Wherever You Will Go (Part 2 of 'Stay With Me')
The king of Zor, he called for a war
And the king of Zam, he answered
They fashioned their weapons, one upon one, ton upon ton
They called for a war at the rise of the sun…
-from Zor and Zam (by Bill Chadwick and John Chadwick)
Chapter 1
"What are you doing?" JT came out of the back room to find Vincent staring at the computer. "WebMD? You know what they say, he who diagnoses himself is sure to find disease. Forget something?"
"Huh? Oh. No." Vincent closed the window on the screen. "I was just looking stuff up. It's been a long time since medical school. With Catherine pregnant, I thought I'd brush up on obstetrics." He looked up. "Especially since she's being stubborn. She doesn't want to go in for an ultrasound or see an OB-Gyn. Thinks it's too risky."
"What? Tiny claws and razor sharp teeth might raise a few eyebrows?" When Vincent frowned at him, he added, "I mean, there could be abnormalities, right?"
"I doubt it. Tori's fetus was normal. There's no reason to believe Catherine's wouldn't be also. But I did learn something. She's farther along than we thought."
"Meaning, you got caught long before the hot and sultry nights of Miami?"
"Exactly. That's why I could hear the heartbeat. She's at least six weeks, probably closer to seven. I thought it was odd that she was starting to show already."
"A fat Cat. Now that will be a sight."
"JT, it's not fat. And don't you be looking at my woman."
JT laughed. "I may be just a poor bio-chemistry professor, but I do realize that much. And it's rather frightening that you're starting to sound like Blaise."
Vincent smirked and followed JT's trek toward the door. "You headed out?"
"Yeah. No one buys groceries around here! We're out of everything. Men cannot live on gummy worms alone, you know. Oh, and we're out of those, too."
Vincent chuckled and waved him away. Then he turned on the screen again. And worried.
Heather pulled the last of her rolling suitcases across the threshold of the open apartment door. Catherine looked up, her normally elegant tresses plastered against her temples. "More?"
"This is the last of them."
"Thank God. It must have cost you a fortune to fly this all up."
"I shipped the rest of the boxes. I was having trouble leaving anything behind." Heather smiled and stole another covert glance at her sister. It was probably a good thing she returned to New York. Catherine had clearly neglected herself in the months since she'd been gone—from the dark circles beneath her eyes to the baggy sweatpants and the—dare she say it?—slight paunch. She had almost zero energy. Not that's she'd ever point that out.
"Well, I don't know what use you'll have for," Catherine held up a plastic pink flamingo "this, but—"
Heather snatched it away from her. "Something to remind me of the sun when the dreariness returns. "Speaking of which, what a lovely day, huh?"
"To be honest, with all this work we're doing, I'd be happy with a stiff, cold breeze about now."
"Yeah, you're sweating a lot. Out of shape much?"
"Thanks for noticing. Brat. Isn't it 'be kind to your elders day' or something?"
Heather ignored her. "When we're done here, we should go out, take in the city."
Catherine flopped down onto the sofa. "Suit yourself. I don't have the energy. I could go for a nice cold drink, though."
"There's beer in the fridge. I'll grab us both one."
Catherine looked up suddenly. "Oh. Uh, how 'bout a Coke for me instead?" When Heather raised an eyebrow at that, she added, "Lower calories, you know."
"I'll make it diet."
"Oh, yes. Again."
Vincent grinned at her demanding tone. "You sure?"
"Up and down, up and down. Hard. God, that feels so good."
Switching feet, he rubbed the toes on her left foot, kneading deep into the tissue beneath her arches a few minutes before making a demand of his own. "Now turn around."
Eyes closed, Catherine pouted, not ready to give up the foot massage. "I'm not sure I can move."
"Turn. You're slumping."
"That's melting, thank you. And you are a magician." She sighed. "Can there be a more perfect ending to the day?"
"I don't know about that," he chuckled, watching the sunset bathe her skin in pink and oranges. The first real warmth of the season had come with all the flowers, fragrances, and colors of spring. "But turn around and I'll make you forget all about your feet." When she finally complied, he tilted her over and dug deep into her hairline with long, knowing fingers. Then he massaged her shoulders and back until she was liquid in his hands. "You know, you could have called me. I'd have come right over."
Catherine pulled his strong arms around her and leaned into his strength. "I know. I'm fine, just beat. I think my sister must have bought out all the clothing stores in Miami. Besides, she and I needed some girl time."
"That's why I waited. Did you . . . tell her?"
She heard the uncertainty in his question. She put a comforting hand over his as he sought the gentle curvature of her belly and the slight increase there. "Not yet. But I will. I suppose I won't have a choice soon. I'm already having trouble fitting into my jeans."
He pressed his face into her hair, loving the knowledge that she was carrying his child, but worried for her at the same time. "That's because you're farther along than we thought."
She lifted her head. "I am?"
"Seven or eight weeks would be my guess. Maybe more. I wish you'd reconsider seeing an OB. A sonogram would tell us for sure."
She sighed. "Vincent, women have been having children on their own for thousands of years."
"And losing them. Or their own lives. Modern medicine is much safer."
"I'm just not sure it's necessary. And I don't think it's wise for us to risk the doctor noticing anything—"
"Out of the ordinary? Catherine," he gently twisted her around in his arms. "Even though Tori's pregnancy was normal, it doesn't mean yours will be. There are no guarantees."
She threaded her fingers through the hair above his ear. "Exactly. But I'm in good hands right here."
He pulled her in closer and let the subject drop. A battle for another day. "Are you . . . afraid?"
She shook her head. "No. Anxious, maybe—just a little." When he frowned, she added, "like any other woman would be who's pregnant for the first time. But when you're with me," she held his gaze, "I don't fear anything."
He wanted to believe it, he did. But some things weren't his to control. Shrugging uncomfortably, he looked toward the skyline of the city just twinkling to life as dusk began to fall. "I just want you to be sure about all this. We don't really know what we're up against. I mean, it's not too late—"
She put her fingers over his lips.
He kissed them and wrapped them in his own. "It's your body."
"It's your baby. Vincent. Ours. Yours and mine. That we made—in love. Any concerns I may have are completely overridden by that."
As he was always overwhelmed by her. Vincent saw the conviction in her eyes, heard it in her voice. Every step of their journey together had been fraught with peril—from the moment they met, to the first time they made love, to the dangers they faced from without . . . and they always prevailed. He wanted to believe this was nothing different and all would be well. But for the first time, he didn't have the confidence she did.
"You know," she said, a sudden breathlessness to her voice. "Once I do tell Heather, she's going to demand you make an honest woman of me." She felt his body stiffen in response and waited a beat before continuing. "We haven't talked about baby names yet, but—what is this child's last name going to be?"
Vincent's lips opened in surprise.
"I know I told you a long time ago I wasn't ready, but . . . now there's no reason why we couldn't—"
"Are you asking me to marry you?"
She studied his face in the dying light for a long moment. "Would you?"
Vincent swallowed. "In a heartbeat. But I'm just . . . I'm only now starting to get my feet on the ground. I can't afford a fancy ring, or—"
"I would love simple, matching gold bands. We could swing that, couldn't we? And a courthouse wedding? Nothing elaborate."
"Catherine—"
She pressed her fingers to his lips again. "Don't think. Just say yes."
He laughed against them. "Yes."
She threw her arms around him.
Underneath a cloudless sky on the rooftop, he curled her against him, set the ancient swing to rocking with one leg, and filled his arms and thoughts with the wonder of her: so strong, so brave. But so vulnerable. And so many things could go wrong.
Leaning back, he brought the blanket up as the setting sun sent evening to them on a breeze. And felt the deep chill of night.
"You don't have to do this. Not for me."
"That's the fifth time you've said that." Blaise followed Tori's pacing as if he had vision.
She turned. "I mean it. I love and accept you the way you are. With sight or without. Whether the surgery is successful or not, nothing changes. Who does this doctor think he is, anyway, to give you hope like this?"
"Babe. Chill. Vincent said he's the best. And I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing it for us. Remember what we talked about—why I was so angry with you before?"
"You wanted me to fight—for us."
"Exactly. And that's what we're doing now. And if nothing changes, so be it. We haven't lost anything. Believe me, I'm going into this with my eyes wide open. That was a joke, Tors. Lighten up!"
Tori burst into tears just as Vincent entered the prep room. He eyed the two suspiciously.
"Uh, paperwork's done. Everything all right here?" He set Blaise's white folding cane on the stand next to the bed and looked back and forth between the two of them.
"She's just feeling a tad bit emotional today. Seems there's no end to this woman's blubbering." Blaise winked Vincent's direction.
Tori saw it. "Shut up."
A nurse hovered on the other side of the room, typing into a portable computer, a slight smile on her face.
"Take her to get something to eat, Vincent, would you?" Blaise sighed. "She's driving me nuts with her smothering."
Said with Blaise's typical good humor, Tori hadn't taken offense, but she elbowed him anyway.
"I'm not leaving until they come and get you. Which should be soon." She looked to the nurse for confirmation.
"The doctor should be in momentarily."
"See?"
"Okay, well," Vincent shifted on his feet, hands in his pockets. He was the third wheel in the room. "If you're all set then, I'll take off." He gave Blaise a pat on the shoulder. "Give me a call when you're out," he said.
"You got it."
Taking his cue to leave, he headed down the hallway of the large eye clinic housed on one floor of the midtown hospital. His own stomach grumbled. Thinking he remembered passing a cafeteria on the first floor, he took the elevator down and was just passing the admitting area when a male doctor heading his way looked up. And froze.
Vincent did a double-take. "Daws? Hey!"
The man looked around for a way to escape, but his options were few. Seeing the stairwell, he took a backward step. Then another. Then he turned and rapidly walked in that direction, ignoring the call of a colleague.
Vincent followed him through the stairway door and was on him before he'd taken a step off the landing. He shoved him up against the wall. "What are you doing here?"
"Condor! Y-y-you remember me?"
"Oh, I remember everything now."
The man's heart rate skyrocketed but he still had the wherewithal to sound surprised. "You were submerged to the deepest level. It should have been impossible for you to break out of it."
"No thanks to you. I had a little help . . . from my 'friends.'"
"You have friends? N-not that you couldn't. I'm sure you're a very nice person." He peered at Vincent. "Is that why you're here? Or are you—are you on a mission, because—"
"I'm visiting a friend. And my name isn't Condor anymore. It's Keller. Vincent Keller."
"Y-yes, of course. My, you're . . . you're very high-functioning. That's good, really good."
"For a beast?"
Daws swallowed hard and looked around in panic at the word, but there was no one to hear.
"I'm in control, if that's what you're worried about."
"Very glad to hear that."
Vincent watched the sweat appear on the man's forehead and start to roll. "Doesn't mean I'm happy with you. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now."
"Y-you have every right to feel that way, and I wouldn't blame you for doing it, but please, let me explain first. I left the organization. Escaped. I'm not involved in it anymore, I swear."
Realizing he was choking the man, Vincent let up fractionally on the guy's neck. But only just.
"You know they forced us," Dawson gasped. "Most of us were coerced in some way, you gotta believe me."
"Answer my question."
The man, who was close to his own age, swallowed with difficulty then spoke in rapid bursts. "The Company dispersed after Reynolds—" he looked around nervously as if the mere mention of the man's name could produce him, "went to jail. Everyone scattered. Most of us were just grateful to get out of there alive, but there were others eager to step into the void. I and a few colleagues joined forces for our own protection. We want to right the wrongs we did there. I swear it's the truth."
"And you're here doing . . .?"
"Mostly pro-bono work. I offer my services—"
"Neurological, if I recall, Doctor Dawson Griggs."
"Y-yes," he stammered, uncomfortable to be known by the dangerous man he'd altered. "T-to patients who can't afford specialized care. It's all charitable and above-board."
"Charitable. That's cute. And you're not afraid of being discovered? By the 'others'?"
"Not any more. We hide in plain sight. It's all we can do. We're tired of living in the shadows. If they come for us, they come for us."
"But I did, instead." Vincent had never concerned himself with the number of underlings Reynolds had to have had in his employ over the years. Once they'd cut off the head and source of funds and demolished the facilities, there'd been no reason to fear what was left. But of course they were out there.
He tried to maintain the level of adrenalin, but couldn't. This man had been a victim, too, much as it pained him to admit. He'd seen the nervous glances of those who'd worked on him, administering the drugs he now knew had dramatically changed him. Dawson had been one he'd been somewhat friendly with—his own age, a fellow serviceman. But he'd also helped wipe his memory. He backed off his hold a little more, but still maintained his grip.
"You—you look good," the doctor attempted cordial conversation. "How are you feeling?"
The question refueled Vincent's rage. He slammed him back against the wall. "You took away my life—my memories!"
"Yes! Yes, I'm guilty. I know it. If-if I could undo what's been done, I would. I swear."
"How many?"
"Pardon?"
"How many are with you? Wait."
A hospital worker shoved open the stairwell door to get to the next level as both men struck up a more casual pose. They held their tongues until they heard the person's foot steps fade and a door swing open above them.
"How many?" he repeated.
"Three, including me." After rubbing his sore throat, Daws fished in his pocket for a card and handed to him.
Vincent took it. It had his name and a telephone number. He realized there was nothing he could do. Dawson was telling the truth, as far as he could tell, and appeared nonthreatening. He took a step back. "Well, Doctor. Seems we're at a standstill. You know about me and I know about you. But I'd be careful what you repeat to anyone."
"Certainly. Hey," he said, as Vincent turned to go. "I meant what I said—a-about turning over a new leaf. If there is anything I or my team can do for you, well—you know where to find me. We have resources—access to medical tools, test equipment, you name it. Whatever you need—we can help."
"You want his help?" JT stood with his hands on his hips, astounded. "The man's connected to Reynolds! You can't trust him as far as you can throw him."
"Well, I could throw him pretty far," Vincent murmured, a tinge of humor to his voice.
"Very funny. I'm still trying to get over the fact that they're operating right here in our public hospitals. I knew jailing 'daddy' wasn't going to be the end of things. What's the guy doing at a New York City hospital?"
"Checking on patients?"
"This isn't a joke!"
Vincent stood. "No. It's not. But maybe it isn't as bad as it sounds."
"How can it not be? They all know who—and what—you are."
"Not everyone in the Company—or Muirfield for that matter—agreed with what they were doing. Some had obviously been coerced. You know about Kenneth Bradley."
"Yeah. He might have had regrets after the fact, but it doesn't change what he did."
"We could use some allies, JT. Think about it. Things are easier now in some ways, but they're also getting much more complex. And with Catherine's pregnancy, I'd feel better if we had more people in our camp."
"Why not just tell the whole world? Given enough time, I'm sure the press could spin it in a way that didn't sound quite so terrifying." He blanched when Vincent headed for the door. "Where are you going? We need to make a plan!"
"To talk to Catherine."