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This was a nightmare; he couldn't get enough breath.
People were talking all around him, moving all around him, asking
him questions. But none of the words were making sense. He spoke
half a dozen languages, and none of these words were making sense.
Red. Everywhere he looked, he saw red. The color of
honor, the color of blood. Something about the color hurt his
eyes.
"Here, Ben." She handed him a cup of water.
"I can't do this."
"Of course you can!" Her eyes glittered above the rim of
her own cup.
"I can't!"
"Of course you can! Here we go!"
They stepped into the crowd, merging with the others,
moving past a constable who was counting heads and checking a
clipboard and looking puzzled. Two Mounties in a sea of Mounties.
A sea of red. He felt his stomach knot.
She led the way to seats in one of the passenger cars, a
bit apart from the others. He sat next to the window and tried
become invisible. Ray, oh god, Ray.
"So, we're stopping at Normal," she said brightly.
"Strange name for a town." Her voice was brittle as ice.
"It gave the name to the normal school." Where had those
words come from? "Illinois State University was one of the first
teacher's colleges in the States. The phrase 'normal school' came
from the name of the town."
"Ben--"
"And it was--a circus town. The railways that intersect
there brought a lot of circus people to the town."
"Ben, relax."
He looked at her. Thatcher's uniform suited her, but--
He looked away, through the window, at the cityscape passing just
outside. Darkness was falling. Ray. He--
"Ben."
He could not look at her. He could not look at anyone in
the crowded train car. He heard laughter--someone had made a joke.
He looked through the window, at the passing landscape.
"It'll be all right, Ben. As soon as we're away from here,
it'll be all right. We'll be together. Ben, I love you so much."
He looked at the darkening landscape passing the window.
"Trust me, Ben."
He caught their reflections in the window glass. Red. So
much red.
"You can't have stopped trusting me, Ben."
He closed his eyes at that, tried to close his heart at the
memory of those words in his own mouth--just days ago, was it?
Trust. He drew a shaky breath and forced open his eyes, to
look past their reflectiions to the darkness outside.
"It'll be all right."
Darkness.
"Ben."
Darkness.
. . . .
The train lurched, and he almost lost his hat. How the
hell did Fraser keep this damn thing on?
"Sorry," he said to the Mountie he'd almost knocked into.
Blend in, Vecchio. You're undercover. Be Canadian. Apologize
all over the place.
The whole train seemed full to bursting with Mounties,
because of course it was. Mounties who were supposed to be there,
Mounties who just seemed along for the ride. Tall Mounties,
not-so-tall Mounties, old Mounties, young Mounties, white Mounties,
black Mounties-- He ducked his head as Pangborn went by.
Where do you hide a Mountie? In with a whole lot of other
Mounties. And how do you hitch a ride out of Chicago if you don't
want to be spotted and nabbed? Hide inside a uniform most people
didn't look past, with a whole lot of other people wearing the same
uniform. Fraser's single red uniform in the closet where there
should have been two, his single Stetson where there should have
been two, had told Ray everything.
He drew a deep breath and looked around. Trouble was, all
those straight backs, all those broad shoulders, all those trim
waists--it was amazing how much all these Mounties looked like
Fraser at first glance. Maybe he should have brought Dief
along.
Nah, Dief was better off where he was, with Elaine, who'd
taken one look at Ray and burst out laughing. He didn't look
that stupid. He was just undercover.
The Mountie dress uniform almost fit; the hat--well, he'd
had to stuff some paper in there. Boots were a problem until Ray
had thought to talk to Turnbull. Turnbull always seemed a little
nervous where Ray was concerned: that stereotype of the gun-toting
American poised for a psychotic killing spree seemed lodged in his
brain. Still, it had never occurred to Ray that the words, "Hey,
Turnbull, I need to borrow a pair of Mountie boots," when
accompanied by a hitch at his slipping holster, would cause the
strapping young Mountie to wrestle off his own boots and hand them
right over. Poor guy: Ray made plans to be extra nice to him in
the future. Dating Frannie, he'd need it.
Mounties here, Mounties there, Mounties, Mounties
everywhere. Ray moved down the train car, smiling acknowledgement
of the smiling nods of Mounties he didn't know, searching for that
one face that could stop his heart or start it again. He held his
arm to hide the holster that should have been empty but which now
held his semiautomatic. You finally got a chance to kill
her, his father's voice whispered in the back of his mind.
She deserves it; he deserves it too. He tried to ignore the
voice, but his heart felt like it had frozen. She deserves it;
he deserves it too. He'd tried to be organized in his search,
moving through the empty sleeping cars, the dining car, the first
passenger car.
Fraser was in the second. And Ray felt warmth surge
through him. Fraser. Sitting by himself, kind of huddled in on
himself, staring out the window. He deserves it-- Oh, god,
Benny, so unhappy. Because he'd done wrong? Because he was
leaving Ray?
Ray's knees were shaking. He's miserable because--
Some voice inside him was trying to find a reason for Benny to
be unhappy that didn't have to do with him betraying Ray, but Ray's
heart wasn't buying it. Warmth was stealing into it; his arms
wanted to wrap themselves around Benny and hold him until the
misery was gone. Geez, Vecchio. You're such a sap,
Vecchio. Oh, Benny.
Ray paused when he came to Fraser's row. Should he talk
to him? Should he ask Fraser to help him trap the woman Fraser
loved? No, but that didn't mean Ray's heart wasn't beating double-time.
In the window reflection Fraser's face looked so tired, his
eyes looked so lost. As Ray watched, Fraser seemed to see
something reflected in the glass and huddled in on himself even
more. Ah, god, Fraser, what's she done to you? Ray's heart
was melting like snow under a hot sun.
This wasn't finding him Victoria. Ray walked past, looking
at Mountie after Mountie, until he reached the end of the car. He
turned for a quick glance back at Fraser before he went to the next
car, where there was still no Victoria. And this was the last car.
He went back, looked over at Fraser--who wasn't there.
Ray's heart dropped like a stone through water. No
Victoria, and now no Fraser, and where were they?
Thumping from above told him. Nobody else seemed to
notice, but his end was quiet, and he was listening for something
like this. Oh, damn, outside the damn car. He went into the space
between cars.
The Stetson got in his way when he tried to shove his way
through the little service opening to the outside; and he took it
off. And then, before he could think about it and maybe change his
mind, he was out and hanging on for dear life. Standing on top of
the car was just a lot of fun.
The moon, a couple days past full, rode low in the sky,
silver-edging the clouds streaming across the sky. He faced the
back of the train. Moonlight, dimness of cloud, then the moon
again. Something was ahead of him, on the next car. He eased
forward, scrambling to keep his footing when the train hit a rough
section of track. Geez, didn't they maintain these tracks
any more?
End of his own car; and, oh boy, that accordion thing that
joined the two cars looked none too solid. Jump over it, Vecchio.
Don't look down. Looking down made him realize how the two
cars rocked independently of each other, made him sickeningly aware
that he might misjudge the way the next car was moving, land wrong,
slide to his death. Just look at that next car and take a deep
breath and--
He jumped. Aw gee, aw gee, he was gonna land wrong, the
way that next car was swaying, the way--
He landed, overbalanced, fell to one knee and caught
himself. His heart was hammering. Ohmigod, he'd done it.
He peered ahead into the darkness. Was that--
Moonlight flooded the landscape. A figure, dark against
the gleaming metal of the train, toward the far end of the car.
Rising to his feet, Ray scrambled toward it. Fraser? Or Victoria?
Was he walking into a trap?
Caution steadied him as he moved along the train car,
shuffling to keep his footing on the slick surface. Access to the
top of the car lay only at either end. But nobody seemed to be
coming up behind him.
The moon emerged from another cloud, and he could see the
red-coated figure ahead of him, see the wind whipping the dark
hair. Victoria.
So where was Fraser?
Ray glanced behind him. Nothing.
And, ahead, Victoria was reaching out. Something gleamed
in her hands. Gun. Aimed at his belly. Oh, how cliche.
He stopped, whirled to look behind him. Nobody. Damn it,
where was Fraser? Riding to the rescue, or part of the
trap?
Victoria's gun raised in warning when he went for his own.
Ray paused, pulled the handcuffs from his belt instead, raised them
so she could see. Victoria laughed.
And behind her a figure was climbing onto the top of the
train. Ray felt his heart steady. Fraser. Coming to the rescue.
Ray moved toward Victoria, jingling the cuffs suggestively,
holding her attention until Fraser could grab her.
She was shaking her head slowly, smiling over the gun. Oh,
yeah, big joke. Just wait 'till Fraser--
Victoria cast a glance behind her, turned smiling toward
Ray.
Who stopped as Fraser halted behind Victoria. Looking at
the shadowy figure, Ray felt his heart fall inside his chest.
Fraser. Ah, god, not riding to the rescue at all. Just some part
of a trap that hadn't worked too well.
Ray was close enough to see that Victoria was smiling more
broadly now, smiling with malice. The wind whipped her hair back;
her eyes looked huge in a face gleaming against the black hair.
Damn, that gun looked natural in her hands.
"So, you've finally joined us, detective!" Victoria called.
"No problem!" He held the handcuffs out. "I warmed them
up for you! If we hurry, we can get you to Cook County lockup for
mac and cheese night."
"I don't think so, detective!"
Could he get to his gun before she fired? The tunic felt
strange, constricting. He wasn't so sure he could get the holster
unfastened quick enough. Ah, god, Fraser, help me here.
But Fraser didn't move. Ray could hear his own hammering heart
over the sound of the train.
"I think I have another idea for the handcuffs, detective,"
Victoria went on.
He was damned if he was putting them on his own wrists.
He dropped them, flinching back when Victoria jerked at the sound.
Don't lose it, lady. Ray flicked a glance at Fraser. No help
there, Vecchio.
With his foot, he pushed the handcuffs toward her. "Put
'em on, lady."
She stood still for a minute and then laughed. "Are you
crazy?" she said. "You may not have noticed, detective, but I'm
the one with the gun!"
"Put 'em on."
"I don't think so!"
"Victoria," Fraser said.
Instantly, the gun swung up, its muzzle less than a foot
away from Ray's face. And in that heart-halting instant, Ray knew
that Victoria had planned for this, that she didn't care if someone
died, that she would use that threat to get exactly what she
wanted. The lady would have no trouble also being the tiger.
Benny had frozen behind her, as she must have known he
would.
"I'm really sorry this has come down to crude violence,
detective," Victoria said. "But you're as useful to me dead as you
are alive. And with you alive or dead, I'll still have him."
He flicked a glance at Benny, but there was no solace
there. The lady? The tiger? Which would he be?
"Though, actually, it'll be tidier if the police find a
body," she went on.
"That's Fraser's gun, isn't it," Ray said.
She smiled, as if at a bright child. "Yes. It is. The
police should find that very interesting. But I need the body
somewhere more--noticeable. We'll wait. Ben, pick up the
handcuffs." Then, when he hesitated, she pressed the muzzle of the
gun to Ray's cheek. "Pick them up!"
Fraser obeyed, slowly. The darkness made it impossible to
read his face.
"Turn around, detective."
Should he?
As quick as the thought crossed his mind, the gun swung
around to aim at Fraser's head. "Do it!"
He froze. If he did, he was dead. But if he didn't,
Fraser would be dead before him; she had the look that told Ray
she'd rather kill Fraser than give him up. She wouldn't hesitate
to shoot.
The lady or the tiger? Fraser alive with Victoria or
Fraser dead, but Victoria in prison?
He looked at Fraser's dark shape and knew there was only
one answer. Slowly, he turned and put his hands behind him for the
cuffs. Fraser alive at any price was the only choice he could
make.
The muzzle of the gun chilled the back of his neck. "Put
them on him," Victoria said. And then, "Do it, Ben! Don't
make me hurry this!"
As he waited for the click of the cuffs, Ray looked out
across the prairie night. Silver-edged clouds in the sky;
landscape touched with bright moonlight. If he had to pick a night
to die, this one wasn't that bad.
The click of the first cuff seemed loud. He caught his
breath, puzzled. Why didn't he feel it?
The jerk of the gun muzzle told him; he whirled to see
Fraser yanking at the cuff on Victoria's gun hand. The gun
clattered onto the top of the train.
Victoria turned, rage and betrayal on her face, and struck
out with her free hand, clawing. Fraser flinched back as her
fingernails grazed his face, closed his eyes against her raking
hand, lost his balance as the train jerked beneath him. Ray
reached for her then, but she twisted from his grasp, turning to
go after Fraser again.
The train jerked again, and Ray swayed on his feet. Fraser
fell hard, slid toward the side of the car.
Victoria fell with him, pulled down by the handcuff he
still grasped. Ray dove for her, dodging a kick from her booted
foot. He couldn't dodge the next one; the edge of her heel
connected hard with his forehead. Things went out of focus for a
minute.
When his eyes cleared, Victoria was struggling with Fraser,
kicking at him, hitting him, giving it everything she had. Fraser
was slipping closer to the edge.
Ray pulled himself to his knees and lunged for the
struggling woman, taking a couple kicks to his shoulders and arms.
Things were jerking around; the train seemed to be picking up
speed.
And then it happened: struggling on the slippery skin of
the railway car, Victoria slid that one extra inch and suddenly was
dangling from the side of the car, held by the cuff Fraser still
gripped. Fraser slid part way with her, caught a hand on the car's
textured surface, started to slide again. He wasn't letting go.
He wouldn't let go even if it meant his death.
All this went through Ray's head in an instant, and he
watched one hand reach for Fraser while the other reached for
Victoria. For a minute he held both.
Then Fraser pulled himself to safety, out of Ray's grasp.
Together they kept Victoria from falling. But when Ray started to
tug on her hand to pull her back up, he realized that Fraser wasn't
helping.
He turned and looked at Fraser, who was gazing down at the
struggling woman. Then he looked up, and his eyes locked with
Ray's. A long, silent minute passed.
And Fraser let go.
The sudden increase in weight surprised Ray; he fumbled to
recover, dimly aware of Victoria's shriek. Flattened out on the
roof of the train, he held her by the wrist, still looking at
Fraser. Fraser drew back. It was Ray's decision; he was leaving
things to Ray.
Dimly aware of Victoria's shrieked curses, Ray looked deep
into Fraser's eyes, saw the shame and anguish there. He looked
down at Victoria, kicking against the side of the train, trying to
pull herself to safety.
So easy. It would be so easy just to drop her now, explain
how she'd resisted arrest and fell off the train; the handcuffs
would back him up. Her struggling was jerking her wrist out of his
grasp, bit by bit; in a minute she'd slide free.
He looked down into that beautiful face, snarling curses
now, the lady like the savage tiger. It would be so much easier
to have her dead and gone from their lives. To just drop her would
be so much easier.
She deserves it. So much easier. He looked at
Fraser.
And it still wouldn't be over. Dead, Victoria would be his
lost love, the one whom Ray had killed. With Victoria dead, it
would never really be over.
He watched his other hand reach down and grab her wrist
firmly. And pull her up to safety.
She came up still cursing, still struggling to get away.
He jerked her face down more firmly than he needed to, held her
down with a knee dropped hard onto her back. Jeez, give it
up! He'd just saved her life--no gratitude! He
wrenched back her free arm and shifted to cuff it as tightly as he
could. He dodged a kick. Quit it!
But she was still struggling, even handcuffed, mouth
shrieking curses they probably could hear inside.
"Victoria!" The voice was hard as steel.
She turned to look at Fraser. Who gagged her with his
handkerchief. Way to go, Fraze.
Surprise had frozen her for a minute; Ray jerked her to her
feet. Gee, it was cold up here--nearly November.
A stride away, Fraser slowly stood. He looked at Ray,
tentative, searching. Ray looked back.
Oh, Fraser. He had abandoned Ray to jail, had given
himself back into Victoria's hands--and then rescued Ray at the
last minute. Ray felt the train vibrating beneath his boots, felt
Victoria twisting against his grip, and looked into blue eyes
dulled by misery and shame. This was Fraser--his Fraser, still.
This was his Mountie, and he couldn't just let him go.
He stepped back and grabbed Fraser with his free hand,
pulling him in for a kiss both punishing and possessive, flavored
with passion and anger. He put into it all his rage at being
abandoned, all his joy at having found Fraser on the train, all his
tenderness at what they'd had together, all his fury that this
could happen to them. Fraser's mouth against his was soft;
Fraser's breath against his cheek was ragged. A damn good kiss;
take that, Victoria.
When they pulled out of the kiss, Fraser swayed against
him, rocked by the train. They clutched at each other, and their
eyes locked. Fraser's were soft with apology; he flinched back
from what he saw in Ray's. A kiss wasn't forgiveness.
Ray looked at Victoria, whose eyes sparked fury, and found
his mouth quirk in a half-smile. Damn, this felt good.
One of the horse cars seemed their best bet: privacy
there. Ray picked up Fraser's gun and steered his prisoner toward
the end of the train, grateful for Fraser's arm steadying him as
the train rattled over a bumpy patch. They worked well
together--always had. Be a shame to lose it.
Worked well together getting Victoria down the ladder at
the end of the car, too: Fraser going on ahead to open the door,
reaching up to take her. She kicked at him, catching him in the
leg once, but he didn't react. He just hauled her into the horse
car like she was a sack of grain.
Ray took charge again inside the car, shoving her to thump
against the side of an empty stall. She glared at him over the
gag. Don't tempt me, he thought. It was still possible to
lose her over the side of some bridge or other.
It was warm inside, the horses a nickering presence
in the dimly lit car. Leather stuff swaying from the sides of the
car: saddles, harnesses. Riding crop fallen to hay bales stacked
against the wall. Harness draped over the side of the empty stall.
Straw everywhere, and the smell of horses, of hay. Cozy. He
wasn't in the mood for cozy.
"Ray."
He whirled on Fraser, who stepped back. "Don't start,
Fraser."
Fraser's breathing was ragged. "But, Ray--"
He advanced on Fraser, who stumbled back into the empty
stall. "Don't!" Ray hissed. "I swear to god, if I
didn't love you so damn much, I'd take that riding crop and use it
on you until you couldn't stand up."
Benny looked at his feet. "Understood, Ray."
Back out of the stall, in time to grab Victoria, who seemed
to be anxious to keep an appointment somewhere else. Ray
consciously stopped his hand from closing on her hair, lowered it
to grab the back of the tunic she was wearing. Geez, lady, just
give it up.
He jerked her over to land against a bale of hay. The fury
in her eyes could have set the whole place on fire.
Fraser was standing just outside the stall, eyes on
Victoria. Ray glanced at him. Nothing in his face: no resentment
of the way Ray was manhandling the woman Fraser had run off with.
Too bad. A little resentment could have led to something that
might have cleared the air. Ray's hands kept wanting to do
something, bruise something. He kept them relaxed, keeping
control.
Keep control. Follow procedure. He fumbled for his shield
and got out the Miranda card he kept tucked in the pocket. He
walked over to Victoria and put his mouth to her ear. Make sure
she heard him over the noise of the train.
"Victoria Metcalfe, I'm putting you under arrest for
murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and charges to be determined
later." The familiar words were soothing. He took a deep breath.
"You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right,
anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. You
have the right have an attorney present during questioning. If you
so desire but cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you.
Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"
He looked at her. She glared at him.
Ray leaned closer. "Do. You. Under. Stand?" He let his
face hint at what might happen if she didn't respond.
She glared; she glared. And then she nodded.
He straightened. Good.
"I wouldn't give up the right to remain silent, if I were
you," he told her. "Unless you really want to piss me off."
Fraser was slumped against the side of the empty stall,
looking tired, looking empty. Ray watched him. Was this still
love he felt? Was it habit? Or was it desperation because Fraser
was the only person he really had left? Well, there was Frannie
and--maybe--Ma. Someday. But Fraser was-- Well, was this still
love?
The door from the forward part of the train opened before
he had an answer.
Fraser snapped to attention immediately, and Ray found
himself echoing the action--sort of. Was it the uniform?
Whatever it was, it seemed to puzzle Pangborn, who stopped
in his tracks and looked them all over. A couple younger Mounties
gaped behind him.
Two male Mounties alone in the hay with a female Mountie
who was obviously bound and gagged. Oh, just a lovely picture.
"Constable?" Pangborn said to no Mountie in particular.
Shield. Shield. Ray got it out, opened it. "Detective
Ray Vecchio, sir, Chicago Police Department, 27th Precinct. In
pursuit of a fugitive." His hands went behind him in parade rest;
was it the uniform?
Pangborn examined Ray's ID, studied Ray, studied Victoria,
studied Fraser, who was still standing at attention.
"With the aid of Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP," Ray went
on. Keep quiet, Fraser. Just keep quiet. "Constable
Fraser--kept an eye on the fugitive until--until she could be
apprehended." Okay--Pangborn seemed to be buying it.
"With what is she charged?"
With what-- Oh, Sister Mary Thomas would love this guy;
he talked like a book. "Homicide." Ah, that got a
reaction. "Dealing in stolen goods." Let's see....
"Attempted assault. Attempted fraud. Attempted homicide.
Kidnapping. Conspiracy to commit murder. Resisting arrest.
Shooting a Canadian wolf."
Pangborn shot a look at Ray, glowered at Victoria, and
handed back Ray's ID. "I won't ask if it's strictly necessary to
keep the prisoner gagged." But he was asking.
Deep breath. Improvise. "The--prisoner seemed to
be--overanxious to waive her right to remain silent, sir. I--uh--didn't
think she should be speaking to me without counsel present."
Because I'd drop her off the side of a cliff. "Gagging her
seemed--prudent."
"Well, that's a matter for the American legal system."
"Yes, sir."
Pangborn turned to Fraser. "Good work, Constable."
"Thank you, sir." Only Ray would hear the note of shame
in Fraser's voice.
"And, Constable, you will see to it that the uniforms are
returned in good order."
"Yes, sir."
And they were gone.
Ray let his breath out in a whoosh and started to pace off
his frustration. He glanced at Fraser. The shame and pain in that
face was wrenching. Look at Victoria, instead. Easier on his
soul.
She was mouthing the gag, which looked uncomfortable.
Take care of your prisoner, Vecchio. "If I take out the
gag, will you stay quiet?" he asked.
She considered him for a minute and then nodded. When he
slipped the gag down over her chin, she made the gag face, working
her mouth to get rid of the taste of cotton. He started the pacing
again, work off the excess energy, wear out the tingle in his
fingers.
"This is police brutality," Victoria said.
"Hey, lady, I didn't gag you," Ray answered. "He
did." Come on, lady, start something. I'm ready for you.
There was the coolness in her eyes that he remembered from
the last time: that look that meant she was figuring the angles.
Come on, say it. It was a relief when she did:
"I'll have him back."
"No, you won't." Benny, behind him, in a small voice.
"No, you won't, lady," Ray said.
But there was that little smirk of triumph on her face.
"I did it once; I can do it again."
"No, you won't." He stopped a few inches in front of her,
between her and Fraser, and gave her a glimpse of that violent
place inside him. She took a hard breath. "No," he said. "You
won't."
Her eyes went to Fraser, softness and pleading coming into
them. But when Ray turned to look, Fraser was just studying her
like she was something beautiful he'd made that got ruined.
"It's not gonna happen," Ray said to her. "He made a
choice up there on that train, and it wasn't you."
She lifted her chin, defiance on her face. "He made a
choice in Chicago, and it wasn't you."
A hit. And she knew it. He stood very still until his
breathing was back under control, until he thought he could speak
without using his fists.
"He's chosen me a lot more times than that, lady. A
lot more. And those choices on top of the train just seal
it." He leaned close. "He was gonna let me drop you up there."
Her face tightened. "He let go of you. Remember?"
Oh, yeah--she remembered. He saw it in her eyes. "You
lost, lady."
Her eyes flickered to Fraser, who wasn't giving her any
help. Hate-filled, they went back to Ray. Her mouth started to
move.
"Don't say it," he said, suddenly tired, and he put the gag
back in her mouth.
Now, stash her someplace where she couldn't get
loose--someplace where she wouldn't be in the way. Someplace he wouldn't
have to look at her much. He took her arm and pushed her into a
stall with some sacks of feed. There. Now, go pace in front of
Fraser.
"Ray, I--"
The riding crop was in his hand before he even knew he
reached for it. And Fraser was looking startled.
Ray's grip tightened, tightened.
And then the shame in Fraser's face seemed to take over;
and Ray's mouth dried as he saw Fraser's fumbling hands undo the
collar of his tunic, move on to the first button, to the next,
reach to his shoulder to undo the lanyard and holster strap.
Oh, god. Drop it, Vecchio. Drop it. Before he gets that
tunic off. Drop it. Drop the damn thing now.
He felt the riding crop hit his foot, but his hand wouldn't
relax. Something inside him seemed to be trying to tear its way
out.
He made a noise, grabbed Fraser's hands to stop them on the
next button. With more force than he needed, he pushed the Mountie
against the wall inside the empty stall. He focused on his shaking
hands fumbling with the buttons on Fraser's tunic, working their
way up as he refastened it.
"Ray." It was barely a whisper.
"Just--stop." Thank god Fraser stopped.
A silence here, pressed against yielding body, feeling its
sweet warmth. He watched the blue eyes watching him and found
himself thinking, This is a very handsome man. I like his eyes;
you can tell he's smart and he's kind. I like the way he holds
himself. This guy could be a good friend; I could like him a
lot--maybe even love him. What is his name?
Then he took a deep breath and the world came rushing back.
"Benny."
Fraser's breathing was shaky. "I'm sorry."
God, he was tired. "Yeah, I know. We're all sorry." He
had started to turn when,
"You came for me," Fraser said in a little voice.
Ray wheeled back around. "Of course I did. What did you
expect?"
What Fraser expected was evident in his eyes: what Fraser
expected was that Ray would feel so betrayed he'd just turn his
back on him. Ray's heart turned over inside him; and at that
moment he felt the rage regaining strength.
"I came after Victoria, sure," he said. "Like I told
Pangborn, pursuing a fugitive. But, Benny, I'd go to the ends of
the earth to drag you back to my bed." Ah, the softness that came
into Fraser's eyes at that. "More important, I'd follow you two
through the gates of Hell to get you out of her clutches. Even if
you decided you didn't love me, I'd hunt for you. Fight her for
you. That woman is bad news for you." Ah, god, Fraser, I love
you so much. "She sucks your self-respect right out of you
like a vampire; look at what she's made you do. You've lied;
you've dealt with criminals; you've betrayed me." Don't
look at me like that; I can't stand love from you right now.
"Look at how she's disgraced your uniform, making you steal
Thatcher's for her to parade around in like-- Making you ashamed
in your own uniform; I saw how you looked out there with the
others. Nobody has the right to do that to you." Ah,
god, I love you, but if you touch me right now, I'll hurt you.
I'll hurt you bad. "Look at what you almost just did; you were
ready to let me beat you half to death, you felt so bad. Do you
think while I had breath in my body, I'd let you be with somebody
who could do that to you? Not on your life, buster!"
He turned on his heel and strode away to pace, pace between
the rows of horses. Just stay away from Fraser, away from the
shame and love in Fraser's eyes. Too much emotion, and he wasn't
dealing with emotion so well right now. The urge to hurt mingled
with the urge to strip Fraser and hump him in the empty stall--make
him howl in ecstasy--though whether that urge was love or vengeance
Ray didn't know. Just pace, Vecchio. Pace.
Victoria glaring hate at one end of the car; Fraser looking
love at the other. He paced; he paced. He paced between the
fallen angel of dishonor and death, and the sweet, betraying angel
of love, until the miles had passed and any choice was out of his
hands.
. . .
"It seemed--prudent."
Standing here, watching the exchange, sounds seemed out of
focus, words an aural blur he had to concentrate on to understand.
All but Ray's; those were clear. A trick of acoustics?
"Leftenant," Fraser offered, "I actually gagged the
prisoner."
Ray glancing at him, the only clear figure in a sea of
blurred shapes. Ray's breathing so regular that Fraser could tell
he was controlling it; Ray's heart racing, keeping pace with
Fraser's.
What was the leftenant asking?
"Constable Fraser thought it would be--prudent." Ray.
"The prisoner seemed--too eager to waive her right to
silence, sir," Fraser said. Ray shifting slightly, boot grating
on the linoleum. "I felt it--prudent that she not--"
Ray's eyebrows arching at something he was hearing; a smile
relaxing his face. Behind his back, right hand clenching and
unclenching. "Anything for U.S./Canada relations, sir." The scent
of his skin, mixed with the smell of horses. "I'm sure Constable
Fraser is as gratified at the outcome as I am." Flash of mingled
love and sadness in a face bathed by moonlight.
Fraser felt his face smile. "Yes, Leftenant." Memory of
the riding crop clenched in Ray's right hand. "Yes." The ghost
of the taste of Ray's kiss. "Yes, Leftenant. Thank you kindly."
Ray straightening, preparatory to turning. "Thank you,
Lieutenant." Smudges under the hazel eyes. "Of course, sir."
Wide smile crinkling the corners of his eyes; hidden fist clenched
tight. "I'll keep that in mind, sir. Good night."
Smile at the leftenant; follow the red uniform out of the
office, down the hall, down the stairs. Both hands fists at Ray's
sides. Follow him. White wolf a ghost-shadow at his heels.
Follow. Fraser's heart seemed loud enough to wake all Chicago.
A cold wind blew outside the station house--the first cold
wind of November. It seemed to cut through the wool serge and stab
him like an ice-cold knife. Ray's pace quickened; Fraser stumbled
to keep up. Something inside him was--seemed--
Ray jerking open the passenger's door of the Buick. "Get
in." Contemptuous. He was halfway around the automobile before
Fraser caught the door for Diefenbaker and then slid into the
passenger's seat. Something inside him seemed to be cracking,
breaking up. He could not seem to catch his breath.
The slam of Ray's door was as crisp as the snap of a whip.
Something inside him-- The riding crop in Ray's hand; the feel of
Ray's lips claiming him. The Buick's heater pushed out cold air;
Fraser's hands shook in its blast. But he could not catch his
breath, could not catch his breath, could not catch his breath.
He was drowning in icy waters with no one to rescue him,
and he could not catch his breath.
On to part eleven
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