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Yes, you really can pick 'em, Fraser. The breeze
frisking down Ontario wasn't livelier than his heart as he stood
motionless outside the Consulate, observing Americans enjoying a
Revolution-granted Monday off work. Yes, he could pick them. A
teenaged friend, in a sexual experiment that hadn't really
satisfied. Victoria-- He took a deep breath. Victoria Metcalfe,
in a heart-spinning affair disastrous from the beginning. He took
a deeper breath.
But, then Ray Vecchio. Eccentric, tender, jittery, crude,
occasionally dishonest, more usually cranky, defensive,
mistrustful, and dependable as breath. Also beautiful in sleep,
mouth slack, face relaxed and flushed. Quite literally tasty.
And loving. The sweet gesture of a rose left on Fraser's
desk while he had been out on an errand. And-- Without actually
moving, Fraser tried to ease the muscle he'd strained yesterday in
their erotic free-for-all. Yes, loving.
That had been a surprise at first: the urge to show Ray
just what might really lurk deep inside Fraser. Actually, the
need to show it also had been a surprise. Hadn't Ray seen
Fraser at his worst often enough? Didn't he yet understand
Fraser's quest to adhere to the virtues of integrity, of
responsibility, of selflessness? Did Fraser have to think of
himself first all the time? Did every emotion have
to be expressed? Hinting that Fraser was--unnatural-- It was
frustrating.
Honestly: why did people seem so nervous when he tried to
follow the sturdy old values? Integrity seemed to startle them;
honesty made them suspicious; responsibility--well, responsiblity
seemed to make people angry. And selflessness. Fraser sighed.
Fail to act on your own wants first, and people said you had a
martyr complex. Sort through your emotions before reacting, and
people labelled you "repressed." Put the needs of others ahead of
your own, and people called it "masochism." Sometimes Fraser felt
as if he were surrounded by selfish children, greedily grabbing all
they could and ignoring those who got trampled in the melee. Why
hadn't Ray yet realized that Fraser couldn't just turn his back on
those who had fallen?
And, really, one didn't need to follow every
emotion. Intoxicating as Ray's emotional volatility was, there
were times when it could be dangerous: witness that headlong rush
into Frank Zuko's house, to save the woman Ray loved, which had
ended instead in causing her death. And sometimes it seemed to
affect his police work--to tempt him to cut corners. He'd been
lucky when he'd urged that female suspect he was infatuated with
to run--lucky that she'd turned out to be Special Agent Suzanne
Chapin, with Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and perhaps equally
infatuated with him, since she'd been unwilling to report him.
And some emotions were--well, one could acknowledge them,
but acting on them could be hurtful. Rage, for example. Fraser
had learned early that rage was useless unless channeled through
justice. And lust--well, lust channeled through love was-- He
felt a glow of warmth build inside him. Lust channeled through
love was pretty damn wonderful.
Letting himself go as he'd done the night before. Inspired
only by the urge to show Ray of what Fraser might be capable. He'd
thought long and hard about it before taking action. Handcuffs,
of course--traditional. Gag, so Ray's protests-- Fraser stopped
the thought. No, face it, Fraser: so Ray's protests would go
unheeded, because unheard.
Fraser blinked. Well, he would have stopped whatever he
was doing if Ray was really uncomfortable. Wouldn't he? Fraser
tried to imagine the scene without the warmth of Ray's growing
arousal, with Ray's terror and pain evident. Yes, Fraser would.
Though--truthfully--after a certain point, no. He wouldn't. The
warmth inside him dissipated. Yes, there was a point after
which lust would rule him, after which the drive to plunder that
slim body would make him deaf to all protests, blind to all
evidence of terror. He shuddered.
"Smile!" the tourist taking his picture called out with a
laugh. Yes--Fraser hadn't heard that joke more than fifteen
times a day.
But-- But the horrific hadn't happened. Ray had
visibly tried to relax, to trust, even after Fraser had blindfolded
him. And the tenderness that had flooded through Fraser at that
sight dispelled the chill Fraser felt now. As it had inspired him
last night.
The nibbling; the biting. Actually hitting Ray had never
been an option: the bruised child that Ray had been was too fresh
a memory. And hitting a handcuffed, gagged, blindfolded person was
just--revolting.
But nipping and--well, threatening harder bites-- Fraser
had been astonished. He had--he had enjoyed it, enjoyed
taking the roughness further and further-- And enjoyed Ray's
reaction. All apprehension that those protests of love Friday
night would be revoked once Ray actually experienced Fraser's
unfettered lovemaking vanished in the heat of Ray's arousal. Of
Ray's tension melting into a trust that ignited an inferno of
tenderness and passion that still warmed Fraser.
Ray trusted him. And would continue to trust him. And Ray
loved him. And would continue to love him.
And in that simple fact lay the key to depths of passion
Fraser couldn't wait to explore.
. . .
Exploring wasn't a lot of fun, judging by old Christopher
Columbus' frown in the picture taped to the window of Mr.
Pignotti's jewelry store. In fact, it must make you paranoid,
judging by the untrusting look in old Chris's eyes.
Ray grinned at him. Poor Columbus: he'd obviously never
had a Mountie explore new worlds of wilder impulses on his very
receptive body. Ray flexed a shoulder that still felt a bit
crampy, pleasantly aware of little tingles from the nibble-marks
on the inside of his thighs, of a pleasant sensitivity around his
nipples. Memory of teeth on his lower lip, on his cock--damn,
that had been good last night. New World--New World
Order--new worlds of cooperation between North American nations--
Oh, quit it, Vecchio--everything isn't a double-entendre. Quit
it; you're getting dopey.
Neighborhood Columbus Day parade blaring a block away. He
walked to the front door and pulled out his key. Suddenly, anxiety
sliced through him like a cold knife. Probably Ma was at the
parade, applauding the Sons of Italy float, warming herself in the
reflected glow of Columbus' fame. If she wasn't--
He put the key in the lock before he could work out the
rest of that thought.
House silent. Different. Stuff had been moved around--just
the usual, little stuff being moved in daily use, but that he
hadn't been here to see it being moved emphasized that he hadn't
been here for a while. Well, he was here now.
Feeling like a thief, Ray went to his bedroom. Tidy: even
mad, Ma wouldn't neglect a part of her house. He moved quickly,
emptying drawers into Fraser's duffel bag, getting the condoms out
of the nightstand, taking his extra bullets and his gun-cleaning
kit. At least he'd locked the drawer before he'd left.
Maybe Ma wouldn't have opened it, but he didn't want to
think about how those condoms would have gone over with her.
Downstairs, he searched through the dining room for his
mail. There--on the buffet, a stack of stuff addressed to him.
He picked it up. Bill on top: he may not be living here, but Ma
still seemed to expect him to pay bills. Typical.
Ray paused in the doorway, looking around the foyer as if
for the last time. Sick feeling, a guy shut out of his own house,
not sure he'd ever speak again to his own family. For a minute he
thought about getting old without ever having had another kind word
from his mother--
Oh, Vecchio. He snorted, closed the door, and
locked it.
Caught in the expected jam of traffic near Ontario, Ray
glanced idly through the stack of mail. Christmas catalogs
already--maybe Fraser would like that shirt. Matched his eyes.
Credit card bill--wow. And something official from the bank--
Ray frowned at the bank statement. Actually, Ma took care
of the household account, though it was in Ray's name. He'd have
to go back and leave it for her; Frannie probably had accidentally
sorted it into his pile. Some awful-looking statement--
Honking behind him didn't really register. That statement--what
were all those big cash deposits? Not from him; couldn't be
from Frannie--she never had that much money to put into the
account. Tony? Could his unemployable brother-in-law have gotten
a job and not told anybody? Job that paid in cash--
"All right! All right!" Ray tossed down the
statement and stomped the gas pedal.
Oh, good, there was Fraser. Suddenly whole new worlds
opened up in Ray's imagination. New World Order, indeed.
Old World Order visited him the next day at the office.
Aless Willson, still looking like the bride of Dracula, with
another member of Dracula's harem who didn't look more than
fourteen.
"Hi!" she said. "I'm Rache." Cracking her gum and looking
him over in the stomach-turning way of the over-experienced child.
Or the wannabe-over-experienced.
"Yeah, Aless."
"She wanted to tell you about some--stuff."
So Aless proceeded to tell him about some petty stuff:
some smash-and-grab, a little light pickpocketing, jewelry snatched
off the necks of tourists--autumn in Chicago. Talking through
Rache--first time that happened. And reaching: Ray didn't usually
get this kind of stuff.
Rache was--a pain. Messed up the rapport he and Aless had,
knocked stuff over on his desk: his little statue of Lady Liberty
went clanking to the floor, and she tried to be flirty when she put
it back.
He was glad when they left.
Ray looked at his notes, snorted in disgust. Nothing.
Absolutely nothing. He picked up the bank robbery folder and
flipped through it. The usual: strip mall--bank vault ripped into
via the back wall, which was just the usual brick and plaster. Ray
snorted. Typical: the walls in those strip malls weren't bank-vault
solid, but bankers still seemed to think they were. Robbers
just ripped right through them. Happened all the time; case
reported this morning--broken into over the long weekend. Huey and
Dewey would never crack it; thieves probably had done it Sunday and
were long gone.
This one was a charmer. Got clean away with $2500. No
prints; no witnesses. Ray sighed. No fair. Case like this would
stay unsolved forever. He got up and shrugged on his jacket. Make
an effort, though; earn his pay. Make the citizens of Chicago feel
safer. Not that they'd be any safer after he finished talking to
the bank manager this afternoon.
They weren't any safer the next morning, after talking the
case over with Fraser had failed to jump-start any ideas. And they
weren't safer later on in the day, after Ray finished canvassing
the neighborhood around the mall. How people couldn't have heard
somebody crashing into the wall of a building, Ray couldn't
imagine, but it happened: he remembered a case where nobody had
heard a guy back a truck through the wall of a dry-cleaners, though
some people noticed when he strapped the dry-cleaners' safe to a
dolly and towed it away; and even then most of the witnesses
claimed they thought it belonged to him.
Ray did what he could, wrote up his report, and mentally
filed it under "Unsolved." He looked at his watch. Half an hour
until he could go pick up Fraser at work--
When the phone rang, he jumped. "Vecchio."
The gum-snapping told him who it was even before she spoke.
"Hey! It's Rache!"
Lovely. "Yeah, Rache."
"Aless wants to talk to you." Giggle.
"So tell her to come on by."
"Naw--she wants to talk to you here." Really long
giggle.
Ray sighed. Damn, he hated going to a meet a perp had set
up: too easy to walk into a trap. But Aless was usually a good
informant. "Where and when?"
"701 Stratmore. Ten o'clock."
Aw, geez--one of those late-night meets. Well, it was
Aless, and for Aless, he'd-- "Tell her she better be on time."
Giggle. "Oh, we will be." Giggle, and click!
Stratmore. Cross street with Octavia--and 701 wasn't far
from Ma's house. He blinked. Since when had he started thinking
about his house as Ma's house? Get a grip, Vecchio; since when
have you not?
"Vec-chio!"
"Yes, sir!"
Welsh was standing in the door of his office, with a piece
of paper in his hand.
"Beat cop just caught a homicide over on West Racine--"
Ray's heart stopped, then started again when he saw the address:
1316, nowhere near Fraser's place at 221. "--Homicide can't get
there right away; they need somebody to start working the scene."
So he didn't have half an hour until he could pick up
Fraser; he had more like three or four. On his way out, he called
the Canadian Consulate and left a message.
. . .
The message still bothered Fraser--or, more precisely, the
fact that it had been placed on top of the rose on his desk still
bothered Fraser. He had been out of his office for only fifteen
minutes, and both the rose and the message had been delivered in
the interim. If Ray had left the rose, then why had he called in
the message? And if Ray hadn't left the rose, then who had?
Stirring the omelet he was making for himself, Fraser
laughed. Really. Everything wasn't a puzzle to be solved;
everything wasn't a mystery. Quit it, Fraser.
Actually, he didn't want to be suspicious of the rose. It
was still such a joyous surprise to have them appear on his desk,
day after day. Romantic. It reminded him of last spring, when he
and Ray were starting to express their love--or at least Fraser
was. Bringing Ray a rose from the Consulate every day, because Ray
had casually asked for a long-stemmed Canadian rose--Fraser
chuckled, and Diefenbaker paused in crunching his dog food.
"Roses," Fraser said to him. The wolf seemed uninterested.
Fraser sat in the quiet apartment and tried to eat his
omelet. But his mind kept straying to roses and romance and Ray,
and the omelet seemed tasteless by comparison. Really,
Fraser--you're getting giddy.
It was nice here, alone with Diefenbaker, waiting for Ray.
Peaceful: sometimes, now that Ray lived here, the apartment seemed
overfull. Fraser felt a twinge of shame at the thought, but Ray
did tend to fill whatever room he was in, with his energy and his
twitchiness and--well, with his occasional griping. Ray straddling
a chair, complaining about Detective Dewey and Detective Huey--why
did he find their names so funny? Ray jerking open dresser
drawers, keeping up a running monologue about where his favorite
socks must be. Ray sprawled on the bed, reading the Sunday
Tribune, which seemed to have been designed to cover every
centimeter of an apartment with little effort on the part of the
reader. Stop it, Fraser. He turned his attention back to
his cooling omelet.
It was good to have Ray here to be irritated by. His sweet
warmth in bed; his humorous comments to Diefenbaker; the pleasure
of taking care of the man Fraser loved, of knowing he was safe--it
was very good. And--really--Ray no longer seemed to find
the place as spartan as he had. Or, at least he had stopped
commenting on it.
Fraser liked his apartment. He knew that others felt
different about the lack of luxuries, about the unmatched
furniture, some of which was a bit worn from earlier owners. But
the apartment was simply shelter: Fraser's real life was lived
outside, among the people of Chicago, or in his mind, among the
images and information gleaned from thousands of experiences and
books. The apartment was simply where he ate and slept and--he
grinned--well, where he made love to Ray. Perhaps his real life
was being lived in the apartment. Still: a man with few
possessions could focus more easily on the people who came into
his life. A man with few luxuries didn't need locks to protect
him from the world and all it had to offer.
Eat his tepid omelet. After supper, he would clean the
apartment. He would not walk Diefenbaker past the crime scene Ray
was working, though they could both use the exercise. He would
tidy, and he would dust, and he would do laundry.
Fraser's eyes surveyed the apartment, noting what had to
be done. He really should shake the thick rug on Ray's side of the
bed--
Fraser smiled. Ray had a side of the bed. Ray had a side
of the bed, and Ray had a section in the closet, and Ray had
drawers in the dresser, and Ray brought Fraser roses-- Oh, stop
it, Fraser. He focused on his cold omelet.
Finish supper. Wash the dishes. Tidy the apartment.
Perhaps stop somewhere on the way back from the laundromat and buy
some roses. And a newspaper, for Ray to read and scatter through
their uncluttered home.
. . .
Uncluttered. Weird, how it reminded Ray of Fraser's place--the
way it didn't have a lot of stuff in it, either. Unmade bed;
table with a computer on it; chair pulled up to the table; bookcase
overflowing with books and boxes of those computer disks; table in
the kitchen, with another chair; chest of drawers--and that was it.
Oh, and a body. Sprawled on the floor near the bed, in
that sickeningly limp way that emphasized that there was no
personality there any more; it was just empty. Surprised look on
his face, like death hadn't been like he'd thought it would be.
Ray looked at the ID. Jeremy Seggebruch, age 23. Damn
young to be catching a .38 in the heart, but there was no such
thing as too young any more: babies got shot when gang members
made the neighborhood a freefire zone; second-graders were killed
when drive-by shooters missed their target. Nobody in America was
too young, or too old, or too anything to miss out on a violent
death.
He wandered through the apartment while the couple of
technicians Welsh dug up did their thing. Try to get a feel for
the place, before Homicide came and took over--in case Homicide
never had time to come and take over.
The feel that he was getting was temporariness: the kid
had just gotten here and wasn't planning to stay long. So no need
to get more than a couple bowls or plates, a handful of silverware,
a couple of pans. Looking at Fraser's apartment, Ray had often
thought that a man who was planning on leaving soon didn't need
that much stuff, so he'd be ready any time Canada decided to
forgive him and bring him home--
Oh, knock it off, Vecchio! You got enough here to get
anxious about, without bringing your personal life into it.
Fraser wasn't leaving any time soon; the powers that be wouldn't
be forgiving him any time soon; and, besides, even if they did he'd
never leave without--
FLASH! Ray jumped. Hartzboren, photographing the
computer setup. Ray blinked. Just look around, try to figure out
why the computer was on and the monitor was on, but it wasn't
showing those little pictures on the screen you always got. Quit
thinking about the Mountie and think about your job.
He thought about his job for the next three hours,
overseeing the fingerprinting and photographing and searching of
the crime scene. It was exhausting work, but, damn, he couldn't
go home yet: he had to meet Aless.
On the way to Stratmore he drove by 2926 North Octavia.
Lights on, cars outside--looked normal. Trash out: good.
Something in him seemed--well, kind of disappointed that his family
was carrying on so well without him. Didn't need him--
He stomped the gas pedal in disgust at himself.
Area around Stratmore was pretty crowded for ten o'clock;
he was hard put to find a parking place. It wasn't long before he
found out why: the Sons of Italy were moving their Columbus Day
parade floats to the dump. He grinned at the shadowy saints and
crepe-paper Columbuses being eased slowly down the deserted street.
701 was a pizza place. No Aless inside--damn. He stood
around outside, wondering if she was going to stand him up,
wondering if this was a setup, wondering how long he should wait.
Maybe he should get some pizza: he'd had just a donut and a cup
of coffee for supper. Drop in and get a couple slices.
"Hey, man." The young man was swaying, exuding the
unmistakable stench of unwashed junkie. Oh, damn. "Hey, man, you
got change for a twenty?"
Where the hell had he gotten a twenty? Damn, Ray was too
tired to pursue it. Just get rid of him.
"Sure." Ray took two tens out of his wallet and exchanged
them for the twenty, which he squinted at critically under the
streetlight before stowing it.
The junkie turned away and then turned back; and Ray's
heart started beating faster. Okay, kid, let's see your
stuff--
"Hey, you got anything smaller?"
His stuff wasn't all that good: Ray could tell that the
kid wasn't holding out two tens; he was holding a ten folded in
half to look like two tens. The kid would get his twenty
back, start to hand over what looked like two tens, suddenly
remember that what he really needed was change for a ten,
and add the other ten to the first, counting on the mark being so
busy looking for change for a ten-dollar bill that he didn't notice
he'd gotten back only his original twenty dollars. With his
original twenty and change for a ten, the kid would go away with
ten more dollars than he'd started with.
"Yeah, kid," Ray said, too tired to pursue it. He pulled
out his badge and flipped the cover open. "Oops--wrong wallet."
The kid was off in an instant, dodging flatbeds hauling the
parade floats. Ray watched him and laughed. Fraser would love
this story. He turned to go into the pizza shop--
A tinkle of breaking glass; and the sound of the alarm
seemed to split the night. Ray whirled.
Down the block: jewelry store. "Police! Halt!"
He ran toward the shadowy figure fleeing down the dark street. Or
maybe it was two figures. No, one. No street lights working--typical.
The figure didn't halt; he hadn't expected it to. He
fumbled for his gun. Oh, please don't have a gun; oh, damn,
don't have a gun. "Police! Hold it!"
The figure ducked into an alley. Behind him, Ray could
hear the lovely sound of police sirens screeching, patrol cars
trying to get down Stratmore. Help was on the way.
Ray galloped to the mouth of the alley, stopped and
listened. Silence. Damn--silence except for that flatbed truck
on Stratmore. He strained to hear over the motor. Gone? Or
waiting to shoot him?
He took a quick look. The alley was too dark to see
anything-- He looked again. Somebody moving--
A muffled explosion made him jump--an explosion that seemed
to go on and on and--
Ray caught his breath. Movie theater: cheap joint that
backed onto the alley. Still showing Independence Day.
Martians blowing up the White House....
But there had been movement. He took a deep breath, raised
the gun, and aimed into the alley. "Police! Don't move!"
For a second nothing happened.
Then, a flash--small caliber single shot about three
feet up aim a little to the right so you maybe hit him in the
shoulder--and he did what he'd been trained to do: he returned
fire as he dodged back.
Soft thump; then silence.
Police sirens closer now, but he couldn't wait for them;
he needed to know what had happened; he needed to know if he'd hit
the guy.
Ray aimed into the alley again. "Police! Drop your
weapon!"
Nothing moved, but there was a dark shape on the ground.
He started one of those long walks, carefully placing each
foot, hugging the side of the alley so he maybe didn't make so
distinct a target. Two steps in, he wished he hadn't started, but
by then he didn't want to back out. The alley echoed with booms
again: Martians nuking Los Angeles. Had they nuked Los Angeles
after Washington, or was it the other way around? Was that shape
moving? Did he see a gun?
Lights now: police car screeching up to park across the
alley. In the wash of red and blue flashing lights, the still
figure seemed to be twitching. Something dark was spreading from
it, something that gleamed in the flashing lights--
Ray backed away, holding his shield so the officers could
see it, keeping his eyes on the perp.
The clatter of cop shoes on pavement was music. Two
cops--but he could hear more on the way.
"Vecchio. Twenty-seventh," he said. "I was on the scene.
Smashed window. One perp; had a gun; I think he's down. One of
you call it in; I need somebody to go around to the other end of
the alley--close it off."
They did what he told them without question: good cops.
One stayed at his end while the other screeched off in the car.
"Let me borrow your flashlight," Ray said.
He trained it on the perp, who still wasn't moving. He was
lying face down on the ground; Ray could see his hands, which were
limp, like empty gloves. What Ray couldn't see was the gun. He
kept his eyes on the hands as he walked toward the figure, gun
still drawn. The Martians were nuking Moscow or whatever.
Rustle farther down the alley; and suddenly Ray was
sighting down the barrel of his gun at a wino stumbling toward him,
looking over his shoulder and saying, "Hey! Hey!" in a tone like
the wino had been personally insulted. Ray consciously relaxed his
trigger finger. Damn. Just a wino, Vecchio; just a wino seeing
Martians of his own.
He knelt near the body. Still no gun. Damn, there
was a lot of blood. Faint pulse, getting fainter, fainter-- While
he had his hand there, he felt the heartbeat stop. Oh, damn.
Ray holstered his weapon and turned the perp over on his
back. Sheez, a bullet made a big hole coming out. Blood
everywhere-- He started CPR, even though he knew it wouldn't be
much use; do what he could. Young guy. Damn--Ray felt wrist-deep
in blood. Big hole. Big hole for the--
He started to get the sick feeling just as a couple more
cop cars and some paramedics screeched up and took over. Big hole
for the front, for the side that should have been toward Ray if the
perp was firing at him. Law of bullets hitting the human body
usually was: little hole going in; big hole going out. Big hole
in the front meant--
Oh, god. He crouched on the other side of the alley,
trying to keep his bloody hands away from his clothes, watching the
paramedics do their thing, half-hearing the wino protesting
indignantly that some people were just trying to get some
sleep, just trying to sleep around here. Oh, god,
big hole in the front meant little hole in the back. In the back.
Ray had shot him in the back.
And there was just so much wrong with that scenario that
Ray didn't even want to think about it.
. . .
Think, Fraser. Think of some reason, some angle,
some explanation for why a perpetrator firing at an officer would
have his back to the target. Turning to run in the split second
before Ray fired? He'd seen Ray in action; no one could turn that
far that quickly. Think, Fraser.
It was difficult. Ray, pale and shaky in the interrogation
room, looking ghastly under the lights, telling his story for the
fifth time. Blood on his cuffs, from performing CPR on the shot
man. Ray looked exhausted. And Fraser could tell that he had
begun to retreat inside himself, to erect those protective barriers
of wariness and jokes.
Think, Fraser. But, watching Ray through the two-way
mirror, Fraser only wanted to gather him into his arms, to
assure him that he would be safe.
"And you never got a good look at him," said one of the
Internal Affairs officers--Sullivan.
"No."
"You just shot."
That sparked anger. "He shot first! I saw a flash; I
aimed; I fired. He shot first! I told you that!"
"You've told us a lot of things," the other IA
officer--Bailey--said. "You've told us about a smashed jewelry window from
which nothing is missing. You've told us about a meeting allegedly
set up by an informant who never showed up. You've told us about
a shot from a gun which--well, Detective Vecchio, it seems to have
vanished. Along with the bullet it allegedly fired. You've told
us a lot of things, Detective Vecchio."
"I think he did it!" There was a triumphant note in that
normally calm voice.
Fraser glanced at the figure at his side. His dead father,
for reasons known only to him, had chosen to appear in his
cold-weather parka.
"Ray doesn't deny shooting the man, Dad. However, it was
in self defense."
"I think he did it. I think he just shot him for no
reason. He's an American. They don't need any reason; they just
shoot each other."
Fraser stifled a sigh. Had the man been this irritating
in life, or did death simply bring out the worst in people?
The silence in the interrogation room lengthened. Fraser
watched Ray's hands ball into fists. Just sit still, Ray,
he thought. He looked at Leftenant Welsh, calmly observing both
the questioners and the questioned from a corner behind Ray.
"You know, Son, I've never approved of this--this
relationship you have with that police officer."
"Oh, you've made that abundantly clear, Dad." Abundantly.
Ray sat for a moment, staring at the IA men. Hold on,
Ray, Fraser thought. Just take a deep breath and--
"I got the call about four-thirty. Rache, a friend of
Alessandra Willson. Said Aless wanted to meet with me and give me
some information--" The words were delivered in a monotone.
"Son, you do know this relationship could have a
devastating effect on your career."
Oh, why talk about this now? Fraser looked at his
father. "Any more devastating than--"
"Oh, that. That'll blow over; if there's anything
I've learned in fifty-some years, it's that eventually people will
forget anything. Except--except something like the relationship
you have with that Yank."
"Ray."
"What?"
"His name is Ray."
"Is he worth all this?" Fraser's father indicated the
station house, the city. "Is he worth staying here, in this--"
His father struggled for words, found none. "Is he worth
jeopardizing your career?"
"Yes, Dad." Ray was worth the stresses of staying in
Chicago; he made staying in Chicago bearable. Ray was worth what
was left of Fraser's career, though Fraser had to admit there
wasn't much career left to jeopardize.
"I just don't want you to wake up one day and wish you'd
done things differently, Son."
"I won't, Dad."
"Well, Detective Vecchio," said Sullivan, "at least you're
consistent."
"It's the truth!"
"Gentlemen, I don't think we're going to get any further
tonight," Leftenant Welsh said. "We're all exhausted; in the
morning we'll have more information to go on. Meanwhile, Detective
Vecchio has given up his weapon for testing and will be assigned
to desk duties."
Fraser could breathe again. Take Ray home, hear his story
again, comfort him, do what he could.
"Detective Vecchio, if there's anything else you'd like to
tell us, we'd be glad to hear it in the morning," said Bailey.
Ray was silent while they left.
"Detective, go home and get some sleep," said Leftenant
Welsh.
"Yes, sir."
"You haven't seen your grandmother, have you?" asked
Fraser's father.
"No."
"Strange." He glanced around the dark room. "I could
swear I feel her--stalking me."
"Hey, Fraze," Ray said when he saw Fraser. "You heard
everything?"
"Yes, Ray. Would you give me a lift home?"
Ray looked wryly at him for a minute. "Sure."
The silence in the Buick on the way home wasn't a
comfortable one. Even Diefenbaker seemed to notice it, nuzzling
Ray as he pulled the automobile up to the curb.
"Quit kissin' me, Dief," Ray said, absently ruffling the
wolf's fur.
Home, where Ray was safe. Diefenbaker whuffed in surprise
at some unexpected scent or sound, then trotted through the entire
apartment, ruff stiff.
"We got mice, Fraser?" Ray said.
"Not to my knowledge. Wolves are--ah--surprisingly good
mousers." Get the bloodstained jacket and shirt off Ray, examine
his hands closely, front and back. Of course it hadn't occured to
Ray to think that the shot man may have had a blood disease, before
he'd administered cardio-pulmonary resuscitation--
"I'm okay, Fraser."
"Of course, Ray."
"I didn't really get all that much blood on me."
"Of course not, Ray." Those hands could use another
scrubbing, though.
Fraser got out a warm shirt for Ray to wear after he'd
scrubbed himself. Now, get some food into him.
"He shot at me, Fraser. He shot right at me. I saw the
flash." Ray was sitting at the table, staring at the red roses
Fraser had bought. "He had a gun, and he shot it at me. He had
to have a gun: I saw a gun, Fraser, I really saw a gun."
Fraser froze in the act of scrambling three eggs. I saw
a gun-- Victoria Metcalfe, reaching for Fraser--and Ray had
seen a gun in her hand, where there wasn't one, and had shot
another man in the back-- You're being melodramatic, Fraser;
why think of that now? Just listen to Ray.
"I saw the flash, and I aimed at it. Well, just a little
to the right, because I wanted to hit him in the shoulder. I
really just wanted to wing him if I could, because I didn't want
to kill him; I just wanted to stop him." Ray looked up as Fraser
brought over the plate of scrambled eggs. His hazel eyes looked
huge in his pale face. "How could I have shot him if I didn't have
the flash to aim at?"
"That's an excellent question, Ray." Fraser sat to watch
Ray eat.
"Yeah--well, think it'll occur to those bozos in IA? Think
they'll think of it? That alley was dark, Fraser:
dark. Think it'll occur to them I had to have something to
aim at?"
"Of course it will, Ray."
"No, it won't. They'll just--they just don't get it, what
it's like out there in real life. They just--" He bent his head
to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth.
Think, Fraser.
Diefenbaker nosed his way into the dining area.
"Hey, Dief, get the mouse yet?" Ray asked, but the wolf was
too busy to listen.
Ray finished the eggs. Fraser slid the mug of hot tea
forward.
"Do I hafta?" said Ray.
Fraser let his gaze answer for him, and Ray sighed noisily
and picked up the mug. Fraser didn't blame him: the tea wasn't
much to his taste, either. But it was a special, soothing blend
that calmed shattered nerves; Eric had sent it after his sojourn
in nerve-jangling Chicago.
"Where's the gun, Fraser? What happened to the gun? There
was a gun, Fraser. Where is it?"
Get him to bed. "We'll find it," said Fraser.
"It hasta be somewhere," Ray was still murmuring as they
lay in bed. The back of his neck was hard as rock under Fraser's
massaging fingers.
"Shhh! We'll find it. We'll find the truth."
"I know. You always find out everything. You won't let
me down."
Silence for a moment.
"This feels good."
"Shh! Relax."
Ray's arms tightened around Fraser. "I'm glad you're here,
Fraser. I'm glad it's you."
Something inside Fraser was glowing like the sun through
a fog. He put his mouth close to Ray's ear and whispered, "So am
I, Ray."
His only answer was quiet breathing.
On to part five
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