Red and Black
by Mary H Healey
Red and black. Flame and darkness. A sea of liquid fire, embraced by ebon air. The world reduced to crimson pain and jet oblivion. A tiny figure floats gently among the flamewaves, struggling weakly toward inky velvet. Agony relieved by brief, hard-won gulps of sable forgetfulness. He strains weakened arms and legs to regain the dark. Nerveless jelly, his limbs betray him and he slips again into the scarlet wash.
Alone, he waits for the voice that could release him from the ocean of searing anguish. Alone, he hears other voices, some familiar, some feared. Alone, he waits for one voice, one touch alone that will bring peace. That voice remains unheard; the sure, gentle touch unfelt.
He loses the blessed night, and sinks deeper into the warm conflagration; flickering torment lighting new awareness along abused nerves. He fights to return to the dark, to escape encompassing red into black. Fights with all his strength, all his will, all the determination and skill honed over a lifetime. And failing, falls.
Gradually, shapes loom through the crimson fog. A soft voice, harsh with old pain and new regrets. A deft touch, soothing and strange. New voices, words spoken around him, over him, through him. Lax muscles, aching from disuse. Comfort drew him, and he moved.
Restraints secured him. He screamed aloud until the needle prick, then silently while the fog thickened to blood, closed over him, and at last drowned his cries. Swamped in pain, overturned by terror, he dwelled at the depths of the red ocean between unpleasant forays into the waking world.
He never heard the voice. Waited a lifetime, would wait an eternity, but never heard the only voice that mattered.
Not that there was silence. In the spaces between machine-noise and the desultory speech of underpaid custodians, his father spoke in alternating exhortations and platitudes. Hearty appeals to filial duty, family honor, and esprit de corps fell on uncomprehending ears. He fled from shouts and demands, the desperation clear. His father was no help in this. No amusing folksy tale could bring health and wholeness to the shatter of his life.
Eventually, his father's voice was smothered under his own unrelenting silence. He wanted no witnesses to his suffering.
In time, he learned to ride the receding pain. Bruises faded, bones knit, his body healed, but he lurked behind unfocused blue eyes when consciousness was unavoidable. He fought his own returning strength as he'd fought for the darkness, with the same disappointing result.
He grew accustomed to the routine of his new life, but refused to participate until an especially tender caretaker surprised him into a hoarse "thank you". Her excitement brought witnesses, too many people. Overwhelmed, he gratefully used their disquiet as an excuse to submerge again.
More and more, the waking world demanded his presence. He chose the moments between rounds, the late-night quiet, the silent times of greatest change to peer cautiously through his own eyes. Bolder, he watched the ruby liquid that comprised his existence transmute to clear. He hung suspended in crystal tears and surfaced briefly but often.
He played in the space between self and other, relearned the limits of his transfigured body. A strange presence, patient and curious, watched his tentative exploration. Aided him without interfering. Became familiar through repetition and safe through experience.
When he could postpone the moment no longer, he acknowledged the persistent stranger with a direct, appraising look. The subtle transformation was recognized with an equally faint smile. They remained like that for awhile, the stranger comfortable under silent scrutiny. He remained poised to flee. Inasmuch as it were possible to flee without moving.
The stranger spoke quietly, "Do you remember your name?"
Three attempts were needed to answer. The first to show intent, the second to prepare the way. The third let him grate out, "Benton Fraser." He wondered far more than he replied.
"Welcome back, Benton. I'm Dr. Jensen. You've given us all quite a scare." The doctor tilted his head slightly and peered at Fraser through wide gray eyes made huge behind wire-framed glasses. "Do you remember what happened? How you were injured?"
Even through the rust of disuse, the dryness of his reply was clear. "Vividly."
"Would you tell me about it?" Neutral.
"No." Equally neutral.
"Benton, I've seen your medical charts. The damage to your body was . . . extensive."
"Permanent?" His throat tightened.
Gray eyes flickered, slid sideways. "Perhaps. It's too soon to know. I'm more concerned about emotional damage."
A tiny spark of amused defiance informed his reply. "It's too soon to know."
The doctor acknowledged the hit with a brief nod. "How do you feel?"
Fraser took a moment to inventory his physical condition, and was horrified by his body's sluggishness. "Tired. Aching. Weak." He flexed fingers, wrists, ankles experimentally. "Left hand. Right . . . hip? Ribs. There's tightness in my abdomen. Incision scars? How long have I been here?"
"Nearly six months."
Almost before the answer registered, he asked, "When can I leave?"
"When you can walk out the door," Dr. Jensen assured him. "But not today. It'll probably take five or six months of intense physical therapy before you'll be ready to think about leaving. The rehab aides have done their best to maintain range of motion for you, but they've been discouraged by your, er, somewhat vigorous resistance."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I'd like to start physical therapy as soon as possible."
"I'll get it set up. Try to sleep, Benton, you've got a long road to travel yet." Dr. Jensen scribbled a few notes on his clipboard. Ben obediently closed his eyes. The last sounds he heard were the soft scrape of the doctor's chair and a whisper of starched cloth.
Now that they knew he was aware, they spoke to him more than around him. He schooled himself to withstand their curiosity, to stand fast against stampeding terror. The aides were pleasant, concerned. One or two even tried to flirt with him. He fled again to the crystal sea.
Daylight again, and Dr. Jensen waited quietly to be noticed. Fraser had only one concern. "Diefenbaker?"
"The prime minister?"
"My wolf."
"You own a wolf?"
Fraser struggled to clarify without babbling. "Not exactly. Sometimes I think he owns me. We coexist, Diefenbaker and I . . . I need to know what's happened to him."
"I'll make some calls and try to find out," Dr. Jensen promised, writing a quick reminder. Fraser waited silently, too polite for demands but too worried to wait. Jensen held out against Fraser's steady regard for almost a minute. "Why don't I go make those calls now? Get some rest and I'll be back when I know something."
Ben stared out the window at a gray and lowering sky. His hip ached, as it had done since he'd first awakened. He had endured back spasms in the night, the contractions leaving a ghostly twinge. Sleep eluded him, laughing. He watched the swirls of storm-darkened clouds chase one another with agility he already knew he'd never again match.
Dr. Jensen was away for thirty-two minutes, and considerately knocked before entering. "I called the Chicago Consulate and asked about your wolf. I was told he's being cared for by a man named Turnbull, and that you needn't worry. They send best wishes."
Turnbull and Diefenbaker. Fraser allowed this information to reassure him, resolutely suppressing the images of disaster that immediately floated through his mind. The doctor's words reminded him of his next concern. "Where am I?"
The doctor's eyebrows appeared briefly over the rims of his glasses. "This is a long-term care facility, Benton. Don't you remember?"
Impatiently, Fraser shrugged. "I recognize my surroundings, Dr. Jensen, that wasn't what I meant. We're not in Chicago, are we?"
Relieved, Jensen replied, "Toronto. Your commanding officer felt that you should be treated in a Canadian hospital."
"My commanding officer was not authorized to make that decision."
"Your medical records indicated that the named designee was unavailable."
Half to himself, Fraser murmured, "Ray was in Florida. They waited until he was out of town."
"Who waited?"
"The men who assaulted me."
"What else do you remember?"
Fraser looked up sharply. "Everything. And, no, I don't wish to talk of it."
"Benton, you can't pretend it never happened. Talking helps."
"Doctor, I am not in denial. I simply don't care to dwell on the unpleasant past. I wonder if the Chicago police expect a statement?"
Jensen smiled thinly. "I could make a few more calls. Not to belabor a sore point, but I'd take your statement if you'd like to make one."
"Satisfying the law and your own interest?"
"My interest is professional, Benton. My experience is that assault victims heal more quickly when they can talk about what's happened to them."
Ben sighed. "As you wish."
. . . . . . . . . .
Thirteen months after the attack, Fraser limped out of the building that had been his home for nearly a year. Despite hours of work and the therapists' best efforts, his right hip still bothered him enough to require medication.
No one was there to greet him, to congratulate him, or to accompany him to the inexpensive rented room he'd selected for his first night on his own. The initial flood of sympathy cards and communications dried to a trickle as time passed and well-wishers moved on to other concerns. Fraser maintained a sporadic correspondence with Turnbull, primarily for Diefenbaker's sake, but didn't feel ready to face either one in person.
He already knew Thatcher had transferred to some position so secretive that contact with her was forbidden. His treasured few belongings had been sent north to his cabin, and included the addition of a cryptic note in Thatcher's precise but looping longhand. "Turnbull has gathered your belongings and packed them for storage. He had a regrettable altercation with your lamp, but I've enclosed what I hope is a suitable replacement.
"I was asked to inform you that Lt. Welsh and the detectives of the 27th have engaged all their considerable resources to resolving the matter of your assault. They have behaved with commendable acumen through this ordeal. Detective Vecchio has taken a special assignment, hoping to bring the case to a timelier conclusion. He asked me to oversee your care and treatment, and agreed that you might recover more fully on Canadian soil.
"I have, it seems, applied for an expedited transfer to CSIS. The application itself escapes my memory, probably swept away by my 'disproportionate concern' with your case, and by 'excessive time spent inappropriately meddling with local law enforcement.' Apparently, Ottawa's tolerance for impromptu investigations is lower than my own. How you managed to escape censure for similar interference in all but one instance is a source of continual amazement. And admiration.
"Your attention to detail and devotion to the spirit of justice has been an inspiration to those fortunate to serve with you. You have always embodied the best qualities of the RCMP, and provided a standard to which others might aspire. It has been a privilege to have you under my command.
"Your friend,
"Margaret Thatcher
"The reading lamp was one he'd often seen her squinting under in her office, small and powerful. Rather like the Inspector herself. Both the note and the lamp retained their place among his father's journals and other mementos.
He removed only one small object from among the things Turnbull had packed. The cigarette lighter was in the nature of a private joke, one that started when the lighter was the only surviving part from Ray's original Riv. After Ray shot the gas tank and sacrificed that vehicle, Fraser tried to return the lighter, but Ray had told him to keep it and be on the lookout for a car to surround it with.
Ray had found another Riv, but it and its lighter had been destroyed in the explosion that killed Louis Gardino. The third hunter-green Riviera was missing its lighter, but Ray had insisted that Fraser take custody of the rare and valuable part. That way, he said, he knew at least a little piece of his car would always survive. Some people carry a rabbit's foot for luck; Fraser carried the lighter from a classic automobile. On the day he was attacked, he'd left the three-inch metal cylinder on his desk instead of tucking it into his uniform as he usually did. A mistake he wouldn't repeat.
His RCMP discharge hearing had been postponed, at his request, for another two months. He had eight weeks to restore the strength and stamina that would allow him to remain a Mountie.
He headed north, to prove himself in the harsh embrace of the Arctic wilderness. He knew no better forum to demonstrate fitness than survival on the tundra, even in the relative comfort of late summer. Minimally equipped, fully confident, he put aside worries and concerns that weren't immediately urgent, and sought to reclaim his career through the practice of long-familiar skills.
. . . . . . . . . .
Sixty-two days after he was discharged from the nursing home, Benton Fraser attended a hearing convened to decide his future. Gaunt and windburned, he raised no objections and made no pleas. He accepted the disability ruling without protest. Head bowed, he thanked the panel for their time and slowly limped away.
. . . . . . . . . .
Four months after his discharge hearing, Fraser stood nervously in front of a plain wooden door in Fredericton, New Brunswick. He heard a soft, pleasant murmuring from within. He knocked, hesitant. The voice broke off, and feet trod lightly over worn floorboards.
"Who is it?" The voice was low, almost musical, something Fraser had never noticed before. Vocal quality was probably not all he'd missed.
"Benton Fraser."
The door was yanked open immediately. Before he could prepare, an apron-clad and ecstatic Turnbull smothered Fraser, encasing still-tender ribs in an enthusiastic and well-meant embrace. Ben winced, successfully fought the urge to panic, and managed to smile weakly in answer to Turnbull's obvious delight.
"Come in, sir, come in! Diefenbaker, look who's here!" Turnbull pulled Fraser into the small room, wary of refusal and patting Fraser's arm to reassure one or perhaps both of them that his visitor was real.
Dief looked up and yawned as only a wolf can.
"Diefenbaker," chided Turnbull. "Aren't you glad to see Constable Fraser?"
"Ben," Fraser corrected gently. Turnbull looked shocked. Fraser smiled and reminded him, "Dief and I are on a first-name basis. You've taken wonderful care of him."
"Thank you, sir. I don't know why he's so lethargic."
"He probably resents my being away for so long. I remember being the same way when my father would come home after a long absence." Fraser inspected the room while Diefenbaker decided whether to greet or ignore him. From experience, he knew indifference would turn the balance in his favor.
The room was plain, starker than even Fraser's taste for simplicity found comfortable. A narrow cot leaned drunkenly against one wall. Turnbull's few articles of clothing were hung carefully from a wire strung between two hooks driven into the bare walls, boots in a soldierly line beneath, and a box Fraser presumed contained unmentionables was tucked tidily in the corner. Dief's leash and collar had their own hook beside the door. A single, lopsided chair rested against an equally unbalanced card table, exhausted.
The only comforts belonged to Diefenbaker. A huge plush pillow billowed across the floor beside the cot. Spotless ceramic dishes lay neatly on a woven mat, the only floor covering in the room. The blue bowl was filled with clean water, the brown heaped with kibble. 'Dief' had been lovingly inscribed on the bowls and the rug.
They chatted for awhile about Turnbull's new job. At long last, he seemed to have found a posting that suited his considerable but highly specialized talents. Beyond content, he spent his days cleaning, categorizing, and filing, tasks his fellow officers and commander were pleased to give over into his large hands. He couldn't say enough about their appreciation and praise, while downplaying his own efforts.
Diefenbaker eventually relented, and laid his head on Fraser's left thigh as the men talked of general matters. They had tea, and sat sipping quietly in gentle accord. Fraser asked about Dief, what his day was like in this new place. They finished the pot of Earl Grey while Turnbull related stories about Dief's friends and amusing habits and astonishing intelligence.
Diefenbaker was clearly comfortable in his changed circumstances. Being pampered and catered to suited his belief in the proper scheme of things, yet he did his part to foster good relations between the townspeople and the Mounties without complaint. In fact, he hadn't grumbled once about anything he'd been expected to do; Turnbull had a way of making his commands seem like suggestions that, quite frankly, Fraser had never mastered.
The big man was devoted to the wolf. He arranged his life around the animal, scheduling outings and activities to best include his four-footed friend. They shared takeaway dinners twice a week and walked the same winding route for exercise every day. Turnbull sheepishly confessed he had trouble sleeping without the sound of Dief snoring beside him.
They walked a bit afterward, Turnbull and Dief in turn showing Fraser the highlights and amusements of the town. Tactfully, Turnbull pretended not to notice Fraser's limp, and steered the trio toward home far short of a full circuit of the neighborhood. Fraser suppressed the annoyance he felt at being treated as a cripple, however gentle that treatment was, in the fair-minded recognition that Turnbull was only being a considerate host.
In the end, Fraser left Dief with Turnbull, and followed another loose end to Chicago.
. . . . . . . . . .
No one paid attention to the worn man as he walked slowly past the main desk at the 27th district station house late one April afternoon. Busy with their own concerns, they left him alone, unrecognized. In the crowded hallway three officers and a struggling suspect slammed into his right side and he reeled from the sudden pain, leaning against the shabby wall until he could catch his breath.
A woman he didn't recognize occupied the front squad room desk. A glance at the nameplate confirmed that it was no longer Elaine's desk. He wondered what else had changed in the nearly two years.
The woman looked at him impatiently. With a start, he realized he was expected to state his business. "I'd like to see Detective Vecchio, please. Detective Raymond Vecchio," he explained to her puzzled face.
"Just a moment, please," she said, picking up the telephone and dialing rapidly. She covered her mouth and the receiver with her free hand, and Fraser glanced away, ashamed to be thought an eavesdropper. The brief conversation completed, she replaced the handset and spoke again. "Wait here, please. The lieutenant wants to see you."
Fraser looked up and saw Welsh emerging from his office. The older man stared suspiciously at Fraser, a look of challenge he'd seen directed at subordinates and suspects alike. He was about to speak when Welsh nodded once, growled "in my office" and returned to his lair. Fraser hurried after him as quickly as his aching hip would permit, and shut the door behind them.
"Fraser."
"Lieutenant."
"What brings you here, Fraser?" The suspicion remained.
Fraser had expected a slightly more enthusiastic welcome, but didn't let the coolness of the greeting sway him from his purpose. "Actually, sir, I was here to see Detective Vecchio. Eventually, I'd like to confer with whoever was working on my assault case, but my primary purpose was to speak to Ray."
"I'm sorry, Fraser, but that isn't possible. You were supposed to be notified. Inspector Thatcher assured me she would get word to you."
"Inspector Thatcher left me a note, sir. In it, she mentions that Ray was given a special assignment, but confided no details. She is incommunicado, and has been since she transferred away from the Consulate. Notified of what, sir?" A dull abdominal pain added its throbbing pang to the usual cacophony of protests from his back, hand, and hip.
Welsh looked at him with steady sympathy. "Ray Vecchio is dead, Fraser. He was killed in the line of duty more than a year ago."
"I see." To his surprise, his voice sounded almost normal. Far away, but normal. "I wasn't told."
"As to the other matter, the case is closed."
"Closed? They were apprehended, then? I received no notification of that either. What was the outcome?"
The older man found something fascinating on his desk blotter. Too intriguing to meet Fraser's eyes. "They weren't found. They won't be found. We didn't close the case because we wanted to, Fraser. I had orders." He looked up, a sweeping glance that met Fraser's in passing but came to rest far above them both. To the ceiling fan, Welsh said deliberately, "I still have orders."
"I see." He seemed to be repeating himself, and the burly American was talking to the walls.
The lieutenant's attention left the fixtures. "Fraser, you don't see. Huey and I were working on it, day and night. We had leads, we were cooking. We wanted it all wrapped up neat and ready to go before Vecchio got here from Florida, and he caught the first available flight."
The desk blotter regained its allure. "We met here for a consultation, to make sure all the bases were covered. Nobody wanted to screw up, Fraser. I wanted to give Vecchio a rundown so he didn't do something impetuous and mess things up. Elaine brought a video in while everyone was together like that. She didn't see who delivered it. Nobody knew what was on it. I swear, Fraser, all we were thinking about was getting the bastards, and this tape lands on my desk labeled 'the Mountie case'. So I didn't check the tape before I ran it."
Welsh dug around his desk, shuffling the professional and personal contents of the largest lower drawer until he found the cassette. He pulled the media cart around to face the visitor's chair, and put the video into the VCR. He moved the VCR a quarter-turn to the right as white noise hissed through the office. Welsh pulled the blinds, shut off the overhead light, and locked his office door, then returned to his chair, sitting heavily on the unforgiving surface. Chin settled on clasped hands, he watched Fraser closely, sadly.
Fraser viewed the display silently, almost passively. After a few minutes,
Welsh raised the remote control and pressed fast-forward without
looking at the screen. Just as well. Fraser knew the images couldn't hurt him
further, but the memories evoked were still raw, even flashing past
ridiculously quick. Welsh found the section he wanted Fraser to see by
checking the display numbers and released the button. He allowed the
tape to unfold in real time for another minute or two, then pressed Stop.
Neither man spoke until the tape was rewound, unloaded from the VCR, and the media cart returned to its usual place beside the filing cabinets. Fraser realized Welsh was waiting for his reactions. He was somewhat interested to note the tears running unchecked over his own cheeks; they seemed to be unrelated to the numbness that pressed so strongly against his chest.
Calmly, he ventured, "The first section seems clear enough. Was the second the reason the investigation was closed?"
"No. Well, yes and no. There was already an ongoing Federal case, and they get precedence. They've also got jurisdiction from the international angle. They wanted to shut us down, so they did."
"Ottawa would not permit it."
"Ottawa got some kind of deal, too, Fraser. That's how they play this game. One Mountie, damaged on American soil, has some finite political value. You were just another token on the board."
"I see. Who was present when you first played this tape?"
Welsh sadly ticked off the names. "Me. Vecchio. Jack Huey. Thatcher. A couple of Feds. State's Attorney St. Laurent. And Francesca."
"Francesca Vecchio?"
"She and Ray came straight to the station. She'd picked him up at the airport and in all the excitement, we forgot about her."
"I see." It was all too clear. "And Ray died a few months later?"
"Yes." A pause, then realization burst over Welsh's deceptively sleepy features. It wasn't the tape, Fraser, or anything on it. It was an accident, bad luck. Ray was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Of course, Lieutenant. Ray wouldn't walk into a bullet any more than his fellow officers would neglect to watch his back."
"It was neither of those. Ray got caught in a drive-by while he was checking in with an informant. I swear to you, Fraser, on . . . on Gardino's grave and my honor as an officer, Ray's death was nothing to do with that tape."
Colorless eyes gone flat with grief and control regarded the cop calmly. "I believe you believe that, sir. Forgive me if I draw my own conclusions. I think my business here is done. May I keep the tape?"
Welsh nodded, "In fact, I insist. Here are the time markers for the sections."
The piece of paper had two numbers on it; the second was circled in red. He opened his mouth to ask, but Welsh interrupted. "I'm a busy man, Fraser, and I have to answer to the folks upstairs." He pointed behind his hand at the ceiling fan. Strange behavior. "You should check the tape again, maybe you'll catch something the Feds missed." And he tapped the right side of his nose twice with his right index finger, usually a sign of some kind.
Fraser wished he knew what the sign was supposed to mean. Check the tape again. As he turned to leave, he saw Welsh make a self-interrupted gesture, as if to impart one last word of reassurance or warning. Fraser paused, but whatever the lieutenant felt moved to say he felt more inclined to suppress. Fraser trudged away from Welsh, the 2-7, and hope with the same halting gait.
. . . . . . . . . .
He'd intended to wait until he'd left Chicago to look at the tape again. Within hours, though, the prospect of waiting another day had become unbearable. Fraser arranged to rent a VCR from the motel management, and quickly set the device up in his room.
Fraser watched the tape thoroughly, without resorting to the false comfort of fast forward. Check the tape again, look for what the Feds might have missed. That's what Welsh had said, and the lieutenant was not a man to give such advice lightly. The camera captured clear images of his attackers, the savagery of their assault undiminished. Fraser would recognize any of them again. The tape had been edited, the actions of six men and their victim over two days condensed to forty minutes of unrelieved horror.
They'd cut his uniform from his unconscious body with scissors and blades, and he spared a moment to mourn the desecration. Impassive, he saw booted feet crush ribs, bicycle chains reduce a naked back to strips of melting flesh. Arms chained over his head, the man in the tape as unable to change the outcome as the older man viewing the tape was to change the past.
A moment's peace had been left unaltered on the visual record. He saw himself, bloody and gasping for each painful mouthful of air, unaware of the smiles and nudges of his attackers. The first belt loosened, the first fly unzipped. Harsh hands on his head, pulling and tearing hair before moving lower and pulling, tearing lower down. The first screams, hoarse, lost.
The editing kept each rape mercifully brief, while still demonstrating that each man had taken part in the sexual assault as they had partaken in the beating. A short vignette then, of two or three assailants urinating over him, laughing. He must have been unconscious at that point. He remembered the sour tangy smell, but the incident itself was unfamiliar. And he recalled the bucket of icy water that sluiced his abused body and returned him to wakefulness.
From memory, Fraser knew the alternating beatings and rapes had been repeated over another sixteen hours or so. His timesense didn't desert him until one man used the sledgehammer. They'd unbound him and stretched his arms taut against the concrete wall, face pressed against unyielding brick. The first wet crunch reduced his left hand to pulp. The second made splinters out of his pelvis.
The policeman in him, the detached, unemotional part that wasn't gibbering insanely in the darkest, safest part of his soul, wondered who had placed a camera so fortuitously. Wondered why a camera was placed so fortuitously. Wondered why he hadn't been killed outright. Wondered what message was supposed to be gleaned from the destruction of a Mountie, and who was the intended recipient of that message.
The tape rolled on and the scene changed. The first time marker clicked past the counter above the VCR clock. A smaller space, shadowy in the dusk, warm with lamplight. A utilitarian bed, spare and hard. His apartment. His bed. His naked body handcuffed to the metal headboard, facedown on the thin mattress. His hoarse voice begging. Distance and the time of evening compromised the quality of the picture. He knew by the angle that the photographer must have been filming from across the street, and from the restraints that it was one of the last nights before he'd been injured.
He was somewhat surprised that the sound was so clear: the creak of the bed frame as he strained playfully against his bonds; his passion-darkened voice, pleading for mercy, mercy he'd never begged from the animals who'd destroyed his life. Mercy he knew would be granted. At last, the voice he'd waited so very long to hear again, laughing low and sultry.
Transfixed, Fraser lost himself in the memories. His mind transcended the grubby visual, supplementing its lack of definition with treasured recollection. His lover appeared on the screen, amusement clear in his voice and from the way his head tilted on that long, beautiful neck. Fraser closed his eyes and relived one of the last nights of his life.
"Easy, Benny, you'll bend the frame if you keep pulling like that."
Ben twisted slightly to look over his bare shoulder at the gorgeously naked man tormenting him from the foot of his bed. "Ray. Please. PLEASE."
"Just a minute. Where's the stuff?"
"On the footlocker." By crossing his wrists, Ben could flip onto his
back
and watch Ray anoint himself. Breath caught in his throat, Ray was so graceful. So handsome. Olive and rose, breathtaking planes to satiate the most discerning art aficionado. Unending depths of patience and generosity, a considerate and giving lover. Fraser had been blessed, and gave thanks every day that such an unexpected benison graced his life and shared his love.
A final flourish and a lopsided smile brought Ray to kneel on the foot of the bed. "You ready?"
"Yes!" Fraser hissed, spreading and arching without conscious decision.
"Turn over."
He obeyed, lifting onto his spread knees and carrying the weight of his upper body on the restraints. Ray smoothed a hand down his back, and he groaned. Felt Ray shift, and tried to thrust back. Ray's fingers on his hips, steady and sure. Ray swiped a hand over his opposite arm where he'd glopped some lubricant to warm, then trailed his slick fingers over Ben's butt. Fraser moaned, half-laughed, and tried to capture the teasing digits between his buttocks.
"Nuh-uh, Benny. No fair crushing my hand in those buns of steel.
Geez,
you could break something with those." Ray protested, but took the hint and his attentions became more direct.
Fraser shuddered and rocked hard against the first slender finger, pulsing over its delicious length. "Need . . . you . . . Ray," he gasped in rhythm. "Please."
"Easy, bud," Ray soothed. But he withdrew his finger, and Fraser trembled. Ray pushed them forward together on the bed. Fraser closed his eyes and tried to feel what Ray was thinking. An insistent bump against his anus drew him slowly backward onto Ray's cock.
They'd never learned how to obviate that brief moment of awkwardness between struggle and success. Ray rested while Fraser steadied his breathing and made slight adjustments to his position. From that fleeting respite they built inexorably toward climax, the imperfections of technique a familiar and welcome part of the whole.
They were mismatched, in so many ways. Nationality, religion, temperament. The disparate elements of their individual beings far exceeded the few patches of common ground. It amazed them both to discover that almost every difference in habit or thinking resulted in a synthesis of styles nearly flawless in its strength, flexibility, and efficiency.
Ray liked to take his time in bed, to luxuriate in slow, wet kisses and gentle caresses. He elevated foreplay to high art, sometimes spending an entire working day tenderly disrupting Ben's equilibrium with provocative, deliberately "accidental" touches. One day, he stood the last hour of sentry duty behind Fraser, not quite touching, and let Fraser's intense awareness and vivid imagination do the work. They'd tumbled into the Riv and barely escaped a public indecency charge by breaking several rules of the road.
Fraser took pride in being a plain man, his pleasures accepted as he found them. A much more direct approach than Ray's subtle and lengthy allures. Easily mastered, his seduction technique tended towards simple declarations of desire and unambiguous gestures of sexual interest. To his delight, Ray responded enthusiastically to candor of any kind, but was especially responsive to frankness in bed.
As balanced as they tried to keep their equal and opposite tendencies, one of Fraser's little quirks had started to get on Ray's last nerve. No matter who initiated intercourse, Ben would direct the finish to his preference, hard and fast. He understood Ray's annoyance, and acknowledged the fairness of the complaint. He tried to be more compliant, but always at some point his control failed, a seemingly insurmountable problem. Until Ray proposed the handcuffs. Well, what he'd said was, "Do I have to handcuff you?" and seemed a bit nonplused by Ben's immediate acceptance of the offer.
Practical or kinky, the handcuffs worked. Ray pumped his hips in a slow, deep rhythm. He hummed tunelessly, and stroked soothing patterns on Ben's back. Every attempt Ben made to push the pace into something more urgent was stymied; Ray retreated as Ben advanced, and advanced during his retreat.
Ben laughed and tightened all the muscles in his lower abdomen. That provoked a grunt from Ray, but no change in his sweet, languorous rate. Ray wrapped his right hand loosely around Ben's cock and stroked. Ben groaned, unable to focus.
Ray chuckled, pressed a lingering kiss onto Ben's lower lumbar region, and crooned, "I'm gonna ride . . . forever."
Laughter provided the final push, and Ben came. Ray made three more thrusts and followed suit, chanting "Benny, Benny, Benny" in perfect time.
Shattered and spent, still handcuffed, Ray's warm, lean form blanketing him protectively, Ben drifted into sleep.
. . . . . . . . . .
The sibilant hiss of the videotape brought Fraser to the present. To throbbing hands, shoulder, hip. The strong persistent buzz, more annoying than the video blankness, reminded him as surely as an alarm clock that he was due a dose of painkiller. The ache in his heart was less easily palliated. Ray had died abandoned and bereft, and no analgesic could soothe that pain.
He was reaching for the VCR controls when the snowy picture slowly resolved into a man's face. A face made for smiles, incongruously sober. Haunted green eyes seemed to look straight at Fraser, frozen in mid-reach. Welsh hadn't shown him this part of the tape in his office. The tape display reached, then passed, the second time mark. The circled one.
"Hey, Benny. Welsh is helping me put this on that damned tape, so if you ever want to know, you'll know. He probably told you some crap, but he'll tell you as much of the truth as he can. Don't worry, Benny, I'll take care of them somehow. I promise you that." A grunt from behind the camera snapped Ray's eyes away for a moment. "Yeah, yeah, I shouldn't be saying that. So what? It's true, and he needs to know it.
"Anyway, you can imagine what my life's like right now. Thatcher shot out of here like a scalded cat. Frannie hasn't stopped crying, even when she's trying to deck me. Nobody at work will look me in the eye. Welsh is being decent, but that's because he's the only other one who knows what's behind this pile of horse patties.
"It was a setup, Benny." Another protesting grunt sounded from behind the camera. "Some of it was, anyway. The Feds came to me a couple months ago, wanted me to go undercover. I said no. I've got a job I'm good at; I've got family and friends to take care of. And I got you. They didn't like my answer, but they went away and I didn't think much about it until they came back a couple weeks ago.
"They had video of me and you at your place. They showed me the tape, and then they start making noises about sending the stuff to my Ma, to Welsh, that sort of thing. I have to tell you, Benny, I was scared. But I wasn't going to let them break us up, so I told 'em to publish and be damned."
Ray's sad face smiled suddenly. "They were so mad. I thought the one guy was going to start foaming at the mouth. I guess I should have said something to you then, given you the heads up, but I thought I could handle it. Stupid me.
"I figured they were following me around with their little bag of tricks, but it turns out they were bird-dogging you. That's how they got the tape of the bastards that hurt you. Said they didn't plan it, but I'm not too sure." Welsh wordlessly remonstrated again, unseen. Ray snapped, "They sure as hell didn't do anything to help him, did they? He's a cop, for God's sake, one of the good guys; they didn't lift a finger for him, and they cut a deal with the monsters that busted him up, like it was all part of their great, big 'make Ray go undercover' plan."
Ray looked past the camera lens, unshed tears shimmering in his large eyes. "I swear to God, if Benny dies, I'm bringing their whole fucking house of cards down on top of them. If he dies--", Ray visibly shied from that thought. He struggled for a moment before he could continue. Battle won, he refocused on the camera and flashed a brief, false, 'everything will be fine' smile.
"Listen, Benny, I have to do this, and I don't have time to explain it all. We've got a line on the guys that attacked you, but there's somebody else calling the shots. The friendly Feds with the videocam say they'll bring down Mr. Big, but only if I do this undercover thing. So that's what I'm going to do. Handy for them, eh? Thatcher's sending you back to the snow zone when you get strong enough. Keep your head down, if you can, and I'll be seeing you." The expressive gold-green eyes filled again, and Ray stared hard at a point above and behind the camera. He barked a hard, mirthless laugh. "Who'm I kidding? I'm not coming back. My job's in the toilet, my family thinks I'm a pervert, and I'll wreck your life even worse if I stay.
"Be happy, Benny. I know that's against your religion or something, but if anybody can figure it out, it's you. I gotta go. Take care."
Fraser rewound and reviewed the message twice. Neither repeat changed the outcome. Welsh had said Ray was killed in the line of duty, interrogating an informant. That didn't contradict what Ray had said about undercover work, exactly, but it seemed odd, somehow.
Fraser sighed, and rewound the tape to the beginning. He'd check with Welsh in the morning, but already suspected that the lieutenant had said all he was willing or able to say about Detective First-Grade Raymond Vecchio.
He needed to walk. He needed to think. More than anything, he needed to talk to someone. To his father, who had not returned since Ben had frozen him to silence in the hospital. To Ray, who would never return. He considered calling Turnbull, but the lateness of the hour and Dief's inability to use a phone argued against anything constructive arising from that action. Welsh was constrained by duty. Thatcher was unavailable.
That was the problem with being self-sufficient, he thought as he locked the motel room door and pocketed the key. He'd kept his own counsel for so long that the need to confide was foreign and a little bit frightening. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say, or why the need crowded his throat and made breathing difficult.
. . . . . . . . . .
Setting out without a clear itinerary, he wandered aimlessly for hours, following a scent or a sound or a sign at random. The damp night air was heavy and chill and discouraged lingering long in one place. Restlessness drove him through well-lit streets and darker alleys. Restiveness sustained him as the pain medication wore off. Sleep was unlikely, so he limped blindly onward.
Dawn found him standing on a residential street corner, exhausted, footsore, aching. The light gathered strength, and he let its warmth pour over him. Retracing his steps would be impossible, so he looked at his surroundings for clues.
Octavia Street.
He was a block away from Ray's house. He could see it from his vantage on the corner, awash in the Easter pink morning light. The Riv sat in the driveway, parked in by Frannie's rusty blue Escort. The green car drew him like a lodestone, and he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the car's lighter.
Fraser approached the car slowly, and was within a few feet of trunk, staring at the "For Sale" sign in the rear window when Francesca Vecchio stepped onto the porch. Dressed in her pajamas and wearing no makeup, her attention was on the Chicago Tribune the paperboy had dropped in the yard. Fraser's startled jump drew her notice, and for a moment they simply stared at one another.
Francesca made a weary, resistant gesture. "Go away, Fraser. You're not welcome here."
"I wanted -"
"It doesn't matter what you wanted. Ray's gone, he's not coming back, and everything's changed."
"You're selling the car?"
"Yes."
"I'll buy it."
"No, you won't. I won't sell it to you. You don't deserve his car. You didn't deserve him. Go away. I mean it. Don't come here again."
"Francesca, please."
"You ruined everything. Now go away, or I'll scream."
Fraser held his hands up, an unspoken plea for peace. "Could you call for a taxi instead? I walked quite a bit last night, and I don't think I can get back to the motel on my own. I'll wait for the taxi on the corner. Please, Francesca."
Anger fought against Francesca's practical, generous heart, and lost. "All right," she agreed grudgingly. She took a closer look at him, cataloging the changes. "Would you like a glass of water?"
"Yes, please."
"Stay there. I'll call the cab and bring you a glass."
He waited patiently, fingers gently cradling the lighter in his pocket. Judging from the length of time she was absent, and the small improvements apparent upon her return, Francesca had taken time enough to put on a robe, run a comb through her hair, and apply just a touch of lip gloss. Old habits are hard to break.
She handed him a plastic cup with water and two ice cubes, the way he liked it. He wondered if she always put two cubes in a glass, or if it was some kind of apology. He didn't dare ask.
He accepted the glass and drank deeply. "Thank you."
"Leave the glass on the car, I'll get it later. Cab'll be here in fifteen minutes or so." She turned to the house.
Very quietly, he said, "I loved him."
Just as quietly, without turning, she said, "I know." She went into the house without another word. She left the Tribune in the yard where it fell.
. . . . . . . . . .
Twenty-six months later, Fraser had an existence nearly identical to a life. He had a job and an apartment in Vancouver. It would never be mistaken for the wilderness of his heart's desire, but for a city it was adequate. A little damp, sometimes, a chill damp that made his scarred bones ache, but that was the tradeoff for central heating, a local pharmacy, and emergency medical services.
The job had, he suspected, been offered through the charity and influence of some of the acquaintances he'd made over the years. It certainly wasn't an occupation he'd ever contemplated, or would have chosen. He'd been contacted by a television production company representative and asked to contribute what the young woman had vaguely called "technical assistance" to a police drama series they were filming. She was charming and determined and made his acquiescence seem like a personal favor; his apathy could not withstand her persuasion.
The habits of grief sustained him. When his mother died, his grandmother had not allowed him time or opportunity to mourn in isolation. Instead, she insisted that he partake of the infrequent social events, tend the less fortunate, and strive to become, in her words, "both useful and decorative." She adopted such an arduous level of charitable and humanitarian endeavor when George Fraser died that Ben had no doubt it contributed to her sudden death shortly after. By then, though, community involvement was indelibly tied to the aftermath of loss in her grandson's mind, and he could not refuse a request for help even when it was couched in terms of paid employment.
The work was simple, the hours uneven, and the retainer ridiculously small. He answered whatever questions the writers and directors had about RCMP procedures, visiting the various sets to be available for questions during filming. He was provided with a cell phone for general consultations. A few people tried to ask about his own experiences, but he steadfastly refused to do more than outline cases and their outcomes.
Whenever he was asked questions he could not answer, he said as much, something the television people were unaccustomed to hearing. When, a day or two later, he'd researched the question and could provide an accurate answer, he did so, gaining in the process a reputation for transmuting even the most complicated information into smaller, more easily understood pieces. He wasn't sure why they made such a fuss over the simple research and reporting skills he'd learned from his grandmother and honed in years of filing reports, but he was too pleased to access a few of the skills his life's learning provided to dismiss their praise. Gradually, he spent more and more time actively researching questions outside his personal experience.
Occasionally, the required information was not strictly factual, or was only available elsewhere. How do the people of Red Oak, Iowa react to strangers? What would a young man do for fun in Scottsdale, Arizona? How long does it take to drive from Yellowknife to Calgary in a 1965 Chevy Impala? In addition to simple reporting, Fraser also found a use for his investigation experience and native curiosity.
After a few, carefully monitored forays, Fraser added "economical and dependable" to his unofficial resume. He didn't pad the expense account, entertained only when necessary, had a good memory for atmosphere, relayed details in a manner both writers and directors found competent, and was able to sketch landmarks and locations. He could leave at a moment's notice, and often did.
During one of these sudden excursions, on his way to a library in a small California community, he came face to face with part of his lost past. Walking the few blocks from a motel so tiny it could almost be described as a boarding house, Fraser's usual internal monologue was interrupted by a sense of foreboding. He looked up sharply, searching for the source of his disquiet, and saw a flash of green too dark to be foliage under the bright California sun. A car. A car too far away, too briefly seen, to be clearly identified. The long, sleek profile was unmistakable, even among incongruous palms and cactus.
He responded to the apparition viscerally. Immediately. A momentary glimpse of well-loved personal history, and all thoughts of libraries and research and work vanished from his mind. As quickly as his protesting hip allowed, he pursued the vision of a 1971 Buick Riviera through the few dusty streets.
Persistence is a Fraser family trait. All afternoon, Fraser tracked his quarry by sight, by sound, by scent, by feel. He walked the length and breadth of the town, peering into carports, but no Buick Riviera of any vintage was parked anywhere in the city limits. He asked at the car dealership and at both gas stations, without success.
Daylight faded to dusk, and hunger competed with the insistent throb of his hand and hip. Fraser conceded defeat, but consoled himself with the reminders that seeing A Riv was in no way a guarantee of seeing THE Riv, and that even Ray's beloved car belonged to someone else now. He ate and bathed and slept, resolved to conclude his business without further interruption.
He dreamed the ghosts of happiness, comforted in remembrance.
Refreshed, Fraser set out the next morning to the library. He still scanned the sparse traffic for a classic Buick, without quite admitting it to himself. No such vehicle appeared, and he turned the corner to the library entrance with a lighter heart. Turned the corner, and froze.
Twenty minutes later, he hadn't moved. Mesmerized by a green Medusa, he was held helpless by memories.
He remembered the pleasure Ray took in this concoction of Detroit metal, its power and Ray's skill the equal of a professional wheelman. Blasting the heater on a cold night's stakeout, the near-arctic chill of the air conditioning in summer, Ray's warmth constant through all seasons.
He remembered the timbre of Ray's voice, resonant with pride as he announced, "This is a nineteen seventy-one mint condition Buick Riviera. It uses top octane fuel, 20-weight oil. There is one thing to remember and hold above all else: never, I repeat, NEVER use the lighter. Of all the original parts in this car, it was the most difficult to replace. It took me seven years to find that lighter. And since I've owned it? It's never been depressed."
Fraser fished in the right front pocket of his jeans, and pulled out the small metal object he found there. He deposited the original lighter for a 1971 Buick Riviera on the sloping hood, where the driver would be sure to find it.
It was, unquestionably, Ray's car. It had always been Ray's lighter. They belonged together, now that there was no need to keep a talisman of the past.
Fraser resolutely shook off the melancholy blanketing him, and set his mind to the purpose of his visit. Ensconced in a corner carrel, notebook ready, he scrolled doggedly through years of local publications, winnowing out elements of regional identity. In the afternoon, he planned to tackle the material not already captured on microfilm, but that agenda depended on completing the filmed resources.
A slight noise behind him was his only warning. "Hey, Benny." Well-loved voice.
He stared blindly at the screen; tears obscured his vision but he would not let them fall. Calmly, he said, "Hello, Ray. How are you?"
Ray laughed, a low chuckle. "Pretty good for a dead guy. You?"
"I'm fine. I've missed you."
"Yeah, well, I have to admit I thought you'd be more surprised."
"I saw your car yesterday, and again this morning. I suppose I've halfway expected you ever since. I don't suppose you've seen my father?"
"Benny, your dad's dead."
"So are you."
"Hmmm. Good point. No, I haven't seen your dad. Or mine, either, thank God."
Distracted, Fraser commented, "I haven't seen him since I left Chicago. I miss him more now than I did when he died."
"Listen, Benny, I'm not supposed to be here."
"Breaking rules again?"
"Bending, not breaking, but, yeah. I could get in a lot of trouble for this, but I had to see you. If only for a minute."
"You aren't staying."
"I can't. Look, I'll come see you in Canada sometime, okay?"
"I'd like that."
"Benny?"
"Yes?"
"Why won't you turn around? Don't you want to see me?"
"I can't. If I turn around and see you, how could I let you leave? I could never let you go again."
"I have to go."
"When will I see you?"
"I don't know. Soon. I'll work it, Benny, just hang tight."
Two more seconds, and Fraser's nerve broke. He swiveled the chair quickly, seeking Ray's understanding smile. Nothing. Ray was gone, as if he'd never been there in the first place. Perhaps he hadn't.
Fraser finished his task in the library the next day, but Ray did not reappear. He tried as best he could to comfort himself with Ray's promise to visit again, and resolved that Ray would find him well and as reasonably content as a man who saw ghosts could be.
. . . . . . . . . .
He returned to Vancouver and a part of every moment from then on was spent waiting for Ray. Eating, sleeping, working, everything was done with an eye toward seeing Ray again. Patience was a skill, an act of will that could be grown with practice.
While he maintained a usual schedule of work and social activity, anticipation put a spark to his tongue that surprised his acquaintances. Accustomed as they were to the quieter, more resigned man, the difference was readily apparent. This Fraser made jokes. Very dry, subtle jokes that caught those around him flat-footed. He still kept to himself, for the most part, but renewed confidence made his solitary habits seem more self-possessed.
He was eating at a diner a few blocks from his apartment, reading a collection of essays about modern perspectives on the creation-evolution controversy, when Ray finally resurfaced with typical unruffled aplomb.
"I could have used some directions, Benny," the life-sized apparition grumbled, sliding into the booth opposite Fraser. "Something more specific than 'Canada' would have been nice. Do you have any idea how BIG this damned country is?"
Fraser placed the grocery list he used as a bookmark on page sixty, closed 'Did the Devil Make Darwin Do It?' and set the book on the seat beside him before he looked up. "I'm sorry, Ray. I wasn't aware the dead needed directions."
"Not funny, Fraser. You didn't tell me where you were living, so I figured you'd be at your cabin. When you weren't there, I started checking out every RCMP post I could find and wherever else I thought a Mountie with a wolf could go. Where do you think I wound up?"
"Fredericton?" Just a whisper of amusement escaped with the word.
"Yeah. And who do you think I saw?"
"Turnbull." He felt his smile widen.
"Turnbull. Travel completely across the continent, only to find out I'm chasing the wrong Mountie. Dief looks good, though. Did you give Turnbull your wolf just to annoy me, or what?"
"Not at all. Diefenbaker has always been free to make other living arrangements. It so happens that he chose to exercise that right, and now lives with Turnbull. I'm sorry it inconvenienced you, Ray."
"Well, I got your current address from Turnbull, so I guess it wasn't a wasted trip." Ray reached for a fry. "Miss me?"
"Like you wouldn't believe." He rested his head on his clasped hands, the warped left wrapped in the undamaged right, and continued to smile. Ray's presence brought completeness to his life in a way that restoration of all his other losses combined could not match. Home, career, health, nothing registered as more than a trivial inconvenience when weighed against being with Ray. "Will you stay?"
Ray pulled a face. "I can't. Not yet. There's still a few details to work out. You wouldn't believe the paperwork involved with something that should be so simple. These damned spooks couldn't pour pee out of a boot with instructions written on the heel."
"I didn't realize it was that complicated."
"Like you wouldn't believe," Ray quoted, smiling. "In fact, I'm not supposed to be seeing you now. Listen, Benny, we don't have much time. Are you sure you want me coming around?"
"Absolutely."
"It might be a little awkward. You've obviously gone on with your life, maybe you--"
"I need you, Ray," he interrupted. Ray stared, and Ben just kept smiling. "I love you, and I need you, and I want you coming around more than anything. That's probably more than you wanted to hear, but there you go."
"Wow. I mean, me too. And it kills me to play all these stupid games. There's some . . . shit." Ray looked over the top of the booth, toward the entrance. Fraser turned to see what attracted Ray's attention. Two men stood at the register, paying their bill. A young woman Francesca's age peered through the glass from the sidewalk, apparently looking for someone.
Fraser saw nothing alarming in the scene. He turned back to ask Ray what had upset him, but Ray had disappeared. Again. He thought the kitchen door seemed just slightly ajar, but that was probably wishful thinking. Fraser sighed and picked up his book, resuming his perusal of the creationist interpretation of geology.
. . . . . . . . . .
If patience can be cultivated, Fraser raised a bumper crop in the weeks after Ray's second visit. This Fraser had regained inner balance, despite the continued awkwardness of his unsteady gait. Both men and women watched him, their speculative looks familiar from the days when he'd been younger, and stronger, and undamaged.
Thirty-four days, thirteen hours, and seventeen minutes after Ray disappeared from the diner, he reappeared, unannounced but eagerly anticipated. Fraser was about to set out on his weekly trip to the grocery store. He'd tidied up, dressed with care, and was just latching the apartment door when he felt Ray step behind him, exactly as he'd done at the Consulate steps years ago. He closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed deeply. The scent of Armani sketched a faint trace through the air.
"Hello, Ray."
"Hey, Benny. Miss me?"
"Always." Still facing the now-locked door, Fraser grinned. "I have to go to the market. Would you like to accompany me?"
"Sure. I suppose that means we walk, huh?"
"Yes, if you don't mind." Fraser pivoted on his good leg and lurched toward the stairs.
"Jesus, Benny! What happened to you?"
"It's just my hip, Ray. It never healed right, and once in awhile I take a bad step. It loosens up after a mile or two." Fraser staggered to the top of the stairs, then looked behind him. Ray was standing at the door, fists clenched, distress evident in the tight set of his shoulders and the miserable look on his face.
"Are you coming?" Fraser leaned heavily on the banister rail and hopped down the first set of stairs.
Ray followed, still upset. "They let you work with your leg like that?"
Mildly, Ben replied, "It doesn't affect my brain, Ray."
"Hey, you aren't wearing your hat!"
"Of course not. Ray," Fraser stopped on the landing and waited for Ray to join him, "you do know that I'm no longer in the RCMP, don't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I was given a medical discharge. Full pension. The damage to my leg precludes field duty. A desk job or dispatch work requires too much manual dexterity for the limited use I have in my left hand." Fraser smiled wryly. "I don't type 100 words per minute anymore, either. I thought you knew."
Ray sat on the step with a thump. "No. I figured you were okay, out saving the world these last couple years."
"You saw the video, Ray. Did you really think anyone could recover fully from that?"
"I guess I didn't think. Geez, Benny. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Fraser shrugged and hopped down another three steps. "What's done is done, Ray. I have my pension, and an interesting job. I research things for television people."
"Things?" Ray climbed to his feet and started down the stairs after Ben. "What things?"
"Well, it started with just a few technical questions about the RCMP, but I've become a kind of freelance librarian. Instead of directing people to literature and other information, people hire me to find the information and present it in whatever form they want."
"Mr. Encyclopedia?"
"Something like that. That's why I was in California." He reached the entry just a step ahead of Ray, and preceded him through the doorway. The Riv was parked at the curb, gleaming green under a light dusting of road dirt.
Fraser turned left and limped down the block. Progress was slow at first, but in a few blocks his gait smoothed a bit and soon they were striding along at a nearly normal pace.
"Benny?"
"Hmm?"
"Aren't you going to ask me?"
"Ask you what?"
"You've asked me the same question the last two times I've seen you. Ask me again."
Fraser thought and counted off nearly two blocks before he remembered the question. "Can you stay?"
"YES!" Ray punched the air with his fist and nearly fell from the momentum.
Deadpan, Fraser asked him, "Yes, that was the question, or yes, you'll stay?"
"Yes, that was the question AND yes, I'll stay," Ray grinned.
They'd stopped walking, and stood on the sidewalk smirking at each other. Wordless, for a change. An inattentive gentleman, passing too close to Ray, bumped into him, staggering them both. Ray accepted the brusque apology with a vague wave, and turned back to Fraser.
Fraser was stunned, and couldn't speak. A stranger, a passerby, had collided with Ray. Ray, who was dead and couldn't be real. Ray, who was rather obviously not dead, but very much alive and seemed very concerned about Fraser's sudden aphasia.
Mouth working, he managed to whisper, "You're not dead."
"Obviously, Fraser. Well, Raymond Vecchio is dead. Long live Rayce Vincenzo." Ray spread his hands to encompass his new persona. "Not much different, really. Benny, are you okay?"
"You're not dead," he repeated. He needed to sit down.
"You just figured that out? Man, I thought I was the idiot of the group." Ray took Ben's elbow and carefully guided him to a bench.
Fraser couldn't stop shaking. Ray was alive. Alive, and well, and not dead. Not gone. Not a ghost. Alive. Ray started to get up. "Don't go!"
"I'm going to get you a drink or something, Benny. I'll be right back."
"No! Don't leave yet. Please, Ray." To his shame, tears flowed freely down his face. Tears he hadn't shed since that terrible day in Welsh's office. Tears he'd never shed for himself, tears he'd never allowed for the pain, and the loss, and the frightening changes he had endured since six men with chains and a sledgehammer ended his life. "Don't leave me. Please."
Ray wrapped an arm around Ben's shoulders. "I won't. I won't. Shhhh, Benny, I'm here." Ben buried his face in Ray's neck, and they sat there silently, Ray gently rocking his crying love.
. . . . . . . . . .
Oblivious to the stares of the locals, they held each other until Ben's tears ran dry. He started to apologize, but Ray cut him off with a quick kiss and a pristine handkerchief. Ray pulled the Irish linen square from its ceremonial breast-pocket position after realizing that his back trouser pocket, and the tissues therein, were inaccessible from a seated position. Ray, being Ray, followed this kindness with a completely insincere complaint about snot on his suit.
That roused a laugh from Fraser. A weak chuckle more than a true guffaw, but a genuine laugh for all that. Ray smiled and said, "Uh, keep the hanky, Benny. I was wondering when it would hit you. Guess now I know."
"Are you really real?" He sounded like a frightened child, even to his own ears, but the question was born out of his deepest fear.
"Really and truly. Scout's honor."
"It's just that I've been through this before, and it turned out to be a dream. A pleasant dream, to be sure, but no more substantial than dreams of flying. Or running." Ray's face clouded, and to erase that sad look Fraser added, "And you were never a Boy Scout, Ray."
Ray didn't reply in words. He hugged Fraser briefly, then dropped his arm to twine his fingers through Ben's. They sat shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped, drawing comfort from each other's presence. "Benny?"
"Hmm?"
"Vancouver?"
Fraser shrugged. "Why not?"
"I thought you'd be somewhere a little more rural. And colder." Ray smiled.
Without a shred of self-pity, and only a little regret, Fraser replied, "I can't survive in that environment any more, Ray. I lack the agility, and dexterity, and my bones ache too much when I go without central heating and pain medication. The climate isn't overly harsh, provided a body won't melt in the damp. Most importantly, this is where the job was."
Ray said, looking down, "I still have nightmares from that tape. You, too?"
"More from the actual events," Fraser conceded wryly. "I've moved twice because the neighbors complained about the screaming."
"I'm so sorry, Benny. So sorry," Ray whispered.
"It's not your fault, Ray."
Ray couldn't meet Ben's eyes. "It turns out that, yeah, this is my fault. If I'd just gone along with the Feds when they asked me the first time, I could have stopped it."
"You did the right thing. They had no right to intimidate you."
"Benny, you're not listening. The guys that attacked you were organized crime."
"They certainly seemed so at the time."
"No, no. Organized Crime. You know, mobbed up."
"Yes, I know." Fraser smiled, but Ray was studying a crack in the sidewalk at his feet. "That doesn't explain your feeling of culpability. Nor does it illuminate their motives in attacking someone outside their normal sphere of influence."
That lifted Ray's gaze from the pavement, but he only looked his question. Fraser replied anyway. "Why me?"
"Zuko."
"That makes no sense, Ray. Frank Zuko and I had nothing to do with each other."
"You know that, I know that. But by family rules, you cleared Frankie of a murder charge and that created a debt. He was supposed to protect you, but all he did was paint a big bull's-eye on your forehead."
"I still don't understand."
"The gentlemen I helped the Feds bring down wanted to incorporate Frankie's little piece of Chicago under their own management. You were attacked because you supposedly were under Zuko's protection, a highly visible target, and attacking you was attacking him. Indirectly, of course, but in a way that was unmistakable and still preserved his net worth."
"Ah. Only a person, not a commodity."
"Yeah."
"I see. I'd wondered." In the long months spent recovering, he'd often wondered what combination of fate and purpose had engineered his bleak circumstances. He'd always imagined a personal reason for such intimate devastation. An action he'd taken, or one he'd declined, but something specific to him that had engendered horrific retribution.
Discovering after so many months that his health, his career, his love, and his life were merely the impersonal casualties of happenstance and an unsought association shredded the layers of measured acceptance in which he'd painstakingly bound his despair and rage.
The sudden rush of emotion stunned him to immobility. He wanted to scream, to cry, to protest the manifest unfairness of existence. Breathless with anger, he struggled to sort out the many conflicting emotions that roared free of his self-imposed restraints. Oxygen deprivation and his autonomous nervous system restarted his breathing while he was preoccupied with his inner demons.
He was a random victim, unable to predict or avoid the arbitrary dictates of power-mongering strangers. In grudging fairness, he acknowledged that that selection was not completely random; he'd forged a connection with Frank Zuko through Ray and Irene and Louis and Sorrento and his own compulsion for justice. For all that, his life had been razed and rebuilt for nothing to do with his own deeds. For nothing at all, really. In the ultimate irony, Zuko wouldn't have understood the underlying motivation for events any better than Fraser himself had. How had they expected that connection to be made?
"The tape was their way of sending a message to Zuko, wasn't it? A declaration of war."
"Yeah. Only the truly stupid tape themselves doing something that vicious and illegal, but we're not talking top echelon hired thugs here." Ray took a slow, deep breath, held it for a moment, then let the air out in a rush. "The tape was on its way to Frankie when the Feds intercepted it, put their own spin on things, and dropped it on Welsh's desk. They used it again later to pressure Zuko into cooperation; one of the few times their agenda and mine were in complete agreement."
Ray's voice dropped to a near whisper. "I could have stopped it. When I went under cover, they put me in place of the guy who gave the orders. That's the ultimate irony, you know. I didn't catch Mr. Big, Benny, I became Mr. Big. Two words, once I was in, and I could have stopped it."
Anger again overwhelmed him, and he struggled for control. "You couldn't know that, Ray. Sometimes, things happen that we realize later might have been altered with the slightest change in our actions. But no one knows that beforehand, and looking back serves no purpose. You did what you knew was right, and I did what I knew was right, and between us we created circumstances that formed the background for everything that's happened since. You didn't give the orders, Ray, and I don't hold you responsible for any of it."
"They're all dead, Benny. I didn't have to kill any of them directly, but I made sure they were in bad places and I made sure they didn't come back. The Feds went nuts, but they couldn't do anything about it. Was that wrong?"
Fraser thought for a long moment. "Yes, it was wrong. But I can't find it in me to be sorry they're dead."
"Hate me?"
"Never."
"You lost everything, didn't you? Home. Career. Dief. The ability to leap from rooftop to rooftop in pursuit of criminals."
Ben smiled. "I have you."
"That you do, Benny-boy. That you do." Ray's answering grin became decidedly lascivious. "Wanna take me home and prove it?"
Fraser tried to suppress a shudder. Time. He needed time. "I'm not sure how much proof I'll be able to provide, Ray. But I'd be happy to lock myself in a room with you until I can bear to let you out of my sight. It shouldn't take more than a few years."
"That'll do for a start." Ray helped Fraser to his feet, and they started the long huffle back to the apartment. "What kind of pizza do they make around here, anyway? Do they deliver, and do they take American Express?"
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