BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

Fusions - “Siege”

ACT ONE

Shakespeare Knew Everything…

by

C.J. La Belle

“It is when you give of yourself that you truly give…”

Khalil Gilbran

As warehouses went, this one seemed barely more remarkable than any other Elliot Burch had ever been in. It was large, square, and mostly dimly lit.

But even with those allowances, this was no run-of-the-mill storage facility. There were cameras mounted everywhere, with a full-time security guard always monitoring a bank of TV screens. More guards, some with side arms, patrolled the perimeter and made sure the interior stayed secure. The doors were reinforced steel, the alarm system, state-of-the-art. There were restricted loading bays on one end for the bringing in and taking out of cargo, and the windowless space was insured for a sum that would have made most rate-setters blush.

Plain on the outside, so that it didn’t attract undue attention, it was essentially a bank vault on the inside.

It had to be, thanks to what was inside it. Precautions were necessary, and Elliot knew why: A fortune in artwork sat in here. His art. Or at least, his art for as long as it remained in his possession, which according to the ticking of his Rolex, wouldn’t be more than a day longer.

It was all right. As a matter of fact, it was time.

He checked his watch, and tugged his coat collar up against the chill of the climate controlled air, having learned that nothing needed good climate control more than fine art. In the heat, two hundred year old varnish would run, and the canvases would warp, and God forbid, even tear. In extreme cold, the wood would crack, and the canvasses would become brittle. The air could neither be too dry nor too humid, too hot nor too cold. The huge room was meant to keep everything just as it currently was, in an odd kind of stasis; to stave off the march of time, to make sure the sculptures, the paintings, and their old wooden frames didn’t suffer any damage, or decay any further than age and circumstance had already allowed.

He scanned the room, and its expensive bounty. He felt connected to none of it.

Well, almost none, his mind allowed.

Carefully, very carefully, he reached inside the inner pocket of his wool coat and removed a preciously wrapped parcel. It was small, as parcels went, perhaps not much bigger than his executive checkbook, all things considered. He unwrapped it gently, intending to look at it one more time, before re-wrapping it and placing it with the other canvases, the ones he was scheduled to give away.

The dark eyes of a Renoir beauty stared back at him.

It was small, this little oval depiction of a woman with waves of light brown hair: one of the ‘drafts’ Renoir had made of what would become a larger work. She was a beauty, as most of Renoir’s women were, and her soft hair fell from a side part, to frame her face in gentle waves. She looked at him as though the two of them had become quite familiar with each other. In a way, they had. After all, she’d lived in his house with him for most of the last year.

She was a sturdy, if imperfect thing. Prior to his ownership, mice had nibbled the bottom of her canvas, and that had needed to be repaired, back in the sixties. The original frame had fallen away, and been replaced by wood that had come out of an eighteenth century church pew. The changes had lessened its value, even though it was still worth a considerable fortune.

Elliot’s intense gaze took her in. That the former Stosh Kazmarek now owned a Renoir – albeit a tiny one – was not lost on the man who was now Elliot Burch. The little painting had sat on his mantelpiece, at home, until an art dealer had told him she needed to be moved away from the smoke and fire. He’d placed her on the dressing table in his bedroom after that, and liked that he woke up to her subtly smiling face most mornings. Her cheeks blushed prettily, and her skin looked impossibly fair.

And she was worth more than every penny his father had ever made in his entire, miserable life of back-breaking work down on the docks.

“My father never made in his whole life what you cost,” he said to the little portrait. “And now I’m giving you away.”

There was a certain satisfaction in that. Elliot couldn’t deny it. He felt he had something to prove.

For art, he’d discovered, was like having an expensive mistress. You could have one if you wanted to bother with one, but they were expensive to keep. And when you grew tired of it, you couldn’t just toss it out onto the street. There were certain ways to part with either one, and they had to be observed.

Still, Elliot chuckled at the similarity. Fine art had to be stored, be insured, be kept, and then transferred to its next willing partner. Like a rich man’s whore, there were ways of doing this, correctly; ways he was now becoming familiar with. You couldn’t just walk away from it. There wasn’t a way to. And selling it, as it turned out, wasn’t always the right option.

He turned his head, taking in a different view. From a broad easel, a modern art masterpiece glared at him, in angry shades of red and yellow. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen it before. But he knew it had been painted by an “up and comer” with a drug problem, right before his death.

It, too, was worth a fortune.

It seemed out of place near the small portrait of the woman.

A photo-real depiction of two gypsy boys sat next to a still life that was dripping red rose petals off the edge of a table. A lively pair of ballerinas danced together, caught in an eternal pas-de-deux.

None of it inspired any depth of feeling in him. But it had inspired a good bit of feeling in a certain museum curator, once Elliot had made the call about the donation.

His lawyer had handled all the tedious details. Lewis Arthur handled just about everything along those lines. The donation, after all, was a legal transaction. Certain contracts had had to be signed, certain filings made. It was a detail Elliot left to the people he paid to worry about such things. Since it had nothing to do with building skyscrapers, he was only so concerned about it.

Still…

It felt strange to be standing in the middle of so much wealth, and know he was about to give it away. Strange and… compelling.

Elliot knew he didn’t have a philanthropic bone in his entire body. That he’d never in his life given away something for nothing, and that tomorrow wasn’t going to be the day he started. This was a financial maneuver, not a charitable one. One that looked good, in the press.

The pretty Renoir stared back at him, her expression ever-pleasant, like she had a well-kept secret. Which she did. She owned a tiny piece of his heart. An organ he had been hotly accused, on several occasions, of not possessing.

“Sorry, Sweetheart. It’s time to pass you down the line,” he said to her, admitting just a twinge of regret at the poor choice of words. She was a work of art, after all, not a high class woman he’d bedded and grown tired of. She probably deserved better.

“Next time, don’t get caught with men who have other agendas,” he advised, covering her sweet face again with the clear wrapping before placing her gently on top of the larger canvasses.

He stepped back and turned away resolutely. There was not so much more to say.

Behind him, an inner door opened and closed. Cleon Manning stepped up next to him, drawing close, but not too close. The two men respected each other’s space.

“You buy all this?” Cleon asked, glancing at a twelve inch high marble sculpture. He had no idea what it depicted. Something like a wave. It didn’t seem like something Elliot would buy.

“Not a bit of it,” Elliot confided. “My lawyer bought it. Said I needed to move some money out of cash.” Elliot put his hands in the pockets of his immaculately pressed slacks. “I don’t think I even like much of it, to tell you the truth.”

Manning silently agreed with him. “What’s it all worth?” His dark eyes swept the room.

Elliot lifted his well-tailored shoulders. “Between three and eight million, depending on the market.”

The other man gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of hot dogs. And a hell of a spread. There’s a lot of difference between three million and eight million.”

Elliot glanced at the wall to his left, where several of the larger pieces sat, awaiting transport. He’d picked up one of the landscapes from a man who’d lost a bet with the stock market. It had been either the painting, or his house. It still amazed Elliot that they’d been valued the same. The one was easier to take possession of and transport than the other, so…

“The spread’s the point,” he informed Cleon. “That’s why I’m giving it away, rather than selling it.”

Cleon took in an oil painting of a hay wagon. It looked unremarkable, to him. But the wooden frame was already wrapped in heavy Styrofoam, against it getting bumped. They’d finish wrapping the whole thing, before they loaded it on an armored vehicle.

“I don’t follow you,” Cleon admitted.

Elliot’s gaze tracked to where Cleon’s was. The hay wagon. Was that the first piece I ever acquired? It might have been.

“If I sell it, I book whatever price it brings. That’s it. There’s no wiggle room. But if I give it to a buyer who insures it for top dollar...”

“Like the City of New York will,” Cleon followed.

“Then I can claim its value at the high end. Take the whole thing as a charitable contribution, and write it off for years, against my profits.”

Cleon shook his head at the machinations of big business. “I’m starting to see why I’m just a working stiff, angling toward retirement. Like most of the people you want out of that building you’re looking to buy, come to think of it.”

“I’ll pay them well to move.” Elliot didn’t give them another thought. Neither did Cleon. They were none of his business. Doing what Elliot wanted, was.

The dapper black man eyed one of the larger canvases. “When I worked on the force, I saw drug lords trying to hide money, too. Uncut gems, ingots, Krugerrands, fancy cars. Don’t ever remember any of them buying art trying to hide a buck.”

“There’s a studied art – you should pardon that choice of words – to hiding and moving wealth, Cleon. Still, a grand donation makes for good press. I wonder if the city fathers will accept me, now?” he mused.

“You worry too much about the opinion of a bunch of senile old men,” Elliot’s companion complained, frowning at the artwork with a dismissive look.

“You don’t think much of all this, do you?” Elliot grimaced at his chief of security’s expression.

“You thought differently too, once.” Cleon shrugged.

Elliot sighed. “Sometimes a businessman like me needs to own something as esoteric as art.”

His gaze drew back to the Renoir. He missed her already. He knew that a million things could be imagined, in the misty definition of the ingénue’s dreamy expression. Her face had been exquisitely executed.

For a brief moment of weakness, he was tempted to withdraw it from the gift. It called to him in some way he could not define. But that was the very thing which stayed his hand. He could not own anything he could not explain or understand. It violated every instinct he had and lived by.

Elliot fished a set of keys out of his pocket, and tossed them to his head of security. “Art is easy to move, and it can go across international lines without worrying about the exchange rate. It has a nice habit of appreciating in value. And it keeps people like Max Avery off my back, so I can get on with the business of building.”

Cleon caught the keys out of the air and tucked them into his pocket. “Avery. His version of ‘art’ is an extortion note.”

“Yeah, but sometimes it’s written in blood.” Elliot grimaced, then checked his watch, again.

“Avery’s there. I only have to deal with him when I have to. But I have no intention of following people like Gunther to Chicago, or anywhere else, for that matter. This is my city, and I will bend it to my expectations, or die trying. Max Avery be damned!”

Cleon had nothing to say to that. He had never seen his usually icy-cool boss so worked up.

Elliot gave his final instructions. “They’ll be here soon, to move it all over to the museum. Make sure everything gets signed for.” He bid the tiny Renoir a silent adieu, for the last time. “See to it they’re extra careful with that one.” He indicated the little picture of the fresh-faced ingénue.

“That little thing?” Cleon asked, looking through the wrapping at the portrait of a young woman that was no larger than a small photograph. He knew that it was one of the few pieces that had actually spent time in Elliot’s home, before it had become too expensive to insure.

“That ‘little thing’ is a Renoir, my friend. And it’s worth almost half the price of the room.”

Cleon gave an appreciative nod as Elliot walked toward the door, dismissing the objects at his back. It was time to go get the final fitting for his tux, and make sure everything else was ready for tomorrow night. He was going to be in front of the cameras, and he had a few hours to think up something clever to say, at the dedication. New York knew him as a once-poor man who’d become a very, very rich one. But they knew few of the particulars and none of the details. Elliot liked it that way.

Tomorrow’s dedication ceremony would give him yet another way to move up the slippery ladder of New York’s social scene, elevating him from just another self-made man into the millionaire/philanthropist category. Among certain people, that would make him someone worth cultivating a relationship with.

He wanted everything to go perfectly. It was going to be an important night.

Elliot, of course, had no way of knowing how right he was.

In the sheltering darkness of a moonless night, Vincent was on a foraging mission. He was searching for useable cast-offs, in an alley behind an old apartment building in the Bowery. Three of the four buildings on the block were scheduled for demolition, and had been emptied. That meant bounty – for as long as it lasted – for the tunnel folk.

Some of the citizens of the world Below, like Cullen who worked the wood-shop, had asked Vincent to look for any items he might find useful. Mouse, the tunnel’s inveterate tinker, always wanted more of what he termed ‘stuff.’ Good or bad, it was all the same to Mouse. Vincent picked through the leavings of others, happy if he could bring back something of use, or of interest.

Vincent smiled, as he pulled a broken rocking chair from a dumpster, and checked it out. It had a couple of shattered rungs and its wicker seat was torn, but talented hands like Cullen’s would soon make it right, again. He set the rocker aside to pick up later, before moving on down the alley towards another dumpster.

Suddenly, his attention was caught, and he stopped, turning his head to listen. The faint strains of classical music drifted out from a transom window. Intrigued, Vincent approached the window cautiously, kneeling to peer through the grimy glass.

In a dingy basement, an old man sat at an upright piano, his arthritic fingers dancing across the keys. Vincent was entranced by the old man’s ability. He played beautifully, passionately, deftly handling an elegant Mozart concerto without any sheet music.

The advancing years hadn’t appeared to have stripped the old man of his dignity. There was an almost tangible strength of character about him, as he played. He coaxed a gorgeous sound from the ancient instrument. Vincent was entranced.

Vincent closed his eyes and listened, caught up in the beautiful music. This reminded him of long ago, reminded him of Rolley, and his incandescent talent. The memories were bittersweet, even as the tune was.

The memories, the night, and the beautiful music all settled over Vincent.

Suddenly, the sound of a vehicle approaching, sent him darting for cover, just ahead of a slash of headlights, that knifed down the alley.

In the basement, the old man broke off his playing abruptly, when he saw the headlights through the transom window. He quickly doused the lights and hurried to hide behind some storage crates, obviously frightened.

In the alley, the car rolled to a stop. Vincent crouched down, hiding behind a garbage can, watching the vehicle’s occupants. The interior light blinked on when the doors opened, and two hard-eyed men got out. The doors were slammed shut.

The two men moved toward the basement windows. Both were carrying bottles with rags stuffed into the necks. One of the men flicked a cigarette lighter, and the rags caught fire. The men knelt and hurled the bottles through the transom window. They leaped to their feet and raced back to the car, as flames mushroomed inside the basement. The car took off, tires squealing, as it fishtailed out of the alley, and sped away.

Vincent dashed from cover, running to kneel at the window, trying to see through the growing flames. He saw the old man trying desperately to get to the door, but the fire was pushing him back.

“My God!” he shouted. He stared in horror as the basement ignited. “Help! Somebody help me!” He began to cough, as the smoke thickened.

Vincent didn’t hesitate. Kicking in the glass, he crashed through the window, shielding his face with his cloak as he dropped to the floor. He doffed the cloak, then used it to beat at the flames. The old man pulled a canvas drape off a pile of furniture and joined in the battle. The two of them fought the flames furiously, and finally gained the upper hand.

Only when they were safe, did the old man succumb to the smoke, and sank to the floor. Vincent succeeded in smothering the last of the flames and re-donned his cloak. He watched, as the old man regained awareness.

Vincent backed away, quickly shielding his face, as he prepared to climb back out the window.

The old man saw him, and, still sitting, made a grab for Vincent’s arm. “I owe you my life,” he said simply, trying to see Vincent’s face.

“Come no closer…” Vincent stood near, but in shadow, only his eyes were lit by the light coming through the basement window.

“Why do you hide? Let me see you.” His English bore the subtle accent of his European homeland.

“No.” Vincent drew back into the ragged curtains that hung beside the window.

“Without your help, those punks would have killed us all,” the old man persisted.

Vincent stared at him. “All? I thought this building all but empty. The others are."

His companion nodded. “The other tenants, those who refuse to be chased from their apartments.”

Chased?

“These men that did this, why do they try to drive you from your homes?” Vincent asked.

The other man shrugged. “Because we’re old, and there’s a dollar to be made.”

He tried to get up but couldn’t. Instinctively, Vincent moved to help him to his feet. The old man was startled, when he saw his rescuer’s face.

Vincent turned away. The elderly gentleman gasped, and stepped back, as if slapped. Vincent tried for the window again, too used to this kind of reaction to be hurt.

But the old man took his arm, turning Vincent gently back around to face him. “Please…” He held Vincent’s wrist. “I know what it’s like to be hunted. To be afraid…” He pushed back his sleeve.

Vincent looked down at the faded blue numbers tattooed on the old man’s inner wrist. He knew what they were: Concentration camp numbers, from a decades-ago war, and from a different continent. There were others in New York who sported them.

The careworn face drew closer. “Without your help, those punks would have done what the Nazis couldn’t. Killed us all.”

“These others you speak of,” Vincent asked from the shadows. “They are determined as you?”

The elderly shoulders lifted, in a shrug. “Some are, some not so much, anymore. There have been too many such attacks. Some lose heart, thinking there is no help, or hope, for old people like us.” He moved to his precious piano, to examine it. He was clearly relieved to find it had not been hurt. He sat at the keyboard and resumed his playing.

“Auschwitz, Dachau, Buchenwald…,” he continued. “We survived. We will always survive. Because we must.”

Be that as it may, and Vincent didn’t doubt it, that didn’t mean this man, or anyone else in the building was clear of danger.

“The men who did this, they will come again,” Vincent warned. “I cannot always be here to help you.”

“Thank you.” His companion smiled, wryly. “We will be here. As we have always been, since we left the camps. Like trees planted by the water, we shall not be moved.” He stopped playing and turned to stare at Vincent. “What is your name?”

“Vincent.”

“I am Mischa. I think maybe we’ll be friends.” He turned back to the piano and picked up the concerto where he had left it. His old fingers moved across the keyboard, and Vincent sat back to listen, closing his eyes, as he lost himself, in the music.

At the same time, in an extensive and important Manhattan museum, a handsome black musician in a tux was playing the piano. The classical music washed effortlessly into cocktail piano, blending with the sounds of a very large, very exclusive party. The music might not have been something Mischa would have envied. But for the gorgeously-tuned piano, and at least some of the art that was hanging in the room, he would have.

Above the sound of the music, there was laughter, conversation, and the sound of champagne glasses clinking together, all the noise of a successful art donation, and people having a very good time. People who were there by invitation only, thanks to their social status.

Among the glitzy, black-tie-and-diamonds crowd, Catherine and Edie were sipping champagne and admiring the art work on display. Edie was not at all impressed with what she was seeing, but she liked Catherine’s company. The fancy, gilt-edged invitation had said Catherine could bring a friend, and Edie had jumped at the chance to go ‘swimming way upstream’, as she cheekily termed it.

She frowned at the modern art. “I’ve seen better stuff than this on walls in Avenue C. Ug-lee…”

“The prices are more than you get paid in a year.” Catherine tried not to giggle, even as she shushed her friend. “The artist might hear you.”

Catherine admired the paintings. They were not quite to her taste either, but she was impressed with the generosity of the man who had donated them to the museum.

“Say what?” Edie shook her head at what appeared to her to be random splashes of color on a blank canvas. “He’s loose? Oughta have him in rubber reception over at Bellevue.” She adjusted the bodice of her dress. “Thanks for the loan, Cathy. But I could wish you’d gain some weight. I love this dress, but it’s kinda tight in all the wrong places.”

Catherine eyed her friend, disagreeing with her verdict. “Get it adjusted and keep it. It suits you. You look better in it than I ever did.” She laughed softly, knowing her friend was truly enjoying herself. She was glad she could share something of her life with her Edie.

Catherine turned to look around the museum, searching out and finding the man who had just donated the impressive collection of modern art. He stood some way off, surrounded by a group of expensively clad men and women, all vying for his undivided attention.

Behind her a woman commented, “It’s hard to imagine a better private collection.”

“Can you imagine being rich enough to give it away?” her male companion marveled.

“And he started with nothing! Elliot Burch is beyond anyone’s imagination.”

As Catherine studied the object of their admiration, Elliot looked up and caught her staring at him. They locked eyes, instantly fascinated with one another.

“That’s him! He’s coming right at us!” Edie hissed. “Don’t look! My lord, the richest man in the hemisphere! He’s gorgeous!” She nudged Catherine. “He’s definitely got his eye on you, girlfriend. Now, don’t you give me a second thought. Go for it, I can manage just fine, on my own.”

“We came here together…,” Catherine replied, as she watched the chattering entourage moving toward them. Everyone was admiring the exhibits and commenting on it all.

“From the look in his eyes, I don’t think he’s a guy to take no for an answer.” Edie averted her gaze, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Catherine continued to survey him critically. Burch was a tall, handsome, dark-haired man in his late thirties. Dressed immaculately, in a very expensively cut tuxedo, he looked every inch the immensely wealthy man he was.

But then, she’d met his type before, and dated some of them. The last being the regrettable Tom Gunther. She was in no mood to tangle with another, a man whose conceit knew no bounds.

She was well aware Burch was one of the world’s richest, most powerful men, a legendary titan of industry. His empire and influence was global in scope, with tentacles stretching into real estate, media, and manufacturing. He was also a jet-setting playboy, and one of the world’s most eligible bachelors.

He smiled at Catherine and raised his glass in salute. She ignored his look, trying to concentrate on another painting. But Elliot was obviously intent on introducing himself. His smile widened as he reached them.

“Two more beautiful women. I lead a charmed life.” He moved closer, touching Catherine’s elbow lightly, guiding her toward the next piece of art work. “Excuse us, please…” He smiled at Edie, who stepped aside. Then, he turned his amazing smile on Catherine. “Welcome to the party,” he said simply. His smile could have powered Manhattan.

He had blue eyes the color of the lightest summer sky, a strong jaw and a gorgeous dimple in his chin. He wore his sharply-tailored tux like he was born to it, as he gestured toward the painting. Charisma. Elliot Burch was practically dripping with it.

His easy charm was magnetic and compelling. Despite her assertions to the contrary, Catherine felt literally swept away by this man. He maneuvered them beyond the attentions of the group that had surrounded him, with practiced ease.

Edie watched them go and sighed. “The glass slipper never fits my foot…” She wriggled inside her borrowed gown, once again adjusting the fit. “Guess I’ll have to go find my own billionaire…” She smiled, as she looked around the crowd with speculative eyes.

As Catherine and Elliot studied the next painting, a hovering reporter tried to intrude on their conversation. “Mr. Burch, what is the estimated value of your collection, and what prompted you to donate it to the museum?”

Elliot brushed him off adroitly. “Can you put a price tag on magic? The true value of great art lies in its ability to influence and enhance the quality of humanity, and contrary to popular opinion, I believe New Yorkers still qualify.”

Flash bulbs from photographers went off as he spoke, but the whole time, he and Catherine were still aware of each other. To one side, a society pages columnist began taking notes about a possible relationship.

The photographer closest to Elliot showed his resilience. “Excuse me, Mr. Burch, could you look this way. Just one more picture, please.”

Elliot complied, flashbulbs went off, and for a moment, he seemed engulfed by the press, again.

Catherine studied the painting in front of her without truly seeing it. After a moment, Elliot came up behind her. “Incredible isn’t it?” he mused. “Everything happening at the same time: passion, humor, danger…”

“A little like life…” Catherine murmured over her shoulder, without turning.

“More than a little. I’m Elliot Burch,” he said, as if he needed an introduction.

Catherine turned to him, then. “Of course you are. I’m sorry, but you are the reason we’re all here.”

Elliot smiled. “I suppose I am.” He said it in a way that was almost self-effacing. A way Tom Gunther never would have. If she didn’t know better, she would say he was almost flustered.

“And I’m Catherine Chandler,” she said, deciding she liked him a little more.

Elliot leaned a bit closer. “I know.”

Catherine looked surprised. “You do?”

Elliot shrugged. “I asked one of your friends.”

Catherine blushed. “I guess it’s my turn to be a little flustered.”

He liked her admission. “Yes, it’s only fair.”

She lowered her lashes, as a shot of adrenaline coursed through her system. “And not entirely un-enjoyable.” You’re a fascinating man.

Elliot studied her fresh, winsome beauty. “Do you know that it has been a very, very long time since I’ve been good and flustered?”

An anxious-looking man walked up to the pair, interrupting their conversation. “Excuse me, Elliot, but it’s most urgent. If I could have a moment…”

Elliot barely glanced at the man. “I’m sorry, Arthur. But as you can see, I’m not available.”

“But, Elliot –”

“Later,” his boss cut him off abruptly.

“Of course,” the man stepped back quickly.

Catherine eyed the man’s quick retreat, as he left them alone. Elliot plucked a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and gave one to her.

“Lewis Arthur’s my attorney,” he explained. “A professional worrier, and I will be in my office, very early. Which, fortunately for me, is many hours from now. Catherine…” He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To our first sunrise.”

She gave him a wry smile. “You’re moving too fast for me, Elliot. I’m very flattered, but I don’t think…”

Elliot smiled back at her, making her feel flustered all over again. He was as aware of her as she was of him, and knew exactly what that meant, for both of them.

“Don’t you?”

He didn’t expect her to answer. He just wanted her to know the challenge was there. She did.

He let that side of things slide, for now. “Come on, I have things I want to show you.” His blue eyes were challenging, and she couldn’t seem to pull away from their magnetic perusal.

In the basement of an old apartment building, a light burned in the transom window, as classical music drifted out into the stillness.

Time had passed, but Mischa was still playing, and telling Vincent about the situation at the building.

“You’ve been to the police?” Vincent questioned softly.

Mischa shrugged. “They tell us there’s nothing they can do, that we should hire our own guards. We’re all on pensions, here. Where would we find money for guards? So we stay inside, behind locked doors, like frightened children. Now they turn off our heat, break the elevator, stop up the plumbing…”

Vincent was about to reply, when he heard something. He waved at Mischa to stop playing. Footsteps sounded above, coming down the stairs, and a light was switched on.

“Mischa? Are you all right? Mischa?” A woman’s voice called out.

Mischa looked up. “Sophie. My neighbor. A good woman, but it’s best if she doesn’t see you…”

Vincent rose immediately and headed for the window. He turned to look back. “Something will be done, Mischa. I promise you.”

He disappeared through the broken window, leaving only the sigh of the night wind. Mischa stared at the window, not quite believing what had just happened. Had he just played Mozart for a man, or a spirit of the night?

Sophie appeared on the stairs. “It’s freezing down here! You’ll get sick.” She was a small, frail woman, totally devoted to Mischa. “And you not even wearing a sweater! You’re going to catch your death!”

She stopped on the last step of the staircase. “You should bring your piano upstairs again. Rosencratz and Gildenstern moved out. Who’s left to complain now…?” She gasped. “Your face, what is that on your face, soot?” She looked around at the area blackened by the fire. “My God, Mischa! What… what happened?”

Mischa moved to comfort her. “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m fine. A sunburn hurts worse. Those punks threw a fire bomb through the window.”

“Monsters! When will it stop? When are they going to leave us in peace?”

Mischa hugged her tighter, trying to soothe her fears. But he had no answer for her.

In the museum, Elliot and Catherine were now standing in front of the small Renoir that Elliot been so reluctant to give away. He frowned at it, again drawn by its ethereal beauty. Once more, he felt the need to snatch it away from view, and keep it for himself.

In the same moment, a thought struck him. Its likeness to the beautiful woman at his side was uncanny. It was almost as if Catherine had been the model for the portrait. Elliot shook himself free from the idea of such foolishness.

“Your father must have been very disappointed when you left his firm,” he commented, needing a distraction.

“He was, but he wants me to be happy.”

Elliot frowned at her. “Are you?”

He liked that she struggled a moment, with her answer. Happiness, like so many other things, wasn’t always a simple thing to quantify. He found that true in his own life, as well. He appreciated that she found it true in hers.

“The work is relentless, exhausting, but sometimes… it feels like… somehow, in some way, I make a difference. That’s a good feeling.”

Yes. Yes, it is. “Yeah, it’s no fun starting at the bottom.”

“Nobody cuts me any slack, but when I do get a kind word it’s because I’m doing the job, not because I’m the boss’s daughter.”

Elliot shrugged, even as he understood how important that was, to her.

“You know, you kids who grew up rich, you got just as much to prove as those of us who grew up poor. We spend our whole lives trying to prove to the whole world that we’re worth something; you have to prove it to yourself. If your father isn’t proud of you, he damn well should be.”

She smiled at him, and Vincent, who was walking through a tunnel on his way home, stopped in his tracks, looking around as if he had just heard or felt something. Something he didn’t have a name for… yet.

Leaving the museum, Catherine and Elliot were surrounded once again by reporters and photographers. They made their way slowly through the crowd to a waiting limo.

Far beneath them, Vincent stood still in the tunnel, his whole body seemingly attuned to the inner voice whispering in his mind...

Catherine and Elliot entered the limo, and it drove away from the crowd of media who wanted their story for the morning edition. New York’s newest power couple was something to be gossiped about, and speculated on.

In the tunnel, Vincent shook himself from his listening pose. The sensation of that inner voice hadn’t left him. It had settled in the back of his consciousness, where it lingered, whispering of love, and hope, and impossible things…

In the dimly-lit interior of a downtown watering hole of dubious reputation, a middle-aged man was leaning on the bar, talking on the phone.

“Something went wrong. I don’t know, all right?!”

“Hey, keep the noise down, Mundy!” The bar-keep looked up at him, frowning.

Leo Mundy turned his back, lowering his voice. “Place should have gone up like a haystack… Don’t threaten me, pal. Hey, you want to handle the job yourself?... Oh no, I didn’t think so. Wouldn’t want to get any dirt under those manicured fingernails, now would we? Look, you handle your part of the deal, I’ll handle mine. Okay?”

He slammed the phone down, and smirked at it. He hated working for up-market types who never wanted to get their hands dirty. The ones who left the business end of things to him.

“But money is money…,” he mumbled, raising his hand for the barman to bring him another beer.

The stretch limo glided to a halt in front of Catherine’s apartment building. Midnight had come and gone, and the hour was early.

Elliot instructed the driver to remain seated behind the wheel. Elliot got out and opened her door to help Catherine alight. She did so, and they faced each other, in the moonlight.

“Elliot, thank you.” Catherine smiled.

“It was a terrific evening,” he acknowledged.

“Well, you did something quite wonderful for the city.”

Elliot frowned. “Oh, you mean the art. I was thinking along completely different lines,” he said charmingly.

He studied her, as she smiled, accepting his compliment.

Nothing ventured, he thought. “It doesn’t have to end, you know…”

Catherine sighed. “Tonight, it does. I’ve got to be in court bright and early, and I have the feeling you might keep me up very late.”

You’d be right about that. Elliot shrugged. “It goes against my grain, but I guess I’ll have to say good night.”

Catherine took a step back. “Well, thank you for the ride.”

She began to turn away, but he stopped her. “Cathy, when can I see you again?” Not if. When.

She took a business card out of her purse and handed it to him. “Call me.”

Yes. Victory. He tucked the card inside the pocket of his coat. Though the air was chilly, it made him feel warm, just to have it.

They were obviously very attracted to each other, and neither one was bothering to try to hide it. It had been part of the magic of the entire evening. She turned to go, and Elliot took that as his cue to get back in the car.

Mounting the steps to her building, Catherine turned to smile at him, as he re-entered the limo. He smiled back, as he lowered the window to watch her enter her building.

Think of me. Think of me, and of everything we said to each other tonight, he thought. Because I damn sure plan on thinking of you. And I will call you. Tomorrow. Before lunch.

The limo drew smoothly away from the curb, and slid the line of traffic.

Catherine entered her apartment. She reached to lock and chain the door before setting the locks. She leaned back against it for a long moment, trying to make sense of her burgeoning feelings for Elliot. But they remained elusive and confused.

She moved through to her bedroom to seat herself at her makeup table. She was looking into the mirror, removing an earring, when she caught sight of Vincent, on the balcony. She got up and hurried to open the door to him.

He was waiting in the shadows, and his empathic powers were continuing to give him some unsettling feelings, ones he wasn’t familiar with. They were becoming almost painful.

“Vincent…!” Catherine gasped.

“Catherine… how lovely you look, tonight…” He advanced from the shadows. He couldn’t gaze at her for too long. He turned to look out at the city lights, slightly angry with her and not fully understanding why.

“What is his name?”

“Who?”

Vincent made a small dismissive gesture with his hand against his thigh. “The man who brought you home tonight.”

“Elliot Burch? We met at the museum opening. He’s –”

“I know who he is,” Vincent replied, more sharply than he intended.

Catherine stepped closer to him, but he wouldn’t look at her. She felt strange, almost guilty, as if she’d done something wrong. She put her hand on his arm, but he still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Vincent, is there something wrong? You seem so distant…”

Vincent fought down his feelings. He knew he had no right to them. “It’s nothing. I… did I startle you?”

“No…” Catherine frowned at him, disturbed by his strange mood.

Vincent sighed. “I… I came to… leave you a message. I met an old man tonight...”

She saw he’d left her a note on her table. She picked it up. Vincent turned to go.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded, as she read the note. “Mischa Langer?”

He turned to look at her, and she noticed his singed face for the first time.

“You’re hurt! Is that a burn?” She rushed to him, reaching out a hand to his face. “Let me get you something.”

Vincent avoided her touch. “I’m not the one who needs your help, Catherine. These people are old, terrified, their homes almost burned tonight.

Catherine looked down at the note in her hand. “Well, who’s doing this to them?”

“The ones hired to chase them out. Can you help?”

“I’ll try… of course.”

He seemed satisfied with her answer. “Good… you have a generous heart, Catherine.”

“Something I learned from you.”

“No…,” he denied. “It can’t be taught. It’s from the soul, and you have so much to give.” So much. To them. To someone.

Catherine felt the need for a confession. “It’s all still very new. Sometimes I wonder how all those little pieces will ever fit together again.”

Vincent had no answer for that, save one: “Follow your heart, Catherine. Follow your heart, you must...”

She nodded, still deeply concerned for him. “If you’ll let me, I can put some salve on those -- ”

Vincent drew back. “It’s not necessary…”

“I think it is.” She ignored his denial, pushing his note into the pocket of her evening coat, as she retreated quickly back into her apartment for the first aid supplies. In her bathroom, she searched through the medicine cabinet, finding salve and bandages.

Returning to her balcony, she looked in vain for him. “Vincent…?”

But he’d gone. She put the supplies down on the table and moved to the railing. She retrieved the note from her pocket and unfolded it to read again the scrawled name and address. “Mischa Langer…”

In his chamber, Father attended to Vincent’s burns. Seated in a chair, Vincent winced as the salve was applied to his scorched cheek.

Jacob shook his head. “What possessed you to intervene? You could have been killed…”

Vincent sighed. “More than my life was at stake.”

“What about our lives, Vincent?” Father persisted. “You endanger us all every time you go above. You know that!”

Vincent brushed Father’s ministrations away. He rose, and stalked the chamber. His expression was both troubled and moody.

Father grimaced, as he watched his son. “I am proud of you… but worried, as well.” The physician shook his head. “You’ve got something else on your mind. Please… share it with me…”

Vincent waved a dismissive hand. “I’m very tired…”

“It’s about Catherine, isn’t it? I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten what wanting someone you cannot have does to a man’s heart.”

Vincent halted his pacing. “But I’m not a man, am I? I have no claim on Catherine. She has her own life… as I have mine.” He stared down at his boots.

“Nothing can ever change that, Vincent,” Father said carefully. “She’ll only bring you pain. Surely you must know that…”

Vincent’s gaze rose to meet his, filled with sadness. “I know she’s a part of me. And nothing will ever change that.”

He turned abruptly and left the chamber. Father stared after him, helplessly.

Catherine stood at her balcony railing, watching as the sun rose over the sleeping city. She was in her nightgown and robe, but she hadn’t managed to find any refuge in sleep. A confusing emotional storm was brewing within her, and the tides were rough. It was an amazing night. What does it mean? I wish I knew…

The day ahead of her was going to be hard and long. She needed to focus her attention on the practical aspects of her work. But Vincent’s sad eyes kept rising up before her mind’s eye, and she knew he was equally as confused about exactly where their budding relationship went from here.

I don’t know. I know that you feel what I feel. Can you feel how confused I am, right now?

She knew he could. She also knew the lawyer in her didn’t like feeling confused, any more than the woman in her did. Before her, the sun rose higher.

Sunrise. Elliot invited me to watch it with him. Behind her, her alarm clock rang. It was time to shower and change, before work.

Catherine used the familiar chores to avoid thinking about anything else.

ACT TWO

Some Things Justify Risk…

“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore...”

William Faulkner

In the Manhattan District Courthouse, a trial had just been recessed. People streamed from the courtroom, hurrying to their midday meal. Catherine and Joe were among the crowd as they moved toward the elevators.

“Nice goin’ in there, Radcliffe,” Joe approved, with a relieved smile. “I couldn’t have slammed the cage on that sleaze-ball without the dirt you dug up. C’mon, I’ll buy you lunch, my treat. We’ll go someplace fancy, with napkins.”

“Can I take a raincheck?” she asked, as they stood in the crowd, waiting for the next elevator car. “I’ve got some business on the Lower East Side.”

Joe’s dark eyes assessed her critically. “Uptown girl like you? It’s gotta be business. What’s the case?”

“No case – yet.” They moved together into the elevator car and turned to face the front. “I guess you could say I’m just prospecting, looking over a few leads. I’m following up on some information.”

“That doesn’t sound good for someone…,” Joe mused, as the elevator doors began to slide shut. “Let me know if I can help. Okay?”

“Okay, thanks, Joe. I will.” Catherine nodded, glad of his unquestioning support.

The front aspect of Mischa’s apartment building was old, but well-maintained. The people who lived there were proud of their home.

A moving van was parked in front, and men were hauling furniture out of the building. A small crowd of old people had gathered near the truck. Mischa and Sophie were among them. Mischa was trying to talk an old friend out of moving. The man’s face was swollen and bruised. He looked as if he’d been badly beaten.

“Don’t do this, Herman! Don’t let them drive you out, this is your home! More than thirty years. You raised your children here…”

Herman shrugged. “I got a good price, plus a new condo in Jersey. That’s so terrible a fate?”

“You got scared, that’s what you got! You let them buy you, like the others!”

“What can I do?” Herman demanded.

Mischa sighed, knowing that to argue was useless. Herman had made his decision. Years of friendship stood between them. “I’m gonna miss you, you old fool. We’ve been playing pinochle every Thursday night for the last thirty years.”

“I know, Mischa, I know.” The two men shook hands.

Herman’s wife, Sylvia, walked slowly down the front steps, cradling a couple of prized possessions in her arms. She’d heard enough. Her eyes blazed at Mischa.

“Look at his face! They nearly killed him, and you call him a coward! You’re fools, all of you! Is this old place worth dying for?”

Mischa didn’t answer. He broke apart from Herman and held up his hands to them, feeling useless and helpless.

As he stood there watching his friends pack to leave, a taxi rounded the corner, and stopped at the curb in front of the building. Catherine paid the driver and climbed out. She walked toward the group, which was beginning to break up.

She approached Herman, who was supervising the loading of the van. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Mischa Langer.”

“Over there,” he said, with a disgusted nod. “The one with the big mouth.”

Mischa was on his way back up the steps, when Catherine caught up with him. “Mr. Langer? I’m Catherine Chandler, special investigator for the District Attorney’s office. We received an anonymous tip.”

Mischa looked surprised. “This girl is from the D.A.!” he shouted to the others. “Maybe she’ll listen to us!” He looked back to Catherine as the others gathered round. “You’ve heard about what’s going on here?”

“Why don’t you tell me in your own words?”

Mischa shook his head. “These people must be stopped, made to pay for what they’ve done!”

“They send punks to rough us up, vandalize our apartments. The elevator’s been broken a week, they won’t fix it,” Sophie added. “We have to climb –”

An old man chimed in. “Now we have no hot water, the cheap, miserable –”

“Two knocked me down, took my purse, my check is gone,” his wife added. “How do I live?”

Catherine waved her hand for silence. “And you believe all of this is organized?”

Mischa stared at her. “This is a rent-controlled building; the law says they cannot evict us or raise our rents. The only way they can make us move is to drive us out.”

Catherine turned back to look squarely at Mischa. “Who is ‘they?’”

“Over there, he’s the one.” The old man pointed to Leo Mundy, standing beside the van, speaking quietly to Herman and his wife.

“He sends the punks to try and scare us off,” Mischa added.

Mundy walked over to the couple who were moving out. “Hi, folks.”

Mischa intervened. “I told you to stay away from us. Leave us alone!” he called.

Mundy stared at him. “Settle down, people. This is no good for your blood pressure. I just came by to congratulate Herman and Sylvia on the deal they made: five thousand dollars, new condominium in Jersey. The offer is more than generous.”

Herman and Sylvia look ashamed, defeated. The crowd grew even angrier.

“Our life is here; we’re not interested in your offer!” Mischa shouted. “This is our home!”

Mundy looked annoyed. “I don’t know how much more I can do for you people. The company won’t wait forever. Please, think it over very hard. What if they have the building condemned? Then what? You’d be out on the street with nothing. Will your pride keep you warm, then?”

Catherine moved to confront Mundy. “Are you threatening these people?”

Mundy’s menacing expression became concerned. “I’m just telling them the way it is. Be careful in this neighborhood, lady, it can get pretty rough.” He looked back to the assembled crowd. “You know where to reach me. Do it while you can.” He turned with a smirk, and went back to his car.

Catherine stared after him. She got out a pad and pen and jotted down the license plate number as Mundy pulled away. Mischa came up behind her.

She turned to him. “Do you know his name?”

“Leo Mundy, he works for the managing company that took over, back when they sold the building, about two months ago. I’ve dealt with bullies like him before, only then they wore the brown shirts.” He sighed. “He won’t stop. Not until we’re gone, or dead.”

“Then we stop him,” Catherine replied firmly.

They shared a look. Mischa smiled sadly at her stated resolve. “I’m afraid people also said that about Hitler…”

It was twilight time in Central Park. Mounted policemen patrolled their beat, and hansom cab went on its way, carrying a pair of lovers through the gathering darkness.

Half-hidden in the shadows of the drainage tunnel entrance, staring out at the quiet park, Vincent watched a distant pair of young lovers, strolling hand in hand.

“There’s nothing more you can do?” he asked quietly.

“I’m not giving up,” Catherine replied, as she leaned against the wall behind him. “But I need more time.”

“Yes, time…” Vincent turned to stare at her. “The one thing we do not have. And until the authorities can act, the old ones are defenseless.”

Catherine was aware of what he was thinking. “Vincent, the risk involved… To you and all you love…”

He stared at her, pointedly. “Some things justify risk.” He sighed. “They have no one else.”

Catherine frowned, as the uncomfortable silence lengthened between them. “There’s something else troubling you. I feel it.”

Vincent looked away, uncomfortable with these unfamiliar emotions, not knowing what to say to her.

“It’s nothing. I must go.”

He passed her, walking back into the tunnel. She took his arm, trying to see his expression, behind the fall of his mane.

“Tell me what you’re feeling. Trust me…”

Vincent kept his head down. “There’s a storm inside me, Catherine. Emotions I’ve only read about… feelings I don’t know what to do with.”

Catherine sighed. “Because I’m seeing Elliot Burch… Vincent, no one can ever change the bond between us…”

Vincent looked up. “A bond can become a chain…”

Their eyes held for a long moment, then his head dropped again. He turned and disappeared into the darkness.

“Vincent, wait…please…” She tried to halt his retreat. “We need to talk…”

But she received no answer. There was only the soft sound of the rising night wind.

Vincent… what do I do? I have to live my life. You have to live yours…

But there was no answer, from the cold stones. Turning, she went home the way she’d come.

The next morning Catherine walked into the bull-pen, heading across the busy office toward her cubicle. A clerk handed her a sheaf of messages, as she passed his desk.

He frowned at her, as she took the slips of paper. “Mr. Elliot Burch called. About twenty-five times. And if you want to get to your desk, you’d better take a machete.”

“Thanks, Larry…” Catherine looked at him quizzically, as she thumbed through the message slips.

She continued on her way to her glassed-in cubicle. She paused at the entrance, her mouth opening in dismay. The small space was stuffed floor to ceiling with huge floral arrangements and potted plants. Any spare space was taken up by boxes of fancy chocolates, stuffed animals and baskets of fruit.

Catherine stood in stunned silence, as Edie came up behind her.

“What in the world…,” Catherine demanded, turning to her friend.

Edie shrugged. “You must’ve made one heck of an impression on your first date. The deliveries haven’t stopped all day.” She waved a hand. “And the messages…”

Catherine crossed to her desk to read some of the cards. “Edie, I swear to you nothing happened. This is unbelievable…”

Edie grinned at her. “You got that right. I expect all the juicy details later.”

She started to leave. Catherine opened her purse and pulled out her notebook. She opened it and ripped off a sheet of paper.

“That’ll have to wait. For now, I need you check this guy out for me.”

“Okay…” Edie reached for the piece of paper, but Catherine pulled it back, out of reach. “I also need the particulars of any real estate transactions in that area during the last year. It looks like someone’s trying to buy themselves a whole block down there. I want to know who.”

Edie looked aggrieved. “I do have a job outside your case load…”

“We drank French champagne in his stretch limousine.” Catherine smiled, tantalizing her friend. “Of course, the partition was up, so the chauffeur couldn’t hear. We gazed into each other’s eyes…”

Edie waited anxiously, but Catherine didn’t offer anything further. Edie glared at her, as she reached to snatch the sheet of paper.

“Okay, okay, I get the picture. By installments.” She grimaced. “It’s gonna take a few minutes. I’m swamped.” She turned to leave.

“You know I wouldn’t ask...,” Catherine said.

Edie shrugged. “If it wasn’t important. I’m so good to you.” Her eyes narrowed. “And the next installment better be good. Remember I have to live vicariously, through your love-life. Right now, mine is a no-show. Me and Fred Astaire have a thing going on…” She waved a hand.

“Have I ever let you down?” Catherine laughed, as she tried to clear a space on her desk of the overflow of flowers.

Half an hour later, Joe walked into his office, closely studying Leo Mundy’s rap sheet. Catherine watched him, as she waited for his reaction.

Joe looked up. “Leo Mundy, what a prince. Bounced off the force on a brutality beef in ‘78. Six arrests since then. Two in ‘80 for assault, one in ‘81 for ADW, and again in ‘83 for manslaughter. All strong-arm stuff, but no convictions. Bad and smart, that’s a tough combination. Now he calls himself a security consultant, hangs out at a downtown saloon? Boy, this guy’s a class act all the way.”

He came to rest with one hip hitched on the corner of his desk. Catherine sat beside him, reading the rap sheet over his arm.

“So, where do we go from here? Can we move on him?”

Joe shrugged. “I take this into the boss; he ventilates my shorts for wasting his time. You’ve got nothing tying Mundy to these punks.”

“He’s terrorizing those old people! Does he have to kill one of them before we can do anything?” Catherine demanded.

Joe held up a defensive hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, penalty flag. Now we can’t do the outraged ‘the system stinks’ rap. We’re part of it. You give me the tools, I’ll do the job on him.”

Catherine stood. “Okay, you got a deal.”

She left the office, heading for her desk. She needed access to more information, and she knew who to see to get it.

Catherine and Edie walked together towards Catherine’s desk.

“No,” Edie said, patiently. “Because you need special authorization just to gain access… Whoa, ho, ho…” She’d just spotted a dozen red roses on Catherine’s desk, standing proudly in an antique vase.

She turned to Catherine. “Girlfriend, you surely are somethin’. This vase alone has to cost about a thousand bucks. He’s spoiling you, big time! Come on, what’s the next installment of the story?”

Catherine opened the card that came with the flowers. She read it and smiled.

“Aw, come on!” Edie tried to see the card over her arm. “Does he have a darker brother? I expect all the juicy details at eleven.”

“There are no more juicy details… yet.”

“Well, I have to work my magic fingers on your work…” Disappointed, Edie walked away.

Catherine sat down at her desk and opened a file. She looked up as the phone rang. She reached to answer it.

“Catherine Chandler… Yes, I’ll hold for Mr. Burch.”

She smiled. “Good morning, Elliott… Yes, I got the flowers. And the fruit, and the chocolates, and the stuffed animals. What’s next?” She smiled a little more, into the phone. “Tonight?” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “No, I don’t have plans. I’d like that. Eight o’clock, then.”

She hung up, and her smile became a little shaky. She sensed the beginning of a relationship with this man, and she was confused about exactly where it might be leading. Or at least, she told herself she was…

The candlelight in Father’s chamber flickered across his deeply concerned features as he watched his son.

“Vincent, what weighs so heavy? Hmm… please tell me?”

Vincent got up out of his chair, and walked away from Father, going to a sideboard with a figurine of a girl sitting on it. He touched it lightly and, with his back to Father, attempted to explain his melancholy state.

“She met a man… she’s falling in love.”

Father paused, and waited a moment, to reply. “Let her,” he said, letting the simple command sink in. “Let her fall in love, Vincent.” He was quietly emphatic.

Vincent heaved a sigh. “My mind tells me to rejoice for her… that she deserves the happiness…"

When his voice came out, it sounded like it was from a distant, lonely place. “But my heart… is dying.”

Both of them knew he was telling the truth. Father simply listened, as his son continued.

“I’m poisoned by feelings… I’ve never felt before.” He turned to lean back against the sideboard with his head bowed. “Father… it hurts…”

It does. It does hurt. I’m so sorry, Vincent.

“I’ve always… dreaded… this moment… for you.” Jacob got out of his chair, and walked toward Vincent. “And I… I suppose I’ve always known it would come… the day when your heart would lead you to long for a life… that can never be, Vincent.”

Vincent nodded, the picture of defeated agreement. “Yes, a life that can never be…”

Unsure of what else to say, Father reached to stroke Vincent’s head. Vincent pulled away from his touch and slowly left the chamber, his closed expression saying he wished to be alone...

Catherine and Elliot walked arm in arm down the sidewalk. Two saxophonists were playing a duet.

Catherine saw that one of them was Clarence, one of the oldest helpers of the world Below. The old man watched their slow progress with frowning eyes, marking all she said and did. Father had asked him to keep a look out for any new information.

Elliot laughed, looking all around him. “I do love the city. The thing is you can’t walk a block without seeing somebody or something that just absolutely knocks you out, stuns you.”

“The good, the bad and the utterly absurd,” she acknowledged.

“Yeah, yeah, you know it’s constantly changing. It’s constantly transforming itself, reinventing itself; it’s unbelievable. It’s always expanding.”

He leaned to drop a few notes into the music case the two musicians had laid out before them. The older of the two men acknowledged his donation with a curt nod and a sharp note on his sax. Elliot frowned at his scowling expression of distrust, unsure of what to make of it.

Catherine smiled at Clarence as she added a few notes of her own to the case and earned a wide smile from the old man.

“With more than a little help from you.”

Elliot shrugged, as they walked on their way. “I’ve been lucky enough to realize some of my dreams…”

He hadn’t missed that Catherine had a detached, faraway look in her eyes. It had been there all evening, right through their very expensive, private dinner.

“What’s his name?” he demanded softly, drawing her closer to his side.

Catherine faltered momentarily. “I’m sorry?” She looked slightly startled.

“The man you’ve been thinking about all evening. Are you very much in love with him?”

“It’s been… a long time since I’ve been involved with anyone, Elliot,” she hedged cautiously.

“Then there’s no one else?” Elliot leaned to look into her face, seeking the truth.

Catherine swallowed tightly, unable to make herself say no. “Please, be patient with me…”

“You’re not answering my question. I’m out with you, tonight, not a lawyer. I expect commitment, Catherine.”

“Just give me time, Elliot…” Catherine looked up at him, unsure of what else she could say.

Mischa and Sophie were walking down the sidewalk toward their building. Both were uneasy about being out after dark.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Sophie said. “I thought my medicine would last ‘til morning…”

“I remember when that drug store delivered. Nobody cares about service anymore. Remember when they still had the soda fountain?”

“Oh yes…” Sophie sighed.

“Egg creams, how you loved egg creams…”

They didn’t notice two men exiting a vehicle as they passed. Two hard-looking characters, they fell in behind the old couple, quickly closing the distance.

Mischa heard them. He took Sophie’s arm, urging her to hurry. “Don’t look back, just keep walking. Hurry…”

But they were not fast enough. The two men caught up with them, dragging them both backwards into a dark alley. One grabbed Sophie’s purse, wrenching it away and slapping her to the ground. Mischa struggled with the other man, flailing at him in valiant defiance.

“Punks! Cowards!” he screamed.

“Nice and easy now,” the first punk cautioned.

“You come here, too?” Mischa demanded to know. “You are this bold?”

“Help!” Sophie gasped, as they were both dragged deeper into the alley.

The second punk rounded on her. “Shut up!”

They started hitting Mischa while Sophie cowered against the wall, in horror. The first thug pinned Mischa’s arms behind him, while the second one hit him again, hard in the face. Sophie sank to her hands and knees, sobbing and crying weakly for help.

“Get smart, old man. Take the money and run...,” the first thug growled in Mischa’s ear.

He was about to hit Mischa again, when a deep, bone-chilling growl behind him spun him around. His eyes went wide with terror as Vincent appeared from the darkness and backhanded him, sending him sailing into a pile of garbage cans. The second man shoved Mischa into Vincent, as he tried to get away. But Vincent reached to catch the thug by the back of his jacket, tearing it to shreds as he ripped the coat from the man’s back. A wallet dropped out in the scuffle, as he tore the man’s shirt apart.

Vincent flung Mischa’s assailant over the garbage cans and into the street. The other man scrambled to his feet and raced toward their car. He leapt into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine, while his companion threw a garbage can at a roaring Vincent.

“Get out of here!” the punk screamed to his partner, throwing himself into the car through an open window as the vehicle roared away, tires squealing.

Vincent watched them leave, still growling. He stooped to pick up the fallen wallet, tucking it into a pocket of his cloak.

Mischa helped Sophie up. He kept his body between her and Vincent.

“We’re all right…” he said, over his shoulder. “Go… before someone sees you.”

“Get inside and lock your doors,” Vincent nodded, as he watched the tail-lights of the car disappear into the darkness.

Vincent decided to give chase, to see where they went. He moved with incredible, inhuman speed and grace, chasing after the car, just managing to keep it in sight. Through the darkened city streets he ran, keeping well back in the shadows. He darted down familiar alleys to avoid being spotted. Cutting across vacant lots, he never let the car get more than a few blocks ahead of him.

The car finally banged to a halt against the curb outside a run-down bar. The two punks jumped out, ran up the steps, and disappeared into the bar, after a brief conversation with the bouncer on the door.

Vincent stood at the mouth of an alley across the street, marking the address of the bar. He knew he couldn’t stay here. The alley closest to him was too narrow to run through, and the area was too well lit to remain in for long. Silently, he retreated back toward the park.

Leo Mundy was shooting pool when he saw his two punks hurrying into the bar to report to him. The two men appeared to be in a state of blind panic.

Mundy leaned on his cue. “What happened? One of the old folks pull a cane on you?”

The first punk waved his hands. “Some guy jumped us.”

Not to be outdone, the second man jumped in. “Roared like somethin’ out of the flippin’ jungle!”

“Yeah, that’s right, Charlie! He wasn’t… he couldn’t have been human. I never saw no man strong like that. Threw me over a can like I was a mornin’ paper! Hair all over his face, eyes glintin’ all crazy! You see his teeth?”

Charlie nodded. “And claws! He had these big claws. About this long…” He gestured with his hands, in wide exaggeration.

Mundy sneered mockingly. “Yeah? And a big long tail, huh?”

Charlie turned to show him the back of his shirt. Vincent’s claws had shredded it. “Hey, come on now, Leo, what kind of man does that, huh? Look at that.”

Mundy hit him in the stomach with the thick end of his pool cue. “A man with a razor. That’d make you two guys look like jerks, wouldn’t it? Like you’re punked out. You were too stupid to do a simple job. You guys are very close to being through, you know. I’m not talking career here, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, yeah, we hear ya…” Charlie cowered back with his companion, in the face of their boss’s rage.

But both knew what they saw, and it wasn’t any guy with a razor. They shared a look of complete understanding. The sooner they were out of all this mad business, the better off they’d be. Money or no money…

Catherine and Elliot, with their arms around each other, walked slowly toward a fountain. They stopped beside it, each turning to look at the other. Elliot didn’t hesitate to lean closer still, capturing her lips in a long, intoxicating kiss…

Vincent stood in front of the drainage tunnel, watching the night. He sensed everything Catherine was thinking and feeling. Her heightened emotions ran like fire through his veins. He sighed, his expression showing that he felt totally forlorn and utterly alone.

She deserves this. She does. She deserves this happiness...

A life that can never be.

ACT THREE

Pain Can Make Us Stronger …

“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone…”

Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy

The morning gridlock on the Manhattan streets had begun. There were lots of honking horns and yelling, as angry cabbies made their way through the traffic, shouting insults and waving their fists at all those who got in the way. It was another morning in paradise, New York City style.

A bicycle messenger wove his way gracefully through the traffic, on a ten-speed racing bike, making death-defying moves seem easy. His head bobbed in time to the rock music blasting through his Walkman earphones. He darted between buses, white-lined down long rows of cars, and answered all the insults flung his way with a cheeky grin and a dismissive wave.

Bennie knew he was king of the streets, and answerable to no-one. He was one of the secret circle of helpers for the world Below, and he took his role very seriously.

He cycled for a couple of blocks, heading downtown. He waved to Clarence, the sax player, as the old man set up his spot for the day. All was right with the world, on this sunny Monday morning.

Catherine had just exited the front door of her apartment building and walked out to the curb to hail a cab. Bennie swept through traffic toward her, his eyes fixed on her position. Catherine had just flagged down a taxi when Bennie rode up beside her, skidded to a precise stop and flashed her his trademark, cheeky grin.

“Hiya, gorgeous.”

Catherine smiled, as she reached to pull one of his ear-phones away from the side of his head.

“Hi, Bennie. I wish you’d teach me to ride like you do. Think of the time I’d save every morning.”

“Nobody rides like Bennie.” He pulled a folded note from his pocket. “Special delivery.”

“Thanks.” Catherine took it from him.

“Stay cool…” Bennie reached to rub the top of her head, before pushing away on his bike. And then he was gone, pedaling off through traffic.

Catherine opened the folded paper, smiled with expectation, then hurried back into the building.

She made her way down to her basement, hurried to the far wall, and pushed a stack of large cardboard boxes aside to reveal the entry point to the tunnel system. She looked around to make sure she was alone, before climbing down through the opening she’d revealed. Once Below, she picked up a rock and rapped out a signal on the pipes overhead. After a few minutes, she heard movement, before Vincent appeared at the entry point, approaching slowly.

Catherine smiled at him with relief. But Vincent’s attitude was one of uncertainty, almost caution. He seemed reluctant to even look at her.

Catherine hurried to his side. “Vincent… I’ve been so worried. I waited up for you last night, hoping you’d come to see me. When you didn’t…”

Vincent glanced at her through the fall of his mane. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me. You were… with him.”

“Oh, Vincent…” Catherine stared at him in disbelief. This was painful, awkward for both of them. But it seemed that there was nothing either of them could do about it.

Catherine began again. “You know I was thinking of you, wondering if you were all right. Was there trouble?”

Vincent nodded. “Two men attacked Mischa and his woman friend. I… had to act. I followed them to a bar in the Bowery.” He told her the address.

Catherine nodded. “Our information says that Leo Mundy likes to hang out there. I can have the police stake it out, pick them up. Will Mischa and his friend testify?”

“They want justice. I took this… from one of the attackers.” He held out the man’s battered wallet. “It might help.”

“This will be a great help.” Catherine accepted it, opening it to search the contents for clues.

Vincent turned to leave, then he hesitated. “Catherine… I hope this man makes you happy. Please believe that. You’ve been alone too long.”

Catherine drew closer to him. “I haven’t been alone…” She touched her chest. “Not here. If I’ve caused you any pain, I’m –”

“Catherine…” Vincent sighed. “Pain can make us stronger…” He ducked back through the hole and disappeared into the darkness beyond, before she could think of how to reply.

Catherine was seated behind her desk. She was talking on the phone with Mischa Langer. “Mr. Langer, we have a good lead on the men who attacked you. When we pick them up, we’ll need you to identify them in a line up. Are you prepared to testify when they come to trial?”… “Good, and Sophie feels the same way?”… “Terrific! Well, I’ll call you as soon as we have any news.”

She hung up just as Edie rushed in, her hands full of computer print-outs. “Okay. All the buildings on their block are owned by different holding companies. The three empty ones are scheduled and ready for demolition. The only thing stopping the wrecking ball on the fourth, is your old people, who won’t move out.”

Catherine looked at the stack of computer paper. “Thanks Edie, I appreciate it.”

Edie frowned. “How come you’re not looking thrilled?”

She looked at the names of the companies listed. “I was hoping to find a smoking gun, one name to tie in all four buildings.” She read the printouts. “Miami, the Cayman Islands, Costa Rica, Bimini… Five will get you ten these holding companies are all a paper veil concealing who really owns those buildings. My hunch is they’re all one company. If we could just pierce that veil..."

Edie grinned. “I love the way you say ‘we.’ I’ll keep digging and find it, Cath.”

Catherine smiled. “Thanks, Edie, I owe you.”

Edie’s grin widened. “Hey, you paid off some of that debt with that museum invite the other night. Even if I didn’t manage to find Mr. Right, I had a good look around for him, and ate some excellent caviar and drank the good champagne. A girl could get used to that kind of lifestyle. I’ll put the rest on your tab.” She waggled her fingers cheerily as she left Catherine to her work.

Joe sat at his desk talking into the phone. “Yeah, that’s right, aggravated assault… Hey, don’t sweat it, all right? You pick ‘em up, my witnesses will testify.” He looked up at Catherine, who was standing at the other side of his desk. “Let me know when you nab these heroes… “Right.” He hung up the phone.

“What about Leo Mundy?” Catherine asked.

Joe shrugged. “What about him? The old folks say he beat ‘em up?” He stood from his chair. “We’re takin’ two hard cases off the street, that’s better than nothin’.” He moved to a filing cabinet.

“Will you deal? Let them cop to a lesser charge if they testify against Mundy?”

“Now she’s playin’ public defender.” Joe flipped through some files. “You’re pushy, Radcliffe, I like your style. Let’s say… it’s possible, okay?” He looked out the open door of his office. “What the hell’s goin’ on out there?”

Out in the bull-pen, a small parade was making its way toward Catherine’s cubicle. Uniformed waiters wheeled carts laden with covered serving dishes, while another carried a wine bucket and champagne. Another man’s arms were full of roses. Behind them, like the consummate ring-master he was, walked Elliot Burch.

Joe and Catherine stared through the open door at the parade. “I see you’re brown-baggin’ it like the rest of us workin’ stiffs, hey, Chandler?”

All of Catherine’s colleagues were staring and whispering, looking at her with curious, and envious eyes. They were all aware of exactly who Elliot was.

She muttered something unprintable under her breath, as she stormed off to intercept him. Behind her, she heard Joe snigger. She knew he was enjoying the show.

The waiters were setting up the feast, when she reached her cubicle, ready for a fight. But Elliot didn’t appear to pick up on her mood.

“You were too busy for lunch.” He waved an expansive hand at the array of food. “So I brought lunch to you. I hope you like lobster…” He lifted the lid off one of the plates to reveal a lobster dish.

Catherine gave him a steady look, trying to be polite. “Elliot, this is a very sweet gesture, but…”

He ignored her. “Fresh raspberries and cream…”” He held out a bowl of raspberries, trying to feed her a fork full. “Try one.”

She stiffened. “No, thank you.”

“Please, try one…,” he persisted.

“Elliot!” She backed away. “Please, this is my office; I work here.”

“All work and no play makes Catherine a dull girl…”

She stepped farther away. “I work here, Elliot.”

Her tone finally penetrated his understanding. Elliot looked around, finally realizing the embarrassing situation he had put her in, as every person in the room stared, and tried to look like they weren’t.

This is embarrassing you. It was something he wasn’t accustomed to being a part of. He set the dish down, contrition in his tone.

“I’m really very sorry, Catherine.”

The pop of a champagne bottle being opened sounded. Elliot tried not to roll his eyes at the sound. “All I can say is, it seemed like a wonderful idea, at the time.”

“Another time…,” Catherine allowed.

Elliot made a final attempt. “If you’re worried about your boss, I’ll be glad to talk to him. I’m sure he can spare you for an hour.” It was a last-ditch attempt to save the date.

“Thank you, Elliot, but no,” she replied firmly.

She could feel Joe’s eyes burning into her back. She was well aware he just needed the smallest excuse to emerge from his office, demanding to know exactly what the heck was going on here. She doubted she could answer him to his satisfaction.

“I see…,” Elliot nodded to her.

He turned to the waiters. “Out,” he ordered tersely. “Take all of it away. Out!”

He turned back to Catherine. “Still friends?” he asked, disarmingly.

She nodded and he left, following the waiters. She waited for a minute then followed him out the door, catching up with him near the stairwell.

“Elliot, don’t think it was a total waste. The gesture was lovely.”

Ah. Lovely, she says. So, it wasn’t a total loss…

“Yeah. Well then, will I see you tonight?” He looked still repentant. And as disarmed as he was disarming.

“Absolutely!” She smiled.

Elliot leaned close to her, kissing her long and sweetly, ignoring the envious glances of the ebb and flow of people surrounding them. Catherine pulled back, anxious for him to be gone, before Joe came out looking for her.

“Later…” she pushed Elliot gently away, and he went, with a smile on his face and his good humor restored.

Leo Mundy was shooting some more pool in the dingy club when the bartender answered the phone. He held out the receiver and called to Mundy. “Hey, Leo… phone.”

Mundy took his time making his shot, before he put his cue down, and picked up his beer. He walked to the end of the bar and took the call.

“This is Mundy…” He gestured to the barman for a paper and pencil.

He sipped his beer as he began jotting notes. “Right… Five four, brown hair… That with a ‘K’ or a ‘C’? Right… Okay, I’ll get on it. Will let you know. Hey, she won’t be able to buy a frank without my knowin’ what condiments she puts on it.”

Later that day Catherine walked slowly out of the Criminal Justice Building and onto the sidewalk. She looked up and down the street, finally seeing her target. She strolled down the street, moving closer to Clarence, where he sat on his sturdy fold-up chair, playing a slow, bluesy tune on his sax. A small crowd had gathered to listen, tossing change into his open case, to show their appreciation for his talent.

His open sax case served as a mail drop for the world Below. Catherine made eye contact with him as she approached. Clarence gave a small nod, as she stopped at the back of the crowd.

Leo Mundy and another of his rent-a-thugs had followed her from the lobby of the building. They were keeping a low profile at the top of the Justice Building steps. They kept Catherine in view, without crowding her too close. When she stopped, they stopped.

Mundy recognized Catherine from their encounter at Mischa’s building. “Surprise, surprise…” The two men walked slowly down the steps, carefully not looking in her direction.

Catherine stood listening to the music, swaying gently to the tune. The old man’s rheumy eyes took in her fresh beauty and warm smile as he played. He smiled as he ended the tune, lowering his instrument and touching his cap in a gesture of appreciation. There was a smattering of applause from the crowd, before they started to drift away.

“Thanks, Clarence. I needed that.” Catherine smiled, as she tossed a bill wrapped around a note into the sax case. She gave him a knowing nod.

As soon as she walked away towards her parked car, Clarence bent to pick up the bill, opening the note within the shelter of his broad palm. He read it quickly, before gathering his things and hurrying away. The message was for Vincent, and it was important, and immediate.

Catherine pulled up before Mischa’s apartment building. In the dilapidated lobby, the sign declared the elevators were still broken and out of use. She grimaced her frustration at the lack of progress, as she took the stairs to the right floor.

At Mischa’s door, she pressed the buzzer. After a long silence, the old man opened the door a crack and grinned at her.

“The police really got them?”

Catherine nodded. “And with your help, it will be a long time before they hurt anyone else. Are you ready?”

Mischa nodded. “We’ve been waiting since you called.” He turned back to the apartment behind him. “Come on, Sophie…”

Sophie hurried to follow Mischa out of the apartment. He locked the door, and the group moved down the hall.

“It’s said revenge is a dish best eaten cold,” Mischa confided. “We’ve been hungry for a long time.”

“Yes, you have,” Catherine nodded.

The three of them walked out of the building, moving toward for her car. She opened the door, helping them in. Something caught her eye.

Mischa noticed, turning to look. “Trouble?”

Mundy was sitting in a car across the street, watching them. Catherine frowned at him. “Nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry. He’s just trying to frighten you so you won’t testify.”

She helped Mischa in and closed the door, then moved around to climb behind the wheel.

Catherine changed her mind, and crossed the street to Mundy’s car.

Mundy glared at her through the open window. “You got a problem, lady?”

Catherine stared at him. “My witnesses are testifying, and if any harm comes to them, I’ll know where to look, so stay away.”

Mundy shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maybe you’re about to. “Well then, you better do a bed check, Mundy. Two of your campers are in a holding cell downtown. I’m going to put you away, you and whoever you work for.”

Mundy grimaced. “Maybe someday you and me will get a chance to dance together, lady, in the dark. I’d like that.”

Catherine laughed shortly, as she left him, going back to her car.

The punk with Mundy asked, “What if they roll over on us, Leo? Sell us out for a lighter rap?”

Mundy continued to watch Catherine. “I’m connected in very high places. One call, and they’re back out on the street. She’s got nothing.”

Catherine’s car pulled away, moving off down the street. A moment later, Leo Mundy began tailing her.

As she drove through the traffic, Catherine’s eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror.

Mischa craned his head around to look. “He’s still following?”

“He’s trying to frighten us, so we won’t testify against his thugs,” Sophie said.

“It’s his turn to be frightened.” Catherine glanced at Mundy’s car in her rear view mirror. “You are going to testify, and then we’re going to bury him and whoever he works for.”

Vincent sat at his writing table, in his chamber, working by the light of a kerosene lamp. He was attempting to write a letter to Catherine, but failing miserably.

He tried again. And again. And again.

Each word was agony, and the crumpled balls of paper around him suggest that he’s been at it awhile. He flung his pen away angrily, and cleared the table top with a swipe of his arm, frustrated at not being able to articulate his feelings, even on paper. He stared at the strewn balls of paper.

I told you to find someone. Someone to be a part of. Did I mean it?

He no longer knew. He wanted that “someone” to be him, and knew it couldn’t be.

A life I can never be a part of…

Writing was no use, he was locked in a struggle he could not win.

He sighed as he rose, to pull on his cloak, leaving the chamber with a look of grim determination on his face. He must say what was in his heart, and Catherine must hear him…

The night was moonless and dark. Catherine walked slowly toward the culvert entrance. She was unaware she was being watched by Mundy, who was parked on the road in his car. He held night-vision binoculars to his eyes, watching her every move.

At the junction, Vincent had already arrived, alerted to her presence by the bond they shared. He had rolled back the steel door and opened the barred gate as she entered.

Vincent stared at her. “Your message was very cryptic, Catherine. I sensed urgency.”

“I thought you’d want to know that Mundy’s thugs are in jail, thanks to Mischa and Sophie being brave enough to identify them. The wheels are in motion to offer them a deal, in exchange for their testimony against Leo Mundy.”

Vincent sighed. “Then it’s over…”

Catherine shook her head. “Not until we bring down the top man.”

The moment of silence stretched between them. Both knew there were words waiting to be spoken, words that would affect their future together.

Vincent took two steps away from her. “You could have written all this in your note. Catherine, I know your heart, the confusion you’re feeling. You know what you must do, but you’re afraid of hurting me. Don’t be. What’s most important to me is your happiness.”

“Vincent, I don’t want to cause you any pain…”

He held up a hand to her. “Please… let me finish. You are part of me, Catherine. Always and forever. But I can never be part of you. It’s hard for me to face that, to accept it, but I must, and so must you. Catherine, don’t let your feelings for me isolate you from the men of your world, from the beauty of love, of laughter, from the joy of truly joining your heart with another. I couldn’t bear it. I know that loneliness, and you deserve far more.”

He inhaled deeply. “Don’t struggle, Catherine; there is no need.”

But there is. And I have been struggling. Since the night I met Elliot. Struggling… “No need! Why?”

“Because we know, we always knew… that this bond between us …was only a dream we shared.”

“A dream? No, Vincent, our bond is the most real thing I’ve ever known. More than anything in my life. You are a part of me, and I treasure you. Your strength, support and compassion have made me more than I was. You give me the courage to be all that I can be. You’ve shown me the beauty of spirit... uncorrupted by vanity.”

She sighed. “One day I may meet someone to share my heart with. But part of me is yours, always and forever.””

“Do you love this man you are seeing now?” He stared at her, his eyes full of haunted despair.

Catherine looked away. “I don’t know. But if I do it won’t change anything. I won’t let it.”

“Someday… someone will come, and you’ll live another life… and dream another dream…”

“I don’t want to lose you, Vincent.” Catherine reached for him, but he avoided her touch.

He walked back to the tunnel opening, looked back at her for a long moment, then ducked through the door. As she looked on despairingly, he closed the bared door and reached to roll the steel door shut. It closed with a clang of awful finality.

Catherine was left with no option but to return home. She left the tunnel and crossed the park toward her car. Leo Mundy watched the tunnel entrance, but no-one came out. He climbed out of his car, and walked cautiously to the tunnel entrance.

He looked in curiously, but there was nobody there. He walked down to the junction entrance, his hand on his gun at his hip. He looked around, and saw no-one, and heard nothing.

He scanned the sandy floor for clues, and saw Catherine’s footprints in the dirt. Then he noticed large prints leading away towards a barred steel gate. He went down on one knee to check out the footprints. They were obviously male, judging by their size. But it was too dark to see them clearly. Holding his gun in his hand he reached into his pocket and fished out his lighter. He lit it, using the flame like a candle. After a long moment of contemplation of the prints, he followed them right up to, and under, the steel gate.

“Who would want to live in a hole in the ground?” he growled, snapping his lighter shut, and returning it to his pocket.

He stared around the junction, looking up the other two tunnels in turn. He scuffed his shoe at the footprints, trying to make sense of the unexplainable.

Vincent watched his every move through a secret panel he’d pushed open, just a crack. He knew the man must have followed Catherine. He would need to warn her to be more careful.

He saw Mundy shake his head, as he walked away from the barred gate, heading back up to the park. Vincent slid the panel shut and hurried away toward the home tunnels.

ACT FOUR

Always and Forever…

“The truth about forever is that it is happening right now…”

Sarah Dessen

Mundy stood behind his office desk, talking on the phone to his client. “I’m tellin’ you this broad is trouble. She’s gonna make us miserable if she keeps nosin’ around that building… You get my guys out jail, then I’ll relax.”

“Watch your tone, Mr. Mundy,” Lewis Arthur bit out, in a hard tone. “I told you I’ll handle it. You’ve been following her? Is she seeing someone?”

“I’m pretty sure she met a guy in the park today, in a tunnel. I watched her go in, and saw her come out. But just her. I checked it out, and there was no sign of him. Just some footprints. I don’t know how the hell he got outta there without me seein’ him.”

“We don’t need any more distractions. My client is becoming annoyed at the ongoing delays in settling this matter.” Elliot Burch’s lawyer exhaled roughly. “Find out who this man is. I want him dealt with. Hurt him badly, and tell him to stay away from her.”

“If you’ve got the money, I’ve got the time. What about the woman?”

“You can forget about her. There are other plans in play. Just get on and do what you were hired to do: clear out that building.”

Edie was at her keyboard when Catherine walked in. “Pay dirt?”

Edie grimaced her dissatisfaction. “Hey, still a long way from it. I been punching into these holding companies, trying to find out who the principal players are. I mean somebody has gone through a lot of trouble to make that damn near impossible. I mean, I know the serious drug czars run this kind of game to launder money.” She hit a few more keys. “Can’t mention any names yet, but there’s this.”

She pointed to computer screen. “Three of those holding companies use the same law firm as agent and New York business address. That one.”

“Have I told you lately that you’re amazing?” Catherine jotted down the address on the computer screen, smiling gratefully at Edie.

“Well… after that great party invite, and the fabulous dress… But that was so last week.” Edie looked up at her with a familiar grin. “Yeah, me and the Mets, who, by the way, are at Shea, Sunday, should you… trip across a spare ticket or two, say in your daddy’s… private box?”

“You’re a bandit,” Catherine told her roundly.

“Dinner with Mookie post-game would be lovely.” Edie waved an airy hand. “A girl can dream, can’t she?” She batted her lashes. “Maybe I’ll give that fabulous dress another airing.”

“We’ll see. I’ll check out the information.” Catherine chuckled at her friend’s audacity, and hurried from the room.

A high-rise building in Manhattan’s financial district cast a very long shadow over its neighbors. It had an air of self-importance, and permanence. One that was hard to ignore.

On the twentieth floor, the office receptionist accepted Catherine’s card, studying it closely before she keyed the intercom

“Mr. Lewis, there’s a Catherine Chandler from the District Attorney’s office here to see you…”

There was a significant pause, then a man’s voice snapped, “Show her in.”

The inner office door was opened by his secretary, who stood back to indicate Catherine could pass her.

“Mr. Arthur, Catherine Chandler.”

The portly attorney rose from behind his large, antique desk, as the secretary stood back and shut the door. Lewis Arthur looked anything but comfortable.

Catherine recognized him instantly. He was Elliot Burch’s lawyer, the one that had been pestering him at the gallery opening, when Elliot and Catherine had first met.

“I’m Lewis Arthur, Ms. Chandler.” He held out a hand, frowning at her. “Have we met before?”

Catherine took his hand briefly. “Almost. The other night, as the gallery opening.”

The lawyer nodded quickly. “Ah yes, of course, Elliot’s… ah... new friend. Sit down, please. And how may I help you?”

They both took seats. Catherine extracted some folded papers from her case and passed them to him.

“You’re the agent of record for these corporations, Mr. Arthur. I’d very much like to contact the principals regarding an investigation I’m working on. If you could give me their names…”

Arthur looked through the papers, his expression neutral.

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s privileged information. However, if there’s anything else I can help you with…” He looked up with a polite smile, as he pushed the papers back to her.

Catherine stared at him levelly. “You can tell me if these companies are controlled by Elliot Burch.”

Arthur’s look was pained. “Ms. Chandler, surely you can respect my position regarding confidentiality.”

Catherine frowned at him. “I need the names – or name of the presidents of those corporations. I’ll get a court order, if need be.”

Arthur rose to his feet. “Do what you will, Ms. Chandler. Now you really must excuse me. I have –”

Catherine stood. “A heavy calendar. I know. Give Mr. Burch my regards.” She gathered her things and left the office, the door snapping shut, behind her.

Arthur stood staring after her for a long moment. Then he reached to punch his intercom. “Get me Elliot Burch,” he barked at his secretary. “It’s urgent…”

Relaxing in his office, Joe sat, tipped back in his chair, feet on the desk, hurling darts at a battered board on the far wall. He was well satisfied with a case that had taken years to bring to a conclusion. He allowed himself a small amount of down time before he rolled up his sleeves again and attended to his next case.

Catherine opened the door and hurried in. She was forced to jump out of Joe’s line of fire as he let fly and the dart whizzed past her face. She closed the door with a snap.

“I just found out that Mundy’s leg-breakers made bail.”

Joe hurled another dart. “Yeah, kinda surprised me, with the bail being so high. No self-respecting bondsman would touch ‘em.”

“Spare change to whoever signs Leo Mundy’s paycheck.”

Joe sat up. “You have a name?”

Catherine waved her hand. “I have a hunch. I don’t want to jinx it. Well, can we get police protection for our witnesses?”

Joe threw another dart. “No way. This is penny-ante stuff. Hand me those darts, will ya?”

Catherine pulled the darts from the board. “We’re talking about two old people brave enough to do their part for us. We owe them! You know those punks are going to go after them!”

Joe held out his hand for the darts. “Look, I’ll see if I can increased patrols in the area, all right? It’s the best I can do.”

Catherine withheld the darts, handing him the phone receiver instead. Joe shook his head resignedly, as he began to dial.

Mischa’s apartment building stood shadowed in darkness. A police cruiser came around the corner, and drove slowly by the front of the building. All appeared to be well, so the police moved on. They would not be back for some time.

As they left, Catherine walked down the sidewalk toward the building. Her face was set and determined, as she watched the tail lights of the cruiser disappear around the corner. She knew the elderly residents were on their own, again.

She hurried inside, taking the stairs to a small, well-kept apartment on the third floor. The hallway outside was filled with classical music being played on an old phonograph. The buzz of the doorbell was barely discernable over the music. She was forced to knock on the door. But she still got no answer.

“Mischa? Are you there?” she called through the door.

She tried the door handle and found it unlocked. She opened the door and looked in. “Hello? Mischa?”

In the same moment Mischa came out of the tiny kitchen. He was wearing an apron and stirring something in a mixing bowl. He looked up, obviously delighted to see her.

“Catherine! Come in…”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Mischa laughed. “At my age, what’s to interrupt?” He nodded at his mixing bowl. “Latkes are as exciting as it gets. Something new about the case?”

Catherine didn’t want to upset him with the troubling news about Mundy’s henchmen making bail. “I just thought I’d stop in and say ‘hello,’ see how you’re doing.”

Mischa closed the door behind her, before heading for the kitchen. “Then, we’ll eat!”

Catherine was forced to scold him gently. “Didn’t I tell to keep your doors locked and chained?”

Mischa shrugged. “Fear ruins the digestion. Come on, I worry you’re so skinny.” He disappeared into the kitchen. Catherine turned to lock and slid the chain on the door, then followed.

The seedy bar in the Bowery was crowded, noisy and smoke-filled. Leo Mundy and his three amigos – the two that assaulted the old people and the one that was with Leo when Catherine had confronted him – were shooting pool.

A tall, powerful young man in a dark suit – Elliot Burch’s driver – walked into the bar, looking around, before hurrying toward the pool table. Mundy ignored him, as he was lining up a shot.

“Mr. Burch wants to see you. Outside,” the young man snapped sternly.

Mundy took his time completing the shot. “Couldn’t come in here, then. Might get somethin’ on his nice, expensive shoes.”

“Right now,” the young driver reiterated, reaching to take Mundy’s arm.

Mundy smiled grimly, before he drove the butt of his cue into the man’s solar plexus. The driver folded like a cheap tent, falling to the greasy carpet, gasping for air.  Mundy calmly turned back to his shot, sending it straight in.

He turned to his henchmen. “Keep ya eyes out, boys. We may have some work ahead of us tonight. Gotta go now, and see the boss. Keep this guy busy until I get back.”

He dropped his pool cue across the recumbent body of Burch’s driver. He kicked him in the ribs for good measure, as he passed on the way out the door.

Outside in his stretch limo, Burch was waiting impatiently. He glared through the open window as Mundy strolled out of the bar and crossed the street.

“Where’s my chauffeur?” Elliot demanded to know.

“Out slummin’, Mr. Burch?” Mundy opened the door and climbed in, slamming it shut as he sat across from Burch. “Your boy will be awhile. He needed to catch his breath.” Mundy laughed. “Met with the wrong end of a pool cue. Don’t ever send a boy on a man’s errand.”

“I don’t have time to play games.” Burch was furious, but he was also wary of a man like Mundy. He watched as the other man helped himself to an expensive scotch from the bar. “I’ve been trying to reach you, the line’s been busy for a solid hour.”

Mundy downed the scotch in a single swallow. He sighed with satisfaction. Whatever else Burch might be, he was an excellent judge of good whiskey. He helped himself to a second shot.

“Bookies. Big race tomorrow, everybody’s lookin’ to get down. What’s so hot it couldn’t hold?”

Burch glared at him. “I want you to conclude your assignment at that apartment building. Tonight. I’m losing too much money on all the delays.”

Mundy stared at him over the rim of his glass. “Your lady love gettin' too close for comfort?”

Burch ignored his pointed jibe. “When the tenants are gone, her investigation will end. I want them gone tonight!”

“Fine. I’ll handle it personally. But same night service costs extra.” He waited expectantly.

Burch hated being held up, but he knew better than to push Mundy too far. He nodded his reluctant acceptance.

“Here’s to business.” Mundy toasted him, and drained his scotch.

Burch watched him and made his plans. Tomorrow, bright and early, he would instruct Arthur to finally dispense with Mundy’s services. It was time to cut ties with such low-lifes. None of this must be traced back to Burch himself, or any of his concerns. He was going places, when the likes of Leo Mundy could never follow…

Mundy exited the limo, looking well satisfied, as he headed back into the bar. Burch’s chauffeur appeared in the doorway, looking decidedly worse for wear. He made his way to the limo and got behind the wheel. The limo pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires, and disappeared into the traffic.

Mundy and his three thugs hurried out of the bar and piled into Mundy’ car. It headed quickly downtown.

The street outside Mischa’s apartment building was dark and quiet. Mundy’s car coasted to the curb and parked a short distance away. Mundy and his men climbed out.

Mundy opened the trunk and pulled baseball bats out, distributing them to his men. “We do old Langer first, then the old lady. And don’t be gentle, they’re only getting what they deserve for being so stubborn.”

Mischa and Catherine were sitting on the couch, going through Mischa’s old photo albums. The old man pointed to a photograph.

“Look at my Ida. She’s eighteen here, the year we married. Such eyes, a smile that would melt ice.” He sighed, wiping at his tear-wet cheeks.

The phone rang and he rose to answer it. “Yes?... Already in the building? How many?... Call the police now!”

Catherine got up, watching him with deep concern. “What is it, Mischa?”

The old man hurried to the door. “They’re in the building. I must go. Sophie’s all alone…”

They rushed from his apartment to Sophie’s door. Mischa pounded on it, as Catherine heard Mundy and his men coming up the stairs.

“Sophie! Open the door! Hurry!” Mischa shouted.

“I’m trying…” Sophie fiddled with chains and locks before finally getting the door to open. Mischa pulled her out into the hall.

“Quickly, hide,” Mischa instructed them. “The apartments down there are empty.” He waved further down the hallway behind them, away from Mundy and his men. “I’ll hold them off…”

Catherine reached for him. “Come with us, Mischa.” She pulled a flashlight from her handbag.

“No! I won’t run…”

Catherine took his arm. She had no intention of leaving him behind.

“There are too many of them. Please… we need you with us…”

Mischa balked, but Catherine got him into gear, hustling him and Sophie down the hall, and into one of the empty apartments.

Mundy and his men came out of the stairwell. All had pulled stockings over their faces, giving them a bizarre, eerie look. Mundy used his baseball bat to smash out one of the overhead lights as he led the way toward Mischa’s apartment. They reached the door.

“Kick them all in.” Mundy nodded to one of his thugs.

The thug reared back and kicked the door with a heavy boot. The lock splintered and it crashed open. They rushed into the apartment. A woman started screaming.

Vincent was walking across the Whispering Bridge, thinking about everything he could not say to Catherine. He had never felt so lost and lonely as he did now. He walked slowly, with his head down, looking into the depths that fell away beneath his feet.

All around, voices whispered and muttered, and snatches of music played. He listened to everything, but heard nothing. He turned again, intending to head back to his chamber, when an emotional torrent hit him solidly, pushing him back a couple of steps. He felt Catherine’s panic. In the same moment he turned and began to run.

In the apartment hallway, on the floor below Mischa’s, an old man in his night clothes opened his door cautiously, to see three more old men moving slowly down the hall toward the stairs, listening to the sounds of Mundy and his men overhead. Each old man carried something to use as a weapon. They were armed with golf clubs, fireplace pokers, or a hammer.

Finding no-one home in Mischa’s apartment, Mundy led his men back into the hall.

“They’re here somewhere. Kick ‘em all in. We’re running out of time.”

Mundy and his thugs split up, and began kicking in the doors of every apartment. Some were occupied. Terrified residents cowered, as the bully boys searched their homes. Door after door was kicked in. To the remaining residents, it was terrifyingly reminiscent of another time and place.

Catherine, Mischa and Sophie listened to the sounds of splintering wood above, terrified old voices pleading for help. Sophie began to whimper, her mind filled with terrible memories.

“Someone, get help!” an old man shouted.

Suddenly, Mischa couldn’t take any more. With a hoarse bellow of rage, he shook off Catherine’s restraining hand and rose to his feet, running out into the hallway.

“Come on! All of you! Arm yourselves! Don’t panic!” he shouted to the cowering tenants.

Mundy and his thugs froze in their tracks, listening to the shouting. Mischa hurried down the hallway, glaring hatefully, defiantly at Mundy.

“You pigs! Cowards! I spit on you!” He spat, angrily.

Suddenly, Mundy heard something behind him. The men turned to look. A group of tenants were filing out of the stairwell behind them. Old men and women, all armed with makeshift weapons. Faces stony and unforgiving, they advanced, with purpose.

“Get them!” Mundy laughed, waving his men forward. They were closing the distance when Catherine stepped out of the apartment to stand beside Mischa. Then Sophie crept out, standing, braced against the hallway wall.

“The gang’s all here,” Mundy sneered.

He smirked at Catherine. “Glad you could make it, sweetheart. We’ll finally get a chance to dance after all, huh?”

As Mundy removed the stocking from his face, Catherine rushed to attack him, using all the skills Isaac’s long hours of training had taught her. She punched Mundy in the stomach, then hit him solidly with her flashlight. He tumbled down the hallway where there was already a melee in progress.

“You’ve had it, old man. You’ve really had it!” Mundy shouted at Mischa, as he scrambled to his feet. He turned to wave his arm at the advancing group. “Get back to your apartments. All of you!”

“Not this time,” one old man shouted. “Never again!”

More old people were pouring into the hallway, armed with hammers and pipes, candlestick holders and kitchen tools.

“Don’t be cowards. We all stick together!” Mischa yelled, grabbing up a fallen weapon.

One thug squared up to them. “Come here. Come on out of there.”

A long, tense moment passed, as the two groups stared at each other. It was a standoff. Mundy waved his men toward the waiting old people. He moved toward Catherine’s group. “Let’s get to it.”

Vincent clung to the top of a subway car. He leaned up to judge where he was, knowing he must hurry. He willed the train to go faster. He felt Catherine fear and panic, slowly turning into anger and the need to do something to help…

Please, Catherine, wait for me… Vincent begged silently, watching and waiting for the moment he must jump off the slowing train…

The two groups merged into one as the scrambling melee intensified. One of the thugs grabbed Catherine around the waist and lifting her off her feet. She grappled with him, looking for purchase so she could fight back.

In the same moment, Vincent leapt in through a nearby window from the fire escape, roaring in anger. Everyone froze in stunned disbelief, as he pulled the thug holding Catherine away and lifted him high against the wall. He slashed the man as another one came at him with a bat. Vincent dropped his first victim and turned on the second, throwing him with such force that he landed at the other end of the hall, under the window.

“Vincent!” Catherine shouted with relief.

“We’ve got a score to settle, you and me!” Mundy rushed at him, but when he saw Vincent’s face, he backed away in horror.

He tripped over the body of his fallen companion and tumbled forward, falling head first out the window with a terrified scream. Vincent made a grab for him but missed, and they heard the sound of screeching tires far below.

Vincent turned back from the window, breathing hard.

Everyone stared at him as Catherine made shooing motions to him. “We’re all right… Go!”

“Thank you, Vincent…” Mischa smiled at him, as Vincent turned to the window and climbed out, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived.

“Did you see that?” an old woman asked, in an awed voice.

“What was it?” someone else demanded to know. “Did you see those teeth?”

Mischa shushed them with a wave of his hand. “Enough! He’s a friend. A friend like this one.” He took Catherine’s hand. “And that’s all we tell anyone who asks.” He fixed them with a firm eye. “No one must ever know what really happened here tonight. We beat these punks, fair and square.”

The large reception area of Elliot Burch’s outer office was crowded with reporters and video crews, waiting for Burch’s press conference to begin. Catherine walked in, making her way through the crowd, and past the receptionist, toward the inner door leading to Burch’s private sanctum.

The receptionist leapt to her feet to intercept her. “You can’t go in there!”

Catherine turned, with her hand on the door knob. “Watch me.” She pushed the door open and walked in, shutting it behind her.

Elliot was seated at his desk, going over his speech, when Catherine appeared in front of him. He looked up.

“Catherine… what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

“I seriously doubt that. What’s the crowd outside waiting for, another announcement of a grand philanthropic gesture to the citizens of New York from the great Elliot Burch? Maybe you’d like to tell them how your hired goons have been terrorizing old people on the Lower East Side, to drive them from their homes so you can build another high rise!”

Elliot rose to his feet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about…”

“The hell you don’t! Catherine snapped. “You think that your money and power, the influence you wield, puts you above the law. It doesn’t.”

Elliot gave her a patronizing smile. “You’re very naive, Catherine. But I do admire your spirit.”

Catherine waved a dismissive hand. “Spirit’s something you know nothing about.” She glared at him. “I don’t have enough evidence to go public… not yet. But I promise you, this isn’t over. No matter how long it takes, it isn’t over.”

She stormed out, flinging the door wide. The media people surged into the office, surrounding him. Elliot straightened his tie and pulled on his discarded jacket. He had the charisma of a Kennedy, smiling and shaking hands.

In the outer office, Catherine turned back to witness the spectacle. Over the heads of the crowd, their eyes met. His were narrowed and challenging. Disgusted, she turned away and hurried out.

It was evening before Catherine got out of a taxi in front of her apartment building.

“Thanks a lot, lady,” the taxi driver appreciated her generous tip.

Elliot was waiting across the street in his limo. He got out, quickly crossing the street to her.

“Catherine, I’ve been waiting for you. Look, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding…”

Catherine faced him. “Only on your part, Elliot. Those people are not moving. I’ve got enough on your management company to stop the project.”

Elliot reared back as if she had struck him. “No!”

“Yes! The building stays!”

She glared at him, to emphasize her point. Elliot hesitated, and then left her standing alone. As he crossed the street, he slapped his gloves against his leg in frustration.

Catherine walked onto her balcony to find Vincent waiting for her. They stood together, sharing the comfort of each other’s presence. Catherine was still unsettled by her experience with Elliot. Vincent could feel her inner turmoil.

Vincent stared out at the lights. “The city is very beautiful tonight...”

Catherine sighed. “I wish I could still believe that.”

Vincent pulled her closer to his side. “There have always been evil men. But light is stronger than darkness, Catherine.”

“I just can’t seem to let go of this. How much I wanted to believe in him.”

“Don’t let him steal your hope,” Vincent whispered.

Catherine moved away to stand at the balcony wall. She looked out at the city. Vincent moved to stand behind her, hands on her shoulders.

She tilted her head against his chest. “No one can ever do that. Not as long as you’re in my life.”

Vincent inclined his head to press a kiss onto her hair. “Always and forever…”

He sighed, even as he left her standing there. In an instant he was gone, silently taking the fire escape to the roof. Catherine didn’t need to turn and look to know he was no longer behind her. Once again she was alone…

Catherine changed for bed, and lay down to try and sleep, but it proved too elusive. Her mind still roiled with all that had happened. It was after two o’clock in the morning when she finally gave up and got up to pull on her silk dressing gown.

Without hope of finding Vincent there, she opened her French doors and walked out onto her balcony. As she walked past her table, she was surprised to see a book. It was the sonnets of William Shakespeare. Vincent must have returned without her hearing him.

She gasped as she opened the book. Inside the flyleaf Vincent has written: ‘Shakespeare knew everything’.

Within the pages he had pressed a fragrant red rose marking the Twenty-Ninth Sonnet.

Catherine inhaled the sweet, heady fragrance of the rose, as she began to read the words that Vincent had indicated. The words he had found so impossible to say to her… until now…

His beautiful voice echoed in her mind as she read the sonnet…

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings,

That then I scorn to change my state with kings...

Far above the city lights, Vincent sat on the roof of a building, watching over Catherine, and the city, at night.

“I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and become yours forever…”

Robert Browning