A Thirst to Spend Our Fire 1
When they were finally set free from the courtroom, Catherine and Joe were drained. The afternoon had dragged on in much the same vein as had the morning, tiny details rehashed, objection after objection, sidebar after sidebar. And they were not finished for the day, as an evening of preparation lay before them.
“We need to stop at the PD on the way back about the Haas case,” Joe said. “One of the guys called and left a message for us to come by."
“The Haas case ... I forgot to think about that one today,” Catherine groaned. “I’ve been busy visualizing medieval tortures all afternoon. That ... lawyer. He's left me very dissatisfied with our profession. Not to mention the jerk he's defending.”
“No kidding. I hate both those guys. You come up with something worse than thumb screws? That’s what came to my mind.”
“Oh, yeah, much worse. Trust me. Much, much worse, and I know an expert in the field with access to the apparatus,” she said, thinking of Ned and his collection at the Met. Joe raised his eyebrows at that, but said nothing.
Fighting the street crowds, carrying too many files and too much weariness, the two made their way to the precinct house. The steps seemed unscalable and the doors too heavy to push open. They waited on the sidewalk, sharing a look of dismay.
“You gonna make it?”
“If you can, I can, Joe.”
“One more meeting, and then it’s just me and you and all these reports and the rest of the night. I could use a drink.”
“That would fix us both right up,” Catherine chided. “Maybe later.” She smiled her encouragement and started up the steps. “Let’s do it.”
The news was not good, although the detectives had discovered surveillance tapes from a shop near the site of the attack. Adding copies of the tapes to their already burdensome load, Joe and Catherine vowed to watch them that night.
“Unconscious,” answered the detective. “Crushed vertebrae. Bad insurance.”
“Damn,” Joe muttered, slumping back in his chair. He peered over Catherine’s shoulder. “Hey, isn’t that Flynn O’Carroll?”
Catherine turned to see a contingent of Emergency Services officers and several men in suits leaving a conference room. “It is. And no one looks happy.”
Joe turned to the detectives. “What’s up? Something happen on the truck today?”
“You know O’Carroll?” The detective was caging a bit, circumspect.
“We took his statement on the Yeshiva incident. Finished that for him,” Joe said. “He’s a good guy.”
“Yep. He’s that. Having a few ... issues ... after it, though. Might could use a vacation.”
“Couldn’t we all,” the second detective said, and the subject was closed.
Catherine recalled Jamie’s request for a precision shooting instructor. 2 Still unsure it was wise, she had yet to ask Flynn as she once planned. But there were other reasons for her reticence. After her conversation with Eimear that day in the shop in the Village, she knew Flynn needed time to recover from the stress of the Yeshiva incident before she asked him for help. She had hoped he would regain his confidence, that he would realize his actions were in defense of the innocent and not the actions of a killer as some had accused. A too-familiar shame shadowed Flynn’s face at the statement-taking, and the haunted look, so like Vincent's, revealed his struggle to disavow a dark side. It seemed his despair cloaked him still.
Tomorrow she would call Eimear. She had promised to call her, had planned to call her. Thinking of the connection she had felt with her and feeling again a strange, sharp longing, Catherine wanted to call her. 3 She shook herself mentally. Now was not the time to drift into dreams. Work demanded her attention, and Joe was rising to leave.
Hours later, hunched over files and photographs and phone records, Catherine grumbled her exhaustion. “I won’t make it much longer, Joe. The coffee is too bitter and I can’t live on chips,” she said, eyeing the remains of their meager, vending machine dinner. “Go with me. Let’s get something to eat, something warm, or maybe even ... green. Then let’s call it a night. I’ll be useless tomorrow if we don’t.”
“That’s a good idea. I can’t remember anything I’ve read anyway. When in doubt, eat. That’s what my mother taught me.” He shoved his files together in a pile. “Let’s just leave this. We’ll be back to it soon enough.”
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“So what’s this about the torture expert. Who do you know? You do have some ... unusual acquaintances, Cathy. All over town. I saw you talking to somebody outside the restaurant in Chinatown while I was waiting on the order. Who was that old guy?”
“Oh, him? Just a shopkeeper I know down there. He puts together special teas for me sometimes.”
“Teas. Right. So ... the torture guy?”
Catherine laughed. “Don’t get all excited. It’s Jenny’s new ... friend. He works at the Met in the Medieval collection. I just met him last night.”
“Jenny’s new friend, huh? She’s really great. She likes this guy?”
“He seems perfect. Time will tell, I guess.”
“Lucky man,” Joe said.
He seemed about to continue, but Catherine interrupted. “I’m afraid to look at the clock,” she said over the last of her soup. “Tell me it isn’t midnight yet.”
Joe made a comic show of hiding the face of his watch. “Not even close,” he said.
“Before ... or after?” Catherine groaned.
Joe shrugged his shoulders, a look of defeat on his face. “I’ll see you home, Cathy. Grab what’s left of the night, if you can.”
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She dozed in the elevator, cradled in the corner of it. Her building was tomb-silent except for the rumbling close of the lift’s doors, then the click of her key in the locks. She knew her balcony would bear her no lover, that dreams and memories would be her embrace tonight. She wished herself Below, in their bed, held against his great heart. For a moment, just as she fell into sleep, she knew a sudden warmth, a low but rising heat spreading within her. She felt a familiar nuzzle of a cheek to her hair, and that great heart beating against hers. Did she imagine his voice, hear it? “Sleep now. I’m here.” A whisper, nothing more than a skiff of breeze ... evidence ... never apart, never, ever apart.
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He had been restless all evening and into the night. Accustomed to more privacy than this, and of late, accustomed to her warmth, he could not sleep in camp. As quietly as he could, he rolled his bed and carried it away from the group. He noticed Kanin, awake as well, morose, poking listlessly at the fire. The smoldering heat responded with a slow hissing that did not drown out Kanin’s heavy sighs – sighs Vincent could hear even as he moved down the tunnel to a niche where a spring bubbled over stones.
A deep drink and then another from his palms ... He let the water trickle through his fingers. The reflected light from the campfire prismed the droplets, arcing diamonds and stars from his hand. He would give her those diamonds, those stars. A welling beneath his ribs ... At the thought of her, his heart thudded powerfully. A deep breath, a blossoming, and she was near. Did he hear her voice or was it merely water music? “Rest now. Lie down with me.” Tomorrow was already too close, and so finally, he slept.
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“I’m coming, Joe. Wait, just a minute.” Catherine flipped through her rolodex. “I’ve got one phone call to make ... just one! Here!” She punched in the numbers and reached a machine. “Eimear, this is Catherine Chandler. I’d like to talk to you. Not in an official way.” She laughed. “Personal. Call me." Gathering her things, she ran after Joe, scooting into the elevator as the doors began to close.
“Another day in hell,” Joe growled. “I’m already in a bad mood.” He watched the numbers as the car descended. “Just stab me now, okay, Radcliffe. My life stinks.”
“You couldn’t sleep last night?”
“Damn kids upstairs. Music, if you can call it that.” He noticed Catherine’s grin. “Don't say it,” he warned her. “I need a new job, a new apartment ... a vacation, a new ... Oh, never mind.”
The courtroom was crowded and the onlookers quite restless. Joe and Catherine pushed through to their table, arranged their files, glanced over their notes and waited. After almost an hour, the bailiff disappeared, and at his return, he called the court to order. The judge informed them that a postponement would be necessary and that co-counsel for the defense would finish the trial alone. They were out of court until Thursday.
Joe turned to Catherine with a wide smile. “I got my wish!”
“You wished appendicitis on the attorney?”
“I wished pain and misery on him, but I really wanted to inflict it myself.” He chuckled at that, nodding all the while.
“We’re free, Joe. Free. Let’s get out of here.”
“You know it’s back to the mines, don’t you,” Joe said.
“Any place but here,” Catherine replied.
Back in the office, work continued. There were so many cases, so many victims of greed and violence. After a particularly grueling half-hour spent studying crime scene photographs, Catherine spun in her chair to watch the sky, to send her thoughts Below. She worried about Kanin, about Olivia. She worried about the problem in the northern tunnels. Greed and violence could enter their world just as easily, and the effect would be devastating.
She missed him. How was he faring? When would she see him? “I love you, Vincent. Know that.” She said this in a whisper, barely louder than a thought, and rested a moment in the truth of it. She was startled then, to hear her name called in soft tones. She had been lost in her thoughts.
“Eimear!” Catherine turned in her chair to find Flynn O’Carroll’s wife standing close. “I can’t believe it. I just left a message for you this morning! I wanted to talk to you. Please, sit down.”
“I got your message, Catherine, and 'twas a great surprise.” Her voice, with it’s slight accent, was song-like. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you as well. But this call today ... now, I’ve come to believe in serendipity. I need your help, and I’m here to ask you for it.”
“Do you think,” she continued, her head tilted to one side, “you might get away from here tomorrow afternoon? It’s for a good cause and all. You might even call it public service hours, being as you would be doing one.”
“This is all quite mysterious, Eimear. What’s up?”
“Well, where I work – that would be Howland House, the residential treatment school, up in the Bronx? We’ve been given a block of tickets for the baseball game tomorrow. I guess there's empty seats as it's in the afternoon. One of our benefactors bought these up and called us this morning. The thing is, we need more chaperones for the kids. I know it’s short notice, but I had the idea ... I was on my way to conscript some of Flynn’s buddies and I thought maybe ... you and Mr. Maxwell?”
“Let’s ask him right now. But call him 'Joe'.” Catherine steered Eimear toward his office. Through the open door, she could see him reared back in his chair, feet on his desk, the phone trapped against his shoulder. They waited outside until he finished his call. Slamming down the receiver, he stood and motioned them in, his dour expression brightening at the sight of Eimear O’Carroll.
“Ask him, Eimear,” Catherine instructed. “He won’t say no, I’m betting.”
“What?” Joe looked from one woman to the other, his hands on his hips. “Say no to what?”
Eimear laid out her problem and at each word, Joe's grin widened. “You bet. We can go. I love kids. Where and what time?”
Eimear continued, with concern in her voice. “Now, you have to know. You’ll mostly be counting heads and taking them to the restroom. Also making sure they don’t eat too much junk. Sometimes they get ... queasy and then, well ... you know. It can be a wee bit of an ordeal.”
“I’m in.” Joe was adamant. “What about you, Cathy?”
“Count on it,” she replied. Suddenly, the week seemed far more bearable.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Joe said. “I should have asked ... W e’re talking Mets here, right? Not the Yankees?"
Eimear laughed. “Mets it is. I take it you've a problem with the American League?”
“Don’t get him started,” Catherine said. “You’ll never hear the end of it.”
“He’ll get on with my sister,” Eimear said. “She's coming too, couldn’t say no ... she owes me. You two should sit together.” She wrote the address on Joe’s desk pad. “So, can you meet us at the school at noon? We don’t have the funds to send a car for you, but Flynn might get one of the boys from the shop to pick you up out front. We'll take the school's bus to Shea.”
“I’ve got a car,” Joe said. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be there.”
Eimear beamed at the two of them. “This is great, just great. Catherine, your call was a godsend. Tomorrow then?”
She turned to leave and Catherine joined her, walking with her to the elevators. Waiting for the doors to open, Eimear turned, smiling. “I should warn you about my sister, I think. I should have warned Mr. Maxwell ... Joe. She’s a little ... unusual, sometimes a bit much.”
“How’s that?” Catherine asked, surprised and intrigued.
The elevator arrived and Eimear said, stepping in, “I can’t explain it exactly. You’ll see. You’ll hear. Tomorrow.”
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(1) Matthew Arnold. The Buried Life, line 49. 1852.
(2) I Carry Your Heart. Chapter 4 (Visitor)
(3) I Carry Your Heart. Chapters 3 (Counterparts) and 7 (Love-Throb in the Heart)
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