As he hastened through the warren of tunnels beneath the city of New York, Catherine drifting in and out of consciousness in his arms, her pain, and her fear crashing through him like an unrelenting ocean current, a rip tide, breathing hard, his cheeks puffing in and out like bellows, Vincent could hear the pipes reverberating all around him. His name, directions and instructions being relayed by Pascal in the Pipe chamber, no doubt being passed on to him by Father and Mouse, and updates on instructions from Dr Peter Alcott, a long time friend of Father's and his back up on all matters medical Below.
Peter will meet you in basement parking lot of his office building ...
Take the left tunnel when you reach the five ways ... Most direct route to Peter's office ...
Blessings Vincent ...
Be well Catherine ...
Hurry ...
Ambulance on its way ...
Vincent hurried on, sure footed, his strong arms cradling Catherine's insensate body close against him, his heart pounding in his ears, as he could feel her life essence ebbing away.
"Don't die, Catherine ..." He rasped, his lungs burning from exertion . "We're almost there," he assured her, taking an upward sloping tunnel now, almost at journey's end. "Please don't die!" He beseeched. "If you die, Catherine, you take me with you ..." He gasped, his chest heaving and burning with the effort to draw in precious air, his throat tight with unshed tears.
He reached surface level, and found the threshold to the basement parking level of Peter Alcott's office building, stealthily making his way up to the better illuminated parking area, careful of Catherine's head as he ducked through the low, narrow opening, before pulling his hood up over his tawny mane, his piercing blue eyes darting from side to side, wary, ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger.
"Vincent?" Peter's familiar voice echoed softly off the dull grimey grey walls, as he stepped out of the elevator.
"Here," Vincent's gruff voice responded and he stepped out from behind a wide concrete support pillar, and hurried over to Peter. "She is unconscious ..."
"It's all right, Vincent. I'll take her from here," Peter soothed, taking in the younger man's breathless, anxious condition.
"Father ... Jacob ... refused to help her ..." Vincent ground out between gasps for breath.
"I'm sure that's not the case, Vincent," Peter sighed, holding out his open arms to receive the unconscious young woman that he had known since her birth. "He had no choice, under the circumstances. You should know that. He did the right thing ..."
"You would defend him?" Vincent pinned Peter with a cool blue glare of incredulity.
"Of course. I would have done the same in his position, Vincent, and so would you." Peter reasoned, concerned by Vincent's attitude, and his obvious distress. "It's not that he didn't want to help, Catherine, he just couldn't take the risk. It couldn't have been an easy decision, Vincent ..."
"I hate him!" Vincent hissed. "And I will see to it that he never forgets! I will never forgive him if anything ..." His voice trailed away then, and he lowered his sorrowful gaze to the unconscious woman still in his arms.
Peter grew even more concerned. He had never heard such words from Vincent, especially not about Jacob. The two men were as close as any Peter knew, drawing comfort from each other in times of stress and danger, and love, and warmth and companionship at other times. Over the years they had not been afraid to yell at each other, to fight, but that had been offset by the many kisses, bear hugs, and shared tears.
Theirs was a healthy relationship, a strong one.
One that would endure anything, except, it now seemed, if something happened to Catherine.
"Vincent, you are being unreasonable, and irrational right now. Fear and worry can do that," Peter reasoned. "When you have calmed down a little, you will begin to appreciate Jacob's position, see his dilemma, understand why he did what he did. Now, please, let me take Catherine. The ambulance will be here any minute ..."
"Live Catherine ..." Vincent cradled her head gently against his broad chest and pressed a fevered kiss to her brow. "Live ..."
Peter carefully took the insensate young woman from Vincent's reluctant arms, and laid her down gently on the cold cement floor, just as the siren of an approaching ambulance split the still night air.
"Go, Vincent," Peter advised, already focusing his mind on checking his patient's condition.
Vincent did not move.
He knew the danger, but he couldn't get his legs to work.
"I ... I love her ..."
"I know Vincent, and so does Catherine, but it wont do either of you any good if you get caught Above," Peter reasoned calmly. "I will take very good care of her. I promise you. I love her too. Now, please, go, quickly ..." Peter insisted and Vincent could not mistake the urgency in his voice now. "Let me take care of her. I'll be in touch as soon as I can. Now go!"
Unwilling though his legs were to move, he forced them to carry him to the relatively safe distance of another wide concrete support pillar, from where he watched as two ambulance attendants gently placed Catherine on a gurney and secured her in the back of the vehicle, all the time checking on her condition, and listening to Peter reel of her vital signs and all that he could recall off the top of his head of her most recent medical history.
The driver returned to the front of the vehicle, whilst Peter climbed in to the back to sit beside Catherine, gently taking her hand in his own whilst the other attendant secured the doors and returned up front to join his colleague.
That was the last that Vincent saw, as the ambulance doors closed, and there were tears brimming in his eyes as he watched the ambulance, it's flashing red lights casting an eerie glow on the ghastly grey walls of the parking lot, pull away, it's siren screaming in the night air as reached street level.
Vincent sagged against the concrete pillar, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, tears rolling unashamedly down his cheeks, his chest burning as it heaved up and down, his heart racing.
"Live Catherine ... live ..." He beseeched once more, reaching out across their unique empathic link, sensing her pain, her terror, her frailty, the sudden fogginess in her mind as a sedative and painkiller were administered, and then she seemed to be floating, incoherent, her thoughts a hazy jumble .
The sudden sound of the elevator returning to the basement reminded Vincent that there was still danger for himself in this place, and so, wearily, he forced his legs to carry him back to the relative safety of the threshold, and beyond to the cover and safety of the tunnels, where he could still hear the reverberation of the pipes.
Vincent ...
What is happening?
Is she safe?
Vincent ...
Vincent ...
He lent heavily against a rough brick wall his head bowed, his hair falling across his face, panting for breath, trying to quell his anxiety, realizing that he was experiencing a panic attack, as he fought not to give into the sobs of anger and despair, his mind in turmoil.
He did not even know where they were taking her, he suddenly realized.
But he could still feel her, knew that she was still holding on, her drug induced dreams filled with her worry for him, and sorrow.
Worry for him?
Sorrow?
Catherine was worried that she had frightened him, and she was sorry that she had been the cause of dissent between himself and Father.
She was an incredible woman.
Even sick as she was, her mind was on someone else's problems, not her own.
Father ...
Yes , Father ...
Vincent had said some very cruel things this evening.
Had thought some very dark and sinister thoughts about Jacob Wells.
But, Peter was right.
What choice had Father had?
Help Catherine, and run the risk of discovery?
Vincent now realized that had Jacob given in to him, and done as he had demanded, had operated on Catherine, they would have had to keep her with them, Below, for at least a week, and Catherine would have been missed by her friends and work colleagues Above.
He recalled now, the furore in the press when Catherine had originally disappeared, for ten days, two years ago, when he had found her, bleeding and battered and had taken her home, to Father.
Father had stitched up her face, bound her broken ribs and given her precious medication, despite his misgivings, and his anger at his son's recklessness.
But this was different.
That much was true.
Vincent knew that his behaviour had been unreasonable and irrational.
But that didn't mean that his anger at Father was any the less now.
At least he was beginning to understand Father's reasoning.
If Catherine had been missing from her life Above, again, her boss, and close friend, Joe Maxwell would have kicked up a stink.
Hadn't he called the police to check on her apartment when she had been Below, recovering from the shock and grief at her father's sudden death? He had been fearful that she had done something stupid, like killing herself.
Joe cared about Catherine deeply too.
He wouldn't have let this go, not until he got all the answers.
And this time, pleading memory loss and a chance encounter with itinerants crossing the country in search of work, would not account for major surgery and an absence from her life of over a week.
It was just possible, that Joe Maxwell and Moreno would have torn the city apart looking for Catherine.
Taking deep, calming breaths, Vincent closed his eyes and saw once again, the horror and genuine sadness on Father's face, when he had told Vincent that he could not help Catherine.
Peter had been right about that too.
It hadn't been an easy decision to make ...
But it had been the right one.
Catherine was the last person who would have wanted to endanger their fragile existence.
And it had been unfair of him to put Father on the spot like that, to expect him to perform the surgery.
Vincent, feeling calmer now, reached out across their empathic connection, across the city, to Catherine. She was very sleepy now, the pain dulled by drugs and anesthesia. She was no longer afraid. In fact, she was quite ... euphoric.
Vincent let out a deep, shuddering breath.
All would be well now.
He prayed.
And he had fences to mend, with Father.
If the older man would ever forgive him his impetuosity and his anger.
Slowly and wearily, Vincent made his way home.