Chapter 7: Under a Moon Waning and Worn
[7]
Catherine started at the sound of the
telephone, breaking the point of her newly-sharpened pencil. She dug the
receiver out from a pile of legal pads, briefs and nearly dislodged a now-cold
cup of coffee into her lap in the process. She blew her hair out of her face
and picked it up. “Catherine Chandler.”
“Hi, Ms. Chandler, this is Lucy at reception.
You have a call from a Detective Griffin from the Elizabeth, New Jersey Police
Department. Did you want me to take a message?”
Yes, Catherine
wanted to say, rubbing eyes gone gritty and sore with tiredness. Aloud, she
replied, “No, Lucy, I’ll take the call.”
“Okay,” Lucy replied. “Stay on the line
and I’ll transfer him.”
Catherine took a hasty drink of her
coffee before the male voice began speaking. “Hello, am I speaking to ADA
Catherine Chandler?”
“Yes,” she answered. “What can I do for
you today?”
“Are you familiar with a woman named
Marge Mueller?”
Her heart sank. It had been almost two
months since Marge Mueller had come to her office, delivering a box of Max
Avery’s tax records. “Yes, yes I am. Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it that, exactly,” Detective Griffin said laconically. “She hasn’t done anything that we can tell. It’s only her house was robbed last night—strangest thing too. She had some valuables in the house—not many, but nothing a thief worth his salt would have ignored—but those weren’t taken.”
“Mrs. Mueller had provided
some…information on a case we’re prosecuting,” Catherine said, cautious of
saying too much to anyone about the Avery case. “Is she all right?”
“Oh, yes,” the detective replied. “Her
house is a total mess, though, and she suggested we talk to you as part of our
investigation.”
“I’m sure,” Catherine replied. There are no coincidences. “The
documents she gave us are part of an ongoing investigation. I’m sure you
understand I can’t comment further.”
“Of course,” the detective replied.
“Seeing as how this is related to a case you’re prosecuting, I’m going to have
some more patrols in her area for a time.”
“Thank you,” Catherine replied. “Please
let Mrs. Mueller know I’ll be contacting her soon as well.”
After he hung up, Catherine leaned her
head forward into her hands. Between Vincent and his manifold worries and
concerns, and the convoluted mess that the Avery case had been and was
continuing to be, she felt as if she were trying to plug holes in a dam with
bubble gum. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, she thought; it
had been one of her father’s favorite quotations and it was as if—for just a
second—she felt his presence so very near. She smiled, and took a deep breath.
Mrs. Mueller’s phone number was around here somewhere….
***
“So what’s this all about?” Angus asked
as he followed Vincent down a deserted side-corridor.
Vincent halted in his own pacing,
trying to marshal his thoughts. “Security of these tunnels has long been my
exclusive province,” he began. “Not by my choice necessarily, but…”
“Well, you do seem…equipped for it,”
Angus said, bluntly. “What are you thinking?”
Vincent stared at thick nails—claws,
really, if he were to be perfectly accurate—which glinted in the torchlight. “I
cannot stage a rescue on my own,” he replied, finding Angus’s honest words to
be the balm he needed to continue.
Angus folded his arms, one foot braced
flat against the rock wall. “So you think they will need to be rescued?”
“Yes,” Vincent said after some
deliberation. “I do. I would prefer to do it without loss of life, if
possible.”
“And you’re asking for help…from me,”
Angus said slowly. “Why?”
“Because I trust you.”
“You trust Kanin and Cullen—hell, you
even trust Mouse and some days, that’s a bridge too far. Why me?”
“Olivia’s pregnancy has
been…challenging thus far and she needs Kanin’s help with Luke. Cullen has a
new wife and a newborn daughter who need him as well.”
“Whereas nobody needs me,” Angus said
bitterly. “Thanks, but—“
Deep in his chest, Vincent felt the
snarl, the rumble of frustration, the desperation that he might yet lack the
words to make Angus see, waiting to unfurl. “No. That’s not it at all,” he ground out. “You, more than anyone
here, know what love and loss can do to a person and yet you choose…you have
chosen…to be better than that.” He tried to smile. “Perhaps I merely need the
reminder.”
Angus stared at him. “You’re afraid…of
losing Father, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Vincent admitted. “There is so
much we don’t know.”
Angus rubbed the side of his face. “Do
you think you might be jumping the gun here a bit? You sent a message. You
haven’t even received a reply and you’re…what, planning an invasion?”
“No,” Vincent replied. “I’m…trying to be
cautious. To prepare, if things should be as bad as I suspect.”
“You do know something then, don’t you? Or you sense it?”
Vincent spread his hands. “Impressions,
mostly. The sense that things are going badly…fear…desperation.”
Angus swallowed. “Is Quinn all right?”
“It isn’t that specific. I’m sorry, I
wish it was.”
“But it is with Catherine?” Angus asked
shrewdly. “Never mind, you don’t have to answer that. I…know how it is with you
two.”
Not
for the first time, Vincent wondered exactly what stories were circulating
about them in the tunnels. Aloud he said, “I…see. If there is trouble, will
you—“
Angus
clapped him briefly on the shoulder. “Yeah. Of course. You never needed to
ask.”
***
“You all right?” Quinn asked, her firm
hand on his elbow.
His right hip throbbed, a dull, steady
agony that flared with each step. “I’ve been better,” Father muttered as they
walked—hobbled, really, if he were to be totally honest—down the long length of
the corridor. His hip hadn’t hurt this badly since the unending walk from
Paracelsus’s lair with Catherine (John had, of course, taken his cane—“the
better to play my role with,”
he’d gloated) and the memory of that nightmare time was more than enough
to make him dread what was ahead. He took a deep breath and squared his
shoulders; this was not a good time to get mired in the past. “But I’ll live.”
Gordon stopped and turned back to look
at them. “That’s good,” he said, a touch too cheery for Father’s taste. “You
being dead would mean all sorts of explanations I’d have to make to Lucas.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Father
saw Rhys’s fists clench, then slowly release. How often had he seen that same
gesture from Vincent in his youth, trying to grapple with fury or frustration?
Though Rhys was unrelentingly amiable, Father had never made the mistake of
underestimating how fierce he could be. He smiled at the other man, trying to
communicate what could not be said with words. I’m all right. Don’t worry.
Rhys nodded briefly. “How much longer will we be walking?”
Gordon laughed. “Why? Thinking of
making a map?”
Quinn smiled. “Him? No,” she said, obviously trying to release some of the tension as her fingers unobtrusively sought Father’s pulse. “He gets lost in our
tunnels.”
The comment, in their own community,
would have brought some gentle laughter and fond smiles. Here, among the
strangers who were their neighbors, it received nothing but a hard, foreboding
stare. “You’ll need to make a left turn at the next junction,” Gordon said.
Rhys raised one eyebrow. “And if we should go…right?”
Gordon folded his arms. “You get lost
easily, you don’t want to turn right. If you know what’s good for you.”
That statement ended all conversation
for a time, and Father found his thoughts returning, as they often did during
times of trial, to Margaret. Not Margaret as she had been during those final
seven days—those memories were still too precious and he hoarded them as the
treasure they were—-but as she had been during their all-too-brief
marriage. She had given him his first
cane as a joke, saying that anyone with his accent needed a cane to look
properly British. It had been an affectation he’d hardly needed then and he
smiled inwardly, thinking of that younger Jacob Wells who’d been able to take
his wife out dancing, but after his hip injury (Had that been John’s doing? he wondered now, all these years
later) the cane had been the one relic of his time above that had been still
been useful.
Quinn’s hand on his arm brought him out
of his musings. “We’re here,” she said.
***
Catherine rested her head against her
hands. The call to warn Mrs. Mueller—even to suggest that she go stay with a
family member for a time—had been utterly fruitless. Showing a spirit Catherine
had not originally suspected she possessed, Marge Mueller had insisted that she
would not be chased from her home by a couple of robbers. Her one concession to
her own safety was that one of her sons-in-law, a construction worker, was
working nearby and would certainly come and check on her.
She heard the crinkle of a bag and the
distinctive footsteps of Joe, and looked up. “Cheese nuggets? Nacho cheese
nuggets? Now?”
He grinned. “It’s nearly lunch.”
She glanced at the clock. “Ugh. It is.
Have you seen the…sandwich cart?” Maybe there would be some news of Father
and the others.
“Yeah, he’s over with the interns,” Joe
replied. He tilted his head. “You look tired, Radcliffe. Everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, dredging up a
smile from somewhere. “I just need to get something to eat.”
Joe eyed her closely. “If you say so.
Did Rita show you the latest motion Avery’s attorney filed?”
“No. He filed another one?” Catherine
asked, feeling the ominous lurch in her stomach begin.
“Yeah. Rita’s going to be seeing you
soon about writing the response; she took it with her to read it in court while
she’s waiting for her arraignment to be called. It seems he wants a change of
venue. Again. This time to Albany.”
Catherine held back a snort, but only
just. “Oh, sure. Just because his client had his thumbs in every pie in New
York City, of course he wants
the trial moved north.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Do you think there’s
a chance the judge will agree?”
Joe pitched the empty bag into the
trash and folded his arms. “There’s always a chance, but the judge said ‘No’
once. I can’t see him suddenly agreeing now.”
“What’s his calendar look like around
the trial date?” she asked.
“Clear—it’s not as if the Avery case
will be one of several high-profile cases being heard that week. It’s pretty
much the only one,” Joe said with satisfaction. “The judge would have even less
reason than usual to agree to the change of venue.”
Catherine leaned back in her chair,
feeling the tension suddenly lift. She was ready to try this case in whatever
venue it finally landed, but going to Albany, being so far away from Vincent
and the current troubles in the tunnels, was not at all ideal. “Well, let’s
hope the judge is reasonable.”
The rusty squeak of the sandwich cart
announced Benny’s arrival. “What’ll it be, hot stuff?” he asked with a wink and
a smile.
“Do you…” she began and met his eyes
over Joe’s bowed head, only to see Benny shake his head slightly. No news,
then. “…Well, I can’t decide. What do you suggest?”
“The ham and Swiss on rye is good,”
Benny said. “On the house. We’ve got too many of them today anyway.”
“Hey, how come my sandwiches are never
free?” Joe demanded, half-seriously.
Benny winked. “Because you’re not
nearly as pretty.”
***
Father noticed the noise first—the
sound of tapping on the pipes. It was a welcoming, familiar sound, the sound of
home. But the messages were in a code he couldn’t quite translate, yet another
reminder—as if he needed one—how very precarious their situation was. “We got a
message from your boy,” Lucas said without preamble.
In other circumstances, Father would
have laughed at anyone calling Vincent a “boy.” He’d topped a rangy six feet at
sixteen and before that, even Father would have hesitated to call him a boy;
Vincent had always been too old for his years, for the weight of his burdens.
Aloud Father said only, “Oh? I’m sure he wanted to check on us. We were
supposed to have sent a message some hours ago.”
“That’s what he said,” Lucas replied
with a small frown. “To be honest, I’m surprised he’s not already here. Maybe
he doesn’t miss you as much as you thought?”
Rhys snorted in derision. “Or maybe
he’s weighing his options to get us back. You ever think of that? He knows
something’s not right.”
“Why did you want to see us?” Quinn
asked.
Lucas raised his eyebrows. “You and
Rhys are free to go. You can tell Vincent that we’re keeping the doctor.”
Father couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that how you think this works? You kidnap us, and I’m just going to stay here because you say need a doctor? No.”
The sharp blow to the back of his legs
(with what? his cane? Father wondered through
the haze of agony which made his vision grow thin and grey) jolted his hip and
brought him to his knees, driving the breath from his lungs. Gordon stepped
back, satisfied, as Father tried to remember how to breathe, how to think, in
the tumult. He dimly heard Angela’s gasp of horror, the sounds of Quinn and
Rhys trying—and failing—to rush to him.
Father looked up to see Lucas fold his
arms, apparently unmoved. “I told you that we can be…persuasive.”
***
Vincent sat with Cullen, Angus, Kanin, Valerie and Marisol at the octagonal table in Father’s study which had been there at least since his own birth, and possibly before. They were, if he admitted the truth, planning an invasion; old tunnel maps were unfurled and paperweights of books and mugs kept the maps from curling, while Kanin and Cullen made notations on a large section of butcher paper. He glanced at Marisol and Valerie and considered that there was no real reason for them to be present, except for the necessary counterbalance they provided. He had thought to ask Mary to join them, but she was Father’s oldest friend; it would not be kind to worry her until there was real reason to worry.
Almost as if divining his thoughts, Cullen raised his head and spoke. “Man, we should get Mary here.”
“What makes you say that?” Angus asked.
“She went with Father to the community
once—one of the women was having trouble giving birth. How long ago was that?”
“It was a few years ago,” Vincent
recalled. “Four, maybe five years.”
“She might know a better way in than these maps,” Cullen responded. “And you know she’d do anything to help Father.”
“As we all would,” Valerie put in
kindly. “It’s a good thought, though.”
Vincent nodded and rose to bang out the
message on the pipes when a sudden burst of agony nearly drove him to his
knees. His vision greyed and he must have groaned for when he opened his eyes,
it was to find the others staring at him. An inner force rose---avenge! protect! defend!---snarling, wanting to unleash its fury and he choked it back with an effort. “It’s Father,” he managed. “We…don’t have much time.”
Click here for Chapter 8....
Click here for Chapter 8....
__________
[7] “September Nights,” by Sarah
Teasdale
4 comments:
I've been eagerly waiting for an update, and I'm certainly not disappointed! Look slike we're getting action on all fronts -- Catherine's case against Max Avery, Vincent's plans for a rescue, and Father's difficulties with this outlaw community. My opinion of Lucas' abilities as a leader continue to drop. What good is a doctor if he is too injured to do his job? Not to mention the fact that he has just escalated Vincent's response -- that's never a good thing.
Anxious as always for more! Regards, Lindariel
Powerful yet scary stuff! Good one!
Jenna
Ooh I bet we're getting close to Catherine having to deal with trouble without Vincent as back up in Albany. And I'm definitely curious to learn if Lucas is really in charge or if he's carrying out orders for whoever is running Paracelsus' schemes now. Good stuff.
Ruby
Lindariel--- Hi there, good to see you! :) My chapters are getting longer, but it's taking longer to write them, so... :D As far as Lucas goes---without getting too far ahead (*cough, innocent blink, cough*) there's...a lot going on with him that's not immediately apparent. ;-) I'm so glad you're eager for more
Jenna---thanks so much for commenting. :) It's always so good to hear from you.
Ruby- Good to see you! I'm not at all sure they're going to Albany :) But a change of venue is not at all uncommon particularly in high-profile cases, so.... And as for Lucas...well, you'll see. :D
Thank you all so much for commenting---you've made my day :)
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