Chapter Text
The world was full of wonders.
Only stubborn, persistent, willful blindness could imagine otherwise. But he'd long since concluded that people didn't imagine at all. That was the reason for the closed, grim faces he encountered Above: faces barricaded against wonder, against imagination that would otherwise have erupted and made them know that neither they nor the world were as they'd thought them to be. Terrifying knowledge.
Breath was a miracle. Light was a miracle and Dark, a greater miracle still, if one had the eyes to see it. If one hadn't locked oneself up in mind-forged manacles and frightened blindness…
Blake had known the truth: If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is - infinite.
And the means were known: This will come to pass by an improvement of sensual enjoyment.
The means were at hand.
Bare arms inserted to the elbows through the access cuffs of the makeshift enclosure of plastic sheeting, he continued carefully harvesting his crop: the small, nutlike fruiting bodies that the fungus on the long growing tray lifted on delicate stalks. He collected each nearly weightless little puffball and dropped it into the plastic bag held in his other hand.
The crop was ripe almost to bursting: the fingers of his collecting hand glowed a luminous chartreuse from spores even the lightest contact couldn't help but dislodge. But he was proof against their effects - mere skin contact wasn't enough. Only inhaled would the spores release to the brain their varied illuminations.
Having harvested that tray, he sealed his bag and then proceeded with the routine: swishing both hands in a bowl of liquid fungicide, then washing thoroughly, several times, with surgical scrub. Next, he moved the tent of sheeting to another tray, methodically proceeding until all eight had been tended and his collecting bag fluoresced a vivid green in the illumination of the ultraviolet lamps hung from the cavern's low ceiling.
Maintained at a constant temperature and exposed to ultraviolet in the presence of heavy concentrations of vitamin D, the mold growing on a slurry of rye seed underwent a transformation, producing spores that concentrated certain alkaloids not normally present in ergot. And this cave was the perfect - indeed, the only - garden: when he'd tried expanding his experiment to nearby caverns, his crop had collapsed into a noxious slime. Something as yet undiscovered about this cave catalyzed the transformation. The slight radioactivity natural to granite? The dynamics of earth's electromagnetic force - the so-called “ley lines?” Perhaps he should make discreet inquiries in Chinatown for a geomancer to pronounce on the reasons for this one cave's auspiciousness for growing mutated ergot.
The thought made him smile, knowing he'd never disclose the secret of the world Below to such an interloper and certainly not for such a frivolous purpose. He wasn't, after all, intending to publish his research for the astonishment of the stupid, hidebound scientific community. It didn't matter if his results could be replicated in some topside laboratory. All that mattered was that his methods worked and that the product was worth many times its powdery weight in imperishable gold. He, of all people, had never been averse to a slight admixture of mystery….
Turning base substances into gold had been the proper work of alchemists from ancient times. And he claimed the name, and the mantle, of Paracelsus, greatest of those bygone explorers of the shadowy margins of knowledge where the physical and the magical interpenetrated and could yield illuminations for those with the eyes, and the will, to see beyond matter into the eternal, the infinite.
If there was a little magic in his dust, he wasn't at all displeased.
Carrying his crop to an adjoining chamber, he pounded the sealed bag with a padded mallet, releasing the spores he then extracted with the suction of a common turkey baster and expelled into a sealed jar. The glowing powder swirled - left to itself, hours would pass before it settled; he'd assist the process with a dusting of lactose to render the drug less volatile, easier to handle. Tonight at midnight he'd deliver to market the week's harvest - a package the size of both fists, barely a pound. But for each gram, he'd be paid several solid, beautiful gold coins.
He put no trust in adulterated coinage or paper money: without intrinsic value, dependent on the stability of whatever government issued it. Only gold would remain precious regardless of the inevitable wars and eruptions of uncontrolled irrationality characteristic of all civilizations that blinded themselves to the hidden side of the psyche, that tried to suppress, ignore, and deny the realities of primal Nature, thereby losing the opportunity to harness those forces. Denying Vision, they were more blind, in their ubiquitous artificial lights, than Paracelsus, at home in the elder Dark.
Removing his UV-protective goggles, studying the sparkling jar as he cleaned his implements and his work surface, he quoted to himself, In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
He forgave that author for bearing the surname Wells for the sake of his accurate insight that the blinded many would, if allowed, inflict blindness upon the visionary one who refused to share their limitations.
He knew that, were he ever caught, he would suffer imprisonment for the crime of purveying vision to the world Above. That was always the fate of prophets, whom mundane society rightly feared and hated. Society was intolerant of greatness, instead requiring a consistent, predictable level of mediocrity in its members. Nonconforming greatness, originality, and imagination were therefore driven into hiding and must live secret and apart. As he lived, in quiet and profitable subversion, awaiting the inevitable descent of chaos and old night upon the city and the civilization Above: when all the comforting, deceitful lights would go out and the self-blinded many would learn that only from the visionary few could either safety or survival derive and at last pay them proper homage.
Patting the jar, he thought, choosing another poet's inspired truth, I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
For vision was always terrifying. Not for no reason did angels arrive with the injunction, Fear not! Vision set one apart from the herd. That was dangerous. If some could not bear illumination, could not support an awareness of their irreducible isolation, if they preferred madness to facing the truth about their own petty souls or if society then shut them away as dangerously divergent, then that was the fault of their own weakness and society's rigid, oppressive paranoia: none of his responsibility. He only offered goods for sale. He compelled no one to buy.
And the doors of perception would be cleansed by an improvement of sensual enjoyment.
*****
Rhiannon had heard that this new stuff was a real kick.
Cost an arm and a leg, a whole week's modeling pay, but good stuff always did when it was new and hard to come by. Probably in a month, all the kitchen labs would have caught on and the stuff would be as common as dirt, kids peddling it on every street corner, but now part of the kick was that it was scarce and exclusive - only a couple of places dealing it, you had to know the right people to hear about it at all.
Rhiannon prided herself on knowing the right people. And on being first to try the newest thing before everybody got ahold of it and just having done it didn't mean you were special anymore. Doing what everybody else did was a real drag, maximally boring and tacky.
Maybe it was tacky that the stuff glittered like make-believe pixie dust, like something for kids. Standing in front of the mirror of the club's john - she liked to watch her eyes as the rush of whatever she was trying came on - Rhiannon leaned to flip off the light switch, then shook the little capped tube. Sure enough: glowed like squashed fireflies. Kind of pretty, actually. Bright and sparkly, like it might make you feel bright and sparkly, too. But when she talked about it, afterward, she'd dismiss it as tacky. Glitzy. That's what she'd call it: glitz. Maybe the name would catch on. Maybe her word for it would get to be the word – what they'd say in the papers and on TV and everything. Wouldn't that be a kick, to hear her word and know everybody was saying it but she'd said it first, when it was too new even to have a name at all and was just the new stuff at Fuscia?
After turning the lights back on, she carefully pushed off the cap with her thumbs - they'd warned her it was light, almost like smoke, and it was too pricey to waste - and immediately shoved the tube under her nose and breathed deeply. Holding her breath, afraid she'd sneeze, she stared at her face in the mirror to watch the rush hit.
Nothing happened. No intense rush. It was a big ripoff - they'd sold her some fake, taken her for some nobody they could pull anything on, or Mickey and Ronnie had told her wrong so they all could snicker about her behind her back, that she was dumb enough to believe in something as stupid as pixie dust…
But how could anybody want to laugh at that face? With its delicate miracle of bones all arranged the right way, the eyelids opening just enough to let the eyes look out, so perfect, so beautifully aligned? And the skin all stretching over everything, just enough to cover, wasn't that wonderful? And hair, each separate strand curling independently, moving when she shoved both hands into it but falling into a new arrangement when she let go, all by itself, amazing. And her hands, there were tiny little wrinkles in the skin so it could stretch when the fingers bent, not really wrinkles because they weren't gross or anything, just little flexes, just the way skin ought to be, and all of it hers, so beautiful it made her want to cry because she'd never realized she deserved skin like that, so many intricate little flexes just for her, so she'd work right, every joint and every motion lovely, like dancing. Her fingers doing a dance in the air. She hadn't realized what a privilege it was to be in breathing skin, all of it awake and aware of the breeze that moved from the door opening and the noise and smoke coming in from the club.
And the amazing thing was that the woman who came in was beautiful too. She had skin all over, and eyes that blinked and everything, all working right, all fitted to the right proportions to be herself. It wasn't just Rhiannon: everybody was wonderful!
Rhiannon blurted her recognition: “You're special!” but the woman didn't seem to care, giving her a quick glance before darting into a stall and slamming the door.
Rhiannon realized how sad it was that the woman didn't care she was special and had amazing hair every strand alive, because the dark roots were growing out, and how could you have living hair and not feel what a joyous thing that was?
She danced a slow, graceful dance back into the club and immediately realized that everybody could now see how beautiful she was. Naturally, they loved her. They moved around her, smiling and talking to one another, gesturing with supple hands, and it was plain it was all in praise of her. They were all beautiful together, secure and cherished, praised and praising in the magical colors that came and went on everything from the rotating mirrored ball on the ceiling. They were all rainbows, all made of light, bursting with visible happiness that sparkled everywhere.
Iridescent feathers entranced her: collecting from an unoccupied chair a long feather boa obviously offered as a gift to her, she stroked it into place around her shoulders, marveling at the textures and the delightful combination of softness and resilience. She looked around to thank whoever had presented her with such a kind gift, so many sliding sensations on the bare skin of her hands, arms, and shoulders. Gloriously happy and grateful, she moved in her search to the street door and became absorbed in the different sensation of cooler air and the brilliant pink glow of generous streetlights offering their joy everywhere. It was wonderful, how unselfishly they shared and asked for nothing back, happy merely in the giving. Rhiannon was caught up in imagining how good that would feel, to be so rich you could afford to give away the wonder; to be so loved you could love everybody alike.
For a moment, what caught her eye was a fire hydrant; then it was revealed as a shivering dwarf in bright red clothing, looking up at her in awe.
Infinitely compassionate, like the streetlights, she realized, “Oh, you must be cold!” and bestowed her boa on the dwarf, who snuggled the queenly gift against himself and beamed his astonished gratitude. She, too, was grateful.
Rhiannon wanted to thank the streetlights for the truth they'd revealed to her. But however high she reached, she couldn't seem to touch them. Other lights were approaching - a pair, round as eyes, accompanied by a lovely humming song that grew louder as the blazing eyes grew, rushing to share her joy. Confident, euphoric, she dashed suddenly forward into the street to meet them.
The car, a three-year-old blue Ford with New Jersey plates, killed her instantly.
*****
“Joe's taken every precaution,” Catherine insisted for about the fifth time, looking up at the leonine planes of Vincent's face for any sign he'd become reconciled to the prospect. “I'll be wearing a wire – a microphone, Vincent. They'll be listening. They'll hear everything. At the first sign of trouble, they'll come in, and I'll dive for the floor. I promise. You mustn't worry.”
Vincent's response was to turn more fully away from the light slanting down from the basement storage area into this secret threshold, glinting off the gold bra the diagonal drape of Catherine's white evening gown left half exposed. His features in deliberate shadow, he said nothing – neither arguing nor accepting.
And unless Catherine persuaded him, if he thought her in danger he'd barge right into the middle of a police raid. That was why Catherine had sent him a note to meet her here tonight: to talk it out in advance so she could be certain he'd stay well clear.
She was as close as she'd ever come to being truly angry at him and knew her anger arose from guilt. Once before, he'd followed her to a risky meeting she'd considered necessary despite her edgy nervousness: unease strong enough to have drawn him to her in the first place. She'd come out relatively unscathed but he'd been all but deafened and blinded by a pipe bomb and then fallen into the hands of a vindictive street gang, the Silks. He'd been hurt worse, almost killed, before he'd managed to escape them and finally return Below.
Her fault, as Father had bluntly pointed out more than once in the weeks since.
Catherine was determined nothing like that was going to happen tonight. She was entitled to put herself in danger but absolutely didn't want Vincent involved.
She'd hoped it would be a simple matter of telling Vincent of her plans and explaining the safeguards, so he'd understand and be reassured…and stay Below, accepting that she'd be well-protected by others. But she'd reckoned without his stubbornness. He'd listen, perfectly politely… and then crash into the middle of a gun battle between drug dealers and police, should one erupt, the danger far greater to him than to her, since neither side would hesitate to fire at him.
Whereas Catherine had at least the protections of Law - of being on the side of the “good guys”- Vincent's jeopardy Above was total. He had no place in that world, alien to criminals and police alike.
If he'd been anybody else, she'd have suspected him of using that grim and irrevocable fact as emotional blackmail to force her to give up her plans.
Trying another tack, she set both hands on his arm saying, “Vincent. It's important. It needs to be done.”
Finally, he consented to look at her – a brief, sideways glance. “But must you be the one to do it? Cannot this man you say already works there-”
“Jimmy.”
“Can he not wear this wire and gather whatever evidence-”
“He can't, Vincent. Buckman doesn't trust him to get near the drug deals yet. We have to get a line on the supplier, and for that, someone has to go in and negotiate for a big buy, so Buckman will have to make contact.”
“Someone,” Vincent repeated in an uninflected tone that nevertheless managed to convey immense reservations.
“I volunteered,” Catherine admitted steadily. “And Joe accepted my offer. Do you think Joe would have agreed if he thought it was that dangerous?”
Staring straight out into the dark of the brick passage, Vincent said, “Joe sent you to the docks. Where your companion was assassinated. Where you were shot. I came too late.”
“And it's my fault, about the Silks,” Catherine countered bluntly. Before he could protest, as she knew he was going to, she went on, “I'm due at the club in an hour. What do you want me to do, Vincent? Call Joe and tell him I've changed my mind, when I haven't? Call it all off at the last minute, let everybody down? Let them go on selling their horrible drugs? Go hide in my apartment, not for fear that I could be hurt but for fear something might happen to you? Is that what you want?”
“No. Of course not. But if you were to be hurt again, Catherine…” At his sides, his hands closed into huge, furred fists as he went on, “If you came to hurt I could have kept from you… What would you have me do, Catherine? Deny the bond, that conveys your fear to me? Deny the danger, that even you do not claim does not exist? Deny-”
She broke in, “If there are risks, they're my risks, Vincent. You can't take them for me. Or from me. Who was it that taught me I must face my fears? Well, I'm doing that. But can't you see that you have to let me? I'm not an invalid, a child, or a fool. I gave Joe my promise. I intend to keep it.”
Vincent regarded her gravely. “I understand.”
She grasped one of his fists, and it immediately relaxed within her clasp: offering no resistance, but still what it was - a clawed sledgehammer of bone, tendon, and muscle that had killed in her defense more than once. Whose strength it would have been too easy to rely upon, rather than endure the necessary pain and fear of developing her own strength, her own courage.
She demanded, “But do you accept it? Will you promise to stay away?”
“As you say, Catherine - you are neither an invalid, a child, nor a fool. You must make your own choices. And I shall make mine. We must both take great care.”
Realizing he wasn't going to be sensible about this, she turned for the light and her ladder and left him without another word.
*****
As Paracelsus prepared to leave, his lieutenant, a black man named Cook, came to that branch of Paracelsus' suite of sparsely furnished chambers that served as his office, summoned for the usual parting conference. Nobody intruded on Paracelsus' solitude except by command.
“I still don't like it,” Cook commented in the softly slurred Georgia cadences a lifetime Below had failed to erase. He'd grown up in Paracelsus' service. “It ain't safe up there noways, and you carrying like this. Whyn't you send somebody?”
Pulling on his overcoat, Paracelsus leveled a stern, suspicious look at the man. “You, for instance?”
“Sure, if you want. Or Viper, ain't nobody with sense gonna mess with-”
“No one touches my gold. Is that clear?”
Cook shook his head, frustrated. “It ain't like that. Stuff we do, pulling down buildings, arranging accidents, that's just eating money. Everyday trash: somebody's new set of socks, pair of eyeglasses, bunch of carrots, whatever. But the gold, that's for the Plan. And don't nobody know the whole of the Plan excepting you. You- ”
“And I intend to keep it that way. Your concern touches me deeply,” commented Paracelsus ironically, suspecting Cook of ambitions to displace him.
It was always a judicious balance: a stupid man would need constant supervision Paracelsus was disinclined to give, indifferent as he was to the daily tedium of the community he'd established; but an intelligent man, like Cook, inevitably became too independent, harbored ideas above his station. Such subordinates had to be disciplined and eventually disposed of. Cook had already lasted longer than most.
“Fetch yourself somebody along, then,” Cook persisted. “Case something go wrong. Vulcan, or Erlik, he'd do, just to-”
“No one knows where I go, what I do, or why. I am alone. In that is my strength. In that is my safety. You cattle serve the Plan by doing my will. In return, when the world Above collapses, it may please me to share the knowledge which will enable you to survive. Without my guidance, you'll die as surely as the cattle Above, when the time comes. I need none of you. Your ignorant company bores me unutterably. Your petty fears show only your inability to conceive of true terror. Shall I show you, then? Shall I show you what fear there can be in a handful of dust? Shall I break your mind, and your will, and discard you for the broken tool that you are?”
Cook hung his head submissively. “No, Prophet.”
“Do you dare to dispute with me further?”
“No, Prophet. I was just… No, Prophet. Like you say. I be cattle. Nobody. I just don't want nothing to go wrong, is all. But that ain't my place. Didn't mean no disrespect by it.”
“I have no interest in your intentions, only in your obedience. Deliver your report.”
Cook then recited details of contracts completed, in progress, or offered: buildings or lives demolished in support of insurance fraud, petty vengeance of one topsider against another, or punitively in case a customer was slow in payment. The world Above was doomed in any case, so it made no difference if the process was hastened a little, for profit.
Hearing the name of a proposed target, Paracelsus interrupted, “Refuse it.”
“But-”
“A time will come, soon, when you'll but me one too many buts. Refuse the contract.”
“What we gonna say for the reason?”
“There is no need of reasons.”
“He connected: is that it?” speculated Cook, clearly thinking of the city's second government of organized crime.
“You will refuse the contract.”
“How about we tell the target 'bout the offer? That way, he owe us something.”
“We have no part in their affairs. Have you not yet learned that we are not merely some rival organization, trading favors and feuds with criminals lacking any vision beyond their own selfish advantage? “They are all cattle, all under the same doom when the time comes. Will you collect on your favors then, among the rubble and the rotting corpses? We are a society separate and apart, planning against the day when all Above is swept away. The wolf makes no bargain with sheep, seeks no favors of goats. Nor do wolves prey upon one another if it can be avoided. Such conflict offers, at best, a Pyrrhic victory.”
Sullenly, Cook offered the expected question: “What be Pyrrhic, boss?”
“A victory hardly to be distinguished from defeat,” replied Paracelsus crisply, putting on a hat with a wide brim, to shadow his face from topside eyes.
“Is that all of it?”
“Yes, boss.”
Nodding, Paracelsus checked that the bag of dust was deep in his coat pocket and that his hidden wrist sword was well set in its harness, its trigger securely locked. As he strode into the passage to make his way from these deep levels to the surface, he heard Cook's insubordinate mutter, “You take care, now.”
*****
The dime-sized microphone/transmitter was cold, resting between Catherine's breasts. Although everybody was trying to be all business, Cathy found it uncomfortable and embarrassing to be standing in her gold bra, the upper part of her diaphanous white gown around her hips, as though she were a belly dancer. Waiting in the van while Claude Solnik knelt before her in his flak jacket, securing the trailing wire to her ribs with surgical tape, another SWAT sergeant and Joe Maxwell looking on, felt like undergoing a medical exam in public.
Poked in the side, Cathy joked nervously to Solnik, “I'm glad you didn't go in for neurosurgery.”
“Not half as glad as his patients,” Joe quipped from behind her.
As the radio relayed, in a soft, tinny squawk, Ready to move. Over, Cathy leaned against the van's inner wall, commenting in exasperation, “Speaking of patience…”
Pressing more tape into place, Solnik commented, “Almost done here, so relax.”
Relax? Cathy thought. With Vincent on some rooftop or in some alley, just waiting for a flash of panic from me? Sure, Claude: relax.
She couldn't decide which was worse: this, or preparing for her debutante ball at 17, when she'd been sure she'd break a heel or have her first strapless dress lose its moorings and leave her standing in her underwire bra… as I'm already doing, so there's nothing more to worry about, right? she thought, and tried to breathe deeply to ward off hysterical giggles.
The radio reported, Two and three in position. Ready to go, Number One.
Finally straightening, Solnik remarked, “Remember: once it goes down, you gotta get to the fire door, open it for us.”
“I know, Claude, I know,” Cathy rejoined, lifting the gown's thick, braided shoulder strap into place. The overall effect was daring and vaguely Grecian - like a tunic of veils, with metallic glints, leaving one side of the bra exposed. Although the transmitter had absorbed some warmth from her skin, she was still uncomfortably aware of it and of the taped wire. Adjusting her gown's bodice, she added, “We've been over it a dozen times.”
Joe had risen, holding up her gauzy white wrap. She found on his face, besides gratifying male appreciation, an uneasy solicitude.
“You nervous?” he asked, as she slid her arms into the sleeves.
“Not as bad as when I was in the sixth grade. I had the lead in the school play - Joan of Arc.”
As Cathy settled the wrap, she and Joe traded wry, wary smiles. But Joe still wasn't reassured, commenting, “You know, it's one thing, signing on for the joint investigation, but going undercover…”
Dropping both hands onto his chest - something between a dismissive push and a reassuring pat - Cathy cut in, “No one twisted my arm, Joe. I volunteered.”
Sometimes it seemed to her that no one in her life was prepared to admit she was a grown-up, capable of making her own choices, taking her own chances. With a guilty pang, she knew her father would have a heart attack if he knew what she was doing tonight. Which was why she hadn't told him. So many secrets, she thought disconnectedly, imagining Vincent. Even now, it's like being a spy in enemy territory. Secrets. Subtle insincerities - always something withheld. If Joe knew about Vincent…
She shook her head, forcing that thought away. She had to keep all the parts of her life separate somehow, even though that left her feeling scattered, divided, dishonest. Maybe going through this authorized pretense, deliberately risking herself for others, would help her feel whole again.
“Well, if you ask me,” Joe continued, “putting yourself on the line like this isn't worth $2,500 a month.”
“I'm not asking you,” Cathy responded, with a certain sharpness. “Come on: we're past that. We both know why I'm doing this.” With a quarterly allowance from her mother's trust fund equal to Joe's annual salary, Cathy hadn't joined the soul-eating grind of the district attorney's office three months ago for a paycheck… as Joe should know perfectly well. As Joe did know: he was just trying to lighten the mood.
When I'm scared, the first thing to go is my sense of humor. Calm down, she told herself fiercely, collecting her purse and a small rectangular metal case as Joe remarked, “You just be careful in there. Let's go.”
The van doors swung open. Catherine stepped down into the street opposite the club - Fuscia: the newest “in” spot, refuge of the city's current crop of “beautiful people.” Reaching the stairs, she exchanged a blank glance with Jimmy Morero, the burly, well- tailored bouncer courteously keeping gawkers and paparazzi from impeding the entrance of legitimate patrons… like Catherine. Elegantly and expensively dressed, wearing slightly more makeup than she usually did, Catherine knew, passing into the club, that she fit right in.
Once, her appearance wouldn't have been a disguise but her normal attire for a weekday date: on display. She'd have been arriving on the arm of somebody like Tom Gunther, his eyes approving the elegant facade… that reflected well on his choice in women, his own attractiveness. Even now, she wasn't alone: again, Catherine suddenly imagined Vincent, someplace close, attending to her every change of mood, concerned only for her, not for what she wore, how she looked…
Vincent hadn't, she realized, said one single word about how nice she looked tonight. And at the time, there at her threshold, she hadn't even noticed the omission. Trivialities of appearance didn't matter to Vincent: he saw deeper, felt deeper. And although she valued and approved of that, it still would have been nice if he'd shown some reaction to her dress: in the van, even Joe and the SWAT team members had snuck the odd glance, while politely pretending they weren't looking….
Disguised as myself, she thought as she surrendered her wrap, then moved among the tables, surrounded by music, voices, motion, glittering lights. Nobody will suspect a thing.
*****
Blow-dried Tyler Buckman folded manicured hands, nervously spoiled the pose to check his Rolex, then was annoyed at himself and refolded his hands on the elegantly bare glass-topped desk that let him watch his Gucci loafers and crisp Armani pants' legs, reassuring himself that he was one up on whoever happened to be on the other side of the desk.
It was time.
At his nod, Garret pushed the lever on the steel fire door while Trevor stood watchfully aside. Shoulders like theirs required custom tailoring, not even counting the adjustment needed to hide the bulge of their shoulder holsters, but Buckman didn't grudge the cost. It was all necessary window dressing - part of the overhead: normal operating expenses for running a place like this, where appearance was everything. You had to have muscle on hand every minute… but inconspicuously, and with some style.
The style of the man Garret admitted was another thing altogether. Black, high-collared jacket, tightly buttoned, no color about him anywhere. A sagging, lined, jowly face, not much hair, a pointed beard, complexion pasty-white. And staring from pouches, the coldest, most contemptuous eyes Buckman had encountered since he'd been too busy partying to read the assignment in Management 101 at the Harvard Business School and Professor Mulholland had caught him unprepared.
This man said nothing, removing one black leather glove to untie the neck of a canvas pouch and pour its glittering contents onto the glass desktop, breaking up clumps in an empty memo pad holder.
Buckman wished the damn dealer would use clear zip bags, like everybody else. This stuff was more volatile than cocaine. But he wasn't going to bring that complaint up again, to be answered only by the man's indifferent sneer that said, as plain as words, that as the sole source of a unique product, it was a seller's market and he could do exactly what he pleased. Until Buckman's tame lab could duplicate the drug or even figure out what the hell it was, a chore at which so far they'd failed miserably, he could like it or do without.
Instead, Buckman viewed the pile of dust disapprovingly. “Is that all?”
“For the moment, yes,” replied the dealer, in a cultured growl that also unpleasantly reminded Buckman of Professor Mulholland.
“I'm not meeting demand,” Buckman stated, fiddling with a pen. “Not even close.”
“Then raise your price.”
“I'm already up to a thousand a gram, wholesale. Next time, I want more,” Buckman declared, angling for leverage, anything that would put him one up, give him an edge. He hated these meetings.
The man raised dark, dead eyes like a shark's. “You'll take what I bring. You'll pay me now.”
Aware that he'd just lost round two, Buckman motioned to Garret, who set four wrapped rolls of coins on the desk. The gold double-eagles spilled out when the dealer broke the wrappers and methodically counted them - twenty-five to a roll, one hundred in all - before shoving them into the pouch.
That was another thing about this dealer that Buckman hated: he'd accept payment only in gold coin, which meant using coin dealers and checking the day's price per ounce on the London exchange. Even when Buckman used Krugerrands, each coin was worth more than its face value, yet the dealer would only credit the face amount. That Buckman inflated the retail price by a couple of thousand percent didn't change the nagging impression that he was being ripped off every time he paid for a delivery.
When the dealer left, Buckman moved away from his desk, while Garret removed the shining dust pile with a tiny vacuum used only for that - even sweeping the dust up would have lost some into the air - and took it into the back room where other men waited to weigh, cut, and repackage it. Buckman checked his Rolex: he'd had another appointment five minutes ago. Some babe working the Mayflower circuit, wanting to set up a buy. Made contact through Eric, who was generally reliable, and had checked out okay by Jimmy, Buckman's Outside Man… Let her wait, Buckman decided, needing to feel one up on somebody after the frustrations of his last meeting.
He waited until Garret came back, then sent Trevor to have Jimmy bring the broad in. He made sure he was busy writing up the new transaction, in a coded entry, in his ledger, when the door opened, and didn't look up right away. But when he did, he kept on looking. All white and gold, wearing a gown like $10,000's worth of next-to-nothing, hair up on top, loose on the sides and shining like brass, dangling earrings like young chandeliers, standing in front of Jimmy and coolly regarding Buckman as though the two of them were alone in the middle of Madison Square Garden. She was definitely one upscale item. Buckman shut the ledger and pushed it aside without moving his eyes.
“Thank you, Jimmy,” Buckman said, dismissing the man, who didn't seem all that eager to go. Buckman couldn't blame him. The woman was not only gorgeous but classy, maybe dealing because she got a better rush out of the risk than drugs could give her. Addicted to the illegality. If edging over the line was what she got off on, Buckman could think of a few other risks he'd like to try out on her.
Composed, seeming perfectly at ease, she said, “I'm Cynthia Hatch. Eric sent me.”
Buckman waited a minute, pressuring her a little with the pause, the lack of response. She just continued to gaze at him blandly… and he found himself distracted by trying to decide whether her eyes were green or blue, tinted contacts, maybe…. Shaking out of it, he asked warmly, “How is Eric?” like a trick question.
“He told me you want to do business.”
Folding his hands, Buckman responded neutrally, “I'm a businessman. What kind of… business do you have in mind?”
“Distribution,” replied Cynthia, just as though they were talking about a new line of designer hats. “I have a solid client base, and they're getting curious about the new product. I want to keep them happy.”
“That's noble, miss. Real noble.” Buckman considered--dragging the thing out, making her wait. “What kind of money are we talking about?”
“Twenty-five thousand,” suggested Cynthia, setting down on the glass desktop a rectangular metal box she'd been holding underneath her purse. Trying to lift the lid, Buckman found he couldn't: locked.
Annoyed she'd try games on him, he demanded, “How do I know the money's in here?”
“How do I know you have the product?” Cynthia countered coolly.
Rising and circling the desk, Buckman put out his hand and was handed a kilo bag by Trevor. As he set the bag on the desk, Cynthia, smiling like a stripper, produced the key from her purse and offered it like something delicious to eat.
Tipping the lid back, Buckman confirmed that the box was full of money: wrapped hundreds in two stacks. But as Cynthia's hand claimed the bag, Buckman grabbed, locking her wrist in awkward midair.
When she looked up into his face, inquiring but suddenly pale, Buckman asked smoothly, “What's the rush?”
He touched her cheek, then ran his finger gently, intimately, down her neck. But her expression, instead of growing more frightened, turned stern and blank as a mask; her eyes locked on something past and behind him. Almost a look of listening…
As his hand moved to her cleavage, he detected a lump - something hard and just the right size to be a mike. That second, she gave him a hearty shove and got away from him. Diving at the fire door, yanking on the heavy locking bar.
In the next five noisy seconds, Trevor and Garret were down and Buckman found himself pinned against a wall by a rough cop in full battle gear, who started to read him his rights in a loud, angry voice. Buckman couldn't turn his head to find out what'd happened to the bitch who'd suckered him but he hoped it was plenty and permanent.
*****
“It's all right,” Cathy repeated stubbornly, trying to push Joe's arm away as they wandered toward the van.
She was upset and even though she knew Joe was trying to reassure himself she hadn't been hit, being touched at all made her feel frantic. Buckman's finger stroking down her scarred cheek had brought it all back to her – the attack, and the snake- tattooed thug touching her face with just that kind of slimy delicacy, marking the place where he meant to cut her. Had cut her. Only the one scar remained, but Dr. Sanderle had promised that could be removed, too, allowing a few more weeks for the deep healing to be complete…
“I'm all right. Really,” she said, trying to soften her voice to a friendly, ordinary tone without relaxing a fraction of the tight control that kept her knees from buckling.
She wasn't helpless now. Joe wasn't steering her toward the van so he could throw her down, pull out a switchblade, and carve her face into a hideous lacework of oozing cuts. Even imagining it was absurd. This was Joe! And Buckman's violating hands were in cuffs. Soon he'd be fingerprinted and booked. With any luck at all, he wouldn't be touching anybody that way for a long, long time.
That was what she had to think about, concentrate on. The danger was over. That was what she had to feel… to the degree she could allow herself to feel anything without collapsing into hysterics.
“You sure, kiddo?” Joe demanded, holding onto her elbow, drawing her past the van she now couldn't look at without wanting to shudder… because of another van, another time, that this night had brought back to her with the clarity and intensity of dream.
Approaching a battered parked Toyota, mostly green, Joe added soberly, “I don't think you should drive. Come on: I'll run you home.”
“No, Joe. I'll catch a cab. Really. I want to walk a little, catch my breath-” She pulled free, walking backward away from him toward the corner. “We'll do the post mortem tomorrow in the meeting, all right? Just walk a little, clear my head…?”
Joe was still standing by the car, as though any second he might decide to come after her and try to insist she come with him, when she reached the corner and put it between them, walking quickly, almost blindly, nearly stumbling on a discarded plastic soda bottle and reeling toward an alley to catch her balance.
Something large and dark dropped soundlessly from a fire escape and she let herself be gathered into a comforting embrace: patched wool and leather laces against her cheek, and the dear, reassuring smell of smoke and candle wax as a warm and vivid memory of sanctuary and peace.
For several minutes Vincent said nothing, merely held her… or rather, she realized, let her hold him. All he'd done was open his arms, and she'd flown into them and was clinging to his solidity, his steadiness…
A little embarrassed, she brushed hair and laces away from her face, then took his wrist to draw him deeper into the concealment of the alley's dark where lights from some passing car couldn't find them.
“You came,” she murmured, knowing she was stating the obvious but not caring. The relief she'd been holding off now claimed her and she was half dizzy and breathless with it, as though she'd taken too many turns on a carousel and couldn't quite find her balance again, now that everything was no longer spinning.
Vincent's response was merely, “Yes,” the word so soft it was more felt and guessed-at than heard.
“You shouldn't have,” Catherine added sternly, looking up into his face. “It was no place for you, Vincent. Things like this are my world's concern.”
“Are you not my concern?” he countered quietly.
“Yes, but-” She released his wrist to throw out an abrupt gesture. “It was necessary. And as you can see, I wasn't hurt. It all went just as planned. Or almost,” she added, recalling Buckman's unwelcome fingers stroking her last remaining scar.
She paced from one side of the alley to the other, then back again, as Vincent stood unmoving at the center. “Don't you see?” she demanded impatiently. “I don't want you hurt. And I especially don't want you hurt on my account! You have to trust me to take care of myself, or trust, with me, to others… like Joe. Like Jimmy. Trust the protections my world offers. This has nothing to do with you, and you have to keep away from it, don't you see?”
“Whatever frightens you, whatever can harm you, touches me. I know what you felt in that place… before the shooting began. I know how that man's touch affected-”
“Vincent, I had to do this. I had to know I could do this. Please,” she said, laying her hands on the sleeve his cloak left bare. “Don't make me add fear for you to whatever fear I can't help feeling, myself. Don't complicate every risk I take by making it a risk I'm inflicting on you, want to or not. It's my world. I can deal with it. Vincent, I have to: I'm the one who has to live in it!”
“I'm glad,” he said finally, “that you're safe. There is a threshold not very far from here: may I see you home?”
For a second Catherine considered the distance and her spike heels on the sand and concrete of the tunnel floors. Then she considered Vincent, patiently waiting for her permission to do so simple a thing as share her company for a little while. A little time, she thought, to find his own balance again after the whirligig of uncertainty and fear he'd been on tonight…
She wondered how many seconds had separated the first gunshot from his certainty that she was unhurt, that the danger was over and the other protections had been enough. She wondered if he'd been simply relieved, or just a little disappointed to find she hadn't needed his help after all…
She slipped her arm under his, remarking lightly, “The perfect end of a perfect evening.”
Walking with him through the alley, then along the darker margin of a street, Catherine was thinking that time, concern, and company shouldn't have to be the only gifts she could give him, in return for all the wonders his advent into her life had opened to her. In a few weeks would be the anniversary of their first meeting: when he'd found her, slashed, bleeding, and unconscious, in the park - tossed away like a sack of garbage. That meeting had irrevocably changed both their lives. It deserved to be celebrated.
Because of his refusal to remain uninvolved or view topside brutality as none of his necessary concern, she'd been able to heal and gain the strength and courage to do what she'd done tonight to repay, a little, a debt of protection she still felt she owed… for the privileged life she'd led and for Vincent's unending concern ever since that terrible April night that had brought them together.
As she imagined surprising him with a special something, a keepsake for him alone, Vincent inquired, “Why do you smile, Catherine?”
“Oh, for the ordinary reason, I suppose - I'm happy. Glad to be alive. And in good company.”
Around the corner of a vacant building, Vincent lifted the edge of a sheet of plywood fastened, more loosely than it appeared, over a glassless window. Catherine stepped through, then waited for the clasp of Vincent's hand to guide her through the dark interior. After a corridor and a stair, they came into the tunnels where occasional utility lights cast a glow and there was no longer any need to seek out the shadows: this was his world, and they both were safe here.
“You were very brave, tonight,” Vincent mentioned presently in an odd, hesitant tone – as though he worried that paying her a compliment might be taking some sort of liberty. As though he wasn't sure he had the right to offer an opinion on the subject.
“Then maybe I won't be so scared, the next time.”
“The next time…” he repeated, and afterward fell silent.
The prospect troubled him – she could tell. It bothered her too. Because she knew there'd be a next time.
The problem they'd faced tonight hadn't been solved - only postponed. She couldn't welcome his concern for her in one breath and reject it with the next. His was the consistent position… which left him vulnerable to her danger.
Talking it out beforehand had accomplished nothing. There had to be some other way.
It wasn't her danger he reacted to, but her fear. Walking beside him, taking two steps to every stride of his, Catherine hated the thought of deliberately keeping anything from him: only with him, now, could she be wholly without concealments, withholding nothing, saying whatever was in her heart. Nevertheless, the only solution seemed to her to somehow learn how not to feel the fear. Keep it to herself. Bear it alone, if she had to, as the price of keeping safe the most important person in her life.
It didn't seem fair: they were already separated in so many ways – the irrevocable distance, and difference, between his world and hers, his life and her own. It seemed cruel to be forced to impose still another separation… particularly one within the bond that opened all her feelings to him: the deepest connection binding them together. But if she had to, if there was no other way, and if it were possible, then she would. However close they were, they also needed their distances so each of them could grow into what they were destined to become…to one another, but also as individuals.
Quoting Eliot's Ash Wednesday, Catherine thought, “Teach us to care and not to care/Teach us to sit still.”
Sitting (anywhere – soon) appealed to her greatly at the moment.