|
"Somebody else. Somebody else who took the gun and the
shell casing. Oh, god, Fraser, I shot the wrong guy. But there
was somebody else in that alley. I did see two people
running away from that jewelry store. I thought I saw two, but it
didn't make sense, so I decided it was one."
"You were set up."
"Yeah, but--but they missed. And then Willson caught my
bullet. Oh, Fraser."
"Willson lured you there. He knew you were coming, and he
broke the glass and then ran to get you to that alley." But--
"Aless set me up."
"We don't know that."
"She's his cousin. She set me up."
Something was still wrong. Fraser pushed away his plate.
The diner was quiet this early in the morning--good for thinking.
"Ray, you're setting someone up to be shot. You break the
glass and then run and then duck into the alley. Now, you know
there's an assassin in that alley who's going to shoot a man who's
not only carrying a gun, but who knows how to use it. Do you stand
in front of the assassin, in the man's line of fire, or do
you duck behind the steel trash bin in that alley?"
"Fraser, are you saying Willson was standing in
front of the shooter?"
"It's the only logical scenario. The assassin was on his
knees, aiming at you; you'd have noticed if someone in front of
Willson was trying to get away. You'd have at least heard it.
And, besides--" Fraser took a deep breath. This was a painful
part of the explanation. "--Willson was shot in the back,
as he was turning--"
Ray caught what he was saying. "Turning to look back at
somebody."
"Someone doing something unexpected, or else he wouldn't
have turned to see what was going on."
"Somebody shooting at the cop who'd been chasing him.
Kneeling beside the bin, shooting at the cop."
"Who shot back and hit Brendan Willson."
"Because the cop aimed right of the flash--the cop's
right."
"Just as the assassin knew he would."
Ray's face was relaxing for the first time since the
shooting. "So they weren't setting up just the cop."
Fraser felt his own brow unfurrow. "They were also setting
up Brendan Willson."
"Which is a very interesting theory," Leftenant Welsh told
them the next morning. "But, gentlemen, IA requires more than just
interesting theories. IA likes shell casings, carefully left where
they were ejected. They like spent bullets, from which they can
measure trajectories. What they do not like is theories based
solely on the shooter's memory of the events. And what they
especially do not like, Detective Vecchio--" His voice was
growing harder. "--is police detectives who investigate their own
shootings. I have worked diligently to keep you from being
suspended. I would hate to have to ask for your shield, but I will
do it if necessary. Is that clear?"
"I'm dead, Fraser." Ray sat dejectedly at his desk,
deforming a paperclip.
"Not yet, Ray."
"No, Fraser, it's just a matter of time."
"Well, Ray, the Inuit have a--"
Ray pointed the paperclip at him. "Fraser, if you give me
some Inuit saying about how it ain't over 'till the fat walrus
sings, I swear I'm--"
The pile of paper that dropped on the desk between them was
a welcome distraction. "Printout on Seggebruch," said Elaine.
"And--" She glanced at Leftenant Welsh's office and lowered her
voice. "--what you asked for," she said to Fraser, handing him a
folder.
"Thank you kindly, Elaine," he said.
Ray's eyes were wide. "What you--"
"Federal records. On--ah--" By telling Ray, would Fraser
be violating the leftenant's unspoken command?
"On Willson."
"Ah--that would be correct."
"Let me see."
Fraser shook his head firmly.
"Fraser, let me see!"
"Ray, that would be violating the leftenant's order."
"Fraser, it's me. It's my life we're talking about here."
"Ray--"
"Is a Canadian actually supposed to have an American's
personal FBI file?"
Now, that would come under the-- No, it would be covered
by Section IX, paragraph 16 of the-- Except at the district level,
when it would be-- But not in Kansas.
"Fine!" said Ray. "Keep it to yourself! I got a printout
of my own to look at."
Ah. Good. Fraser hastily skimmed the information.
Brendan Willson, age 32, was either one of the worst or one of the
unluckiest criminals Fraser had ever seen. Focus: that was what
Mr. Willson had lacked. Trafficking in stolen goods, smash and
grab, grand theft auto (twice), trafficking in illegal arms,
driving under the influence of alcohol, breaking and entering,
assault, violating parole--the man was a walking model of
recidivism.
"Hmmm," said Ray.
Fraser looked at him expectantly. Ray glanced at him
pointedly, then turned the page and looked back down at his
printout. Ah--so they were going to play that game. Well,
Fraser wasn't really interested, anyway.
Brendan Willson's Social Security Number began with the
numbers 361. Fraser closed his eyes and called up a mental picture
of the chart he had studied.... Issued in Illinois.
Characteristically, he was not on file with the American Internal
Revenue Service. Add tax fraud to his crimes.
"Mmhmm," said Ray.
Fraser did not take the bait. He ran his eye down
Willson's arrest records. The crimes had taken place in a variety
of states: Illinois, Louisiana, Arkansas, Texas-- He looked at
the dates of those crimes, searching for something more recent than
three months ago, when Willson had been bailed out on a burglary
charge in Texas and dropped out of sight--
"Oh, my god." Ray's voice wasn't teasing this time.
Fraser looked up, but Ray was staring, puzzled, into space.
"I didn't think of that," he murmured.
"Of what?"
"Of-- This guy--this Seggebruch--he was arrested for
faking ATM cards. I didn't even think about who could fake an ATM
card. He could have; probably a bunch of computer geeks could.
You think that's how somebody deposited all that money to my
account? Fake ATM card made by some computer geek?"
"Where's Mr. Seggebruch from?"
Ray flipped through the file. "Texas. Austin."
A cold knife seemed to pierce Fraser's vitals. "Mr.
Willson is also from Texas. University of Texas. In Austin."
"It's a big city. You think they knew each other?"
"The coincidence seems--suggestive." I figured I'd go
to Dallas, or maybe Austin--someplace warm, she had said, her
lovely face glowing. Get a fresh start. He shut down the
memory.
"Probably just that, though: coincidence. Like I said,
big city. And these two don't strike me as the type that would--
Oh, god, I'm dead."
Fraser turned to see State's Attorney Louise St. Laurent
marching into Leftenant Welsh's office, casting a cool glance at
Ray. Sullivan was with her.
"Oh, god, this is it, Fraser. They're gonna ask for my
badge. Ah, geez, Fraser, I'm dead."
. . .
He was dead. It was just going to happen a day later than
Ray had thought. He had known yesterday when he'd seen Louise
going into Welsh's office, but today's session with IA just
confirmed it. Dead and about to lose his shield. So dead he
couldn't really feel anything as he watched the videotape IA
played.
There was Brendan Willson, a little fuzzy in the uncertain
focus of the ATM camera, doing at little banking at the machine at
20th and West Octavia at 9:02 P.M. on October 15--the exact place
and time and date on the receipt they'd found in his wallet.
Brendan Willson, making a little deposit into the Vecchio account.
And more. Shot of Brendan Willson doing a little banking
at 4:15 P.M. on October 4, at a machine across from the station
house. And Willson using a machine on September 25. And September
18. And August 29. And--
Ray closed his eyes. Brendan Willson making cash deposits
into the Vecchio account. In a weird way, Ray felt--violated.
That was his family's money, and a slimeball had had access to it.
Stupid to feel that way, but--
"Now, there's something very interesting in the timing
here, Detective," said Bailey. He slid a piece of paper across the
table to Ray. "If you look right--here, I think you'll
notice something very--interesting."
It was a list of the dates of deposit; and it was a list
of the dates of-- Ray looked closer and felt his heart stop. It
was a list of the dates he'd brought Alessandra Willson in on a
charge or for questioning or because she'd promised him some
information.
And for the last two months there'd been a deposit just
after every visit.
"I'm not sure what you're getting at," he said.
"Did Mr. Willson do all your banking?" Louise asked.
"I didn't even know Willson before the sixteenth."
"But you do know--Alessandra." She dropped a mug shot on
the table: Aless in her cheerleader-hooker outfit.
"Yes. She's an informant."
"Only an informant, Detective?"
"And a pickpocket and a fence."
"But nothing else." Sullivan, looking bored.
"No."
"Did you know she was Willson's cousin?" Bailey asked.
"I didn't know Brendan Willson. I didn't trace her family
tree."
"Why did Mr. Willson deposit so much money into your
account?"
"I don't know."
"How did he get your automatic teller machine card?"
"He didn't have my card. He must of had a fake."
"Why didn't you report this activity to the bank?"
Sullivan.
"I didn't know about it."
"Didn't know about deposits to your own account."
"My mother takes care of that account."
"But your name is on it."
"I'm head of the house."
"But your mother takes care of the account."
"We're Italian."
Sullivan, Bailey, and Louise St. Laurent just stared at
him; Guerra, his attorney, quirked his mouth in a smile.
"Why would Mr. Willson make these deposits into your
account?" asked Louise.
And it just kept going around and around like that, over
and over, until they ended by asking for his shield; and the whole
time Ray was asking these same questions in his own mind and
getting no answers.
He never seemed to have answers for IA--at least, not the
kind that was any help. Not this time, not the last time, when
they were asking about Victoria Metcalfe setting up the Mountie so
he had no choice but to go with her. Money. It always seemed to
come down to money and to disgrace and to somebody betraying
somebody else by setting them up; and Ray never seemed to have the
answers that would make everything all right.
He still had no answers the next day, after an evening
spent looking for Aless and Rache, and a night spent listening to
Fraser not sleeping either. No answers during a day of puttering
around the apartment and walking through half of Chicago with Dief,
who had opted to stay with Ray instead of going to the station
house with Fraser: "He's protecting you, Ray," Fraser had said
that morning; "He knows I'm having pizza for lunch," said Ray. And
no answers from going around to Aless's addresses again even though
he wasn't supposed to.
Ray stopped for coffee and donuts at a little place on
Racine: bad coffee and good donuts, though he ended up giving them
to Dief. The coffee was just something hot to drink while he
thought.
Somebody hated him, but not enough to kill him. Or maybe
too much to kill him: the kind of cold hate that wanted him alive
to suffer. What would happen to Ray if he wasn't cleared? A lot.
He'd lose his job. And he'd be tried for murder, at the very
least. Probably tack on some connection with Willson--bribery or
something. Disgrace; and prison. Prison, knowing he hadn't done
anything, knowing he'd been set up. Away from his family, away
from Fraser--
Oh, god, who hated him that much? Well, a lot of people.
But who hated him this much and would come up with something this
complicated? Who hated him who even could come up with
something this complicated? Only one person he could think of.
"If you hurt him, I'll kill you"--just tossed off to let
her know he didn't really trust her. And that look she'd given
him: fire and hate. Now, she could come up with something
like this.
Victoria Metcalfe. Fraser's long-lost love, the girl he'd
had to arrest. Intense days in a snowstorm that had seared
Fraser's soul for life; and then he'd taken her in like a good
little Mountie and tried to live with the choice he'd made to
follow duty instead of his heart. When she'd come to Chicago:
Romeo and Juliet. Days of bliss, during which Fraser had gotten
so swept up he'd completely forgotten Ray. Ray tried not to think
about how much that had hurt, that Fraser had forgotten the special
guys' night Ray had planned....
Days of bliss, during which Victoria had gotten her hook
well into Fraser and set in motion his eventual fall. Then murder
and betrayal and Fraser being arrested; and IA grilling Ray as
Fraser's possible accomplice; and Fraser dancing to Victoria's
tune, obeying her in a gut-churning effort to prove he wouldn't
betray her again and to keep Ray out of jail. And then the
sickening scene at Union Station, where Fraser's plan to catch her
changed in a horrifying instant to Fraser letting her go and even
trying to go with her even though it meant Ray would lose the house
he'd put up as bail, to Fraser running after the train and into the
path of Ray's bullet.
Not for the first time, Ray felt the agony of that horrible
two weeks wash through him. What kind of love would make a man
who worshipped honor betray his friend? What kind of passion would
make a man so devoted to duty let a murderer go free? Was
it love? Did Fraser still feel that way about her? Would he do
the same kind of thing for Ray?
Stop it, Vecchio. It isn't her. Victoria was far,
far away, since she knew what was good for her. Besides, Fraser
was over her; he had Ray now. The Victoria part of his life was
over. No, she was far, far away, and she wouldn't be stupid enough
to come back to Chicago. No, it was somebody else.
He bought Dief another donut and took them both home.
Just about when Fraser was due home, Ray's little flip-phone
rang. He made the mistake of answering it. "Vecchio."
The words coming from the other end were sharp as knives.
"Ma?" said Ray.
The voice didn't acknowledge that he'd said anything; it
just went on with what it had to say, laying his heart open and
flaying his soul.
"Ma, I--"
The voice didn't listen; it hissed a final sentence in
Italian, and the line went dead.
"Ray?" It was Fraser.
Ray swallowed bile and closed the phone before tossing it
onto the table. "Ma," he said. "I've just tripled the disgrace
to my family--as if that was possible. IA searched the house.
She's been disgraced in front of the neighbors by her filthy,
homosexual son who's living like an animal with another guy and
murdering people on the side. I'm paraphrasing."
"Ray--"
"And now he's involved his innocent family. His innocent,
church-going, heterosexual family--"
"Ray."
He was done, anyway. "IA came in, searched the house, took
that cash you left--"
"Ray, I didn't leave any money."
"Sure you did! Last week. That money you put
through the mail slot."
"Ray, I didn't--leave--any money."
Ray stared at him for a minute. Oh, god. "Oh, god,
somebody--like those deposits. Cash. Like those deposits. You
think Willson...."
"I don't know what to think."
"But it's like those deposits IA thinks Willson made for
me. They think I--"
Fraser was holding him now, wrapping Ray in warmth. "Ray,
it doesn't do to get excited. There's a perfectly logical
explanation for all this, and we'll find it."
"Yeah. The logical explanation is that I'm being set up."
"Yes, and we'll find the perpetrator. Meanwhile, we have
to keep our wits about us."
Funny, but that calmed him. Something about Fraser coming
right out and saying there was a set up made it easier to bear.
Or maybe the feeling of those strong arms around him. Fraser would
fix things; Fraser always fixed things.
Fraser was quiet at supper, but then Ray didn't feel much
like talking, either. When his little flip-phone rang again, his
heart hammered, though he wasn't sure whether it was with hope or
with fear.
It was Welsh. He didn't sound happy.
"IA wants to talk to me," Ray told Fraser after Welsh had
hung up. "Tomorrow. IA wants to talk to me tomorrow." Oh, god,
don't let this be it-- He thrust the thought away.
Fraser was clearing the table. "Perhaps there's been a
break in the case."
"Maybe I'm what's supposed to break."
"In that case, they wouldn't wait until tomorrow; they
would ask to see you now."
Oh, god, let that be right.
"Can you come with me tomorrow?"
"Of course, Ray! The only reason I went to the Consulate
this afternoon is that there's so much to do with the reception for
the Mexican Ambassador on the thirty-first, especially with the
Musical Ride coming through--"
"I can't believe they're coming back for more after what
happened last time. Are Canadians natural gluttons for punishment,
or something?"
"Now, Ray, I can't imagine the Musical Ride would become
involved in a nuclear incident twice in the same decade. Of
course, there were those incidents involving grenades in 1907 and
in 1909, but that was just freak timing--"
Twit the Mountie. Spend a cosy evening with him walking
around the slum spots of Chicago, looking at addresses Rache's
school records had turned up. To bed early.
They just sat quietly in bed for a little while, not really
ready for sleep, but getting there. Willson, shootings, money:
everything was whirling around in Ray's head, getting all mixed up
in there. Somebody hated him enough to be doing all this. It all
was coming down to money and betrayal and unending hate--
"I'm being set up, Fraser."
"I know."
"Doing a damn good job of it, too."
"Yes."
Okay, now for it. He drew breath. "Remind you of anybody
you know?"
Fraser was still for a minute; then his head jerked around
so he was looking at Ray. "It's not--" He didn't finish, just
looked at Ray with wide eyes that were already starting to seem
distant: that walled-in look Fraser had had when he and Ray had
first met. Fraser in pain, retreating into himself. That distant
look sliced into Ray like a razor-edged knife.
"It couldn't be," Fraser said.
"Her M.O.," Ray said.
"It--she wouldn't--how would she--"
"She's done it before."
"Where would she get the money?"
"There's more than one bank to rob."
"No." Fraser's voice was firm. "Perhaps Frank Zuko--"
"Maybe. But Zuko likes pain and blood and real fast
endings. This is way too subtle for him."
"You have--" Fraser's voice was rough. "You have--other--enemies."
Ray filled his lungs, emptied them. "Yeah, you're right,"
he said. "Probably somebody I don't even remember. Lot of perps
with a lot of time to plan out something like this."
But something was in the room with them now, chilling the
air. Something or--someone. When they smooched and slid down
under the blanket, Fraser didn't curl around him like usual; Ray
didn't snuggle up to him. Instead, they lay side by side, like two
guys who only kind of liked each other, until they fell asleep.
Next morning, they woke wrapped around each other as usual.
And they kissed, as usual.
But, getting dressed, Fraser seemed nervy; he didn't seem
to want to get too far from Ray, dressing right beside him, tugging
Ray's jacket straight, brushing off lint Ray couldn't see, fussing
over dust on Ray's shoes--like Ray was going to disappear if Fraser
wasn't careful.
Or like Fraser was protecting him.
Ray's heart felt soft as applesauce. He took Fraser's face
in his hands, smiled into his eyes, and leaned in to give Fraser
a good, solid damn-I-love-you! kiss that seemed to last
about three weeks.
Fraser's arms were stone walls protecting him. Eyes
closed, Ray wrapped his arms around Fraser and rested his head on
wool to breathe in the leather and wool and warm-skin fragrance of
the Mountie. Every Mountie muscle seemed tense. Fraser held him
tight, tighter--
"It's gonna be okay, Fraser," Ray murmured.
"I know." The words came too quick.
"Really okay."
"Of course, Ray." But Fraser's fingers seemed to clutch
him.
And when they broke from the embrace to go have breakfast,
Fraser's face was soft with something that looked a little like
fear. Ray watched him take a deep breath and slip on his
upright-Mountie expression before they went through the door; but his eyes
were apprehensive.
And it occured to Ray to wonder if Fraser was being
protective of Ray--or of himself, clutching for support in the face
of what he was afraid he might do if Victoria Metcalfe came back
for another try.
He wondered it all the way down to the car and halfway to
the diner.
. . .
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.
On to part seven
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