A/N: I hope to finish this up in one more chapter, but I'm not making any promises. It all depends on how chatty the muse becomes. This chapter contains violent content.
The Sticking Place - Chapter Four
by Lydia Bower
It was with a horrible sense of déjà vu that Vincent gained the roof of the Kenilworth and made his way slowly, silently, toward the façade of the building, his back pressed against the wall of the enclosure that housed the stairwell and the door opening onto the roof. There'd been no thought to which turns he'd needed to take, or which cross-tunnels; the various levels to be navigated in order to get him here. The choices had been nothing more than bodily memory, which was enough - and all he'd had. For every thought in Vincent's head had been turned inward, and distilled to its essence.
He'd known something was amiss the previous evening. He'd felt yet. And yet had done nothing.
Last night, at almost the same time, he'd been on this roof and been startled when, coming around the side of the enclosure, he'd found he wasn't alone. Several yards away, at the edge of the roofline and with his back to him, had been a man staring out into the park below. Next to him had been a tripod, hip-high and thin-legged. A long black satchel was at his feet.
Vincent had spun and pressed his back against the wall of the enclosure, his heart in his throat. His first impulse had been to flee, but then he'd heard a sharp sound, like a twig being snapped. Carefully, he'd peered around the corner and watched as the man finished folding the legs of the tripod, slapping the last two into place with similar vehemence.
As the man had squatted and shoved the tripod into the bag, Vincent had caught a brief glimpse of his profile and instantly recognized the features as Ameri-Indian; a fact which helped explain the man's sleek curtain of black hair, falling well below his shoulder blades.
He'd been dressed in blue jeans and a faded denim jacket over a dark t-shirt, heavy black boots on his feet. And was painfully thin; the tendons in his long-fingered hands noticeable even from a distance. Vincent had swiftly ducked back around the corner as the man had gone still and then slowly turned his head in the direction of the enclosure.
With his back once more against the wall, he'd drawn a deep breath and held it, squeezing his eyes shut for the smallest moment and reaching outward, opening his senses wide. All his senses.
As his eyes had fluttered open he'd felt, layered with the stranger's sudden attentiveness to his surroundings, something darker and full of a despairing resolve – so acute it seemed like a sickness. Something feverish, as from a flu, but not precisely that, either. Something that'd made his head pound and goose bumps rise on his flesh. A soundless voice had begun to seep into his veins and stream through his blood, singing in discordant tones his senses had instinctively labored to put right but couldn't. And that fact had made him inexplicably angry, wishing more than anything that it would cease. But there'd been nothing he could do to stop it.
Ah, but you're wrong: there is, he remembered thinking only a moment later, and with frightening clarity. I can make the singing stop. The … madness … stop. There are ways. And I am the means.
In the next breath he'd found himself slipping away from the shelter of the enclosure. But not toward the man: away, instead. And to the larger, more distant shelter of an enormous ventilation unit on the other side of the roof. From there, he'd waited several minutes after the man had taken leave by way of the stairwell to make his own escape to the elevator shaft and then Below - dazed, breathing heavily, and not at all interested in returning to the Hub and those he lived among.
He'd been shaken by the thoughts that'd compelled his retreat; chilled to the bone by the simple and sudden decision to do murder. Because that was precisely what he'd contemplated, and the idea hadn't wholly been his own. The darkness which he'd fought and barely caged, after Lisa had been sent Above, had whispered sibilant, goading encouragements in his mind. And that was not to be allowed.
One thing, to throw up doors and bar passageways against the occasional intruder Below; a city workman or a drug-addled street person come too close to the edge of the tunnel community's safe places. That was, after all, part and parcel of his responsibility as council member and in charge of security. Acceptable as well were those times when he resorted to making certain … sounds to frighten off intruders. Which moments invariably left him feeling oddly dissatisfied – as if it hadn't been enough to simply do that; and his body - the energy built up within and ready to explode into something more - urging he continue, while the rational side shouted a warning to pull back. One he knew he must heed and had always done so.
But not now.
Not as Vincent reached the corner of the enclosure and heard the increasingly loud shriek of police sirens far below him, and then the unmistakable sharp report of a weapon being fired close by. He smelled the acrid burn of gunpowder and heard fresh screams coming faintly from the park.
No, there would be no heeding that call for caution, for denial, this time. Because the man he'd seen and was certain he'd again find at the roofline, was no innocent. Not one, Vincent had rationalized last night, who must have been there for another reason. A photographer, perhaps. Or an architect, seeking a certain perspective the rooftop could give him. And the tripod surely had been for a camera or surveying equipment, not a rifle – and likely one the man had stuffed away in the duffel bag before he'd arrived and almost been discovered.
He realized now that he'd witnessed what must have been a trial run – much like he would make before fully committing to any new and daunting task. Trying out the separate skills; taking the proper steps to assure readiness for what lie ahead. Gaining the intent and the focus necessary to take the final step, the one from which there could be no turning back. Gathering the daring required to do the thing.
Vincent knew this. And recalled Lady Macbeth's admonition as he stepped around the corner and saw the man crouched at the edge of the roof, rifle butt snugged against his shoulder, taking aim with deadly intention: But screw your courage to the sticking place, and you'll not fail.
The next several seconds were to him as though time had slowed in contrast to his actions, which were fluid and swift. He closed most of the distance between them in the blink of an eye, and a low snarl curled his cleft lip. He heard himself speak.
"Stop this."
The sniper's head twisted as his body came out of the crouch he'd taken, the rifle still in his hands as he stood and faced Vincent. There was a split-second of thoughtless acknowledgement on both their parts before the man's dark eyes grew wide.
And then it came. The feeling Vincent knew well: the shock the man felt at seeing what stood before him: hulking, massive, and with inhuman features. It was wholly familiar to him, the fact of what the man felt. He'd lost count of the times he'd faced it, known it. No judicious warning given to new members of the community could fully prepare one for their first sight of him.
His only thought at those times was to do nothing that could be construed as threatening; to move slowly and speak softly. Show compassion and be only what was good and gentle and civilized – what was acceptable. But it was untamed, what faced the man in this moment, and he warned again, "Stop this. Now."
Their eyes locked and for a moment Vincent saw himself reflected there, in the alarmed eyes. There was an instantaneous threading of dual desires within him: his own and those of this man he faced; dark cravings, the need to destroy simply because one wanted to. And could.
He recognized the desire and it filled him with a senseless rage. Not only toward this man and for the injury he'd caused Jamie to suffer - and to the numberless and faceless in the park, killed or wounded - but himself as well. For sharing those needs, understanding them so well. And because he could not, would never again, strike out at himself for those most feral and shameful of desires, he struck the man instead.
A quick bat of his left hand knocked the rifle away from the sniper and cut open the flesh along one of his arms. The sweet and coppery scent of blood flooded Vincent's nostrils at the same time the rifle clattered to the ground, and his vision was suddenly tinged with a shade the same as the spilled blood, closing in on all sides and blurring everything but the man standing before him.
Then the sniper took a step back, and another, his eyes fixed on his attacker, his hand gripping his wounded forearm, face creased with pain. As he began to take a third, one foot already lifted and poised to land, Vincent saw that it would bring him to the roof's edge, and that the ledge was far too low and narrow to prevent a fourth step that would inevitably tumble him over the side.
Growling, "No," he lunged, and in one motion reached with his left hand and caught the front of the man's jacket, pulling him away from edge and directly into the path of the thoughtless, powerful roundhouse blow his right arm delivered. Outspread, his claws dug deep into the flesh of the man's throat and slid through it with the ease of sharp scissors through gauze.
He blinked against the warm spray that covered his face and stung his eyes, letting go of his hold on the jacket. The sniper crumpled at his feet, his life pumping from the horrible wound and puddling in a wide circle around his head.
It was he who backed away now, shaking his head violently, trying to throw off the vestiges of the final, irrevocable sharing of emotion that'd come with the man's death. For Vincent had felt it all: his own exultation and the sniper's dim surprise and wonder; the flash of terrible pain cut short by welcome numbness. The brief seconds in which he had been both murderer and murdered; had felt the man's life in its last moments and the grotesquely intimate connection his actions had forged between them.
Dully, he stared down at his hands in the quickening nightfall, half-expecting to see them smoke. But they didn't. Instead, the sight of the blood upon them, already beginning to cool, filled his veins with ice. He struggled to pull in a deep breath, and when he managed it, was overwhelmed by the scent of the man's lifeblood.
He twisted to the side and was violently sick, bent double and racked with deep spasms that felt to him as though they began in the soles of his feet and shuddered their way all through him. When finally the sickness passed and he could stand straight again, he looked once more at the man he'd slaughtered and swiped an arm across his mouth, meaning to rid himself of the foul taste of his stomach's contents. But the sleeve of his cloak bore the blood of the man, and that was even worse. He spat away the taste as best he could. Tears of shame and horrified realization blurred his vision.
Vincent turned and fled as though the devil himself was giving chase.
….
He did not turn toward the Hub when he was safely below ground. He went south instead, and then easterly, moving ever downward, avoiding the most heavily traveled sections of tunnels. Instinct and a necessary need for isolation drove him toward the nameless river that ran far below the Catacombs. It was only when he reached the barely candled outermost tunnels nearest the Ripley branches and caught the faint clattering of pipes that he slowed his pace to a walk and then to a lurching stop. Struck by the sense he'd forgotten something, he braced an arm against the tunnel wall and hung his head, gulping in mouthfuls of air and squeezing his eyes shut, fighting the awful sense of spinning that clouded his mind.
And then it occurred to him and he squatted and frantically slid a hand across the dirt floor for a rock or a chunk of concrete - anything. His fingers brushed against a stone barely the size of his palm and he snatched it up and went in search of the nearest pipe. Finding one close by, he forced himself to take a deep breath and Think, damn it! before lifting the stone and tapping out a message.
It was terse, even for him. He had returned Below and would be beyond the call of the pipes until the following day. After a slight hesitation he tapped out an All's well and finished the communication as he'd begun it: with his name. He found that composing the message had cleared away some of the fog and he reached another decision. Within minutes he found himself at the cross tunnel that would lead to the storeroom for these lower branches. Stopping again just outside the crossing, Vincent waited, senses stretching out all around him like gossamer fingers. Sensing no one close by, he made the corner and sprinted for the storeroom door.
Once inside, his eyes swept the room. He spied and quickly gathered what he'd come for: a nearly-full lantern, a wide bristle brush, a stack of threadbare, patched blankets, and a bar of homemade lye soap. He filled an empty canteen from a spigot set into a fresh water pipe and was halfway out the door when he came to a sudden stop and turned back. Emptying his hands, he reached for the clipboard hanging from the side of one of the crude shelves that lined the walls of the chamber. It was with a sense of the deeply surreal that Vincent took up the pencil attached to the clipboard by a string and dutifully noted what he'd taken.
Those were the rules, after all. And rules and laws were what made a society civilized. It was the difference between man and the lesser beings: those who roamed on four legs or wore fur and fangs; the difference between who he was and what he'd done on that rooftop. He was still a part of the community, wasn't he? And so bound by its laws.
But who here, he thought as he hung the clipboard back in its place and collected his bounty, could hold me to them, if I were to choose otherwise? And who would dare call me to account, knowing what I am? It is only the most fragile of chains that bind me. Not even chains, but merely threads, and those easily broken. What I've done has proven that.
He had taken it upon himself to deliver a swift and final punishment. Had declared himself judge and executioner and had done it with barely a thought of whether he even had the right. Vincent shoved the notion away and left the inhabited tunnels, seeking only solitude and silence. The answers, were there any to be found, would have to come later.
Once he reached the river, after some three hours of travel, Vincent dumped his load by the shallow bank, put a match to the lantern, and began emptying his pockets. Candles stubs and matches were tossed onto the pile of blankets; a white handkerchief fluttered down to cover them; a pencil stub. He dug deeper in the pocket of his pants and pulled out the crumpled note Michael had left in his chamber after this morning's mathematics class. In it, he'd offered to tutor young Stephen, who'd been having some problems with long division. The note had been a way of allowing Vincent to broach the subject with the boy if he chose to, sparing Stephen any embarrassment he might've faced had Michael suggested it during class.
His eyes stung with hot tears and he carefully laid the note down among the other items. Folding onto the flat stone bank, he pulled off his soft boots and then the rest of his clothes, tossing them to the side with little care of where they landed. Then he stood, and flexing up on his toes, launched himself into the icy, turbulent waters of the river. He cut into its surface like a knife and swam underwater all the way to the other side on the single breath he'd taken before diving in. Surfacing, his thick mane plastered to his head, he took another breath against the biting cold that surrounded him and slipped back under. Reaching the opposite side, he walked up far enough to grab the brush and then waded back in until the water reached the middle of his chest. And then he scrubbed himself from head to toe, the stiff bristles reaching under the fur and to tender skin. And then gaining the bank again, he tossed the brush onto the shore and grabbed the soap. He washed thoroughly and dove back under to rinse off, surfacing only to repeat the process, until he was certain he'd washed away all the blood. The strong currents of water swept the soapy foam away and downriver and Vincent stood and watched it for an unnoticed time, shivering deeply with cold, his skin burning from the caustic effects of brush and soap.
When he finally stepped onto the shore, he used one of the blankets to dry himself as best he could and wring the wet from his heavy mane. Then he wrapped himself in the remaining blankets and set about washing the blood from his clothes. The meager light of the lantern helped, but Vincent was certain he wouldn't be able to get it all. There would be some trace remaining when he slipped them back on again, clothing himself in civility, and rejoining his community. Some certain sign that would mark him as the killer he was now - and forever would be. He was barely aware of the sudden fits of weeping that overtook him as he scrubbed at his garments, too lost in his shame to take note or even care.
The task completed, Vincent draped his clothing over several large boulders a short way up from the bank and then collected two armloads of firewood he kept stored in a nearby niche in the cavern wall. Arranging it close to the boulders, he extinguished the lantern and poured a small amount of oil on the piled wood and started a fire. Huddled under the blankets, arms and legs pulled close, he stared at the flames and soon fell into a trance where there was no pain, no thought, only the heat from the fire and a mindless drifting that carried him far away from where he was, who he was, and what he'd done.
….