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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.
. . .
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.
On to part nine
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