REDUX, by Ruth Devero
Part 3 of 4


     Halfway into the second question, Fraser knew that Ray was
going to be arrested before the session was over.  Halfway into
the third question, he knew that Ray also knew it.

     It was only logical.  The money that had been left at the
Vecchio home had come from a bank robbery reported October 15.  A
twenty-dollar bill Ray had spent also had come from that robbery. 
The deposits made into the Vecchio family account had coincided
with other local robberies--though some of that might have been
coincidental, since it seemed to Fraser that there was a bank
robbery in the Chicago metropolitan area every other day.

     Alessandra Willson's involvement.  The lack of evidence that
Brendan Willson--or an accomplice--had shot first.  The lack of a
provable reason for Ray to have been at that address to be shot
at.

     Circumstantial.  Everything the police seemed to have was
circumstantial.  But it fit together quite tidily to leave the
impression of a police officer in league with a criminal, using
Alessandra Willson as a go-between, and finally deciding to end
the relationship with a well-placed bullet.  And many a man was
convicted on circumstantial evidence.

     "Raymond Vecchio, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder
of Brendan Willson--"

     Standing to be handcuffed by Detective Huey, Ray looked at
the glass behind which Fraser watched.  Fraser knew that Ray could
see only his own reflection in the mirror on that side, but it was
uncanny how his eyes looked straight at Fraser, piercing Fraser to
the heart.  Fraser was only half conscious of his shoulders
straightening and his heels meeting as he came to attention.

     "He didn't do it, Dad," he murmured to the other Mountie, also
standing at attention in the dark room.

     "I know, Son."

     "I have to..."

     "Do what, Son?"

     "I have to."

     But he could not say what.

     He could only watch as a drugstore clerk identified Ray in a
line-up--and tried to identify Fraser.

     "You look familiar," she said.  Her eyes narrowed.  "Milk
Duds.  You're that guy stole Milk Duds when I was working in the
grocery store."

     Oh, dear.

     "And to think we didn't deport him," Leftenant Welsh said
drily.  "Could we get back to the gentleman who gave you the
twenty?"

     "Number four," the clerk said.  "He comes in a lot.  Buys a
lot of condoms."

     *Oh, dear*.  Fraser was glad the room was so dark:  his face
felt as if it were glowing.

     And Fraser could only watch in stunned silence as Ray was
denied bail.

     "Not unusual," Dewey said, sitting beside him.  "Not fair,
but not unusual."

     *But he won't be home tonight*, Fraser thought.  *He won't be
home*.

     "You'll crack it."  Fraser's father sounded confident.  "Of
course, he won't be grateful; his kind never is.  But you'll crack
it."

     Fraser wished he felt as sure.

     Ray's face as he left the court room was blank, closed.  Ray
was hiding behind the protective barrier of resignation that Fraser
had seen in the past.  It hurt him now.  Ray was supposed to feel
safe; he wasn't supposed to have to hide--

     The resignation was still there when Fraser spoke to him at
the jail.

     "Nobody should wait up for me at home," he said.  "I may not
be back there at all."

     "Where did that twenty-dollar bill come from?" Fraser asked. 
Focus on that.

     "How do I know?"

     "Think, Ray.  Someone slipped it to you.  Where did it come
from?"

     "How do _I_--"  His eyes went blank for a second.  "Somebody
on the corner--tried to con me...  Junkie.  Junkie on the corner
tried to con me with a real bad routine.  He gave me a twenty; I
gave him two tens.  Fraser, do you think--"  Hope brightened his
face.

     "I think I need to find that individual, Ray."

     It was the thought he held onto as he stormed through the rest
of that day, demanding, making a fuss, taking no answer but "yes."

     "You really must insist," Leftenant Welsh repeated,
"'EMPHATICALLY'?"

     "I'm sorry, Leftenant; I seem to be very--DEMANDING--"

     "Well, if you feel so strongly that you absolutely must
insist, then who am I to stand in your way?"

     "'If I please'?" Elaine Besbriss mimicked him.  "You're
getting as bossy as Vecchio."

     "I'm sorry--I--"

     Her smile told him she was teasing.  Really, though, he'd been
so RUDE....

     "Well, if you're going to be that way about it, I may as well
do it."

     "Thank you kindly, Elaine."

     "THAT'S more like it."

     The really alarming thing was that his rudeness seemed to get
the job done just as well as his politeness ever did.  Still, he
was glad when he was done at the station house, and went out to
ride rough-shod over the citizens of Chicago.

     "If you wouldn't mind, I would like to ask you some--"

     "No woofs," said the proprietor of the candy shop next to the
jewelry store Brendan Willson had tried to break into.

     "I beg your pardon?"

     "No woofs."  She indicated Diefenbaker.

     "Oh, WOLFS!  Wolves.  No WOLVES.  I'm sorry, Diefenbaker, but--"
He escorted him out.  Now, then--

     "You buy?"

     "Er, no.  I'm Constable Benton Fraser, of the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police--though I'm not operating exactly in an OFFICIAL
capacity--and I was wondering if you've seen this man."

     She wasn't looking at the sketch.  "You buy?"

     "Ah, no, I--"

     She stared at him.

     Fraser sighed.  "I'll take this chewing gum."

     "No."

     "Excuse me?"

     She indicated the sketch.  "Not see.  No."

     "Ah.  Thank you kindly, ma'am."

     It was like that all afternoon:  Fraser demanded answers;
Fraser made a fuss; and Fraser ended the day with no identification
of the man and with very little money, but with pockets full of
small items that Ray might find useful.

     Or amusing.  Fraser sat in a small restaurant in the half-
light of evening and tried to cheer himself with a little plastic
hen that opened her wings and laid a marble when he pressed on her
back.  Silly.

     And so was he:  somewhere in the back of his mind had lurked
the thought that, if only he could find the man who had slipped
Ray the money, the nightmare would be over.  Ray would be free. 
And they would go home together and make love and maybe have pizza
in bed again--  And Fraser's apartment would be overfull, and he
wouldn't be this reluctant to go home.

     Silly.  He picked up the toy, paid his bill, and left.

     Elaine was leaving when Fraser found her.  "Here's the stuff,"
she said.

     "Thank you."

     He took the folders to Ray's desk and spread them out.  Around
him, the station house went through its transition from day to
night, quieting, darkening.  He read through the reports on the
Willson shooting three times, and each time he could find nothing
that had not been thoroughly examined or explored.  Nothing there.

     Fraser read and reread the files on Alessandra Willson, noting
addresses, aliases, associates, advocates.  He and Ray had checked
the addresses, tracked her aliases, and interviewed her associates. 
Nothing there.  Tomorrow, Fraser would talk to the lawyers who had
defended her.  Perhaps something would turn up.

     He spread out the sketch of the young man.  A lost soul
wandering in a city of millions, perhaps untraceable--

     Fraser stood and turned out the desk lamp.  *Don't.  It will
be all right; just--don't.*

     "You know, it's no disgrace to give up," his father said. 
"Sometimes you've just got to acknowledge when you're licked."

     "I can't give up," Fraser told him.

     "Just trying to be helpful."

     "I can't give up.  He's too important."

     "Mmm.  Well, keep it in mind."  He made no move to follow
Fraser out of the squad room.  "You know, that Turnbull isn't half
bad-looking," he called after Fraser.  "If you're so partial to
men.  Canadian, too.  Similar background is very important in a
relationship."

     Fraser paused at the door.  "Good night, Dad."

     "You should at least think about it."

     "Good night."

     "Good night, Son."

     At the door of the station house, Fraser squared his shoulders
and took command of himself.  Ray's Buick Riviera gleamed in the
glow of the street light.  He could do this.  He was a good driver;
really, he had an excellent driving record.  It was just this
particular vechicle that erased his competence.  Driving that
mobile fortress on wheels was like driving the House of Commons,
but he could do this.  He was a Mountie.

     And he did it.  Diefenbaker insisted on walking, but Fraser
was of sterner stuff that refused to acknowledge the honks from
impatient drivers who didn't care to follow him at 16 kilometers
per hour, and that insisted on making the parking of this leviathan
into a game he wouldn't enjoy losing.

     Fraser closed the Buick's door with a sense of satisfaction. 
He had done it.  Diefenbaker sat on the sidewalk, ostentatiously
bored.  "Well, YOU drive next time," Fraser said to him as he went
into the building.

     His apartment seemed different.  Fraser stood at the door and
looked around, trying to ignore a twinge of disappointment.  Silly-
-Ray wasn't here.  He was--he wasn't here.  Fraser took a deep
breath.

     Diefenbaker wuffed, a surprised sound, and stalked past him,
ruff fur standing on end.  What was--

     He smelled it before he saw it.  Sweet, but his stomach
knotted.  Fraser walked toward it, ignoring Diefenbaker's half-
growled barks of frustration and alarm.  Fraser's brain didn't seem
to be working correctly; it wasn't processing thoughts.  He watched
his hand reach out--

     For the rose lying on the bed.  The single red rose that Ray
couldn't possibly have left, scenting the apartment with a
fragrance that suddenly reminded Fraser of the sickly sweetness of
death.

                              . . .

     Smell of it was the most depressing thing:  that combination
of urine and disinfectant and poorly washed convict that was
unique.  *Jail.  Jail again.  Good old Cook County lockup*.  Ray
sat on the edge of his cot and tried to take some deep breaths
without actually breathing in jail air.  He didn't want it inside
him, becoming part of him.

     He looked down the rows of mostly empty cots in the infirmary,
where they were keeping him away from the general population. 
Keeping him separate because he was a cop, but he was also relieved
because--  Could convicts tell that he'd been having sex with
another guy?  He didn't think HE could really tell, but could THEY? 
Ray didn't want to imagine what would happen if they could, but his
mind kept serving up pictures that curdled his blood.  He closed
his eyes and swallowed hard.  *Hold on, Vecchio*.

     He didn't want any part of this, especially without--  Would
Fraser get himself locked up again to help him?  Probably not,
since what they really needed was somebody outside, clearing Ray. 
But would Fraser think of getting himself locked up, so he could
be with Ray?  Did Ray really want him to?

     Lights out.  Ray swung his feet onto the cot and lay back. 
*Relax, Vecchio.  Your favorite Mountie is working right this very
minute to get you out of here.  Relax.  This'll just be some great
story you and Fraser can tell your grandkids--*  Ray grinned at the
ceiling.  Grandkids.  No kids with Fraser--too bad, because he'd
make a great father.  *Don't get weird, Vecchio*.  But, kids with
Fraser's eyes--

     He turned his mind away from the weird thought to the memory
of being booked, reliving the stiff way all the cops at the station
house had acted around this bad cop who'd disgraced them, the
humiliation of being handcuffed and processed in front of his own,
the way Daniella Brown had worked not to smile when Ray had
whispered to her, "Book me, Danno."  No bail.  No bail because he
was such a wrong guy, a bad cop, a bad guy, a disgrace to the
force, a disgrace to his family, a disgrace to humanity in
general....

     *Ah, god, Fraser, get me out of here*.  Ray stretched every
muscle and tried to relax.  Fraser would get him out of there; he
could count on Fraser.  And then they'd have such a night that all
the bad memories would be burned to a crisp in the heat of passion. 
Ray smiled.  Being apart just kind of--brought out the lust in
them.

     It had happened before.  They'd had to be apart for a week,
not long after they'd become an item.  That first period of hard
and fast and horny for each other had faded to something slower
and more romantic; it was quickening, again, into an insatiable
hunger for each other just when Welsh loaned Ray to another
precinct for a special stakeout:  one of those situations where
Ray'd had to spend twenty-four hours on site for a week, someplace
where too much coming and going would be noticed.  Great for a guy
with a need for overtime; lousy for a guy with a hot cock.

     First night:  okay.  Setting up, shooting the breeze with
Derkowitz and Klinghofer and Lane, establishing the schedule had
been enough of a diversion that he hadn't thought about Fraser more
than, oh, say fifty or sixty times instead of the usual five
million.

     Second night:  tense, but he'd get through it.  Twelve hours
on, jawing with Lane for the first six, then six with Derkowitz
when he took over for Lane; snapping at Klinghofer because he'd
been a little late.  Tired.  Creeping into the bedroom where Lane
had already crashed, and stretching out on the squeaky cot.  But
tired enough to fall asleep immediately.

     Third night:  disaster.  Well, not really, but, suddenly, in
the shower, things had gotten out of hand; the hot water sheeting
over Ray's body suddenly became Benny's tongue exploring all his
most secret parts, and before he knew it, Ray was groaning into
the washcloth, hips pumping mindlessly into a fist that was
Fraser's hand or Fraser's mouth or Fraser's ass, milking himself
until he could barely stand.

     The rest of the week, he'd been the cleanest guy on stakeout.

     And, homecoming.  Ray smiled and turned on the narrow cot. 
Homecoming.  A stop off at Fraser's apartment before he went home;
and five minutes later he was half across the bed, with the Mountie
gasping in his ear.  Didn't even get his coat off.  Not much
dressing afterward, either:  just unsnarl the tangle of trousers
and briefs and belt around his ankles, neck a little with the
dreamy-eyed Mountie unsnarling his own jeans, and Ray was on his
way.  Felt so good, he'd gone back later that evening and timed it
again.  Four minutes, that time.

     This time, what--three?  Ray grinned into the darkness.  Maybe
he should just walk in there naked--go for the world record.

     Meantime, just keep on holding on, knowing that Fraser was
out there on the case, working to spring him.

                              . . .

     The rose was in the trash bin outside the apartment building,
but its scent seemed to have worked its way into Fraser's soul,
flavoring his thoughts.  Fraser tensed and relaxed each muscle in
turn.  He was sleeping on the floor tonight; the bed seemed just
too big.  Floor was hard and familiar.  He frowned:  VERY hard. 
*You're getting soft, Fraser*.

     Relax.  Tomorrow he would start afresh on Ray's case.  Search
and interview and solve.  And bring Ray home to his bed.  And
there, passion would erase the fear and heartsickness of the last
few days.

     They'd been kept apart before, for a week not long after the
relationship began, just as it was sliding into a lush, highly
charged phase of deep eroticism.  Ray had been put on stakeout at
an undisclosed location where conjugal visits would have been--
inappropriate.  The first day and night, Fraser had managed to keep
himself occupied enough that Ray's absence was endurable, an
interlude sweetened by his longing and sweetened further by the
knowledge that it was not permanent.

     The second day and night, loneliness had begun to settle in,
along with a jumpiness he'd assuaged with a long run with
Diefenbaker.  Ray's return would be all the sweeter, but Fraser
ached for him--quite literally, that next morning, when an erection
occupied his thoughts until he could melt it with an icy shower.

     The third night, a longer run with Diefenbaker made little
difference.  Nor did opening all the windows in the apartment to
the chill spring breeze.  Tossing on the bed, with sounds of a
Chicago night pouring into the apartment, Fraser suddenly realized
that he was no longer in control, his body insisting that the
breeze was Ray's breath on his skin, that the sheet against his
back was Ray's body against his; and before he could stop, he was
on his side with his boxer shorts lost somewhere in the sheets,
gasping a single name into the pillow while his hips pumped into
a fist that was Ray's fist or Ray's buttocks, and passion poured
from him again and again and again, until he'd fallen asleep.

     The rest of that week, each night before bed he had stripped
himself for the sweet, hot, insatiable lover in his mind.

     And the return.  Fraser laughed quietly and turned onto his
back.  Oh, that return!  Fraser had held himself in check, making
chili just in case Ray was hungry, not daring to plan anything more
than a quick hello and maybe a companionable meal.

     One glance of the glowing hazel eyes; one cheery, "Honey, I'm
home!"; and Fraser was on the bed, jeans halfway to his knees, hips
pumping in happy syncopation with Ray's strangled groans of
pleasure.  The chili had congealed in the pan sometime after Ray
left for home, sometime before it occured to Fraser to get up off
the floor onto which they had slid while kissing and to continue
his daydream someplace perhaps more comfortable.

     Fraser still had not gotten around to putting the chili into
the refrigerator, when Ray returned and Fraser's body again took
command.

     Fraser smiled into the darkness.  And this time?  This time,
don't bother with the chili at all.  Just strip and stand naked at
the door, ready and able and, oh, most certainly so very willing.

     Meanwhile, interrogate witnesses, collect evidence, search
out the truth that would bring Ray home.  He could do this.

     He had to.  He simply--he just had to.

     "Constable Fraser."

     "YES!"  Fraser blinked.  Tired.  He was just--  A restless
night last night--really, he'd been so COLD on the floor, without
Ray's warmth--and so much to do at the Consulate that he'd come in
even though he really wanted to pursue a couple of leads--

     "Constable Fraser?"

     "Yes!  Yes--yes, Constable Turnbull."

     "Inspector Thatcher has--"  Oh, Turnbull had that expression
on his face.  The puppy one.  "Inspector Thatcher has asked that
we drive out to pick up some eggs from a Mr. Lyndon Buxley--special
eggs, apparently, to be served at the brunch for the Mexican
ambassador on Tuesday.  She says you'd know where the farm is."

     Oh, yes.  Fraser knew.  "Yes, Turnbull!" he said, standing. 
And, while they were out, they could just take a jaunt to see Ray--

     "Constable," Turnbull said, frowning over the wheel of the
van, "do you--understand--Americans?"

     Oh, dear.  Fraser wasn't sure he was quite up to this.

     "Well, they do speak English," he hazarded.  "Of a sort."

     "Do they?"  Turnbull really seemed to have his doubts.

     "Er, yes.  Why do you ask?"

     "Well, Miss Vecchio--"

     Fraser closed his eyes.  Oh, no.

     "--SAYS I asked her out, but I don't seem to remember doing
such a thing."

     This sounded very familiar.  "So how WAS your date?"  Fraser
asked.

     "Delightful.  Miss Vecchio is--delightful."

     Fraser didn't really want to listen further.  He looked
longingly at the other vehicles on the roadway, at all those people
not hearing about the delightful Miss Vecchio and the puzzled
Constable Turnbull.  Thank heaven they weren't that far from the
jail.

     "Do I look all right?" Turnbull asked.

     "Er, yes."

     "I don't want to leave a bad impression on Detective Vecchio. 
After all, she is his sister."

     Oh, dear.

     Fraser felt a pang as he and Turnbull were signed in and taken
to see Ray.  Ray in jail--

     He looked pale and tired, but he smiled when Fraser sat down
on the visitor's side of the glass.  Fraser's heart tumbled over
in his chest.  He lifted the receiver.

     "Hey, Fraze.  How's it going?"

     "Ah, it's going--well.  It's going well, Ray.  I--"  Fraser
glanced behind him at Turnbull, who was frowning at his Stetson. 
"Ray, have you talked to Francesca lately?"

     "No.  Why?"

     Fraser found himself leaning closer to the glass, murmuring
into the receiver in a low voice.  "She visited the Consulate last
week and--"  Turnbull was brushing invisible lint from his boots. 
"Well, Ray, she met Turnbull, and they've--  Well, Francesca seems
to have--"  Oh, what was a delicate way to put this?

     "You're kidding."

     "Ah, no..."

     "Jeez, Frannie."  Ray looked exasperated, then grinned.  "It's
the uniform, Fraser."

     "Yes, but--"

     Ray sighed.  "Frannie, Frannie, Frannie.  Let me talk to
Turnbull."

     Constable Turnbull took the receiver.  Fraser sat where he
was, shamelessly eavesdropping:  Ray's voice was just audible
through the glass.

     "Hello, Detective Vecchio," Turnbull said, waving at him.

     "Hey, Turnbull.  What's this with you and my sister?"

     "Erm--well, we--  She's very nice."

     "Yeah, well, I'm her brother; I'm gonna give you some
brotherly advice.  Let me make something really clear here.  She's
my sister.  I take care of her.  You don't hurt her--you hear me? 
You break her heart, I break your legs.  You got that?"

     Turnbull nodded, his expression that of the Labrador retreiver
pup.  "Er, yes," he said.  "Heart, legs; heart, legs.  Yes.  Yes! 
Understood, Detective Vecchio."

     "Good.  Let me talk to Fraser."

     Turnbull held the receiver out to Fraser.  "It's for you," he
said.

     "Thank you kindly," Fraser said automatically.  He put the
receiver to his ear, pausing while Turnbull left; then, he turned
when he realized that Turnbull wasn't leaving.  Instead, he stood
at parade rest just at Fraser's elbow, gazing placidly at nothing;
he seemed to be--oh, dear--he seemed to be standing sentry.

     "Constable Turnbull?" Fraser said.

     Turnbull focused on him.

     "Perhaps you should--go and--er--well, watch the door."

     "Yes, Constable Fraser!  At once, Constable Fraser!"  Turnbull
pranced--NO, Fraser corrected himself, he STRODE to the door.  And
stood sentry there.

     "Ray, I'm not sure it's a good idea to encourage this
relationship between Constable Turnbull and Francesca.  He's not
all that--all that--"  Oh, what was a delicate way to put this?

     "--Bright, Fraser?"

     "Er--"

     "Fraser, Frannie doesn't need bright.  Frannie needs loyal;
Frannie needs steady; Frannie needs adoring; but Frannie doesn't
need bright.  What Frannie really needs is a Labrador retriever,
but Turnbull'll do."

     Well--  Fraser glanced at the tall young Mountie steadfastly
not noticing the stares the jail personnel were giving him.

     "So, what you got, Fraser?"

     "Ah.  Well."  Ray smiled at the gifts Fraser passed to the
guard to give him; his smile vanished at the description of a day
spent in frustration; he began to look uneasy when Fraser mentioned
getting no leads on the young man who'd given him the money.  "But
I think perhaps that if I can just interview Alessandra Willson's
lawyers--"

     "So you still got bupkis."  Ray sounded disbelieving.

     "Well, Ray, there are a number of leads that--"

     "Fraser, I got Milk Duds, I got chewing gum, I got soap and
a toothbrush and dental floss and a rag to shine my shoes with,
and I got a little plastic chicken; and you still got bupkis."

     Fraser's stomach lurched.  "I'm actually quite optimistic."

     Ray seemed to be clutching his receiver unnecessarily tightly. 
"Fraser, I got to get out of here."

     Fraser met his eyes steadily.  "I'll do it, Ray.  I'm
following several leads.  I'll find her.  I'll find a witness.  We
can do this, Ray."  He tried to put into his gaze every bit of the
love he felt.

     Ray seemed to see it; his hand relaxed.  "Tell Frannie--tell
Frannie I love her," he said finally.  "And tell her she can always
count on Mounties.  She should trust her Mountie.  He won't let her
down."  His eyes told Fraser that Ray knew this from experience.

     Fraser's own hand was shaking as he hung up the receiver. 
Trust was one thing; being worthy of it could sometimes feel
impossible.

                              . . .

     Ray had the feeling the guy was going to be trouble the minute
he came into the infirmary.  Stitches:  the guy had cut himself. 
Ray was mopping, trying to be invisible, but,

     "I know you," the guy said.

     Oh, jeez, a perp Ray had put away?  The ultimate nightmare: 
running into a perp out for revenge.

     "Yeah.  I know you.  You cut me off."

     "Huh?"

     "On 294.  You cut me off.  Green '72 Buick Riviera.  June 16. 
Morning.  Guy with a weird hat sitting on the passenger's side. 
Wolf in the back seat.  You cut me off, you--"

     Ray felt his eyebrows climb halfway to what was left of his
hairline.  Oh, WHY was this his life?  Why was this ALWAYS his
life?  Cut a guy off ONE TIME, and--  Ray focused on his mopping,
trying to ignore the cold, hard, psycho gleam in the guy's eyes,
trying to mop the guy out of here.

     "You're dead.  I mean it.  You're dead."

     Ray believed him.  This was, after all, Chicago in the '90s. 
And that perp did not look stable.  He clutched the mop handle
tightly after the guy left.  Ah, GOD, he had to get out of here. 
Of all people to have after him...  To have a vengeful perp looking
to kill him would at least have some dignity about it, but some
psycho he'd cut off once on 294--  *Fraser, rescue me; rescue me. 
God, Fraser, rescue me*.

                              . . .

     Escape was impossible.  He just could not seem to get away
from the Consulate, from Turnbull's unending perplexity, from
Margaret Thatcher's unyielding insistence that Fraser see to every
detail of the upcoming events--

     "Are you IN, Constable Fraser?"

     Oh, not that again.  "Yes, Turnbull."  He smothered the urge
to smother Turnbull.

     It was Detective Phaedra Dewey, looking surprisingly
nonplussed.

     "I shouldn't be doing this," she said.  "Thank you," she said,
sitting in the chair he held for her.

     "I shouldn't be doing this, but you seem such good friends
with him."

     Fraser's heart felt like lead.

     "IA got a phone call this morning, told them about this locker
key in Vecchio's desk, fit a locker at the train station, and--
well, they found a briefcase there with about twenty thousand
dollars in it.  Cash from some bank robberies.  And money orders. 
About forty thousand worth.  Made out to Vecchio's father."

     For a moment, her voice seemed to fade.  He took a deep
breath.  Sleep.  He should have slept more last night; he hadn't
slept well since Ray's arrest; he was tired, and everything around
him was fading in and out--

     "--I mean, he's a stupid jerk, but, I don't know, I kind of
got used to him.  Reminds me of one of my brothers, you know? 
Constable Fraser?"

     "Yes!"  He looked at her.  She really had a kind face.  A very
kind face.  "Thank you, Detective Dewey!  I appreciate what you've
done here.  Thank you!  I--do you think I could accompany you to
the station house?  I won't tell anyone of your visit--"

     So he got up and left his office and his duties and his
responsibilities.  In the middle of the afternoon he simply left
the Consulate without a word to anyone and accompanied Detective
Dewey to the station house.  He was still--exhausted:  every sight
and sound seemed distant.  He really did need to sleep.  Get a good
night's sleep.

     Leftenant Welsh didn't seem at all surprised to see him.  "Ah,
Constable Fraser," he said.  "Good of you to drop by.  We've
learned of some evidence--"

     Piled on a desk, $20,000 looked like more.  But even those
drab green bills looked more impressive than the money orders.

     "Would you believe he hid the key in the base of that little
Statue of Liberty statue on his desk?" Sullivan said.  "'Bring me
your poor.'"  He seemed to be quoting something.

     "Not much to kill a guy for," said Bailey.

     Fraser had to agree.

     "Must be more someplace," Bailey went on.

     Fraser looked at the two Internal Affairs detectives.  They
seemed very happy.

     "It's rather curious, however," said Leftenant Welsh, "that
there are no fingerprints whatever on the locker key."

     Silence fell.

     "He wiped them off," said Sullivan.

     "Odd, given that the key would be so obviously linked to
Detective Vecchio, it being hidden on his desk."

     "We got him dead to rights."

     Leftenant Welsh merely looked at him.

     "We HAVE him," Bailey said.  "We got all we really need to
convict him."

     And, watching the Internal Affairs men put the bagged and
labelled evidence into a box, Fraser had the heart-stopping sense
that he was right.

     Fraser took a deep breath.  He would prove Detective Bailey
wrong.  He took his leave of the leftenant and clattered down the
stairs to the sidewalk.  Alessandra's lawyers.  Perhaps they had
another address--

     They didn't.  Most were those terribly overworked public
defenders who didn't remember her and had to have someone look her
up; and then the address she had given them turned out to be one
Fraser already had; and with each dead end and every minute lost
to waiting, Fraser found it more and more difficult to wrench his
mind from Ray and what Ray was feeling and doing.  And from a sense
that they would never be together again, and that Fraser would have
to commit some crime more serious than stealing Milk Duds just to
be with him--

     He rubbed his eyes as he emerged from the last lawyer's
office.  Eat.  Rest.  His mind was going in circles because he was
exhausted.  Ray was in jail, but killing himself with exhaustion
wouldn't help him.

     So he ate some food that could have been nourishing sawdust
for all he tasted it, and he took a refreshing stroll down
Stratmore, automatically checking each face that passed him for
the young man who'd helped set up Ray.

     That key.  No man would be so intelligent as to wipe his
fingerprints from an important key, and so stupid as to hide the
key on his own desk.  That key would unravel the plot.  A key to
a train locker filled with money, hidden in an object connected
with Ray was just a coincidence; it didn't mean that anyone in
particular had done it; it was just a coincidence.  Coincidences
happened.

     The scent of the rose when he opened door to his apartment
was--  He stepped back out into the hallway to escape it, to quell
a sudden nausea.  Something he'd eaten disagreeing with him.

     Diefenbaker was growling:  that constant rumbling so low that
it was almost inaudible.  Suddenly, it struck Fraser how often
lately the wolf had done this.  Someone had been coming regularly
into the apartment--some stranger.  Or someone Diefenbaker didn't
trust.  Someone who may have hurt him in the past, shot him,
perhaps--

     Fraser took a deep breath and strode into the apartment.

     The rose lay on the bed; he snatched it up.  Petals soft as
a woman's cheek.  As Victoria's cheek--

     He watched his hand close on the flower, crushing it,
crushing, also, the memory of the scent of her skin, which suddenly
threatened to overwhelm him.  The crushed petals released their own
fragrance.  But, no good--destroying the rose was no good; he just
had to get down on his knees and pick up the scattered petals, all
of them, every piece of all of them, and throw them away properly.

     When Fraser had done so, he suddenly felt restless.  Really,
he wasn't the least bit tired; if he went to bed right now, he'd
just toss and turn.  He had a lead that could be followed up only
at night; he should do it, get out into the fresh air, away from
the smells of the apartment.

     So, clothes changed, a half-hour later Fraser was at the alley
on Stratmore, where the air was only marginally fresher.  He'd
washed his hands over and over, but the scent of the crushed rose
still seemed to linger....

     Fraser straightened his spine and tried to look casual, just
another man propping up a building.  Silly, really, to allow
himself to become so preoccupied with a flower.  It was startling,
but it meant nothing--certainly nothing SINISTER.  Just a flower
someone had left in the apartment; when a man had no locks on his
doors, people felt free to wander in and leave things.  Adam, for
instance, had once left Fraser a picture of a Mountie--very well
drawn, too.  Just a flower.

     Fraser peered down the alley.  He had two targets tonight: 
the young man who'd given Ray the incriminating money, and Weird
Waldo, who might give Fraser a clue.  The trouble was, two targets
meant that Fraser had to keep an eye on two locations at once.

     Sillier, still, to let a flower remind him of something long
dead, long in the past.  Remind him of her.  Fraser turned his head
at a sound from the alley--just some paper blowing.

     Ray, of course, might have put a different spin on the rose. 
That suspicious mind would have turned it into some diabolical
clue.  Sometimes, however, a rose was just--a rose.  Fraser had
gotten roses before, not always from Ray, but there'd been roses. 
For instance, when he'd come back to work after a blissful week
spent in his apartment with Victoria Metcalfe--

     Was that a shadow?  He listened, then relaxed.  No one.  Roses
in a box delivered to an office already filled with flowers from
well-wishers.  It had been pleasant to know that so many people
seemed so fond of him, but embarrassing that he hadn't actually
been ill that week:  that he'd simply called in sick--

     That was definitely a sound.  He listened.  Paper.  Paper
blowing down the street.  Golden week--  His heart twisted in his
chest.  Golden week of every sense sated, every dream fulfilled. 
Memories washed through him.  His heart tried to rebuff them, but
his mind wouldn't let it.  Look at it; it had been a sham.  Look
at it; it was over.  He had Ray now, Ray's love.

     The fire of passion that had broken from him; the sense of
his own strength reined in by her soft fragility; heady feeling
that in his ecstasy he was sweeping through the days smoothly as
a skater on ice.  Dark eyes lost behind a fragrant curtain of dark
curls, rosebud mouth breathing his name over and over, taper
fingers trailing over his skin, setting him ablaze--

     Fraser shook himself.  Dark eyes hard as obsidian as she
revealed herself for who she was, rosebud mouth kissing him before
shoving him from the automobile when he refused her, taper fingers
curved around the gun she aimed at his face, the gun she'd already
used to kill:  she was no dream fulfilled.  His love had been the
reins she had used to control him; his love had been the whip she
had used to punish him.  She had systematically twisted what he
was, turning his strength back on him, using his giddy ecstasy to
confuse him, using his love of her to ensure his protection from
her former accomplice, using his friendship for Ray to panic him
into helping her; she had twisted what they meant to each other,
staging a meeting in that sex shop that made a mockery of their
love, demanding again and again that he prove he wouldn't betray
her; she had made him a liar and a thief.  A soft loveliness beyond
roses, but a diamond-hard heart.

     That could not bring itself to kill him.  She had stopped
herself, twice, from killing him.  Send him into danger, yes, but
be there to help him when the money launderers tried to kill him. 
Threaten him with a gun, yes, but fail to use it at the last
minute.  Behind the hard heart, behind the flat eyes was a woman
who loved so intensely it had transmuted to hate.  He thought of
that moment when he had tried to follow her after she'd lost
everything but him, of the glow in the rose-tinged cheeks, the
diamond brightness in those night-black eyes.  Reaching, smiling,
more beautiful than the snow under the moon--then, horror.

     Fraser jerked.  It was dark in the alley, not even a light
above the theater exit.  He peered into the dark.  Was something
stirring--?  Shake off the memory of love turned to bile.  Remember
who you're here for.  Ray, who is trusting you.  Ray, who is
counting on you for his life.  Besides, she's nothing to you now. 
You are over her, bucko.

     He started down the alley.  Yes, definitely someone there, in
Weird Waldo's nest.  Finally.

     "Waldo?" he called out.

     The figure didn't seem to hear him at first, then it
straightened.  "Sleepin' 'roun' here," it said.

     Fraser came closer.  The stench of cheap wine and unwashed
human was almost overpowering.  He labeled it, filed it, and then
ignored it as best he could.

     "My name is Benton Fraser; I'm attempting to find out what
happened here last week--"

     "Tryin' to SLEEP.  Just tryin' to SLEEP."

     "Yes, but I hoped you'd seen something you could--"

     "Sle-e-ep!  A man tryin' to SLE-E-EP around here!"  His voice
was getting louder.  He was waving his arms.

     "If you could just--"

     The bottle sailed past his head and shattered on the wall
behind him.  Diefenbaker growled.  "People tryin'a SLEEP around
here--SLEEPin'!"  Waldo bent for another bottle.

     "DIEFENBAKER!" Fraser ordered.  The wolf stopped on his way
to stop Waldo, stared at him, then sulkily sat.

     Then jumped aside as another bottle shattered on the pavement
at his paws.

     "Tryin'a SLE-E-E-EP!" Waldo shrieked.

     "I can see that!" Fraser assured him.  He began to back away. 
"I--I'm sorry to have bothered you.  Good night; I--good night!" 
By the time Fraser reached the street, the man seemed to have
settled in his nest.

     Fraser stopped to regain his composure.  As a witness, the
man was--unsound.  Anything he might have experienced that night
would remain locked in his mind, useless for Ray's purposes.  He
looked at Diefenbaker, examining him for splintered glass, fussing
over him for a minute.  "I'm sorry," he said to the wolf.  "Thank
you for defending me, but he was--  I'm sorry."  The wolf nuzzled
Fraser's cheek in forgiveness.

     Fraser sighed.  Another dead end.  He trudged down the street,
sketch clutched in one hand, and started another round of trying
to find someone who recognized the young man who'd helped put Ray
into jail.

     It was cold tonight; it felt like snow.  Did it snow in
Chicago in October?  He looked up at the sky.  Nothing.

     But he seemed to smell snow, and the scent followed him, into
store after store as he pursued his quest.

                              . . .

     That psycho seemed to be the unluckiest guy alive; or maybe
he was deliberately hurting himself to get into the infirmary and
rattle Ray.  Because there he was again, clutching his stomach and
staring at Ray with the dead eyes of a shark.

     Ray looked at the bulging muscles of his forearms, the scarred
knuckles of his ham-sized hands.  There was some tattoo work there,
on the backs of his fingers.  Four-letter words.  What the-- 
"MAMA"?  "PAPA"?  Ray had heard of guys who'd tattooed "HATE" and
"LOVE" and "LIFE" and "DETH"--yes, "DETH"--but to see "MAMA" about
to connect with your face?  This was some serious psycho.

     He was glad when the guard came to get him to see some
visitor.

     He was gladder when he saw who the visitor was.  "Aless!" he
cried into the receiver.  "Damn, am I glad to see you!  Why didn't
you show that night?  We been looking for you!  You got to go to
the precinct, tell them why I was there that night.  Aless?"

     This wasn't the butt-wiggling Aless he usually brought in on
something or other; this wasn't the informant trying to grope him--
or steal his wallet.  She still looked the same:  Vampirella
dolled up for the big Halloween bash.  But she just sat there,
listening on the receiver, staring at him with betrayed eyes.

     "Aless?" he said.  "Are you okay?  You got to tell them that
Rache really did call me that night.  You got to talk to them--tell
them what's going on so I can get out of here.  You're gonna do
that, right?  I know now Brendan didn't shoot at me, but you're
gonna help them find out who did, right?  I'm real sorry he's dead,
Aless--sorrier than you know.  But you're gonna help me, aren't
you?  We'll get whoever did this if you help me.  Aless?  ALESS?"

     Because she had hung up and just walked away, leaving him
there yelling through the glass until the guard stopped him, giving
him no signal whether she was going to help him or help him fry.

                              . . .

     There was no help there.  Fraser realized it before the
interview had gone on more than five minutes.  Alessandra Willson
would be no help.  She hadn't called Ray; she didn't know if Rache
had called Ray.  She didn't know where Rache was; Rache had a habit
of disappearing for months at a time.  She hadn't been in touch
with Brendan; in fact, she hadn't even known he was in Chicago. 
He'd been in Austin, Texas, going to college there--at least that's
what he'd told her.  Gotten a good job, taken classes at night. 
He'd been sending her money, a lot of it.  And that was all she
knew.

     It was.  Watching her for the telltale signs that she was
lying as she printed her answers to their questions, Fraser knew
with a heart-sinking feeling that she was telling the truth.  Aless
had been as shocked as anyone when Brendan had been shot.  She knew
of no associates in Chicago who were not in prison or a grave.  She
was devastated.  She'd liked Brendan, had looked up to him.  When
he'd been killed by the one police detective she trusted, Aless had
fled.  To Wisconsin.  Milwaukee.  She'd gone there because--  She
couldn't remember.  Maybe it hadn't even been Milwaukee.  She
couldn't remember.

     Fraser left the station house and then was at the alley off
Stratmore with no memory of how he'd gotten there.  He felt as if
someone had pummeled him--a combination of poor sleep last night
and the disappointment of Aless's testimony hard on the heels of
exhiliration that she'd shown up at the station.  Well, search the
alley again--thoroughly.  Ignore the fact that even when the crime
scene was fresh the alley was so heavily traveled that one trail
would be difficult to follow.  Do it anyway.  Canvass the
neighborhood.  He'd missed something somewhere.  An informant was
no substitute for good police work.  Nobody said this would be
easy.  He tried to press away the headache that was threatening to
close in.

     He had combed half the alley when a pair of boots stopped in
front of him.  He looked up.

     "Special Agent Chapin!"  What was an agent from the Federal
Bureau of Investigation doing here?  Had she heard--

     She smiled at him.  "Um--Fraser?  Constable Fraser?"

     "Yes!"  That warm smile; that cool, intelligent gaze.  No
wonder Ray had fallen into infatuation so quickly.  "Can I--can I
help you?"

     She looked around the alley.  "I just wanted a look at the
scene.  I was keeping an eye on Brendan Willson--illegal arms. 
Now--"  She combed her fingers through her hair.  "Well, before I
closed the file permanently, I wanted to see where it happened. 
Strange that Detective Vecchio should be the one to--close the
file."

     "Have you seen him?"

     She flashed him an unreadable look.  "No.  I have his
statement.  He--might not want me to see him in--jail."

     "No.  You're right; he wouldn't."  But she did want to see
Ray; Fraser could tell.

     Did Fraser want Ray to see her?  He watched her moving through
the crime scene, standing where Willson had stood, where Ray had
stood.  She was beautiful, intelligent, competent.  Did Fraser want
Ray to see her again?  What would happen if he did?  Would Ray want
to--  *Don't be silly, Fraser; Ray is yours, now.  No need to feel
jealous.  Don't be so ridiculous*.

     "He says he aimed at the flash," Special Agent Chapin said. 
"Well, just to the right of it.  But he hit Willson about the
middle of his back."

     Just where he'd hit Fraser--  "We think there was an
accomplice, someone who shot at Ray.  Kneeling right about here."

     She moved to the spot and knelt, to become the shooter.  "So
you're Willson, standing right--"  Fraser took the position.  "And
I look up and see Vecchio, and I aim and fire and--"

     "And I turn, because I didn't expect you to shoot, and Ray
shoots me--shoots me in the back."  Just as he had--

     "But I don't stick around to help you.  I pick up the shell
casing, and I get out of here."  She rose to her feet and look
around.  "But where do I go?"

     "Behind you.  Detective Vecchio is the other way; you run away
from him."

     "But if I just run, he'll see me going down the alley, or at
least hear my footsteps.  And the cops were pretty quick about
blocking the other end.  I have to--  Was this here that night?" 
She put her hand on the garbage bin.

     "In about that position, yes."

     "So I just whisk around in back of it, and he can't see me. 
And I--"

     "You follow the side of the alley, disturbing the trash at
the edge."  Of course; why hadn't he realized it sooner?  He
followed as she did just that.  "Brushing the wall."  She came to
Weird Waldo's nest.  "Disturbing a homeless man trying to sleep. 
Eventually coming to--"  The theater door looked unopenable from
the outside.

     Special Agent Chapin looked at it.  "I bet I came out through
here and wedged it open just enough to get back through it.  I bet
I bought a ticket to one of the shows and fixed the door from the
inside.  And then I came out and met Willson and made sure he got
shot and came right back through this door and was sitting
innocently in the audience when the cops were searching the alley."

     *What audience there was*, Fraser mused when his eyes adjusted
to the darkness inside the theater.  Only one other customer,
sleeping through the invasion of the Earth.  Silly movie; Ray had
insisted they see it.  Just silly.

     "Probably not many more that night," Special Agent Chapin
said.  "This movie's about to come out on video.  Probably run its
course here.  In fact, might want to check to see if this is a
legal copy."

     Searching the theater was almost pointless, but thoroughness
demanded it.  On the theater screen, people shouted and monumental
objects exploded and technologically gifted alien creatures were
fooled with a simple Trojan horse.  Fraser tried not to think too
much about what he was finding on the sticky floor or under the
lumpy seats.  No gun, no shell casing.  No sound of an alarm on the
fire exit when Special Agent Chapin opened it.  They exited.

     "So our perp wedged open the door, and nobody noticed," said
Special Agent Chapin.  "And he or she took the gun and the casing
and didn't conveniently drop either in the theater.  Helpful."

     "The spent bullet," Fraser said.  "I can't figure out what
happened to the spent bullet."

     "The perp couldn't have pocketed that."

     They went back to the site of the shooting.

     "No stray bullets in cars parked on the street," Special Agent
Chapin said.  Apparently, she had read the reports quite
thoroughly.  "No stray bullets in the street itself."  Yes, QUITE
thoroughly.  Because Ray was involved?  Did the reason matter, as
long as she helped?

     "Actually, the street was pretty much blocked off," said
Fraser.  "They were moving--"  It struck him then, with the force
of a hammer blow.  Oh, why hadn't he thought of it before?

     "They were moving what?"

     "They had taken apart the used parade floats, from the
Columbus Day parade, and were moving them to the landfill."  Oh,
where had his brains been?

     "Taking them right down the street behind Vecchio.  Nice, big
surfaces for a bullet to lodge in."

     Fraser felt exhiliration sweep through him.  The landfill. 
The bullet was at the landfill.  The landfill was very large and
very full; but Fraser would dig through it with his bare hands, if
necessary.

                              . . .

     Visitors weren't necessarily a good thing.  The ones last
night hadn't been, filling Ray in on all the grisly details of what
had been found in that locker.

     Ray saw today's visitors and almost walked back out of the
visiting room.  Beside a determined-looking Frannie, his mother
sat on the other side of the glass, glaring at him.  He sat down
and lifted his own receiver.  Oh, this was going to be just great.

     "Well, Ray!" Frannie said into her receiver.

     "I see you brought Ma."  Ignore her; ignore those accusing
eyes; she just wanted you not to ignore her.

     "Yes!  She thought it would be really great if she came to
see you."  Frannie's jaw was tighter than usual, and she had the
Valkyrie-look in her eyes.  Ray was glad he hadn't been in the
house during the discussion, in the car on the way down from
Chicago; maybe the rest of the family would eventually heal and go
on to lead productive lives if they could get some therapy...

     "Hi, Ma!" he said.  Her lips thinned.

     "Ma's really glad to see you," said Frannie.  "Really glad." 
She looked like she could bite bullets.

     "So, how is everybody?" he asked.

     "What does he care?" his mother murmured loud enough for him
to hear through the receiver.

     Frannie's fingers tightened.  "They're just fine, Ray. 
Everybody's just--fine."

     "Disgrace."  Ma, again.  "He brings complete disgrace to his
family, and he asks how they are."  She seemed to be talking to
the air.

     Oh, lovely; thank you so much for visiting.  Another fun-
filled night in lockup, and now this.  On a Sunday, no less. 
Ignore her.

     "So, what's this with you and Turnbull?"

     "Oh, you heard about that!  Well, I--  He's very nice!"

     "And normal."  Ma.  "A normal young man."

     Frannie was valiantly ignoring her.  "We went to the movies
the other night.  Did you know he likes lasagna?"

     How interesting.

     "Yes, and his favorite color's blue, and he's from some really
nice place called Yellowknife, and--and--"

     "He's a good, normal boy."  Ma again.

     "He's very nice!"  The Valkyrie was glittering in Frannie's
eyes; Ray was glad he wouldn't be in the car on the way home.  "I
think we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

     "Good!" said Ray.  It WAS good.  Frannie deserved a Mountie. 
Everybody deserved a Mountie.

     After that, the conversation kind of fell apart.  Just as they
were leaving, Ray looked straight at his mother glaring at him and
mouthed carefully, "I love you, Ma."  If it took, she didn't show it.

     So, back to the infirmary, where for a change the psycho
driver wasn't around, and back to the problem of how much more time
that money in the locker would tack on to his eventual sentence. 
Because he was going to do time.  He knew he was going to do time.

     "Visitor, Vecchio," said the guard.

     It was Fraser this time.  His face looked lined; his hands
were cut and scraped, like he'd been digging with them.  His jaw
was set in a way that made Ray's stomach churn.

     "So, Fraser!  How's it going?  You just missed Ma and
Frannie."

     "Ah!  Too bad.  I thought I'd drop by to--"  His eyes were
bloodshot.  "Did you know that Special Agent Chapin is in the
city?"

     For a minute Ray's heart speeded up.  "No, I did not know
that."

     "Yes!  She was trailing Brendan Willson and came by to--er--
close his file.  She's helping me.  We think we may know where the
spent bullet is.  We think it lodged in one of the parade floats
they were taking away behind you.  We're certain we'll find it."

     Parade floats--why hadn't Ray thought of that sooner?  "Good!" 
But Ray was sunk.  Bullet or not, he was still sunk.  One bullet
didn't erase all the rest.

     And Fraser seemed to know it; he sounded just too hearty. 
"Yes!  If we find the bullet, we can--there's a chance we can-- 
I mean, if there's a bullet, there must have been a gun, and--"

     "Gun's probably in the river by now."  Time for a wake-up
call, Fraser.

     "Not necessarily."

     "And even if you find the bullet, that doesn't really prove
anything because there's no proof it was aimed at me."

     "It's a START, Ray."

     "IA has a locker full of stolen money and money orders made
out in Pop's name and a fake ID with his name and my picture on it--"

     "I didn't know about the identification card.  No one told me
about the identification card."

     "Well, they told ME."

     "If I can find the bullet, I can find the gun, Ray.  Any
rookie can find a gun.  And if I can find the gun, I can find who
shot at you.  It's really very simple, once you think about it..."

     Ray watched Fraser go on and on like that, explaining how
really simple it all was once you looked at it just right.  Had
Fraser had all those lines in his forehead last week?  Had that
grim set to the luscious mouth been there before Ray had been
arrested?  The puffiness under the eyes hadn't been there.  And
neither had the shaking in his hands--

     For some reason, the shaking in Fraser's hands stuck with Ray,
churning his insides far into the night.  If there was anything he
admired about Fraser, it was that stupid optimism, that idiotic
determination to bring a happy ending to everything, that
confidence that if only he kept at things, everything would turn
out swell.  That Fraser's hands were shaking shook Ray himself. 
Fraser losing it didn't bear thinking about.

     He thought instead about times that made him happy, taking
refuge in remembering places where he and Fraser had been good
together.  That afternoon last summer when they'd made love in
Ray's bed and necked in the Vecchios' shower--jeez, what they had
done to the water bill...  That trip downstate where they hadn't
even touched each other, just drove around for a day, looking at
those Indian mounds Fraser wanted to see, and being together.

     That night last spring, when they'd gone out of the city to
look at the eclipse of the moon and at the comet with the
impossible name hanging in the dark sky like a glowing cloud. 
Leaning against the Riv, hearing little frogs peeping in the dark,
while Fraser lectured on comets and eclipses; until Ray's mouth and
hands had got the better of him and started something sweet they'd
had to finish in the shelter of some trees just off the road, while
the little frogs sang and the moon edged out of Earth's shadow.

     That Canadian river where he and Fraser had been planewrecked
or whatever you called it.  His and Benny's place.  Nice, there
toward the end:  bad guy smashed--quite literally, and hadn't THAT
been a mess--Fraser healing, air crisp, leaves colorful, river a
shining path.  Peaceful.

     He settled in to thinking about how it had been, how it would
be if they were there now.  Making love under the sky; sleeping on
a ground that his imagination made softer than reality, and a lot
less full of sharp rocks.  Him and Fraser just floating forever
down the river, talking, laughing, enjoying each other someplace
where they could relax and really enjoy each other.  Warm.  Safe.

     He thought about how it would be; and gradually those thoughts
crowded out the shaking in Fraser's hands and the sounds of the
jail at night, until in his mind he was falling asleep safe and
warm in Fraser's arms, after a day full of talk and little
adventures and an evening full of talk and lots of kissing, beside
a perfect fire, hearing little frogs sing under a sky just jam-
packed full of stars.

                              . . .

     This shouldn't be--  Why were his hands shaking?  What she
was saying was just words--true words, but just words, not bullets,
though he would prefer bullets.  Why was he shaking?

     Rose in the apartment last night; he'd started shaking when
he saw it.  Just a red rose.  After an exhausting and frustrating
day.  Startling to find the rose there--just startling, that was
all--but he'd begun to shake.  And was still shaking this morning,
after dreams of sunlight and snow that he didn't care to remember.

     "Yes, sir!" he said, trying to focus past the buzzing in his
ears.  Her dress uniform.  He hadn't taken her dress uniform to
the cleaners as he was supposed to have done days ago; and now she
was shouting at him about it, though she seemed to be shouting
about more than just the dress uniform.

     "Your responsibilities don't just include whatever you decide
they include!  I need you!  HERE--I need you HERE, doing your duty,
taking care of Consulate business, not digging around in some trash
heap--"

     "Landfill."

     "WHAT?"

     "It was a landfill."

     "WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES THAT MAKE?  Your duties lie in the
Consulate, Constable Fraser, and in whatever I need you for,
WHENever I need you!  To do something for the Consulate, I mean. 
For the Canadian government.  The Americans can certainly take care
of their own affairs--they've been doing it for a couple centuries
now.  You're here to take care of OUR affairs--CANADIAN affairs. 
Do you have that?"

     "Yes, sir!"

     "You forgot me, Fraser.  I mean, you forgot about my needs. 
For my dress uniform.  You've let yourself become so enamored of
American glamor, you've forgotten me--us--CANADIANS.  You're
Canadian, Fraser; you're a member of the RCMP; you have
responsibilities to Canadians that are more important than any
responsibility to some American, even if he is your friend.  Do
you understand that?"

     "Yes, sir!"

     He was still shaking when she left his office; what was wrong
with him?  Reponsibilities, that was all.  He had so much to do. 
He smiled reassuringly at Diefenbaker, who had slunk out from under
Fraser's desk the minute the coast was clear.  The wolf was so
tense these days--missing Ray, no doubt.  As was Fraser.  The back
of his neck felt hard as iron.

     He flinched as the door to Inspector Thatcher's office
slammed.  Tense--she had a lot to think about.  A lot of
responsibilities.  So, now, to the cleaner, with her dress uniform--
that place on DuSable that did such an excellent job so quickly.
Nice walk to clear his head; it was so airless in the Consulate
today, his head was buzzing.  So much to do--

     And a choice:  visit Ray before Fraser joined Special Agent
Chapin at the landfill, or after?

                              . . .

     The psycho driver and a friend were sitting in the infirmary,
thermometers sticking out of their mouths while they glared at Ray. 
Thank God there was a guard nearby--Henry, was it?  Ray stared at
his mopping and tried not to shake visibly.

     This had gone way past being funny; this guy was out for
blood.  Ray was going to have to do something.

     There was a place inside him, left over from growing up in a
complicated neighborhood, a place of hardness and violence.  The
kind of place where the Frank Zukos of the world spent their whole
lives.  He'd returned to that place once to deal with Frank; he
might have to do it again.  Sometimes Ray reached into that place
with a particularly difficult perp:  showed the steel and repressed
fury deep inside him.  He turned to that place now, considering it
carefully, eyeing the landscape before slipping into it.  It wasn't
a comfortable place, but it would protect him until he could leave.

     He just didn't want to have to take up permanent residence
there.

                              ú ú ú

     So much there, at that landfill.  So much to move and examine
closely.  A metal detector was just no good there:  too much
chicken wire and nails.  And holes that looked like bullet holes,
and paper-covered structures that a bullet could be lost in.

     Fraser ached.  There was--his head felt like it was being
squeezed.  The back of his neck was a column of stone.  He was
tired, but he'd dragged himself away from the landfill because it
was too dark to search.

     It was not too dark to search Stratmore for the young man;
perhaps he was back; perhaps someone on vacation had returned and
would recognize him from the sketch; perhaps he had--perhaps
someone would--

     Door to his apartment, and he looked at it in silence,
Diefenbaker looking up at him.  *Silly, Fraser, this is just a
door*.  Really, this was ridiculous.  Just ridiculous.  That
someone was leaving him roses wasn't sinister.  *Buck up, Fraser--
they're just flowers*.  But his hand shook as it reached for the
doorknob.

     No subtle fragrance reached him tonight, and he felt his
shoulders relax.  Diefenbaker, however, pricked his ears and padded
toward the bed.

     The bed, oh, god, the bed, their bed.  On which something
gleamed.

     He moved forward and watched his shaking hand reach for the
snow-globe lying on the bed.  He needed to be careful; he could
break it.  He'd broken another one once, one belonging to the
Vecchios, to get something he needed.  *Be careful, Fraser*.  To
get the key Victoria had hidden inside.  Key to the incriminating
locker.  Key that would ruin Ray.  *Don't drop this*.  Key.

     This globe was cheaper looking, though the snow swirled in a
blizzard when he shook it.  A happy winter scene.  A little girl
twirling on skates on a tiny pool of ice, while two boys enjoyed
a snowball fight nearby.

     And snow swirled down, swirled down, covering them--

     It had snowed for a day and a night and a day, there at
Fortitude Pass, while he'd held her in his arms and tried to keep
her alive, while she'd murmured words he couldn't hear but that
had stirred a heart in hiding, a heart wrapped up in duty, a heart
suddenly struck as if by a bolt of lightning.  The cold had almost
slipped into him, but he'd kept her alive.  "I can't tell you the
number of times your father almost died trying to bring some low-
life to justice," Girard had hurled at Fraser once, mocking his
father; but that was a Mountie's job, to keep the prisoner alive
until--

     The snow closed in, swirled down, swirled down--

     And an eternity later, she'd lay in his arms, a billion times
told lovelier and more dangerous than the snow, and begged him not
to turn her in; but that was a Mountie's job, to bring the prisoner
to justice.

     Snow, swirling down.

     She'd tasted of snow; always when he'd kissed her he
remembered the snow that had captured them; he'd smelled it even
as he lay in his own blood on the train station platform, hearing
her leave, hearing Ray plead, glimpsing his father's scarlet
uniform; feeling the coldness of his wound spread through him as
if he were filling with snow or with some cold that had no name
and could not be held back but through words about bleak embers
falling to spill the gold-vermilion glory within.  Spilled blood. 
Scarlet uniform.  Snow.

     In the globe, snow swirled down, swirled down, covering them
all--

     Fraser shook the globe again and again and yet again, but he
could not keep the snow from drifting over the boys, so intent on
their game while the smiling girl twirled forever just out of
reach.

                              . . .

     *Just hold on*.  Fraser would get him out of here.  Another
night of dreaming about the river, sometimes gleaming in the
sunlight, sometimes fogged by snow.  Just hold on; it would be over
soon.

     "Always knew you'd end up someplace like this."

     Oh, great.  Pop, with the whiff of brimstone on him.  Just
what Ray needed.

     "Too stupid for your own good.  Lettin' that Mountie get you
into trouble--"

     "This isn't Fraser's fault," Ray murmured.

     "Oh, isn't it?"

     "Vecchio, phone!" the guard called before Ray could figure
out what his father meant.

     PHONE?  Was Ray supposed to be getting phone calls?  Some sort
of privilege Welsh or somebody managed to wrangle.  He'd have to
thank them.

     "Yeah, this is Vecchio."

     "I knew I'd find you there, Detective Vecchio."

     That soft, throaty voice told him everything.  Ray took a deep
breath, hands gripping the receiver.  "Victoria," he said.

     "Very good, detective.  Did you just figure it all out, or
have you been thinking of me for a while?"

     "This had your fingerprints all over it.  It didn't take too
long to figure out."

     "But that hasn't helped you much, has it, Detective Vecchio? 
Because, after all, you're in there and I, Detective Vecchio--I am
out here.  Free.  With Ben.  And it's just starting."

     The click on the other end of the line stopped him from saying
anything.  He hung up, himself, and smoothed his hands over his
head, thinking.  No use tracing the call:  she'd probably used a
pay phone.  Tell Welsh.

     He'd picked up the phone for a collect call to the station
when a guard came by.  "You Vecchio?  You got a visitor."

     Fraser.  In one of the conference rooms, so there wasn't any
glass between them.  Ray looked down the table at him, consciously
keeping himself from just lunging right for him and getting in a
quick hug before the guard lunged in and dragged them apart.

     "I thought I'd stop in before I went to the landfill--"

     "It's Victoria, Fraser.  She's been doing all this.  She
called me to tell me."

     Pause, while Fraser sat like he was frozen.

     "She called you," Fraser said.

     "Yes, Fraser!  She called me!"

     Fraser stared at him with blank eyes for a minute, like he
was having trouble processing this.  "What--what did she tell you?"

     What did she--  Ray stared at the still face in front of him. 
"What was she supposed to tell me, Fraser?" he asked.  "That she's
come back for you?  That she's got a train ticket for you?  What
was she supposed to say, Fraser?  That she's sorry and she'll never
do it again?  Was she supposed to tell me she's made it up with her
favorite Mountie, and now you're going to go off to be Nelson Eddy
and whatshername together--"

     "Jeanette MacDonald," Fraser said absently.

     "Huh?"

     "It was Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald."

     "WHO CARES?" Ray hissed.  *Keep it low, keep it calm; the
guard's looking*.  "Fraser, what was it she was supposed to tell
me?"  Suddenly his mouth was dry as cotton.  "What was she supposed
to say so you wouldn't have to say it?"

     Fraser looked at him now, suddenly focused on him.  "I
thought--I thought she would give you a clue as to where she was."

     "You--"  Ray took a deep breath.  "You haven't seen her yet?"

     "No."

     "But you knew she was here."

     Pause, for his heart to sink.  "Yes.  I--suspected she was--
she was in the vicinity.  There have been--there have been clues."

     Ray studied him for a minute.  She hadn't shown herself to
Fraser.  Just playing with him, or unsure what he'd do?  Would
Fraser do the right thing and arrest her, or--

     "So now what?" Ray whispered.  Oh, god, he hoped he didn't
already know.

     "So..."  Fraser wasn't meeting his eyes.

     "Tell me something, Fraser."  Fraser looked at him.  "Do you
still love her?"

     "N-no."  But there was a brittle edge to the word.

     "Would you--go off with her?"

     "No."

     Ray studied him.  Truth shone in the blue Mountie eyes.  But
behind the truth he saw the thin edge of uncertainty.

     "It didn't end right last time," Ray said.  "It never really
ended at all.  I ended it for you; you never had a chance to do it
yourself.  How do you know you won't go off and leave--"  Glance
at the guard; whisper.  "--leave ME--leave me HERE.  How do you
know you won't do that again?  How do _I_ know you won't?"

     "I won't, Ray."  Fraser's voice sounded tight.

     Oh, god, if only Ray could believe him.  "It ain't over 'till
the fat lady sings," he said.  "I saw you last time.  You looked-
-"  *Breathe, Vecchio*.  "Fraser, you--  The way you were running-
-  Well, let's just say I don't hear no singing, Fraser."

     Fraser looked at him.  The uncertainty had taken over.  Ray
looked back, in a heart-sickening silence that stretched longer
and longer--

     Somehow, Ray pushed back the chair and got to his feet.  The
guard came in then and took his arm in the all-too-familiar grip. 
*Get used to it, Vecchio*.

     Fraser didn't stop him, didn't say anything.  Ray fought a
sudden shakiness in his legs.  At the door, he looked back.  Fraser
was looking at him, his eyes as sad as if they'd just said good-bye.

     To make things worse, the psycho driver was back in the
infirmary, supporting a friend bleeding through a rag tied around
his arm.  Ray ignored their dead-eyed stares and started for his
cot.

     And turned instinctively just      as the friend went for him,
blade sliding out from under the bandage and aimed for Ray's
stomach.

     Ray dodged, tripped into one of the empty cots, clutched at
the thin mattress, pulling it free.  Homemade knife slashed right
through it and got caught--

     The guy made the mistake of stopping to tug at it.  Ray shoved
at him, knocking him against the wall, trapping his arms under the
mattress.  Cheers from the couple of guys on the other side of the
room.  And where was the other guy where was the psycho where was
he what was he up to--

     Watch the blade--  Ray got one hand up and smashed the heel
of it into the friend's face, aiming for his nose.  Blood poured
everywhere, and the friend went down, clutching his face--

     Ray flinched away from the chair that splintered against the
wall two inches from his head.  He whirled to see the psycho driver
rush at him, meaty arms outstretched to grab him, MAMA and PAPA
both coming at him at once--

     He tripped over the friend, scrambled under a cot, kicked his
way clear, got to his feet on the other side.

     The psycho was just on the other side of the cot, not even
breathing heavy, eyes gleaming with a hideous kind of happiness. 
Oh, god, Ray was dead.

     They stared at each other for a second or two, the driver
grinning.  Lot of yelling going on somewhere.

     Get this over with.

     And then Ray did the hardest thing of his life.  He put out
his shaking hands, palm up--and moved his fingers in a "come here"
gesture, inviting the psycho to come over and try his damndest with
MAMA and PAPA and the whole damn family.

     The psycho driver took a breath--

     And the collar of Ray's shirt bit hard into his neck as a big
hand yanked him back and shoved him to the wall.

     "Just cool it, Vecchio!" a deep voice ordered, and Ray felt
the baton press across his shoulders, holding him still.

     Rescued.  Spread-eagle against the wall, eyes closed, Ray made
himself relax while the guard patted him down, and listened to the
struggle to subdue the psycho driver, who'd been cut off yet again. 
Ray's mouth was full of that sour taste, like he was tasting the
adrenaline still pumping through his veins.  His guard didn't seem
very excited; he just stood there like he knew Ray wasn't going
anywhere.  Henry.  His name was Henry.  Oh, thank God for Henry.

     The driver's friend was hauled to the doctor's office, making
a sick gulping sound that Ray didn't want to ever hear again.  And
then the driver was manacled and hauled away, shouting words Ray
also didn't ever want to hear again.

     "Are you injured?" Henry asked.

     "No."

     "Are you sure you're not injured?"

     "No.  I'm okay."

     "I'm going to cuff you now," Henry said; and Ray smiled to
himself at how often he'd been handcuffed recently by polite
people.  Fraser had been the best, which was good, because it would
have to hold him for a while....

     And then Henry was marching him through about a thousand
barred doors to solitary.

     "Be safer with you in here," said Henry.

     But it was the size of a shoebox, and he was locked in, and
there was no window and there was canned air and he felt like he
was already in his coffin.  Ray sank to the edge of the bunk and
buried his face in his hands.  *Ah, god, rescue me, Fraser.  Rescue
me, rescue me, rescue me, you have to rescue me*.

                              . . .

     Had he called in sick today?  That question still bothered
him.  Had he remembered to tell the Consulate he wasn't coming in? 
If he hadn't, it was too late; he was--  A whole day gone at the
landfill, tugging at splintering lumber, listening to Detective
Huey complain about the smell and to Detective Dewey tell him to
shut up, listening to Special Agent Chapin swear gently when
something pricked through her gloves.  His own gloves needed
replacing; they were almost rags.  Searching through garbage was
hard on gloves.  Had he remembered to call Leftenant Welsh about
Ray's telephone call from Victoria?

     If he hadn't, no matter; he was going over to the station
after supper.  Bathe first--change his clothes.  Tired; would he
ever sleep again?  His head hurt.  Feed Diefenbaker.  The wolf had
been surprisingly quiet today, anxious.  Perhaps a little treat of
a doughnut tonight.  It might perk them both up.

     The snow globe gleamed on the kitchen counter.  Really, it
was--it was a poor gift.  He didn't like it.  Knick-knacks were
distasteful.  He should have gotten rid of it last night.  He
should throw it away.

     But even after it went into the trash can it lingered on his
mind.  It was still in the apartment.  Well, he should take the
trash out anyway--

     Her hand had been poised to knock; she froze in the act when
he opened the door.

     Dark eyes in a pale and lovely face.  She was so lovely, oh,
god, so very lovely still.  He drew her in before anyone saw her.

     "Ben."  An angel's voice.

     His could not get enough air.  He felt dizzy.  Suddenly,
memories were pouring through him:  of cold and of the fragrance
of her warm skin, of her soft body trembling in his arms and of
her bright laugh at a silly joke, of the smell of blood and of her
sighs as he caressed her.  Words spilling from her mouth as the
cold crept into him.  Dizzy, oh, suddenly he was as dizzy as if he
were falling from a great height, with no one to catch him.

     The snarl from Diefenbaker jolted him into the present. 
"Diefenbaker, no!" Fraser shouted, stepping between them as the
wolf lunged for her.

     The wolf cursed in his own language.

     "No!" said Fraser.  "And, if you can't control yourself,
you'll have to leave."  He pushed the wolf through the door and
closed it firmly.  Shut the window to the fire escape.  Prop the
door shut with a chair.

     "He hates me."  Victoria's voice was shaky.

     "He--you shot him.  He--he thinks I'm in danger."

     "Ben."  Her eyes were full of unspoken promises.  She touched
his sleeve.  He jerked away.

     "Am I in danger, Victoria?"

     "Not from me," she said.  "Not ever from me."  Oh, those eyes
beautiful as the stars.  Her hands, so light on his arm.  He
stumbled from her grasp, from the wave of memories.

     He couldn't think; the memories were thinking for him.  Snow
in her hair, the taste of her mouth--

     "It's over," he said to her.  "Whatever we had is over." 
Suddenly he heard, as clearly as if it were happening, Ray's voice
saying, *I don't hear no singing*.  "Over," Fraser said firmly.

     "I love you," she said, eyes deep with sadness.  Hands flat
on his chest.

     "It's--over."  It was.  Where was the air in this room?  He
stepped back to find it.

     "Ben, I came back because I--well, I had to."

     "I have to arrest you.  You--you murdered a man."  The soft
scent of her skin.  The lightness of her touch.  The snow of
Fortitude Pass seemed to sweep through him, chilling him until he
shook.

     "He wanted to kill me."

     "The courts will allow for that.  I'm sure the courts will
allow for that."  Open a window; there just was no air stirring. 
That must be why he could not seem to catch his breath, why he felt
so dizzy.  He stepped away from her hands.

     "Ben."

     Where was his jacket?  He couldn't seem to see past her eyes. 
"I have to arrest you.  I have to take you in."

     "I--I know."  The catch in her voice tore something inside
him.  "Oh, Ben, I came back even though I knew I shouldn't.  Oh,
Ben, I had to.  I had to see you--  I still love you."  Fingers
light on his arms.

     "It's over."

     Her lovely eyes, so full of tears that one slid down her
cheek.

     His fingers went to it, to wipe it away.  Skin soft as a rose
petal.

     "I love you, Ben."

     "It's--"

     "Shhh."  Her cool hands stroked his face.  "You look so tired."

     "Victoria, did you--"

     "Shhh."

     He pulled away.  "Did you conspire to get Ray jailed?"

     Her hands still sought him out.  "Oh, Ben."

     "Did you?"  He could not elude her seeking hands; he could
not evade her diamond-bright gaze.  "He told me you did."

     "He hates me, too."  The beautiful voice, murmuring through
the darkness of the storm, warming him.

     "But, did you?"

     Hands cool as snow touched his face, his arms, his chest. 
"Ben, anything I've ever done has been so we can be together."

     "Even--even killing Jolly?"

     "He wanted me dead.  I was defending myself."  Her hand
cradled his cheek.  Such beautiful eyes.

     "Even endangering me?"  He could not seem to move away. 
Everything around him seemed to be swirling; she alone seemed
steady.  He could not look away for fear of falling.

     "Ben."  Lips lush as cherries.

     "Ben."  Hair black as night.

     "You came for me, Ben."  She fairly glowed.  He couldn't look
away.

     "Oh, Ben, you ran to me.  You ran to me.  I lost everything
but you; you were my faithful love.  Ben."  Skin, oh, skin smooth
as new snow.  The memory of that soft mouth moaning his name.  She
stepped closer.

     "You love me.  I know you love me.  Ben."

     And then those cool hands brought his mouth to hers, and he
felt himself fall into the kiss.

                              . . .

     He jumped at the sound of the door, but it was just Henry,
bringing Ray his stuff.

     "Thanks," Ray said automatically.

     He went through it, laying it all out like it was treasure. 
And because Fraser had bought it for him and because it was
something to hold, Ray picked up the little plastic chicken and
perched it on his chest as he lay on the cot.

     Strangely enough, he felt relaxed.  No more looking over his
shoulder, waiting for the psycho driver to come for him.  Ray was
in a little shoebox, but it was a SAFE little shoebox.  No good
for the long run, but not bad for now.  He could handle this.

     And Victoria--  Thank god the period of not knowing was over. 
Now he had somebody specific to think about, a real person to hate. 
Fraser would find her and--and do what?  Arrest her.  Fraser would
arrest her.  Of COURSE.  And make her confess and get Ray out.

     He thought about the uncertain look he'd seen in Fraser's
eyes.  Victoria's confident voice saying, "You're in there and I
am out here.  Free.  With Ben.  And it's just starting."

     *It's just starting*.  She could do it; she knew how to press
the Mountie's buttons; she'd done it before.  She could do it, and
Fraser would go off with her, and Ray would be in jail for ever and
ever, buried in this shoebox room for ever and ever.

     Ray's mouth twitched in a sour grin.  This was like that story
he'd had to read in school, where the wrong guy fell in love with
the princess and ended up in a big pit, having to open one of two
doors.  Except, behind one door was forgiveness in the form of a
beautiful girl he would have to marry, while behind the other was
death in the form of a hungry tiger.  The princess knew which door
led to what, and the story ended with him reaching for the door she
had nodded toward.  It was a puzzle:  would the princess overcome
her natural jealousy and point him toward the girl, or would she
rather have him die than marry somebody else?  Was it the lady or
the tiger?  Could Ray stand to have Fraser free on the outside, but
with Victoria, or would it be worse to have Fraser inside, among
the savage tigers of this claustrophobic jungle?  The lady or the
tigers?

     Ray snorted.  He was glad he didn't actually have to make the
decision.

                              . . .

     He drew away from her and sat up, feet firmly on the floor,
ignoring his nakedness.  *Oh, Ray.  Oh, Ray, oh god, Ray, Ray*--

     "It's all right."

     Her touch seared him like a branding iron.  He jerked away
from it, stood, crossed to the window, careless of his nakedness.

     "Ben, it's all right."

     It was not all right.  Ray was in jail, and it was not all
right.  Fraser pressed his forehead to the cool glass for a moment. 
Then he heard the rustle beside him and flinched from her touch.

     "Ben--"

     "Don't."  His voice didn't sound like his own.  "Don't--touch
me.  Just don't."

     His back pressed to the wall beside the window, he looked at
her.  She stood wrapped in the sheet, like a bride made of snow,
her raven hair spread over her pale shoulders.

     "Ben, you're the only man I've ever really loved."

     "That won't--that doesn't change things."  He wrapped his arms
around himself, suddenly cold.

     "You love me."  Whispered, a catch in her voice.

     "I don't."

     "You came for me.  You ran to me at the station, and if that
detective hadn't shot--"

     "He did exactly what he should have done."

     "You don't believe that.  You couldn't believe that."

     Oh, it was cold in here.  But he'd been reared in cold places;
he could live with the cold.  "He did exactly what he should have
done."

     "Ben."

     Her whisper shouldn't pierce him so.  "Get dressed," he said. 
"I'm arresting you.  I'm taking you to the police.  Get dressed."

     Her chin came up; sadness and defiance flooded her eyes.  "I
don't think so, Ben," she said.

     And she was right.

                              . . .

     Another night without Fraser, except in his mind.  It was--
what day was it?  Time in the shoebox seemed to have stopped.

     Fraser didn't come.

     Breakfast came, and lunch came, and supper came, and lights
out came; but Fraser didn't come.

                              . . .

     "You have to," she said.

     And she was right.

                              . . .

     Another sleepless night, and another breakfast--and then there
was Henry.

     "Word down from above," said Henry.  "You got sprung."

     Just like that.  Ray was dizzy.  Just like that.  Good old
Fraser.

     His heart lightened as door after door closed behind him for
good, and he found himself walking faster and faster.  Henry
started laughing, and Ray grinned at him.

     Even the thing with the psycho driver seemed to have been
cleared up.  Signed out; and property claimed; and he was free. 
Confused--but free!

     Someone was standing just inside the door outside, silhouetted
against the brightness just beyond, and his heart quickened.  FRASER--

     Then he got closer, and his heart fell when it wasn't Fraser.

     But, ohmigod, it was Suzanne Chapin.  And, DAMN, she looked
good.

     "I don't believe it," he said.

     "Came to give you a ride," she said.  "We have a LOT to talk
about."

     That was an understatement.  When they got to the station and
the last piece of the tangled chain had been set before him, Ray
sat for a minute, too stunned to speak.

     "What?" he said.

     "Water."  Elaine was trying to hand him something.  It was a
cup of water.

     "Thank you kindly, Elaine."

     She looked surprised for a minute; then she looked at Welsh
and left.  He drank the water.  It didn't make any of the evidence
go away, but the cup gave him something to hold onto.

     "Detective?"  Welsh.

     "Huh?  I mean, yes, sir?"

     "Should I call the paramedics?"

     Huh?  "No, sir.  No--sorry!  Sorry, sir, this is just--
overwhelming."

     "She really hates you a LOT," Dewey commented.  She seemed
surprised when Welsh and Huey and Ray looked at her in silence for
a minute.

     So Victoria had--good god, how long had she been working on
this?  Bank robberies and computer hacking--how long did this kind
of thing take to plan and set up?

     "It was the bullet that started to unravel everything," said
Suzanne.  "Too bad Fraser wasn't here to find it, since it was his
idea.  Only took three days of digging through garbage to find, but
it was worth it."

     "Rattling around in the center of that world globe.  Punched
right through Canada," Huey said.

     Ray tried to hide his flinch.  Not everything was symbolic.

     "And the keyboard," said Dewey.  "Fingerprints on Seggebruch's
computer keyboard."

     "Victoria's," said Ray.

     "And it all came together," said Suzanne.

     Ray smoothed his hands over his head.  Something seemed to be
wrong with his breathing.

     "The bullet from the globe matches the one Seggebruch took,"
said Welsh, "and we have both cases connected and solved."

     "And a whole bunch of bank robberies cleared up," Huey said. 
"Texas, Louisiana, Oklahoma, Missouri--we've got money here from
at least half a dozen robberies.  Collecting money to nail you and
pay off everybody who was helping her.  At least one other murder: 
guy down in Texas who got away with ten thousand dollars before
somebody shot him.  Money from that robbery here, too."

     "Black widow," Dewey murmured.  "She uses and then she kills."

     Ray stared at her.  Oh, god, don't say that.  Fraser--

     "And right after she shoots the guy in Texas, she finds
Brendan Willson, having learned of him by going through the records
of Detective Vecchio's cases," said Welsh.  "Which she 

gets from the department mainframe, thanks to a program--"  He slid
the computer disk in its plastic bag into the center of the table. 
"--Jeremy Seggebruch writes that will select Detective Vecchio's
case files for her perusal.  Security procedures at the mainframe
will be--re-evaluated."

     "And he makes an ATM card," said Ray.  "He makes an ATM card
for Willson to use when he deposits the money."

     "Probably from an ATM receipt one of you threw away at the
machine, instead of destroying it."  Huey's voice hinted that the
idiot who'd done that was Ray.

     But Ray had a couple suspects of his own.  He was going to
have to have a brotherly chat with them about receipts--whether
they wanted to, or not.

     "And then she kills him--or Brendan does--and she reformats
his computer to destroy the evidence," said Suzanne.

     "But not all of it," said Dewey, "because she didn't have time
to destroy those two thousand, five hundred, and seventy-two backup
disks he had in there.  Good thing she didn't just set a fire,
because then it would have burned up all those two thousand, five
hundred, and seventy-two disks.  No, she had to leave those two
thousand, five hundred, and seventy-two disks just sitting there
for us to find.  Two thousand, five hundred, and seventy-two disks,
and only three hundred of them had labels that made any sense at
all."

     Ray peered at the disk in the evidence bag.  "M-V," its label
read.  Which could have meant "Metcalfe-Vecchio" or could have
meant "Miami-Vice" or could have meant part of the alphabet.

     "More robberies in Chicago," said Huey.

     "I get slipped a twenty from the latest one by that guy I
thought was trying to con me," said Ray, "and he disappears with
whatever she paid him."

     "Probably lying in some alley," Huey said.  "Sleeping it off. 
Wouldn't remember you even if we did find him."

     "Metcalfe tucks twenty thousand in cash and forty thousand in
money orders made out to Vecchio's deceased father in a train
station locker--"  Dewey said.

     "Money orders being a cheap and easy way to launder Detective
Vecchio's illegal proceeds," Welsh murmured.

     "--and the locker key gets into the base of Vecchio's statue
of Liberty--how?" said Suzanne.

     "Rache."  Ray's mouth quirked.  "She came in with Aless one
day; knocked Liberty off the desk.  Could have put it in there
then."

     "Once Detective Vecchio is--er, incarcerated," Welsh said,
"Internal Affairs receives an anonymous tip as to the location of
said key."

     "Which finishes Detective Vecchio."  Huey didn't have to sound
so pleased.

     "Who has finished Brendan Willson for her."  Oh, god, Victoria
had used Ray to clean up for her, tidy up one of the loose ends. 
Ah, god, he'd killed a man--and she'd profited.

     They sat in silence for a minute.  Ray still felt stunned.

     "So, now," said Welsh, "the question is:  where IS Ms. Metcalfe?"

     *And where is Benton Fraser?* Ray thought.  *Why isn't he
here, with me?*  But he already knew:  Fraser was with her.  He was
with Victoria.  She had him.

     And, even with Ray out of jail, that meant she'd won. 
Something inside him was opening up:  some bottomless hole trying
to suck all of him right into it.

     "My office," Welsh said to him when the impromptu meeting
broke up.

     "Yes, Lieutenant."  Suddenly Ray felt exhausted.

     "Your badge, detective."  Welsh handed it to him.  "And--your
gun."  Welsh fixed Ray with a look as he handed it over.  "Please
be careful where you fire it.  We don't want any--bystanders--
getting hurt."

     "Yes, sir."  Ray's face felt hot as a red-hot stove. 
"Mounties," Welsh had meant.  "Don't shoot Fraser again," Welsh
had meant.  Well, Fraser wasn't the target Ray had in mind.

     "Go home, detective," Welsh said.  "Rest.  Let us find Ms.
Metcalfe.  Stay out of it.  That's an order."

     "Yes, sir."

     Go home.  Ray stumbled down the stairs.  Home.  Home to a
family that had disowned him?  Or home to an apartment empty of
the center of his life?  Which, exactly, was home?

     She was waiting for him, leaning on a rental car.  Suzanne.

     Damn, she looked good enough to eat:  big eyes, long honey-
blonde hair, and that mole just above a mouth that was dessert all
by itself.  His heart jumped in his chest like a startled frog. 
But some part of him was saying, *Down, boy; you're taken*.  And
it was right:  he was taken.  The guy had run off with the lousiest
piece of work on the planet, but Ray was taken.

     "Just couldn't stay away, huh?" he said, grinning at Suzanne.

     "Saving your butt again," she countered.  There was warmth in
her eyes and a luscious promise in her smile.  Ray took a shaky
breath.

     "Damn awful timing," he said.  "I'm kinda--involved--"

     Some light went out in her eyes, and her back straightened. 
"Well, we'll always have Highway 31."

     "Yeah."  Damn.  Oh, damn, she'd come back and rescued him. 
She'd come back; she'd come back.  The sweetness of that moment
when he'd first seen her flooded through him, and for an instant
that old flame flared up.  DAMN, she was a class act.

     He stepped forward and kissed her softly, a kiss flavored with
regret.  Her mouth was as sweet as he'd remembered.

     She grinned wryly at him when he stepped back.  "That kiss
meant something," she said mockingly, quoting him from that long-
ago time.

     He grinned at her.  "Yeah.  It meant, 'Thank you, and in some
other universe....'"

     She looked at him for a minute, and then her lips touched his
for an instant.

     "Well, having rescued your attractive rear end," she said. 
"I'll disappear into the sunset.  Case is closed on Brendan
Willson, but there's plenty more where that came from."

     As her car pulled away, Ray felt like a bridge he'd come to
count on had just broken apart as he stepped off it.

     He stood for a minute, just drinking in the sun.  Damn nice
afternoon; a little chilly, but it would be a damn nice evening
for all the little trick-or-treaters.  The hole inside him seemed
to be swallowing the warmth of the sun; he warmed himself by
thinking about Victoria.  Keep away the coldness of Fraser's
betrayal with the good, hot fury of hate.

     "So you finally got your chance to kill her," said his father.

     Ignore him.  Ray started down the street.

     "You finally got a chance to do it," said his father. 
"Finally start acting like a real man."

     Ray turned on him.  "So--is that it?  Is that what you'd do? 
Kill her?  Kill Fraser too, maybe?  Is that what a real man would
do?"

     "She put you in jail; she deserves it.  And him--  He left
you there and went off with her.  He deserves it, too.  And with
him dead, maybe you'd go back to girls, like a normal man, a REAL
man, instead of a faggot!  I gotta spend my time in Purgatory
watching you getting humped by some--"

     Horns blared as Ray darted across the street to get away from
his father's voice.  Real man.  Finally got his chance to kill
her....

     He leaned against a building to wait for his insides to
settle.  *Ah, god, Fraser, you left me*.  Something was twisting
inside him--maybe his heart.  Ray closed his eyes and listened to
the sounds of the Chicago streets.  *Oh, god, I trusted you, and
you LEFT me*.

     He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky.  Like he was
surprised.  He realized now that at the back of his mind he'd
always expected Fraser to leave him some time or other:  fall out
of love, go back to Canada, go after Victoria--something.  This
shouldn't have been a surprise.  But--  *Oh, god, Fraser, you left
me; you left*.  Misery dragged his soul toward that dark place
inside him.  Find them.  End it.  *Look out, lady, here comes the
tiger*.

     He took a deep breath; he shook himself.  He pulled away from
the dark place.  *Go home, Vecchio.  Just go home, Vecchio*.  Home
to the apartment, though there was something he needed to check
before he went up to the empty place.

     The Consulate was--well, "frenzied" was such an ugly word. 
And Thatcher was really not happy to see him:

     "WHAT?"

     Geez, with a temper like that, no wonder the Mountie had gone
for Ray instead.

     "I was hoping to find Fraser here--"

     "He's not here.  He's--  You're the reason he's been shirking
his duties, detective.  He's been forgetful and preoccupied and
irresponsible, and it's been because of that trouble you were in-
-  Why aren't you in jail?"

     "I'm innocent."

     That didn't seem to convince her.  "And now he's taken my good
dress uniform to some cleaners, and no one seems to know which one,
and we can't find the claim ticket, so now I can't wear it, as I'd
planned, and--"  She stood up, suddenly all smiles.  "Inspector
Pangborn!  How nice to see you before you leave!  I hope you and
your men found the accomodations to your satisfaction."

     Ray turned to see a black Mountie stride into the office. 
Panborn was a big guy, taller than Ray, whom he looked over,
analyzed, filed away, and dismissed.  Behind Pangborn, Turnbull
shifted from foot to foot like a worried child.

     "Yes, Inspector Thatcher; quite satisfactory.  The Musical
Ride always enjoys its stop in Chicago.  Of course, sometimes the
trip out is more eventful than we like."  He was staring pointedly
at Ray.

     "Well, I see you're busy," Ray said to Thatcher.  "I'll call
you if there's any information on that matter we spoke of."

     "Ah--good!" she said.  "Always glad to help."

     Her eyes still despised him, but oh, butter wouldn't melt in
her Mountie mouth.

     To Ray's surprise, Turnbull followed him.  "Detective Vecchio,
may I speak with you a moment?"

     "Yeah, Turnbull."

     "I--er--I'm hoping you could--ah--give me some advice about
Francesca."

     *Oh, you poor, sweet sap*.  "Flowers; candy; adoration.  These
are the keys to a Vecchio woman's heart, Turnbull.  And a really
good appetite for really bad linguini with clam sauce.  Take care,
Turnbull."

     When he left, he could hear the Mountie muttering, "Flowers
candy adoration linguini with clam sauce.  Flowers candy adoration
linguini with clam sauce.  Flowers candy adoration linguini with
clam sauce."  Ah, jeez, maybe Ray should have written it down for
him.

     Home, or supper?  Ray consulted his stomach and decided on
supper.  Quick sandwich.

     Now, home, or--  There were no options left.  It had to be
home.  He steeled himself for the empty apartment.

     First, though, he stood in the street for a minute, just
looking at his car.  Riv, sweet Riv.  Fraser'd taken good care of
it.  *Damn it, Fraser*--

     There was a streak of white, and a wolf was all over him.

     "Dief!"  Would Fraser willingly go off without--  "Yeah, I
know; I know.  He went off with that horrible woman and left you
with Willie or somebody.  Yeah, I know.  We'll find him, Dief."

     He stepped into the apartment, which felt cold, abandoned,
like Fraser wasn't ever coming back.  *Fraser, oh god, Fraser, you
left me*--

     Bed still made, stuff in the kitchen--the only things missing
were the pictures on the little table and Fraser's father's
journals.  And Fraser's clothes.  Ray stared into the closet, his
heart twisting at what he found there.

     Three uniforms--red, brown, and blue--and a Mountie hat on
the shelf.  Everything that was the man had gone; everything that
was the Mountie remained.  Fraser's self-respect, abandoned in a
closet.

     He was staring at the uniforms when he realized there was a
soft knocking coming from the front door.  Puzzled, he opened it,
shooing Dief away.

     And looked down at a miniature Mountie.  Little kid--Adam,
was it?--in a red suit coat way too big for him, loop of string
around his neck, brown belt, blue jeans with construction-paper
yellow stripes pinned on them tucked into brown rubber boots, brown
hat with a construction-paper band.  And one of those orange
plastic trick-or-treat bags stores gave out this time of year.

     "Trick or treat."  The words were almost whispered.

     "Oh, hey, you startled me there.  Well, Constable, let me see
what we got here for you."  He'd bought some candy a few weeks ago,
before it all got too picked over; he hated disappointing the
little kids with that stuff that only cheap people bought.  Oh,
yeah--here were those Milky Ways, the full-size ones, every
dentist's dream.

     "Here you go."  He dropped one into Adam's bag.  Oh, what the
hell.  He gave him another.

     "Oh, WOW!"  Adam looked up with shining eyes.

     Ray drew himself up and saluted.  "Anything for the RCMP."

     Adam giggled.  "I'm not REALLY a Mountie."

     "Boy, you sure coulda fooled me!  Too bad Fraser isn't here
to see this; he'd really be impressed."

     Adam grinned up at him.  "Are you really a cop?"

     "Yes, Adam, I am a cop."

     Adam looked down into the bag, apparently trying equate two
really big candy bars with the despised person, "cop."  "Can I look
at your badge?"

     Ray got out the badge, and then he pulled back his jacket to
show the gun in its holster, and then he dangled the handcuffs
before Adam's delighted gaze.  He could see that Mountie-worship
was well on its way to being replaced by cop-worship.  Smart kid.

     This time, Adam returned the salute.

     "Hey, you just go to those places where you know the people!"
Ray called down the hall after the small Chicago Mountie.  What the
hell Adam's mother was thinking, letting him out alone like this--
"And don't you eat anything 'till your mother looks at it!"

     He watched until the kid was out of sight.

     And realization hit him.  Uniforms and disguises and trains. 
And Benny and Victoria.

                              . . .

Part 3 of 4