Catherine threw herself to him as soon as he came. His arms encircled her slowly.
"What happened?"
"The cassette…"
She stared at him, speechless. He tilted his head, but she just took his hand and led him inside. The cassette player made a buzzing sound as it rewound. Catherine's hands were shaking; she closed them in fists. He hugged her, placing his chin on her head. There was no safer place for her. Not even her father's arms.
She pressed a button, then hurried to another as she cursed.
"I hit 'record'"
"The recording must be long enough without the first second" he pointed out quietly.
She looked at him as if he had just hit her.
He gently stretched past her to let the sound flow from the machine. A baby's content. Nice voices –the mother's babbling. Laughs. Catherine started to cry, but he knew it wasn't sadness. His powerful ear insolated the baby's voice; it didn't sound like Catherine.
"How many times you have heard it?"
She hid her face in his vest.
Vincent's left hand pressed her against him, as his right one groped for the walkie and offered it to her. The coldness of the plastic against her shoulder made her cringe. A cold breeze came from the balcony, the sounds of the city at night stayed still for a moment. Then she grasped it.
"Bennet…"
She rubbed her eyes with the back of the same hand, and waited. Vincent's cloak brushed against her legs, and she closed her eyes –he was so close, and still… How to face him… after what they had lived together… after what they had done? She couldn't even fathom what she was to do when Elliot called again. What about when he got back?
"Bennet…!"
"Don't yell" he scolded her gently, "we must be patient"
"She might be sleeping."
"She doesn't work by schedule" Vincent muttered, "she must be closeby."
Catherine felt for the screen control, and called again as she turned on the screen. It didn't change; the image came all black. Frowning, Catherine thought aloud:
"What's happening here?"
She neared the screen. The black in it didn't seem as if the camera was covered, but…
"The camera must be damaged…" he concluded.
"Bennet!"
Catherine turned briefly as she called through the walkie. Vincent was pacing with increasing speed; his face was, once again, in shadows, and his cloak flowed behind him as fog would.
"Stay here… they'll come for you"
"Where am I? Where have you taken me?"
The black box was taken from the lady's hand. It had been Vincent. The latest voice coming from the box had been Bennet's, and she sounded groggy. Catherine looked for Vincent's eyes, but this time he wasn't looking at anything but the box.
"They sedated her" Catherine concluded.
"Be quiet, exercise none of your detective skills, and you'll be all right. My men don't want to shoot you."
"It's Mr. Robins" Catherine recognized.
Vincent simply nodded. He couldn't speak; his heart was pounding on his throat, and the low growl he was hearing could come only from himself. Suddenly he turned and fled.
Diana was in danger. He had put her there.
"Vincent!" Catherine called from the balcony door.
Already straddling the veranda, he looked at her as she talked through the box in her hand.
"Bennet, it's Mrs. Burch in here."
Catherine hesitated, looking at Vincent for anchor. Would Bennet answer? Was she hurt… losing blood… dying…? Her stomach churned. Whatever happened to the detective, it was her fault.
"Sure it's not her cat?" Bennet whispered on the other side of safety, her banter more relieving than almost anything else. "I'm all right."
"Do you hear me?"
"Obviously"
"Sorry" Catherine said. "Must I call Joe?"
"No time"
Catherine's heart fell to her feet. She understood. Joe would need proof and an order, especially for Mr. Robins' residency. No one wanted to piss off the wealthy. But then… She looked up, to Vincent, and he nodded.
"Have hope" she told Bennet, never taking her gaze from him. "Help is on your way."
And he was gone.
Catherine turned to her apartment, if just to not see him go. Through the glass the dark buzzing screen was visible. Damn it. She couldn't even see if Bennet was in a dungeon or a tower, or even if she was lying down.
"Where are you?"
"As you must have heard, I don't have the answer."
"Please, detective, save your sarcasm for better times."
Catherine thought she had heard a sigh.
"I get no visual from your side."
"I'm wearing the camera. Last time we checked, it worked. I have no further answer"
"It must have bumped on something" Catherine bit her lips.
"I think I'm underground; there are no windows. I'm weak, but not injured. I don't remember anything in the last two hours, after I was leaving Robins property and told you to turn off the screen. I still smell chloroform."
"What are you doing right now?"
"Wanting to be here?"
Catherine looked up, wondering how this woman had come to know her so well. She knew she must be glad, for being safe; she must be grateful. But how much better she had felt when working on a case despite the risk and often the event of getting caught. Though knowing Vincent was on his way sure was a part of it.
"At least you can do something" she answered. "What are you doing?"
"I'm seeing how far I can walk while seeking weak spots on the walls."
"Is there any?"
The edges of the box scratched Catherine's hand.
"None so far. Again, I'm too weak to be sure. Why were you calling?"
Catherine's mind went blank.
"Before you knew I had been caught, you called me; that's why you noticed my 'absence'…" Bennet repeated. "What for?"
Taking barely a second to appreciate the detective's cold blood, Catherine answered.
"The cassette someone played on Burch's nursery… A part of it came today. Repaired. There was my mother's voice, with a child… It could have been me; I can't remember…"
"We never spoke about what happened at the nursery."
"I told you what I knew."
"You told me about the cassette and the bullet, nothing else… And the candies you found."
"The ruined ones."
"They lead you there" Bennet pointed. "You told me they were old, the kind they don't make anymore."
"Shouldn't you be focusing in getting out of there?"
"I'm already trapped, might as well solve this."
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Diana rubbed her upper lip, very aware that the dazzling smell was still there as she turned around in the empty room she had been left in. The neuter orange coloring of the wall and a plain, if strong, wooden door; almost no mobiliary except for a chair, no sound except for that of her own steps and the lady's voice on the other side of the fancy device she still wasn't accustomed to. Sensory deprivation.
"What did you do later?"
"I left the room…" Catherine answered.
"Before…"
"I... tried the candies…"
Diana very nearly pitched the receiver against the floor. Don't kill the messenger.
"That was later, I'm asking about before… Did you leave the room just after your men did?"
"I… No, I left through the other door…"
"Why?" Diana resumed exploring the wall; she didn't need half of her brain for Catherine's babbling.
"I was folding baby clothes."
"Sweet. Why?"
"I found… a baby shirt, I guess… I figured it must go to the babies' room…"
"It was out of place"
"I guess…"
"What kind of shirt?"
"Second-handed…"
"… in Burch's house?"
Despite the sarcasm, Diana's hands separated from the wall, and one of them pressed the earphone to listen.
"Yes, I thought it would be his. It seemed familiar."
"Why didn't you tell me about this?"
It took the detective a while to realize that she was pacing. In her mind there was an image of Catherine, open-mouthed, half looking for a reason that wasn't there… for she thought this wasn't relevant. Why should it be? Diana's guts said otherwise.
"Mrs. Burch, I'll use a simple psychological test on you. I'll say a word; you have to answer with whatever comes to your mind…"
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Catherine jerked.
"Why…?"
"Candle" was Bennet's first word.
Safety… The word had brought to her inner self an image, or rather a mixture of feelings she had almost exclusively felt deep in the bowels of Earth, where the smell of candles and melt wax and the warmth of fire irrevocably related to quiet evenings spent reading or chatting, where activities meant less than simply being there, where warmth ran deeper than skin; the kind that could only be felt when surrounded by family. In the back of her mind, another image: that of a little girl afraid of the dark, looking at a single birthday candle at her bedside.
"Bennet, I can't…"
"Answer"
Catherine looked at the screen as if expecting to find her answer there. She couldn't give hers, could she? Bennet would ask why and then… I can't tell her about Below… the secret…! She is about to meet Vincent, for God's sake…! Catherine burst towards the bar and poured herself a vodka.
"Your first thought"
Some of the liquid spilled, but Bennet's intent wouldn't waver.
"Safety"
Catherine took the glass to her mouth and fire went down her throat.
"Ivory rose"
"Safety" she answered again, pressing the button with her wrist. Half the word was lost to her coughing fit; Bennet would just have to guess. Let her think of how unimaginative I am. The back of her hand wiped her mouth, and tearful eyes opened to find the mess she had turned her bar into. Bennet's silence, if something, was a relief.
Had the detective known of her mother's gift, she might have thought she understood, or not asked at all. But in fact, Catherine meant more. As vivid as that particular memory was –some of her childhood recollections, colorful enough to seem to be of yesterday-, the anniversary of her almost-death wasn't less poignant in her heart, nor was it less filled with images and smells and texture –that of Vincent's peculiar skin. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear Vincent's voice, and his words, so full of meaning, always. How weird that her love for him had covered even this, her most treasured memories of her mother.
"Painting."
"Yellow" she answered in voice still somewhat throaty, as she went looking for a rag.
"What kind of yellow."
"Wheat."
"Isn't there a closer reference? Closer to you, I mean."
"My mother's hair" Catherine answered, as she left the bottle into the bar.
She never noticed Bennet's silence.
"Like the locks of hair you found in the first painting."
"More or less."
"Let's continue… Baby."
Catherine braced herself on the wood, on the rag, and it took her a heartbeat to answer.
"Lovely."
"That's not true" Bennet said quietly.
Catherine didn't answer.
"Candy."
"Birthday."
"Pain."
"M… mom."
There was a heartbeat before Bennet concluded softly:
"That's weird."
"I guess I felt her pain, when she was dying."
Another pause.
"I see lots of 'mom' in your answers."
"The second answer would be Peter."
"Never mind… You answered twice with the same word. Why?"
Catherine remembered the answer… the original one, to the first word… She bit her lips and looked away. Luckily, Bennet couldn't see it.
"When I was a child" she started "I was scared of darkness; my mother gave me a candle to keep it away. She also gave me a white rose to remember her."
And I was looking for a gang…
"Why did you snort, Bennet?" the lady asked indignantly, pricked by the apparent lessening of the most precious memories of her childhood.
"A wrong lead I was following… Was your mother the one who called you Cat."
"The only one" Catherine answered.
"So she gave you the nick."
"I guess so."
Lots of 'mom'…
"The note your father received, with your handwriting… We spoke about a time in your life, when your father had time to meet you and someone else whom he liked… Could it be your mother?"
"I hadn't thought about it" Catherine answered, "but… over twenty years… It was pristine…"
"If someone had wanted to keep it, as a… keepsake, so to speak… in the proper environment… do you think it would be probable?"
"I can't imagine who would do that, if I didn't and my father didn't even know about the note... It was just a note…"
"Hypothesis, later, please"
Catherine breathed deeply.
"It could be."
No other word; but sounds kept coming from the box, so it was the woman who had suddenly stopped answering.
"Bennet, are you there?"
The detective would have fainted. Her blood chilled at the thought. After all, what did she know about the detective's state? Nothing, but what Bennet herself had said. As far as Catherine knew, the other woman would hide an intense bleeding the same way she had hid the sickness Catherine had once suspected she suffered.
"Bennet?"
"I heard something. Could you please be quiet, so I can listen?" the woman whispered.
Catherine sighed in relief, and nodded, mindless of the fact that Bennet wasn't looking. Her absent gaze stayed on the black box for a moment. She couldn't hear what Bennet could; she wasn't there, after all. Deaf to it… as she was blind to the detective's surroundings. She looked at the screen, wrath boiling inside of her. Her hands were tied. When had it happened? How? Did Robins know that she was getting information? Would he find Bennet's microphone, her earphone? Would he take them away?
When had it happened?
How much was recorded?
She burst towards the control. Ralph had said… How hadn't she thought of this before? Her senses had been that of an investigator for months… though she had quit almost a year ago… But how could her instincts have dulled so? She had to think to find the right button, then she had the image rewinding. Anxiously she watched as the screen buzzed, still black. Then gray. Then, a wall retreated; a wall in a corridor.
"I know where you are, Bennet" Catherine whispered; she grabbed the walkie, and repeated it for Bennet's ears. "I know where you are."
"Good girl. Where?"
"Third office, fourth corridor" she scrutinized the rapidly changing image "… second floor"
There was a heartbeat before Bennet answered:
"There are no windows. Why?"
"I don't have an answer to that."
I think I do…
"Now please be quiet" Bennet ordered.
Catherine frowned as she yanked the button. If Bennet wants to be alone, it's all right with me. The screen was so much more communicative…
It had gone to the beginning; Ralph's hand had just covered the image, and it had stopped moving. Grabbing the control, she pressed "play" and made herself comfortable on the couch. A record of herself approached; not exactly like watching herself on a mirror. It seemed that Bennet was a little taller than she was; she hadn't noticed it before.
The video also recorded the words, but there was none worth listening. She turned the attention instead to her own words to Bennet, wondering fleetingly why the childish, senseless behavior. The logical thing was to respect each other. Bennet was a remarkable detective. Instead, she found that she would never tell her even that.
Bennet –the recorded one- was seeing sunlight.
"What do you want to know?" the screen emitted.
Catherine straightened on her seat. In the record, Bennet was obviously watching the balcony. She didn't want her to do that. It was her secret place –Vincent's haven-, she didn't want a detective looking at there. Or in there. And Bennet had walked towards it. In Catherine's mind there was the image of herself, placing her hand against the cold glass, willing her body to slip through it. But it must mean nothing to Bennet. Yet the image in Catherine's mind didn't go away.
"Mrs. Burch?"
"What?" she answered.
"Mrs. Burch, are you there?"
She had forgotten to press the button.
"What?"
Her exasperation wasn't subtle. Bennet's snort mirrored it.
"So what can I do with your smart info?"
"What s…?" Her location. Catherine's heart fell again. "Don't make a tunnel."
"Very funny."
"You might simply enjoy it… for some more time."
"You're not the one risking your life with every passing second."
"I thought we had established that I'd want to"
There was a silence.
"Every detective in your team is like you are?"
"Insolent?"
Despite herself, Catherine smiled.
"Did you hear something."
"Nothing specific."
Now she was serious.
"You're worried."
Diana's mood wavered, and she put her forehead to the door, then her hand. Oh, I am, she thought, but I can't tell you. It wasn't as if they were friends –what a strange word for Diana.
"Don't get cuddly…" she whispered to Catherine. "Someone here is trying to keep her head on something useful…"
Her hand twitched against the door.
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There was a bang -wood against wall. The device buzzed, and though it kept working, the sound came changed, surreal. Bennet's cry of pain sounded like a banshee's would.
"Bennet?!"
There was someone else in the room, with the detective. Catherine shook the walkie, frustrated more than anything, but the stranger's words remained distorted; the sound system no longer let her understand. The sounds coming from the woman went through, but Catherine couldn't interpret them.
"Bennet, I can't hear him, so you'll have to repeat it." She paused, but the other didn't answer. "Don't you dare die on me!"
There was a knock on Catherine's door, but she didn't hear it.
She fought with the pants, rather than wore them, as a shoulder –or other- pressed the walkie against her ear. She didn't dare part from it a millimeter.
Another knock.
She had taken her keys before realizing she couldn't just go through the door. But she couldn't simply leave Bennet to her fate.
The third knock made her start.
"Not the best timing, Aaron!" she cried.
"You have a small visitor, madam" he answered formally, fun in his tone… which she had some problem to understand.
"He'll have to wait."
She grasped the walkie and looked around. The balcony? How could she climb down the entire building? Oh, if she could do so like Vincent… but the only lesson she had taken, he had been there all the time. She hadn't been scared. Now, as she bent over the veranda, she shivered. Bennet was in danger; but the danger of climbing down this height was probably bigger. If she fell...
"Bennet, can you answer now?"
Another bang. Then, just a word that sounded a lot like:
"Vincent…"
The lady shivered and the box slipped from her hands. Bennet's sounds had just turned to be too clear -for what someone standing right beside her probably wouldn't hear, Catherine, whose ear was practically on the detective's mouth, understood perfectly: she was crying. The fleeting question of how came that the woman knew of Vincent, practically didn't came, dissolved in pure unadulterated alarm; she had almost tried to climb down the balcony for Bennet, of whom she thought, if reluctantly, as a colleague, and now Vincent himself, who was to her more than her own life, was… what? In danger? The phantom of death hovered, and she didn't even dare name it. There were few things that scary in her world.
"It's safe to come out, madam" a childish voice called from beyond her door. "They are sleeping."
She burst out without question. She needed no proof. The image of her bodyguards on the floor and the shape of a child was of no consequence to her at the moment, though much later she would reflect on the dangers inherent to underestimate children who could carry chemicals just as well as an adult would. Now was not the time, even to identify her small ally –or if it was one, even. As if in a dream –one of those in which she felt as if running without moving at all- she got to her car, headed to Robins' residency. Just as she started the car, it occurred to her that she must have a weapon; she looked for hers, and found it loaded. The lady had never used it.
She never wondered why it was that Bennet seemed to know Vincent so well.
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Preview:
She had felt a beat –a powerful pump- and his chest rose in a shaking breath. He's breathing. Thank God he's breathing. She had never believed in God until that moment; but then, as she curled up into a ball -listening to the beautiful song of his being alive- all she could do was pray.
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