship one way. "Friends."

"And when she disappeared, you asked to head the investigation."

Professional suicide, he knew. He didn’t need her to remind him of it.

She shook her head, giving him a sympathetic smile. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Trail went cold fast. You blamed yourself. Then you worked harder and harder until all your other work suffered."

Somehow, he sensed she was speaking from personal experience. "You could say that."

"And then you began to dream about her, and your mind took these illogical leaps. And you followed absurd leads and intuitions and pretty soon you couldn't think of anything else."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She was dead on.

Lifting her hands in a gesture of pained helplessness, she met his eyes. "That's why I only work on one case at a time."

"They're all like that for you?"

She took a breath. Blew it out on a sigh. "Yep." Turning away, she walked back across the loft.

On an impulse, Joe went after her. "Let me ask you something."

She stopped and turned, eyebrows raised.

"What do you make of this? A woman is violently kidnapped. Six months later she turns up in her own bed, a half step away from death's door. Only there's no sign of a struggle, so whatever happened didn't happen there." He shoved his hands in his pockets, a nervous habit he’d picked up years ago and had never quite been able to shake. "Somebody brought her back. Up seventeen flights with no witnesses. And now she's missing again." He glanced at the bulletin board and then back to meet her eyes. "Somebody came after her in the hospital—when only a handful of people even knew she'd been found."

Diana shook her head. "I don't know," she said softly.

"Nobody does. And in three weeks, nobody's gonna care. And that's why I came here." He tilted his head toward her work area. "I hope you find that girl." Without another word, he walked away, pulling the elevator gate closed behind him.

********************

Once again, Catherine found herself swimming up from the depths of unconsciousness. But it was different this time. This time, awareness brought with it the sweet scent of warm candle wax, the comfort of Vincent’s fingers wrapped around hers, and the flowing cadence of his familiar voice. She was alive, and safe, deep beneath the city, protected by the stony security of the hidden tunnels and the strength of Vincent's love.

She had thought she would never again hear the low, musical intonations that sounded like warm honey to her ears. He was reading Great Expectations, and as she listened, Pip came to life again in her imagination. Vincent had an almost magical ability to give every word he read a depth and color of its own, and listening to him was one of the great pleasures of her life. She recognized the passage he was reading—past the midpoint of the book—and wondered how long she had been unconscious.

"Vincent." Her voice sounded weak, even to her own ears, but he was by her side in an instant, his hair spilling forward over his shoulders, his face haggard with worry and lack of sleep.

"Catherine." He lifted their joined hands and kissed her fingers. "Catherine, I thought—" His grip tightened convulsively.

"I know." She wanted to reach up to him, to touch him, to bury her fingers in the glorious golden hair and pull him close. But she didn’t have the strength. "I know."

"I held you in my arms, Catherine. I watched you die." His voice caught on the last word, and she squeezed his hand.

"I felt you with me," she said. "I felt your love. It . . . called to me."

"Even—"

She nodded. "Even there."

He stared at her, stunned. "But how is that possible?"

She had no answer to that. Something, some miracle, had given them a second chance, and if she could bind herself to him forever and never again leave his side, she would do so in an instant.

"Catherine, had I known . . . had I realized—" He shook his head, his eyes going to her bandaged arm. "I would have brought you here."

"You couldn’t have known, Vincent." She pulled her hand from his and reached up to catch his chin, urging him to look at her. "You couldn’t have known."

He lifted his hand to lace his fingers with hers again. "I tried to find you, Catherine. I searched everywhere. I went Above every night—"

"I know." And she did know, because she knew him, knew that his love for her wouldn't let him rest until he found her.

"When I thought you had been taken from me forever—"He shook his head. "It was as though my heart had been torn away. I couldn't think, couldn't eat . . . I was lost."

"Hush," she whispered. "I'm here, now. It's over."

He nodded, and for a long moment they just looked at each other as time moved on without them.

At last, Vincent's shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath. "You’re in pain," he said. "I should call Father."

"You can feel that?" It seemed like a lifetime since she’d known the comfort that came with his sense of her.

He nodded. "And in the hospital . . . I felt your fear, Catherine. It drew me to you."

If she had thought about it, she would have realized that the bond was back. Without it, he could not have known to come to her. And yet his confirmation felt like a priceless gift. And now they were together, and she was alive, but there was something missing, something precious.

"He’s beautiful, Vincent." Her eyelids were heavy; her body was demanding sleep. But there was still so much she wanted to tell him, so much she needed him to understand. "Our son is beautiful." Her chest grew tight as she remembered the moment they'd taken him from her. "But I couldn’t protect him."

It seemed to her as if the tapping on the pipes took on a mournful tone.

"They took him away." In her mind, she saw once more the tiny pink face and the helpless, flailing little hands. "I never even got to hold him."

Vincent brushed his thumb soothingly against her wrist. "We'll find him, Catherine. I promise. "

She had spent so many terrifying months alone, isolated from everything and everyone she had ever known, so long that she had all but given up hope that she would ever see Vincent again. And now, this moment—the feel of his fingers in hers, the sight of his face, even the sound of his voice—was almost dreamlike to her, and she was afraid to close her eyes lest he disappear forever. But her body seemed determined to thwart her best efforts to stay awake.

"Will you do something for me?" She wanted to feel his arms around her, wanted to rest her head on his shoulder and listen to the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her ear.

"Anything, Catherine."

Careful not to jar her arm, she moved over on the bed, making a space for him by her side. "Will you . . . hold me?"

His hesitation lasted only a moment, a single heartbeat. Then he nodded. He rearranged the pillows and gathered her gently into his arms.

"Comfortable?" he asked, once he was settled. He rested his cheek against her hair, and she thought she'd never before experienced such a feeling of comfort.

"Yes. Thank you."

It was an intimacy he’d allowed only once before, and then with great reluctance. She had sensed his unease then, but hadn’t had the emotional strength to honor his needs. Indeed, she'd barely been able to acknowledge her own. That time, he'd held her until she'd fallen asleep, but she'd awakened alone. Now she snuggled close, certain somehow that when she woke up, he would still be by her side.

"Catherine."

His low voice rumbled through his chest beneath her ear. She was nearly asleep, drifting in a land of moonbeams and shadows, but something in his voice roused her, and she struggled to open her eyes, to focus on what he was saying. "Hmm?"

"I . . . don’t remember."

"Remember what?"

"We have a child, Catherine. A son. And I don’t remember—" Taking a long, slow breath, he asked, "Did I . . . hurt you?"

She felt the tension in him, the worry. Her arm throbbed beneath the layers of bandages, but she pushed aside the pain and shifted so that she could look into his eyes. "Don’t you know by now, Vincent? You could never hurt me."

In fact, he had been almost achingly tender, and the memory of those few hours in his arms had helped sustain her through the months of loneliness that came after.

"I’m only sorry," she said softly, "that you can’t remember."

His left arm was wrapped around her waist, and he stroked her ribs with his thumb. "Perhaps, Catherine . . . perhaps there will be another time." His voice was low, with a note of uncertainty mixed into the warm tones.

She smiled, relaxing against him. "I hope so."

His arm tightened around her, and she closed her eyes. Warm, safe, and loved.

********************

Joe stormed into his office and slammed the door. John Moreno had finally drawn his line in the sand over Cathy's case, and Joe was officially suspended. For a month. During that time, he was supposed to "get his head on straight," as Moreno had so delicately put it. Joe snorted. As far as he was concerned, Moreno was the one with the screwed up head.

He grabbed an empty box and dropped it on his desk. Reaching for the phone and tucking it into his shoulder, he dialed the lab. By the time Frank came on the line, Joe was pacing, his steps taking him to the end of the telephone's coiled cord and then back again. Each time he returned to his desk, his gaze settled on Cathy's file.

"Hello?"

"Frank. It's Joe Maxwell." Glancing at the door, Joe picked up the painfully thin file and dropped it into the box.

"Yeah," Frank sounded tense and uneasy. "What can I do for you, Joe?"

"You got any news on the Chandler case yet?" Calling in yet another favor, Joe had coerced his friend into taking one more look at the evidence in Cathy's case. His currency was running low, though. Pretty soon he wouldn't have anybody left to turn to.

"I'm afraid not."

Frank was usually a jovial guy. In fact, Joe teased him about it sometimes, wondering how somebody who dealt in the science of death could be so happy all the time. Invariably, Frank responded with some crack about not having to worry that his clients would try to shoot him. But now he sounded almost morose, and Joe paused his pacing. Something was wrong.

"What about the prints on the balcony door?"

"Well," Frank said cautiously, "those were interesting. No one seems to know what they are."

"What does that mean? Gloves?" Joe dropped a paper weight and a framed picture of his mother into the box with the file.

"We don't know. We can't tell what they are, yet."

Before Joe could respond to that, there was a sound in the background, and a brief, muttered conversation. When Frank came back on the line, he sounded nervous. "I gotta go."

Joe shoved his hand in his pocket, puzzled. "Call me back. I want to know." He waited for Frank to say something else, but there was only uneasy silence. Had Frank been ordered not to talk to Joe? Was there something more going on here, something sinister even? Joe shoved the ridiculous thought aside with a shake of his head. Maybe he really was losing it. "Frank, look, I—"

"We're even now, okay? Good luck."

There was a click as the line disconnected. Joe bit back a frustrated curse and glared at the handset. When he looked up again, Jenny Aronson was standing in his doorway.

Dropping the phone in its cradle, he went to meet her. "Hi, Jenny. Come on in." He closed the door so they could have some privacy. Then he turned back to meet the grief in her eyes.

She folded her arms across her chest. "I'm sorry I didn't call first." Her was voice tight with suppressed emotion.

Touching her shoulder, he shook his head. "It's okay."

Tears welled in her eyes and Joe reached out, taking her into his arms and holding her while she cried.

"Come and sit down," he said when the flow of tears finally slowed.

She did, laying her coat beside her on the worn wooden bench. Joe knelt beside her and took her hand, offering what comfort he could.

"I thought I would be able to handle this," she said, tears still choking her voice. She took a deep, shuddering breath and then blurted out her next words in a rush, as though hesitation might weaken her resolve. "I came because I wasn't sure who to call for the arrangements."

Joe blew out a breath, his fingers tightening around hers. "We don't know that she's dead, Jenny."

"But you haven't found her."

He shook his head. That much was true, at least. But he hadn't given up hope, and until they found a body, he wouldn't.

"And I read in the paper, about the blood." She hesitated. "And about that other man—"

"Jenny, don't do this to yourself. We'll find her." Joe wanted to reassure her, to convince her that everything would be okay. Only he wasn't entirely sure of that himself.

"And if you don't? What then?" Her voice rose, the words tumbling over each other. "Do we just wait forever? Look forever? And if we're still looking, won't they be looking too? Those men who tried to kill her?"

She stood up, pacing away from him. Then she spun back. "I don't want to believe that she's dead. I want with all my heart to believe that she's still alive out there somewhere." She pinned Joe with a pain-filled glance. "But if we have a service, if we make it look like we believe she's gone . . . maybe we can buy her safety? At least for a while?"

"Jenny—" What she was proposing was preposterous. Impossible. And yet— "I don't even know how to go about doing what you suggest."

"Don't you know anybody who might help?"

There was one possibility, though he couldn’t believe he was even considering it—a judge who owed him big for something that had happened years ago, even before Cathy's time. "Maybe."

"Please?" Jenny said. "It's the only thing I can think to do for her. The only way I know to help."

Act as if Cathy were dead. Even though there was still a chance that she wasn't. Could they pull it off? Would it work? And if they did this and she turned up alive later on? What then? With a mental shrug, he brushed aside that worry. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened. And maybe Jenny was right. If Cathy was alive out there—and God knew he hoped she was—they owed it to her to try to help. Maybe Jenny’s crazy plan would at least buy her some breathing room.

"I'll see what I can do."

Jenny nodded as her eyes welled with tears again. With a soft oath, he pulled her into a hug and let her cry in his arms.

                                                                                                                                             Chapter 5