Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:17:36 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (01/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
SPOILERS: Mainly, just "Black Buddha". This fanfic takes place
after "The Spirit and the Dust", a post-Last Knight story that I
wrote in 1996. It is available through my fanfic site at
http://www.geocities.com/~br1035/fk/forever.html
It is considered the second main story in the Clare Series.
**********************************************************************
SYNOPSIS of 'The Spirit and the Dust':
The vampire Clare ends a 50-year sabbatical in Africa, because she
senses danger to a distant family member. She contacts Feliks
Twist, learns of Vachon's fate from 'Ashes to Ashes,' and travels to Toronto.
Determined to find the site of Vachon's burial, Clare goes to the loft, where
she discovers Nicholas staked and Natalie on the verge of death. Clare saves
them both, making Natalie into a vampire.
When Nicholas regains consciousness, he gives Clare her needed information, and she
leaves him to tend to the fledgling Natalie, while she goes to dig up Vachon. Nick
is wracked by guilt, however, and Natalie is disillusioned that he was not the one
to bring her across. He abandons her at Clare's hotel, and both spend the next weeks
reflecting on their changed lives.
Vachon and Clare are not very close, but he grudgingly appreciates her rescue.
Vachon learns of Tracy's death, and experiences a few glimmers of dissatisfaction
with his way of life and loneliness. He has a growing phobia for dirt and gravesites.
Nick tracks down LaCroix in New York. Nick doesn't trust Clare because of the past
(details not disclosed yet), is wary of her potential influence on Natalie, and
is drawn to his sire for guidance. LaCroix returns to Toronto out of curiosity and
amusement, for he has known Clare a very long time.
Clare tells Natalie the story of how she became her vampire - she had been a mortal in
a Celtic settlement, 1st century B.C., born with the name 'Cliodhna.' Her husband,
Conchobhar, had been missing for a year, assumed killed in a journey to Gaul to assist
family against the growing Roman enroachment. An attack on the settlement leaves
Clare's two sons dead, and Clare is mortally wounded protecting her daughter's life.
As she breathes her last, Conchobhar appears, revealing that he is not truly dead,
but a vampire. He embraces Clare to save her life.
Natalie and Clare become closer, and Natalie is introduced to a sibling - a fashion
designer named Figaro Newton. As Nick and Natalie begin to investigate
several brutal murders, they begin to work out their differences. The investigation
leads them to NeoGen Corporation, a genetic research lab. Another vampire connected
to Clare, the 'brown mouse' Maeven, has been performing experiments with the
vampire element and bacterial DNA, creating a mutant form of vampire from
terminally ill mortals. Maeven spurs these creatures to attack and destroy Figaro.
For revenge or justice, Nick, Natalie, LaCroix, Vachon, and Clare storm
NeoGen, defeating Maeven and the mutants. Maeven is revealed to be responsible
for the death of Clare's husband and sire in the 3rd century AD. LaCroix and Clare
destroy all of Maeven's research, but Natalie considers following up the ideas as a
potential lead in her search for a cure to vampirism.
Nick and Natalie share a close moment, but Nick expresses a moment of hesitation.
Natalie has yet to yield completely as a vampire - maybe it would be better if they held
back while they searched for a cure? Nick is left regretting this decision, while
Natalie remains unsure of his love and acceptance.
*******************************************************************
Standard Disclaimers Apply: The characters of 'Forever Knight'
were created by Parriott, Cohen, et al. and are owned by
Sony/Tristar.
Lyrics from the song "Nature Boy" were written by Eden Ahbez.
The whole of Part 10 is for Eloise.:>)
*******************************************************************
The Unselfish Partner (01/10)
Copyright 1997
by Bonnie Rutledge
"Excuse me?"
The young beat officer looked up from the accident report he
was diligently composing and let his mouth hang open just a
little. The owner of the voice was beautiful - absolutely above and
beyond anything he'd seen behind the wheel of a Honda or minivan
with a crumpled fender since he'd joined Traffic six months
before. "Uh, can I help you, miss?"
"Yes. I'm sure you can. Could you point out which of the gentlemen
here is Captain Reese?"
The officer indicated a figure, wrestling intently with the
water cooler, some ten meters away. "That's the Captain, but it
looks like he may not be in a good mood right now. I also heard
he's expecting a meeting with some transfer detective."
The woman nodded. "That would be me." She thanked the young
man softly, and wandered a la watercooler, where Captain Reese now
banged repeatedly upon the spigot with a clenched fist.
She paused to stand by his squatting figure, tapping one
leather-uppered foot against the base of the refreshment
contraption. She placed one flat palm on the top of the water
canister, then lifted it in the air and down again in a mighty
smack. Bubbles burped up from the bottom of the tank, and water
began a rapid exodus into Reese's waiting paper cone. "Sometimes
they get air pockets in the spout," she explained. "You just have
to jar them loose by disturbing the water."
Captain Joe Reese beheld his full cup as if it was the Holy
Grail. "Well, I'll be. It's good to know *somebody* has some
how-to around here." He proceeded to introduce himself. "What can
I do for you?"
She held out a slender palm in greeting. "That's supposed to be my
question. I'm the transfer from Ottawa."
"Good." Little contented beams sparked from the Captain's
eyes. "This is probably the only time you're going to see me
smile, so you'd better enjoy it. Come on into my office and take a seat."
She settled across from his desk and waited politely while he
excavated a particular pile of papers from amongst the shambles of
his desk.
"I've gotta say," Reese began, after flipping open the beige
cover for a quick re-perusal, "I've read your file and it's not
too shabby. You have an excellent service record as a Homicide
detective, full of commendations, and prior experience with
Forensics. Frankly, I was surprised that you would want the
change. By all accounts, there was a promotion above detective soon
in your future. Would you mind telling me what you're doing here in my office,
as good as starting over?"
She delivered a slip of a grin. "Well, not every account is
collectable, if you understand my meaning, sir. I was well and
ready for a change in venue, and Toronto was in need of Homicide
detectives...so here I am."
"Then Ottawa's loss is the Ninety-Sixth precinct's gain,"
Reese declared. "I'm afraid your partner-to-be, Nicholas Knight,
has the evening off. Are you sure you don't have a problem working
the night shift?"
"No. Should I?"
"No, no. Just checking. But let me warn you - Detective
Knight has lost two partners in the past year. He's a good cop,
but it might be a little rough starting to work with him now. Be
prepared to give him a little space at first."
"I will treat him with kid gloves," she assured Reese.
He nodded in acknowledgment before rising from his chair. "Let me show you
to your desk. It's right next to Knight's. You should find all the current case
files there."
She followed his lead to an empty desk, its surface bare
except for a slightly doodled blotter, which made her lips twitch
with some private memory. Reese shook her hand again,
instructing, "Glad to have you aboard, Detective Douglas. If you
have any questions, feel free to ask."
"Oh, I will...feel free." She peeped as Reese's back retreated
once more into his office, then set her purse on the desktop.
Rolling the middle drawer open, she began to transfer some of the
Contents: Kleenex, recycled pencils, and Handi-Wipes. She slipped the desk shut
once more, grabbed a stack of interesting-looking papers off of Knight's desk,
then she leaned back in her new chair. Ah...comfy.
Clare, naughty fibber that she was (Okay, she was a bald-faced liar with
good counterfeit credentials), began to read Nick's police files.
*********************************************************************
Sickly lily pads floated on top of the muck-filled green
water. The ornamental pond had seen better days, that was for
certain.
Maude was perfectly aware of the state of her personal lagoon,
and the cesspool that it had become. Rather like her personal
life...
She tripped down the pebble shelves that were supposed to impersonate steps,
trying to balance a martini glass with one hand while attempting to drag a large
laundry bag with the other.
Oh, yes. The pond had been absolutely lovely at installation. Exotic
flowers garlanding the most perfect pair of koi you ever did see graced a
tranquil pool, complete with an itty-bitty waterfall. Maude had corralled
neighbors up and down the street to admire her paid land sculptor's handiwork.
Her husband, Frank, had groused about the yard addition for weeks, before and
after the fact.
"It'll freeze in the winter," he would complain. "And kill everything. Or
the cat'll eat those fancy tuna."
Maude pooh-poohed. "We can *heat* the water, Frank. And Mama's Precious
would never go in the big-bad outside, much less eat the wittle fishies."
Frank had grumbled and groaned, but had finally given in to the little
woman. Maude had received her pond, her heater, and her fish. And with the first
winter, the water had overheated, boiling her fish, and everything else
contained within the confines of her decorative stone border...except the lily
pads.
Apparently, her landscaper had incorporated some form of supernatural lily
pad in her pond. They appeared ugly, rank, and on the verge of decomposition,
yet their numbers kept multiplying. Some industrious plants managed to sprout
from Maude's decorative stone border. Much to her chagrin, they then pillaged
across the yard, aiming for her house.
Frank, her evil troll of a spouse, would not remove the pond now. he would taunt,
At that moment, Maude tripped over a member of that wretched invading
flora, causing her to flip her martini glass up into the air in a graceful
triple-twist and double somersault, then splat-crash! into the infamous stone
border.
Muttering an unhappy and wholly inebriated snort, Maude let go of her
laundry bag, which through the wonderful force of gravity, began to roll down
the hill. Maude displayed much more concern about the loss of her martini glass.
She *needed* the martinis. She didn't need her husband's suits or the sport
coats that she had carefully crumpled up into a wad, stuffed into the laundry
sack, and allowed to roll downhill.
Maude hiccupped, twisted her ankle (funny how olives will do things to
your coordination, not to mention the vodka and vermouth), and went a-tumbling
after. Several bumps, bruises, and contusions from a shattered martini glass
later, she sprawled unconscious, one Dearfoamed foot dangling over like a
sacrificial virgin to the voracious lilies of her pagan pond.
Waking up, she struggled to remember just where she was and what she was
doing there. Maude groggily spotted the blue chambray material of the clothes-
sack enthroned proudly on the green-brown padded surface of her monument to bad
lawn care. Raising to her scraped knees, she shuffled up to the satchel,
determined that it would become submersed in the filthy water.
Maude pushed with both hands. The bag bobbed maybe an inch, then returned
to its original position. Maude frowned, then pushed harder with a hearty dose
of violent enthusiasm.
Still drunk, she overpushed herself, her hands sliding off the bag and
elbow deep into the water. Her hand struck something. Something slimy and very
un-lilypad-like. At this point, Maude elected to move the laundry bag aside.
To her dismay, Frank's bulbous eyes bulged out at her from the water. His
face was floating amongst a halo of pocked green leaves, strings of algae
littering his wrinkles. There were puckered cuts on his face and the surprised
hollow of his lips oddly resembled the expressions of her dear, departed,
boiled koi.
Maude plopped backwards to rest on her generously padded rump and began to
bawl like a baby.
**********************************************************************
"So-o, have you met this new partner yet, Nick?" Natalie questioned,
tiptoeing around the black and yellow plastic tarps that now littered Maude's
yard.
Nick, distracted, ceased his thoughtful staring into the fourth dimension.
"The Ottawa transfer? I haven't seen her. I haven't heard anything about her
except that Captain Reese approves of her hard-hitting technique, whatever that
means..."
Now Natalie began staring off into space. After a moment, Nick realized
that it wasn't the infinite mental beyond she was examining so closely, but
rather a woman approaching, halted every few steps by a uniformed officer.
What was Clare doing here?
Natalie's sire gifted them with a cheeky grin, and Nick suppressed a groan.
With grim foreboding, Nick suspected that Clare wasn't here just to visit with
Nat. He'd heard enough references from Natalie over the past three weeks to
realize that she and Clare had remained in daily contact ever since the Maeven
incident.
"Hi," exclaimed Natalie, giving the other woman a spontaneous hug. "You
said you had a surprise for me, is it this visit?"
Nick mentally grumbled, kicking himself for the thousandth time about
bringing up the 'V' word right when things were getting physically interesting
between Nat and him. , his memory mocked in
repetition.
It had been a momentary doubt, a potential concern if they were both trying
to regain mortality again. At the time, he'd really believed his protest. In the
back of his mind, he still did. Nick, though, hadn't considered the consequences
of his words. No more spontaneous hugs for him. Natalie had taken his suggestion
to heart. She smiled, laughed, was perfect in a Natalie way, but did not lay a
single hand on him. Her behavior was driving Nick crazy. Everything felt capable
of driving him crazy recently, as if some taut wire pulled inside of him just
waiting to snap.
Natalie declared that, as she adjusted to being brought across, she didn't
need a microgram of additional temptation to test her control of the vampire. It
was challenge enough already to maintain her composure throughout the demands of
nightly work. Her retraction wasn't overt, but Nick sensed some lingering
resistance in their relationship. Even in her company, he would experience
sudden panics of loneliness. It must be due to the change. All the change...
Nick sympathized, but his imagination wandered once more in edgy fervor to
thoughts of seducing Natalie and sweeping her off her feet. That would banish
the stress, this tension between them. She really wouldn't mind...would she?
Nick's attention started back into focus as a rookie beat officer eagerly
planted himself at Clare's side, pleading, "Can I do anything for you?
Background checks, interview potential witnesses?"
She gently turned him down. "I'm fine, but thank you for the offer, Pulte."
As the rookie wandered off deflated, Clare was tickled to spot Nick's face
twisting into an apoplectic spasm.
Natalie's expression was a study in wonderment. "You didn't...did you?"
"Surprise!" Clare cheered.
"No." Denial was one of Nick's many talents. He indulged in a quick bout of
practice. "No. No. No." He frowned stridently, as if to say 'How could you?'.
Clare ignored him. Natalie had begun to grin. "You are the last person I'd..."
he trailed off, overcome with the horror of it.
Clare wandered around the crime scene, Nick and Natalie both dogging her
steps.
"How did you...?" Natalie wondered.
"Aristotle!" Nick snapped (He *was* feeling frustrated in more ways than
one). "She had Aristotle conjure her up a police service record!" A new and
improved frown, intended to connote 'How could he?' radiated from Nick's lips.
Clare continued to disregard him, choosing instead to peek happily at the
water-logged corpse blanketed in shiny Coroner's plastic. The body rested in a
grove of ugly plant life not a meter from an unattractive ornamental watering
hole.
"Now, Nick...didn't you do the same thing when you first became a
detective?" Natalie chastised.
"That's not the point." Nick retorted, for Natalie's benefit, though no
doubt Clare overheard every syllable. "She doesn't *want* to be a Homicide
detective! She likes homicide too much for that. She has some ulterior motive, I
know it!" Letting his eyes wander to how the object of his irritation was
occupying herself, Nick reached out to pull Clare up from her perusal of the
deceased. "Don't touch that! Don't even look at it!"
Having almost completed her inspection, Clare didn't protest the yanking.
"Really, Nick," she drawled. "I'm going to start believing that you don't like
me. I thought that we were becoming friends. Bygones bygone, and all that."
Nick scoffed. "Clare, can you honestly say you know the first thing about
police procedure?"
"Um," She bit her lower lip in mock-contemplation. "Don't shoot the natives
for fun?" She confided in an aside to Natalie, "I hear that kind of behavior
gets bad publicity."
Nick scowled in disgust, throwing his hands up in the air.
"Evening, Detectives," boomed the voice of Captain Reese, "Doctor Lambert,"
Natalie nodded in greeting. "What do you have for me, Douglas?"
Nick waited anxiously for Clare's reply, certain her initial report would
be totally inadequate.
"Well, the deceased was named Frank O'Leary, age forty-eight...occupation -
he was one of the founders of Log & Oaks Brewery, a mid-sized company that
produces the twelfth most popular bitter stout in Ontario. The company also does
a fair amount of exporting to the U.S. His wife, Maude, found the body,
apparently while trying to drown his entire wardrobe in their pond. She says
that, one minute, there was no body in her pond, she slipped and was knocked
unconscious, and when she awoke - there he was. I did some initial interviews
with her and the next door neighbors - Mrs. O'Leary was very unhappy about her
husband's alleged affair with a co-worker."
"So she's our suspect? A crime of passion?"
Clare shook her head. "She has some suspicious injuries: cuts and bruises.
I've had a few photographs taken of her, as well as a breathalyzer. Her blood
alcohol is more than twice the legal limit. She can barely sit up. She may have
had motive, she may have had opportunity, but I wonder at her physical ability
to do the crime. Another interesting aspect is the amount of blood in the water.
If O'Leary was killed and dumped there on the premises, I would have expected
signs of more bleeding. Perhaps he was murdered elsewhere, and the body was
placed here to put suspicion on the wife. We should try to locate the alleged
girlfriend...maybe get more information from the neighbors. They don't appear to
have been the secretive sort, and the people next door are rather gossipy.
Regardless, it will be interesting to see Doctor Lambert's findings after the
autopsy." Clare smiled at Natalie, who was mouth agog at this discourse.
The Captain beamed in contentment. "Sounds like you have a handle on
things. I'll leave you to it, Detectives." Clare gave a little wave to counter
Nick's glimmer of sulking as Reese walked away.
Nick had to admit, Clare had recited virtually the same things he had
noticed about the body, and he hadn't bothered to interview anyone yet. Of
course, he had been distracted by Natalie, as well as the familiar neighborhood
they were in...
"You're still frowning, Nick?" Clare teased. "Here I stood, feeling so
proud of myself, and you disapprove of my abilities yet!" She mused for a
moment, slipping one hand into a tailored trouser pocket. Her eyes brightened,
and she pointed the fingers of the other hand at him in triumph. "I know! I'll
make you a bet..." In spite of himself, Nick listened with interest. "I'll wager
that I can solve one of your closed cases. I'll discover a fact that you
completely overlooked, unravel it, resolve it before you do, and have you eating
crow for questioning my detection skills in the first place."
Nick rolled his eyes. "I suppose that, *if* you manage to accomplish this
feat, I'll have to grin and bear you as my police partner for this lifetime?"
Clare nodded piquantly, so Nick continued. "And if you don't, what lies in this
bargain for me?"
"Why, I'll quit, of course," Clare declared. "Furthermore, I will
personally see that you are paired with the Homicide detective of your choice."
Nick considered the deal for loopholes. "I want a time limit. By the end of
this O'Leary case, you have to beat me in working out this *hypothetical*
solvable mystery that I've missed."
Clare squinted her eyes with her first sign of displeasure. "I can do
that." She didn't sound quite so positive as before. Instead of huffing and
puffing like a few minutes earlier, Nicholas seemed to be daring her to just try
finding a different result in one of his investigations. Plus, she would be
racing against the clock...
"Then we have a deal." Nick grabbed Clare's hand to shake on it, as Natalie
looked askance at the whole proceeding.
"Fine," replied Clare.
"Fine." Nick turned and began to stalk off.
"Wait one second!" Clare sputtered. "Where are you going?"
Nick, at last, grinned broadly. "Why, to interview the neighbors and find
the girlfriend. No doubt I can have this whole murder wrapped up by dawn...You
had better get cracking, Clare."
She was very displeased to realize that she pouted in answer.
**********************************************************************
End of Part One
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:27:37 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (02/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*****************************************************************
Beginning of Part Two
"Okay, I admit it was a funny joke," began Natalie as they observed
Nicholas depart. "The look on Nick's face was priceless. But you aren't really
serious about this job, are you?"
"Of course I'm serious. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed snooping
around NeoGen Corporation to discover information about Maeven's work. It
assuages my natural curiosity, and I will get to see you more regularly. This is
the perfect solution to Nick's partner deficiency."
"Ah. Hold it right there." Natalie lifted a symbolic palm, indicating a
halt to that idea. "This isn't just an excuse to keep an eye on me, is it? You
said I was handling myself very well."
"And you are, considering the pressures of the change. I simply like your
company." Clare gave a small shrug. "And I suppose Nick is tolerable, for all
his fussing."
Natalie sent her a knowing look as she began to double-check her body tags.
"Another reason why you leapt on this new partner concept just crossed my mind.
Be careful how you tease Nick, for my sake..."
"For both of your sakes. *That* is why I am here. Never doubt that," Clare
insisted.
"I imagine that you already have a case picked out and planned in order to
win that bet?"
"Actually, I don't. I've only read half of Nicholas' open case files, much
less any of the closed ones."
"Six years' worth," Natalie groaned. "Time is not on your side, Clare."
She agreed. "I know." A broad grin followed. "Isn't that a first?" Clare
had a sudden thought. "Maybe you could tell me, Natalie. I know what happened to
Tracy Vetter, but what about Nicholas' first partner?"
Natalie's face glowed as she began to scribble a few crime scene points in
her casebook. "Detective Donald Schanke. He was an absolute peach. Schanke and
the precinct's captain at the time, Amanda Cohen, were transporting a prisoner
to Alberta by plane when the flight was bombed." Natalie looked up from her
writing. "You know, that was the crash in which Vachon and an infant were the
only survivors. Of course, the baby is the only one on official record."
"Really?" Clare perked up at this comment. Some recollection pricked at her
consciousness.
"Really." Natalie began to scribble details in her notebook once more. "In
fact, Schanke's widow and daughter, Myra and Jenny, live five doors down from
here, this side of the street. I can almost guar-an-tee," Nat savored the word,
emphatically dotting a page of her paper and closing her pad, "That Nick went
straight to visit them after leaving our company."
"You don't say..."
"I do. He was just teasing you for a change about solving the case
overnight. Listen. I'm ready to have our victim wrapped up and delivered to the
morgue. Do you want to look at anything else before I ship him out?"
"No. I'm content with what I have already seen here. Oh, you haven't
noticed the O'Leary's cat roaming around here, have you?"
Natalie frowned. "No, I haven't. Why?"
"Apparently, it's an indoors-only model. Mrs. O'Leary was moaning that she
must have let it out into the fenced backyard by accident. By the time the
police descended, it was gone."
"So the cat left through the fence gate when the police arrived," Natalie
suggested.
"That's what I suspected, but the first officer on the scene said he came
to the front door." Clare sighed. "Well, I've wasted all this mulling over the
missing feline, and it's probably just hiding away in a closet somewhere,
asleep. I will see you later at the morgue." She moved to traipse away.
Natalie could not help indulging her curiosity. "Where are you going, now?"
"Why, to chez Schanke," Clare retorted. "I can't let Nicholas get ahead of
me, now can I?"
*******************************************************************
Nick had visited with Myra for but a short time when his unease took
root. At first he thought the discomfiture resulted from a combination of the
months that had passed since his last visit and his recent loss of yet another
partner. Tracy's death had him scratching the barely healed wounds of his grief
for Schanke.
The first dozen weeks after Schank was gone, Nick had checked in often on
Myra and Jenny out of guilt. Time passed, the pain dimmed, Myra got an executive
position at that cosmetics company she once did sales for, and the world moved
on. Soon enough, Myra began to hint that Nick really didn't *have* to come
around so frequently. Nick slowed down, tempering his hyperactive sense of
obligation, until eventually, it faded into the background of his subconscious,
only to scramble to the forefront of his concerns tonight.
Myra had appeared flustered when she answered the door. Was it because it
was too late for someone to be ringing the doorbell, or because it was Nick
standing across the threshold? He got the dim impression that Myra was *not*
happy to have a social call. He caught her looking worriedly towards the
upstairs, her slender face momentarily wrinkled with concern.
Could someone be there? Nick wondered, then pushed the
thought away. It wasn't his business, and Schanke had been gone almost a year.
Myra was still a young and attractive woman. Still, the idea of Myra dating
again, moving on from Schanke's memory, irritated him.
Nick asked her if everything was okay, and Myra gave a nervous laugh,
explaining that she was wondering where Jenny had wandered off to. She had
hardly seen the girl since she arrived home from work.
Myra then requested that they move into the kitchen and offered Nick
refreshments, which he declined. She proceeded to deal with a cooking emergency
- Jenny had apparently volunteered her services for a school bake sale, and just
bothered mentioning it this evening, the night before the treats were due.
Myra was baking cookies and created a surprising degree of noise in the
process. For a second, Nick could have sworn he heard the front door creak, and
he gloomed in the direction of the kitchen exit. Almost simultaneously, Myra
started to cuisinart pecans in an unholy racket, drowning out the suggestion of
any suspicious sounds.
Nick gave a mental sigh and began to prod Myra for more insight into how
Jenny fared at school.
*********************************************************************
Clare walked to the house.
She silently fussed to herself for the hundredth-plus time that she *must* move
out of her hotel, even if that relocation meant more realty shopping - a tedious
exercise at best.
A placard swung from a post near the front steps, proclaiming the residence
of 'Don & Myra Schanke'. Clare smiled at the romantic carving on the sign, then
turned her attention to the actual abode. It had stone facing, and appeared to
embrace a style of construction found most often in pre-World War II homes.
Bottom-heavy squat columns supported the front porch in welcoming shelter.
Overall, Clare thought the place was...quaint.
There came a rustle among the bushes standing at attention alongside the
house. Clare detoured from the walkway in order to investigate the movement. She
was silent as a shadow or the wind, startling the young girl crouched behind one
hydrangea into a gasp.
"Hello," Clare soothed. "Is everything all right?"
The child looked to be about nine or ten years of age. Clare thought she
was beautiful, but then she had a partiality for little girls with brown hair
and eyes. She spared a twinge at the memory of her own Morrigan, then noticed
that the present pair of little chocolate irises frowned at her suspiciously.
"Who are you?" the girl demanded. "This is private property."
Clare slipped her newly minted badge out of one crisp pocket. "Metro
Police. Are you Jennifer Schanke?"
The girl grasped the shield, examining it sternly. "How do you know my
name? Oh, and it's Jen, not Jennifer."
"My partner is Nicholas Knight, Jen," Clare responded. "I believe he
stopped off to visit your Mother?"
The girl gave the house an excited, yet concerned, look. "Nick's here?"
Clare started to smile and nod, prepared to lure the girl into more
conversation, when another shaking of branches exposed a feline prepared to wind
about their combined feet. It was a long-haired tortoiseshell - very fluffy with
aristocratic features and a verbose purr. It settled beside Clare's Italian
leather footwear, then prissily raised one hindquarter so as to style its
bloomers.
Clare's lips began to twitch. Jen appeared...caught.
"Is this your cat?" she asked.
"Of course," Jen replied. The girl was a good fibber, and Clare gave her
silent kudos. She didn't even blink abnormally, an invaluable skill in
deception.
"You let it roam outside?"
"All the time."
"Ah." Clare leant down to scoop up the fluffy bundle of cat flesh.
Massaging one of its forepaws in her grip, she continued speaking. "An
interesting thing about outdoor cats... they get calluses on their paw pads. I
suppose it is due to all that trampling around on concrete and rocks. Indoor
kitties keep the bases of their feet soft as a baby's skin. Why, just like this
one!" Clare punctuated her statement by helping the cat brush a smooth paw down
Jen's nose.
"You have kids, don't you?" The girl's voice was accusatory.
"I did once. Why do you ask?"
"Non-parental grownups aren't so fast to catch on. Nick wouldn't have
doubted me for a sec." Jen moved towards the front porch, gesturing for Clare
and the cat to follow. "Come on in."
Entering the Schanke's front den, Clare's eyes immediately swept over the
French country decor and focused in upon a collection of photographs. Jenny in a
ballet wearing a flower costume. Jenny singing in front of a group of children.
A slightly younger, still adorable, Jen Schanke glowed from another 5x7, flanked
by two adults. The adult female appeared to be climbing a glacier in another
picture. There was also a photo of, wonder of wonders, the male adult and Nick.
They were receiving some kind of award. Clare lifted this frame, and tapped it
to attract Jen's attention. "Is this your Dad?"
Jen nodded, "Yep. Sure is." The girl seemed to gaze distractedly between
the noise emanating from the kitchen and the upstairs. She appeared to choose
the upstairs, motioning for Clare to bring the kitty along.
Up the stairs and around a corner, then through a closed door, Jen
unearthed a bedroom concocted from shades of lavender. "This is my room," she
announced, shutting the door after them.
Clare released the cat, allowing it to proceed with a nasal inspection of
its surroundings. Jen plopped down atop her frilly comforter and continued
speaking.
"You were right, it's not my cat. It was a stray. I found it wandering
around the neighborhood." Jen risked a peep at Clare to estimate whether the
woman believed her declaration. , Clare graded silently.
"Don't tell my Mom about the cat just yet, okay?" the girl pleaded. "I'm
not supposed to have them around because...I'm allergic."
Clare nodded in complete understanding and agreement, while tucking Jenny's
lack of red eyes and sniffles away for future reference. What were the chances
that this cat hadn't been wandering down the street when Miss Schanke happened
by? What if Jen had inspected a meow from someone's backyard and had witnessed
more than she bargained for? Mrs. O'Leary didn't need her pet back right away...
**********************************************************************
"We're thinking about moving to Chicago," Myra Schanke confessed as she
slipped two dough-laden sheets in the oven.
Nick felt a rising panic, a loss of control float up from deep inside.
"Isn't this rather sudden? Why?"
Myra occupied herself with cleanup, replying half-heartedly, "I have had to
do quite a bit of traveling for Skin Pretty lately. I'm spending more time away
than not. I want to be with Jenny more."
"Are you dating someone new?" The words voicing his earlier suspicion
slipped out of their own accord, too hastily for Nick to bite back.
"No, I'm not seeing anyone *new*." Myra's protest was not as indignant as
it could have been, and Nick noticed. "And it certainly wouldn't be any of your
business if I was." She angrily twisted the knob on her cooking timer, then
slammed it on the counter. "I'm just finding it hard, staying in Toronto
after...everything." Myra brushed out of the kitchen, Nick trailing behind.
Walking through the den, a flustered Myra called, "Je-en?"
The girl stomped down the stairs. "I'm here, Mom."
Both Nick and Myra's faces were portraits of welcome until they spotted the
woman Jen was leading by a hand. "This is Clare Douglas," Jen briefed her
parent. "She's Nick's partner."
"*Temporary* partner," Nick qualified belligerently.
"Temporary to *permanent* partner," Clare qualified the qualification while
shaking Myra's hand.
"Jen, why don't you show Nick your school awards?" Myra suggested.
"But they're upstairs," Jen protested.
"So take him upstairs." The response was an order.
The girl gave a little sigh. Clare could sense her mind sifting over the
permutations of the feline in her room combined with Nick's trustworthiness.
Shoulders hunched with resignation, Jen tripped back up the stairs. Nick climbed
after her, throwing Clare a warning glare.
"So, Detective Douglas, how long have you been working with Nick?" Myra
wondered.
"Two days. And please, call me Clare."
"Ah. I heard about Tracy Vetter. It's such a shame when tragedy strikes,
but then 'Homicide Detective' is not the safest of jobs." The words sounded
routine, well-rehearsed and repeated by rote.
Clare did not look askance at Myra Schanke's comment or demeanor, but they
caused an odd twitch inside. "May I ask you a personal question? I know we just
met, but I'm having a few difficulties fitting in with Detective Knight. I
gather that he and your husband were extremely close, and that his...
death...was an enormous loss. Could you give me any insight into their
relationship? It might help me get along with Nicholas better."
Myra's expression was not pained or grieved, but rather suspicious. She
seemed to deliberate momentarily, then decided to grant the request. "Nick's a
nice guy. He was very supportive after the crash, and he always appeared to be
genuinely fond of Don."
"I sense a 'but' lurking in that statement somewhere."
"Well, I think that Nick would awe Don. He saw him as some kind of swinging
bachelor, flying free, taking the big risks. I often felt like Don pushed
himself too much in order to keep up."
Clare could not stop her mouth from gaping just a little. "Are you saying
that you blame Nick for your husband's death?" Her tone was a bit incredulous.
"Oh, no. That's not what I meant," Myra corrected. "It's just that Don put
so much into this profession, and I never felt like it rewarded him enough for
the time he spent away from me and our daughter, or the danger every day. I
think I'm just trying to warn you. You're young and beautiful and in a job that
tends to chew people up and spit them out." A little bitterness had seeped out,
and Myra caught herself. "Are you married? Do you have children?"
A pause, then Clare's answer came in laden words. "I was once. I had
children," Clare offered. "But they died. You see, I have already experienced
Fate chewing me up and spitting me out." A hard smile followed. "I may be a bit
forward in saying this but, I'm aware that there is more to marriage than a
couple of vows and a joint checking account. An intimacy forms that cannot be
compared to a tickle and a whisper, or replaced easily..." Clare carefully
observed the other woman's expression. It had become somewhat dreamy, yet Myra
still looked Clare in the eye.
"The intimacy...you're right. If a marriage works, then you trust that
person above all things, because you know that you can."
"And Nick and Schanke trusted each other?"
The slight downturn of Myra's lips returned. "I suppose they did."
The sound of Nick and Jen descending the stairs once more prevented Clare
from probing further. "Would it be all right if we, maybe, visited again another
evening? We might need some impressions about the neighbors or Mr. and Mrs.
O'Leary."
"I guess that won't be a problem," Myra shrugged, unenthusiastic about the
prospect, but evidently feeling obligated. The bing! of the cooking timer
traveled from the kitchen. "It was good to meet you." She gave Clare another
handshake. "Nick." He gave her a nod in return. "Jen - will you see Nick and
Clare out?"
Jen did, giving them both hugs in the process. "Remember, you two," the
girl cautioned. "Not a word about my cat sleeping inside."
The front door closed and locked behind them. "*Her* cat sleeping inside?"
Clare challenged once they were alone.
"It's an outdoor cat. Myra doesn't want it scratching the furniture, but
Jen's worried about it sleeping in the cold. She snuck it into her room - I
thought you knew."
Clare smirked at Nick's back at he headed for the Caddie. It was the
beginning of June, and he believed that the cat was going to freeze. The girl
had predicted rightly - he *didn't* doubt Jen for a sec.
"So why the urgent need to question Myra and Jen?" Nick demanded, turning
the ignition.
"I'll tell you later," Clare breathed with satisfaction as she joined him
in the car. "Right now I want to savor the moment."
"I'd rather that you stay away from them." He seemed to emanate that this
subject was on deadly ground with him.
"And if they become necessary to the investigation, what would you have me
do?"
Nick jerked the Caddie abruptly into gear. "Simple. They won't become
necessary."
*************************************************************************
"You were right, Clare," Natalie announced, looking up from a microscope as
Nick and she entered the morgue. "Frank O'Leary died before he ever reached his
residence."
"Cause of death?" Nick questioned.
Natalie stepped over to the examination table, lifting the plastic
obscuring the body. "My findings are preliminary, but I waited to close him up
until you got here. Take a whiff." Nick and Clare did, both grimacing at the
smell. "There is a preponderance of malt beverage in the lungs and stomach
contents." Natalie bit her lip, smiling in spite of herself. "O'Leary drowned in
his beer." Natalie held off their eruption of questions and continued. "He was
also roughed up a bit in the process. Our victim did not just fall into a vat of
hops and meet his doom."
"So you believe that he was murdered at the Log & Oaks Brewery," Nick
specified.
"Since he had no micro-brewery at home, I'd say 'yes.'"
"Then we'll go there tomorrow night," Nick declared, then whispered in
Natalie's ear, a hint of pleading to his voice. "I'll see you at the loft,
right?" Natalie gave him a slight nod, but did not make eye contact.
"Tomorrow? Why not tonight?" Clare protested.
"Because I have to run an errand," Nick retorted. "If you're going to win
the bet, Clare, no doubt you have one as well." Then he flipped out of the
morgue.
"He's trying to worry me," Clare pronounced, glowering at the exit.
"Is it working?"
"No. I know where he's headed - he's planning to tell on me."
That information rendered Natalie no more content.
*********************************************************************
End of Part Two
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:39:21 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (03/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
******************************************************************
Beginning of Part Three
Nick had not been to the Raven since the night Maeven and her creatures had
destroyed Figaro. LaCroix had herded Vachon and him back to the club, demanding
answers, angry with, yet protective of Clare. Two nights later they had swarmed
Maeven's laboratory, destroying her vampire-like mutants and their creator as
well.
LaCroix had not stopped there, however. All of Maeven's work, papers,
photographs, and cultures had received his careful attentions. Any chance of
Natalie and Nick using this material to find a cure for vampirism had been
stripped away. As usual, a bitterness towards his sire's heavy-handed control
had seeped through him. This time, though, Nick had the urge to attempt to turn
LaCroix's dominating streak against himself. Perhaps he would disapprove of
Clare's interference.
"I received a new homicide partner tonight," Nick declared, leaning beside
his sire against the Raven's bar. LaCroix acknowledged his statement with a
lackadaisical twitch of an eyebrow.
"Really?" He took a haughty sip of blood cocktail, then progressed. "I
should be fascinated by this occurrence because...?"
"My new partner is Clare." The older vampire was surprised, though his
outward appearance did not alter. Nick felt the small mental jolt at his
revelation, and that was enough to please him immensely. "She didn't tell you?"
Nick barreled on, not waiting for LaCroix's reply. "Strange. I thought that you
two were spending quite a bit of time together. I'd expect she'd mention a
career change..."
"No doubt, Nicholas, her intent was to surprise me. I have no doubts that
she stunned you, but Clare would want a greater challenge."
"It is interesting that you should bring up challenges. Clare and I have
one. She has to find a case in which I came to the wrong conclusion and solve it
before we close our latest project. Otherwise, she's out as my partner."
LaCroix's blue eyes actually twinkled. "Your capacity to amuse me never
seems to end, Nicholas. You choose to play poker with Clare, where each card is
a trump, and you think it is a daring venture? I, myself, can find fault within
any number of your frolics as a detective. Foremost, it was an error that you
sought to champion mortal justice at all."
"And you don't have a problem with Clare making the same choice?" Nick
disputed, his indignation clearly evident.
LaCroix leaned closer, dangling his goblet tantalizingly closer to his
offspring's nostrils and lips, and taunted, "But neither of us would believe
that motive, would we? Now Nicholas, what is the real reason that lured you
here?"
Nick's lips clenched, his hands twitched, and he half-turned away from the
proffered refreshment. "I merely came to share the news."
"To share?" LaCroix lingered over a taste of his glass' contents. "How
endearingly companionable of you. Do you intend to disclose how Doctor Lambert
is enjoying her newfound freedom from the bonds of mundane human existence? You
two have been spending quite a bit of time together." His tone mimicked Nick's
earlier delivery.
"Natalie wants to find a cure. We *both* do," Nick insisted.
"Indeed. Then what are you doing here?" LaCroix delivered the words as a
mocking rebuke, leaving Nicholas to sinkingly wonder at the answer as the
Nightcrawler commenced the evening's broadcast.
"Our subject tonight brings us to expectations and the hazards they hold
captive. What is trust, dear listeners? Is it the diligent assurance of
security? A promise to chase the bogeyman from your door, back to where the wild
things roam free? Is trust a compromise that merges your own self-interests with
those sweet desires of another...dear...individual in a paradoxical partnership?
Or is it just another illusion of faith, waiting to beguile and break? Here is a
hint, and yes, this is a test question. You will be graded accordingly, my
children. Trust is not faith in oneself. Self-reliance is restricted to the
omnipotent, and we need no such assurances - You may *trust* me on this..."
*************************************************************************
"Did you meet Myra and Jenny Schanke?" Natalie occupied herself with the
post-mortem sewing up of Frank O'Leary's abdominal cavity, her movements labored
and methodical.
"Yes. The daughter was charming. She also has the O'Leary's cat," Clare
mentioned.
Intrigued, Natalie looked up from her stitching. "The cat? Where did she
find it?"
"I cannot be certain, but the O'Leary's backyard is a distinct
possibility."
This statement did not serve to soothe Natalie's wonderment. "What does
Nick think? What does Myra think? Did Jen tell you she found the cat there?" she
sputtered.
"With all those questions you are constantly spouting, it's no wonder
you're a scientist," Clare jested. "Answers, in order: Nick doesn't think."
Before Nat could protest she continued. "Sorry. I couldn't resist that one. Nick
doesn't suspect Jen Schanke as a potential witness, and I didn't say anything to
Myra. The girl claimed that she found the cat wandering around the
neighborhood."
"Well, that could be true."
Clare conceded that point. "Yes, but it is just as conceivable that she saw
something of interest to the case. Jen as good as admitted that she was near the
O'Leary's house at the time the body was allegedly planted in their decorative
pool."
"Nick will have a problem with using her as a witness. It's his protective
instinct."
"I know. Myra is not going to be jumping for joy either. She seemed
somewhat disturbed about her husband's police career. Altogether, her behavior
struck me as unusual."
Natalie's forehead wrinkled with perplexity. "Myra acted unusually? In what
way?"
Indecision clouded Clare's features. "I cannot pinpoint what makes me
uneasy about her attitude. It simply strikes me as...atypical...for a woman in
her position."
"People grieve in different ways. Don't project too many of your own
feelings."
"I am aware of that. It was so odd, though. First, she mentions Tracy
Vetter's death - what a tragedy it was. You would think she would emanate
empathy about the subject. After all, she lost her own husband in an untimely
accident. Yet the aura about Myra Schanke seemed...untouched, as if she was
relating the words she thought I expected, but had no real concept of sentiment
behind them."
"Couldn't Myra still be in a denial phase? A year after the death is an
extremely long time to still block out the loss, but it wouldn't be the first
time such a thing happened," Natalie proposed.
"Denial," Clare repeated to herself. "Maybe you are right. I expressed a
few sentiments that made her reminisce about her marriage. She was full of
memories, I could tell, but they appeared to be fresh within her mind. They have
several photographs on display at their home - she never looked at them once for
a reminder of his face. It was as if Myra had no need of a prompt. It makes
sense to refuse such assistance if you denied the person's death. Such an action
would grant that photos were the only remaining source of their face."
"The more you talk about it, the more you force me to wonder. I remember
the funeral - it was such an awful day. Both Schanke and Captain Cohen buried,
one in the morning, one in the afternoon. The same crowds attended the two
services, with the same crushed, sorrowful faces. I sat in the row behind Myra
and Jenny, where they were sobbing uncontrollably. They *were* grieving. Such an
about face, especially in Myra, does feel a little bizarre."
"Well, I certainly don't have a hundred percent understanding of the human
psyche, despite what I may profess sometimes. Let's file this oddity under
'Interesting Things To Muse About Later.' I'll leave you to finish your work in
a timely manner, then you can have your rendezvous with Nicholas." At Natalie's
discomfited look, Clare chided, "Of course I overheard your plans. Vampire
eardrums and my inquisitiveness do not make for safe whispers. Actually, I've
wondered exactly what was going on between you two since you've kissed and made
up, as it were."
"That makes two of us," Natalie sighed, and gave up any remaining pretense
of work. Thinking of Nick, she readjusted the statement, her words plunging
forth from her troubled thoughts. "No, make that three of us. Clare, I don't
trust myself not to lose control around Nick. With the way I feel about him,
it's much harder than autopsying a fresh kill or forcing myself into chugging a
protein shake."
"Ah." It was a pendulous syllable, full of meaning and depth. "I don't
blame you for being torn, but I don't think that I can help you. That choice is
yours and Nick's alone."
"I love him. I want him. But I don't want the responsibility of sabotaging
our desire for mortality in favor of ...something else."
"So you want to pass that burden off to me? No thank you, Natalie."
"My feelings are so frustrating. I've been over and over the scenario in my
head. I tell myself that we could consume a surfeit of cow blood and just be
together, but who am I kidding? The blood arouses the vampire. Feeding the
craving so I can be with Nick - it's backsliding, whether it employs cow, human,
or vampire plasma. So my dilemma, Clare, boils down to... Is the waiver worth
payoff?"
Her newest offspring looked so lost and in need, Clare could not resist
giving her opinion. "To be honest, Natalie, I have never known a greater
intimacy outside of sharing the blood. Nothing I underwent as a mortal could
match the headiness. To suckle on another being's soul, to experience it rushing
into every pore and become your own - nothing compares to that sensation.
Nothing can replace it. But once it happens, there is no going back, for that
melding is completely addictive. You could consider it a trap. Where does it
stop? *Does* it stop? Your question is answered with another question. If you
don't believe that you can be with Nicholas without indulging the vampire, you
will have to chose which is more important: nobility or love." Clare caressed
Natalie's cheek with a self-conscious smile, unable to resist adding, "I always
pick love...or a reasonable approximation thereof."
***********************************************************************
Something smacked Vachon in the face.
"Yoo-hoo, Javier - wakey, wakey!" A loud, sing-songy, and very demanding
voice was yanking him from the arms of restful slumber.
Abrupt footsteps rocked his mattress. Someone was *stomping* across his
bed, and if Vachon wanted to fuss at them, he was going to have to open his
eyes. The jostling ceased, and Javier risked a peek through slitted vision.
It was Clare. She sat cross-legged and arms akimbo. She was also minus a
shoe after apparently bonking him upside the head with it a moment before.
Temptation to fuss rapidly evicted Vachon's thoughts, and his lids dropped
once more. He was playing possum.
"I saw you peeking. Get up!" Vachon resisted her summons for a few more
moments, but then Clare repeated herself, adding a painful thump to his nose.
"Get up!!"
Vachon sat up, rubbing his stinging proboscis. "Enough 'ready! I'm 'wake!
Swear!"
Clare waggled a reproving finger at him. "Shame on you, Javier. It's two in
the morning! What kind of mischief did you rummage in yesterday to be so
slothful?"
He was now massaging the back of his neck. "Try yesterday, the day before,
*and* two days before that." Clare looked at him expectantly for greater
elaboration, and Vachon complied. "I went out with some of Figaro's old fashion
crew. We partied. We partied some more. Somehow we ended up in Puerto Rico." He
shook his head in wonder. "That part is a bit of a blur. We had a Rum-O
contest."
Clare smirked. Rum-O was a favored competition amongst Caribbean vampires.
Equal parts of Type O and ninety-proof were chugged in alternating shots by the
contestants. Alcohol alone typically had no effect on a vampire, and was
absolutely wretched on the taste buds to boot. Mixed with blood, though, it
could enhance the burning, floating feeling and temporarily eradicate a few
brain cells. Speed, however, was of the essence for the maximum effect employed
in Rum-O.
The contest was basically a drinking game. Each participant was given
until a crowd counted to ten to chug their latest glass. If they didn't make it,
they paid a forfeit. Forfeit was usually something deliciously embarrassing,
such as losing all your clothes except a conveniently placed ribbon, or painful,
like having a finger temporarily cut off. It all depended on the generosity of
your playmates. Competitors would continue drinking until someone forfeited, or
died from alcohol poisoning. Of course, no one *really* died, not as a mortal
would under similar circumstances. No, the loser experienced a sensation similar
to falling off of a thirty-story building and crashing into the pavement, while
the winner fared mildly better. When the loser regained consciousness, they also
had to pay a forfeit. In a strange by-product, the successful game players
tended to acquire a pronounced blink as a consequence of their skills.
"I won again," Vachon volunteered.
Vachon was a renowned champ at Rum-O.
"Well, congratulations. Have you regained the ability to form complex
sentences yet?"
"Uh, yeah?"
"Good. I want you to tell me a story, and you need to be perceptibly
eloquent." Clare had brought some of her own stock to snack on, and proffered
the bottle in Vachon's direction. "It's of British derivation. A few sips might
help."
He accepted the container, downed a portion and rubbed his neck. A minute
passed. "Okay. I am feeling much better now. You're in need of a storyteller?"
Clare nodded. "I want to hear about your plane ride, the one that crashed
as you were trying to flee the Inka and resulted in your encounter with Tracy
Vetter."
"Haven't I done that before?" Vachon squinted, doubting the necessity of
speaking at length when he could be sleeping.
"Yes. But I want you to tell me all the events up until the plane took off
again, and in more detail this time. Just flash back..."
"Let's see...How did that one go? It all started with a plane ride..."
******************************************************************
Vachon's Plane Story
The Inka had tracked him to the church and had been lying in wait when
Javier returned home from his last oil rig job as J. D. Valdez. Vachon had
sensed his sibling before venturing up those antiquated stairs and favored
making a 180 degree turn, getting out of there fast.
He made a pit stop at the Raven, informed Urs that he was moving on, and
headed for the airport. Vachon carried only those possessions he'd taken on the
rig: clothes, ID, and a guitar case containing his acoustic. He'd had to leave
the electric back at the church - amps and oil didn't mix due to possible
blowouts and pesky explosions.
Vachon took a taxi to the airport and encountered a flurry of press roaming
the airport lobby. The objects of their desire had just finished making their
statements and rushed ahead of Javier past the metal detectors. It was an
unlikely trio: a stern-faced Asian woman, a dark-haired, round-visaged guy in a
sharp suit, and another fellow who slumped between them, accessorized with
handcuffs. Vachon branded the troupe as law enforcement and intended to give
them a wide berth.
Unfortunately, Javier ended up behind the sharp-dressed man at the ticket
counter, and the guy appeared to be having some kind of problem.
"No, no, no, no. That won't do, comprende? We are police officers. We are
escorting a *criminal*. We have to have three seats together." The fellow
fidgeted in frustration. "Do you guys know the meaning of the word 'security'?"
At this moment, the self-proclaimed police officer's female cohort stepped
forward, dragging the handcuffed man along. "They just started boarding the
flight, Detective Schanke. If they can't get us one group, we'll just have to
make the single and double work. We're only one row apart. Come along."
The man called Detective Schanke grumbled as they moved away. "You know,
Captain, sometimes I don't think anybody takes pride in their work anymore. How
hard could reserving three seats together be? We ought to complain."
"Later, Schanke, later. Let's just get on the plane," the woman sighed.
"Are you sure you don't want to grab a cappuccino first?"
"Plane, Schanke. Now."
Vachon stepped up to the counter and politely asked the harried clerk with
a winsome smile, "You wouldn't happen to have one seat available over an engine,
now would you...?"
***********************************************************************
"Get out!" Clare interrupted, joyously swapping Vachon with a pillow. "You
didn't actually hear the woman call that fellow Detective Schanke, did you? And
he called her Captain? Why didn't you mention this before?"
"Because now I am under orders to be *descriptive*. Before I was actually
telling you the story for *fun*," Vachon replied, not nearly as excited as his
company over a trivial name.
"Yes, and the details are what separate us from carpet salesmen." Clare's
voice was downright urgent. "Tell me, Javier. Did you see those people again?"
"Why, as a matter of fact, I did. On the plane. May I continue with my
description?"
"Please do."
Vachon's Plane Story, Continuing Description
Vachon purchased his one-way ticket to Edmonton over one of the left
engines and boarded the plane with no hassle. Getting to his seat, however, was
a problem. Detective Schanke was standing in the narrow aisle, hovering over the
row that contained the Captain and their prisoner as if he was a human shield.
Each person whose ticket sent them farther back into the plane had to squeeze
past the detective first. This caused a bit of traffic clog, much to the dismay
of the flight attendants.
Vachon let a mother carrying an infant girl make her way in front of him,
then attempted to pass the Schanke gauntlet himself. A few too-close-for-comfort
moments later, he realized that his seat was directly next to the hovering form
of the Detective. Vachon unhappily moved to stash his guitar case, a study in
black leather with steel brackets along the sides, in the overhead compartment.
He lifted the container abruptly over his head, in a rush to clear the pathway
of his form so that people could get by.
Detective Schanke had suddenly decided to clear the aisle, as well. He made
an about face, smashing his jaw directly into a piece of metal reinforcement on
Vachon's guitar case. A white projectile flew through the air, bouncing hidden
to a halt under a foot rest. In surprise, the Detective staggered forward into
Javier's back, while clutching his injured jaw, startling Vachon in the process.
Vachon whirled around, lowering the case as he did so, and managed to crown
Schanke over the head with almost supernatural force.
There were several exclamations, including those of the Captain. Schanke
just stood there, swaying slightly. He bled from his forehead and his mouth.
Vachon had struck something hard, but not quite hard enough, in both instances.
"My toof! My bwidge! Man, Myra'th gonna kill me! She'th been hounding me to
go to her cousin'th dentitht for month-th!"
"Detective Schanke! See if the stewardess can give you anything to clean up
that blood before the flight starts!" It was an order from the Captain, a very
determined order.
"Yeth, Captain." Schanke wandered out of the compartment, woozily following
an attendant until he was beyond their view.
The Captain sighed heavily, giving Vachon a glare that he felt was
unjustified. He'd gone out of his way not to assault a police officer. It had
just *happened*. Javier now successfully stored his guitar and found his seat.
Maybe ten minutes went by, and the takeoff announcements and signals to fasten
seatbelts commenced. He then overheard the Captain question a steward on the
whereabouts of her fellow officer.
"I'm sorry ma'am. I don't know where he is. I remember hearing that someone
fainted up front. He could be recovering in first class. I'll find out for you
as soon as we're in the air," came the reply.
**********************************************************************
"Of course, the Captain never found out what happened to Detective
Schanke," Vachon noted. "Because the plane went boom before we reached
altitude."
"I remember you mentioning whopping a fellow over the head with your
guitar case now. I *knew* something uncommon happened on that plane!" Clare was
very satisfied.
"Yeah, I lost my guitar. It was my favorite - it had silver inlay on the
neck." A passionate look encompassed Vachon's face, heretofore seen only in
reference to mortal necks.
"But consider the implications, Vachon!" Clare espoused excitedly. "That's
ten minutes at least before the flight taxied to the runway in which Detective
Schanke was unaccounted for. If he fainted, and it looked serious, it's
perfectly possible that a member of the crew had him taken off the plane. That's
fantastic!"
"That's one enormous conclusion," he countered. "What's the big deal about
Detective Schanke, anyway?"
Clare wriggled off the bed, extremely pleased with herself. "Didn't you
know? Schanke was Nicholas' partner before Tracy Vetter."
"And you're suggesting that he wasn't on the plane when it crashed?"
"Just that he had the reason and opportunity to leave that plane before it
took off. Nicholas isn't aware of your close encounter with the Detective, is
he?"
"No way. He and Trace were worked up over the bomb aspect. They wanted to
know if the plane exploded, so I told them the plane exploded."
"That's perfect. Thank you, Vachon."
He gave Clare a drowsy smile. "Well, before I go back to Zzz's, answer one
question for me - if there's any chance that Detective wasn't killed in the
crash, how come everyone thinks he's dead?"
**********************************************************************
End of Part Three
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:45:15 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (04/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
******************************************************************
Beginning of Part Four
Nick drove to his loft in a troubled mystique, his thoughts ferreting
around old words. This night had been nothing but unsettling, pricking at his
already anxious subconscious. A myriad of voices snapped at him, shadows of the
past.
There were conversations with LaCroix:
There were revelations with Schanke:
There was his own voice, swimming in the hollow echo of a phone line: The memory of his and Schank's shared laughter was overpowering. Nick
pulled the car to the curb and stopped, sheltering his head in his hands. What
did he want?
His hands tremored, and the shaking wave traveled throughout his whole
body, causing him to catch his breath. Pent up desires and losses railed at him,
wreathing his conscience in confused cacophony. Re-occurring upheaval lashed at
his reason.
The anger and resentment flowed forth, a bitter flavor added to his bland
dismay.
Nick lost sense of time, realizing numbly some while later that the clatter
of the police radio still barked at him. Moisture trickled through his fingers,
and strain pinched at his face. He leaned weakly back in the driver's seat,
thankful the convertible top wasn't lowered. He appreciated the facade of
shelter. Nick continued to gaze forlornly at the vehicles passing him down the
street, the speeding headlights broadcasting shadows and brightness across his
face.
Someone that he hadn't seen had hidden at the Schanke's tonight. He had not
caught them with his eyes, but his senses and observation of Myra's manner had
not been so blind. Why would Myra conceal a visitor from him? Nick had never
given her any cause to be less than forthright with him. Unless, of course, this
person was someone that Schanke would have disapproved of greatly.
Nick's expression was cold as he restarted the Caddie's ignition. He would
find out. He owed that much in remembrance of Schanke. He would just make
certain Myra and Jen were in good hands.
If he discovered that they weren't, Nick would handle the problem.
*************************************************************************
Clare popped her head into the morgue, lips upturned, and caught Natalie
still on the job. "Oh, good. You haven't left for Nicholas' yet."
Natalie watched her enter briskly, her own mouth bleakly compressed. "I
haven't made up my mind. I've been hiding in reports for the past hour, so you
don't have to hurry on my account. What brings you back so soon?"
"I have a question about that plane crash you mentioned earlier. Did you
work the site?"
Natalie nodded, slightly discomfited at the recollection. "I did the body
identifications, yes. What do you want to know?"
Clare phrased her words very carefully. "Were any of the victims confirmed
solely by use of their dental records because no corpse was found?"
Natalie's mouth dropped open. "How did you know that? We had to match teeth
fragments found in the plane wreckage to identify Schanke. It was very
difficult. Of course, he wasn't nearly as impossible as two sisters that had
been seated over the wing - there was nothing, absolutely nothing left that we
could work with in their cases. What else do you need to know?" Natalie appeared
almost desperate for additional distraction.
Clare smiled brightly. "That's it. Just a tad of curiosity to finish off
the evening."
Natalie considered her sire's face, looking for hints as to her real
purpose. Having no flash of insight and full of her own quandary, Natalie
murmured a distracted goodnight as Clare made her exit.
Stepping into the hall, Clare scrounged for her cell phone. She dialed,
then waited patiently through the first couple of rings. Very patiently, if you
considered how ecstatic she'd become inside at Natalie's answer to her question.
"Hello, Feliks? It's Clare. I need you to do me a favor." She strolled out
of 26 Grenville Street in the direction of her sportscar. "I would like for you
to dig up all the financial records concerning Don, Myra, and Jennifer Schanke."
Clare rattled out the spelling, their address, Schanke's badge number, and other
pertinent facts, then added, "I need the information to go back over, say, the
past eighteen months. Just call me with anything interesting. Thanks. Bye."
Stopping by the driver's door of her automobile, Clare closed the
mouthpiece with a satisfied click. Beating Nicholas was going to be *too* easy.
She was of a mind to interact with a man who demanded considerably more skill.
Full of
anticipation, Clare revved her engine and flew out of her parking spot, a force
of nature released on the unsuspecting metropolis.
*************************************************************************
Nick slung open the elevator door to his loft, and swung a hateful glance
towards the blender mounted in the center of the kitchen counter. He primed his
answering machine to spit out his messages. There was only one. It was Natalie's
voice, ringing a little strained and sad. A frantic ache erupted from inside,
exposing his raw heart for the bruising of every taped word.
"Nick. It's Natalie. I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to come
over tonight. Don't take this the wrong way, but I just need more time. I'm
sorry."
A memory, a pleading from Natalie to stay, to not leave her alone, scoured
at his security. The end of the message beeped, but he just allowed the cassette
to keep running. The sounds of older, happier, and more urgent messages sang to
him as he delved into the refrigerator - one green bottle of temptation to clasp
his hand around, and another to drown the shame of splurging.
Tracy's voice yacked at him to call her *now*, then a dial tone, a crackle,
and he was thrown into a message from Schanke. How many years had those sounds
lurked there since they were first received? Two? Three?
"Partner? You there? Earth calling Nick. Come in Nick. We need to talk muy
pronto. There's a problem -"
Nick missled the machine across the room, shattering the blender with
pinpoint accuracy upon impact. Cracks of plastic rolled from the counter and
bounced lacklusterly to the floor. Nick swayed in place for a spell, undecided
about which direction to move. Too much had happened too quickly, and it all was
sinking in, drowning him. His feet didn't seem to respond initially, but he
finally moved toward one leather armchair. Seated, he jerkily unstopped a
container and embarked on drowning his hopes.
He made it halfway though the bottle before his eyes became too pained and
his hands shook too much to continue. Then Nick just let the blood fall from his
grasp, pouring out on the floor. It struck him as odd that he did not cry, but
just felt scarred and dazed.
He hurt.
And he had run out of tears.
*************************************************************************
The Raven was empty, a dark sepulcher of sensations filled with people who
once were. The clearance was no wonder; dawn pushed at the night sky when Clare
had left her car at curbside. Mortals and vampires alike had moved on to their
daily destinations. Her heels clicked softly across the parquet of the dance
floor, and she employed one strappy toe to gently open the unlatched door to the
back rooms.
LaCroix was seated there in half-light, writing something which he pushed
aside as she leaned to shut the entrance with her weight.
"You waited up for me?" She wasn't inclined to be worried or flattered.
There was something troubling in the air, an aura that, despite her recent
triumphs, dampened her spirits. The room seemed still, as though she stood in
the eye of the hurricane.
LaCroix watched her indulgently. "I had my suspicions that you would
arrive, despite the lateness of the hour."
Clare moved forward to stand before him. "And did this startling
realization come after a visit from a special someone?"
He took her hand, choosing to trace a thumb over her knuckles. "Apparently,
I am in your debt." Blue eyes met green, searching, plummeting in their depths
to divulge cause and effect.
Clare protested softly. "Coming here was Nicholas' choice, maybe even his
need. I trust that he was suitably indignant at my interference?"
"Delightfully so. I am awed by your talents."
Clare leaned over his chair to whisper a liquid dare in his ear. "Confess.
I surprised you, didn't I?"
"Yes." LaCroix seemed to release the word under duress.
"Good." She smoothed a fingertip possessively down his right cheek. "I
warned you to not be so complacent."
LaCroix's eyes flashed brightly, and Clare's fingertip was suddenly caught
between his teeth in a biting caress. Her gaze echoed in brilliance, a satisfied
gasp escaping her throat. He slipped one palm to the small of her back, pulling
her form into his lap. He twisted her amber hair around the other hand, keeping
her vision pinned within his own. "Who here is too complacent?"
"I have every reason to be pleased with myself. I have arranged for our
offspring to be under my close, personal supervision on a daily basis, for an
indefinite length of time."
"Then you should indefinitely be intoxicated with your success."
Clare's lips arched in a sultry promise. "If you ask nicely, I might
concede any interesting interludes that pass my way."
"I would *hate* to take you for granted." The slick catch to the words
professed anything but this declaration.
Clare cradled his face in her grasp, then nipped his lower lip none-too-
gently before sharing her heated reply. "Then I grant that you take me."
He kissed her in a battle for domination, ravaging her mouth in riposte.
She pushed to her feet, breathing a low, eager laugh. Swaying in an embrace
across the floor, she then sunk to her knees atop the divan, wrapping an arm
behind his head as he bent to trail his lips from the side to the back of her
neck.
Her dress started just below the shoulder blades, a confection snugged out
of red silk, so dark to become almost black in the dim light of the room.
LaCroix pulled at the zipper, rubbing his thumbs in a path down either side of
her newly exposed backbone. He then brushed his jaw in a mimicking course to the
base of her spine, his canines projecting and scratching her pale skin.
Clare released a longing squeal as he sunk his teeth slightly into the
flesh above her hip. She scraped her nails along the divan then flipped over,
clutching LaCroix by the collar. She caught her lips around his jugular,
impaling the skin above, licking and sucking.
His blood burst over her tongue, spreading an addictive charge over her
skin. She shuddered with the first swallow, then subsided into a deep languor
with the subsequent tastes. She could almost feel her heart pulse with the
lushness of the thoughts, a thousand surrenders bathing in her bloodstream.
Brutal intentions lingered towards some of the faces that flashed through her
mind, but there was ever so much more lust and hunger to demand her attention.
LaCroix poured into her - the awareness seemed to wind and scuttle through
Clare, nestling into part of her soul. She let his sensations secure their
passage, savoring the minutiae.
Totally unexpected, a sudden pulse of anger and despair seared at them
both, causing Clare to cry out in surprise, and LaCroix to clutch at her
violently. She trapped his gaze with her own, a single tear rolling over her
cheekbone. She touched the side of his face, perhaps to comfort or steady them
both.
"Nicholas...in pain...his grief..." Clare choked, seeking some confirmation
of her interpretation of the connection.
LaCroix silenced her, quietly responding, "What could I do for him that I
have not already several times over? Release his torment..."
She panted, lolled her head back, and wrapped her arms around his
shoulders. He fed, reaching into her and pulling out her joy and laughter, her
conquered ghosts, and achieved his own escape.
******************************************************************
End of Part Four
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 08:58:38 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (05/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*****************************************************************
Beginning of Part Five
Clare sat with Maude O'Leary in the interrogation room. Maude's lawyer
glared in her direction as his client dissolved into sobbing once again. Clare
smiled sweetly in return. If it weren't for Captain Reese and Officer Miller
spying in through the two-way mirror, this interview would have been over and
done a half-hour ago. Instead, she was under observation, forced to play fair
for appearances' sake.
She felt Nicholas' approach, and quietly excused herself from the room for
a few moments, under the guise of providing Mrs. O'Leary ample time to collect
herself. Heading for the observation room, Clare rubbed her fingers together in
anticipation. Figaro would have said,
Nicholas was late. Clare, sensibly, had not expected him on time, not after
her experience of the night before. She had calmed somewhat once she caught
Natalie on the phone. Natalie was fine, Natalie swore she was fine, and that she
was still considering her decision. She had not seen Nick again the night
before, and her tone insinuated that she would not see him until she was ready.
In the end, Natalie was no more forthcoming as to the specifics of
Nicholas' torment than Lucius had been the day before. Without a concrete
explanation, she attempted to shove the afterthoughts concerning Nicholas into
the back of her mind again. Then Clare covered for him, pacifying Reese with
talk of her partner stopping to check on a lead en route to the precinct.
Now Nicholas had arrived, and she wished that he hadn't bothered. He was
not in an emotional state to be around these mortals. He was a time bomb waiting
for detonation. Clare had sincere doubts about her readiness to coddle him out
of harm's way.
She entered the observation room, interrupting the conversation. Nicholas
watched her with empty eyes and explained, "I was just informing Captain Reese
that that lead I was running turned out to be a dead end."
Clare nodded and delivered a credible, "Too bad."
"You might as well send Mrs. O'Leary home," Captain Reese sighed as he
moved to depart. "I don't think we'll get anything productive out of her
tonight. Since forensics holds with her story about sustaining injuries while
falling in the backyard, you two had better dig up another concrete suspect."
"We will send her home," Clare agreed.
"Then we have an interview with the co-founder of Log & Oaks Brewery," Nick
supplied.
Clare did not protest the announcement, but did not express enthusiasm
either.
"Well, go to work," commanded Reese.
With the Captain and Miller gone, the two vampires stood in the room alone.
Mrs. O'Leary could be observed blowing her nose into a tissue that Clare had
thoughtfully supplied. Her lawyer yawned his boredom through the glass.
"Is there anything that you would like to share with me?" Clare's voice was
stilted, trying to edge out the reproof.
Nick looked at her blankly, as though her displeasure was insignificant.
"Not a thing. Let's do as the Captain says, and go to work." He opened the door
once more. "After you," he gestured.
Into the interrogation room they went, poised to dismiss. Nick assured the
sniffling Mrs. O'Leary that they were doing their best to discern her husband's
killer and wished her farewell.
"There's one more thing I wanted to check," Clare added. "Mrs. O'Leary, in
searching for your missing cat, a photograph would be of the utmost assistance.
Would you happen to carry one that we may use?"
"Why, yes." The woman eagerly scrounged in her billfold, slipping out a
print. "I used this one of Precious on our Christmas cards last year. Isn't she
darling?"
Clare took the photo, quietly assenting the feline's beauty. "Goodbye, and
thank you."
"Would you mind telling me what that was about?" Nick demanded bitingly
once Maude and the lawyer were out of earshot.
Clare held up the photograph for his inspection. "Certainly. Do you
recognize this cat?"
Nick frowned at the image. "You can't be serious," he protested.
"It bears a remarkable resemblance to Jen Schanke's pet, doesn't it? It
disappeared sometime between when Mrs. O'Leary entered her backyard and the
police arrived."
He was dismissive of the suggestion, left interrogation and began to walk
out of the precinct. "There isn't exactly a shortage of tortoiseshell cats in
Toronto."
Clare followed, unabashed. "Yes, but a tortoiseshell cat in the possession
of a girl who admits she found it in the neighborhood on the night of a murder
is less commonplace." She rushed down the station steps after him, blocking his
path in the parking lot. "You may find it unpleasant, Nicholas, but the fact
remains that Jennifer Schanke could have been an eyewitness to the murderer. We
don't know where she acquired that cat. The girl could have gone into the
O'Leary's backyard and seen the culprit dump the body. She needs to be
questioned further."
Nick suddenly seized her by her jacket lapels and slammed her up against a
car, making a dent in its front fender. "I told you to stay away from them," he
hissed, his face twisted into a vision of fury. "No one is going to harass Jen
Schanke into a statement, witness or not. Understand?"
Clare's first instinct was to strike him back. The fever boiled through
her, but she fought the rage down. She slowly and deliberately placed a hand
flat against the car on either side of where she leaned. Staring Nick down, she
pushed against his force until she was standing once more. "I understand that
you are experiencing some difficulty right now. I do not know the details, but I
have sensed it," Clare remonstrated intently. "The nature of the grievance does
not matter. What matters is that you are making an appalling mistake." Clare
leaned closer, forcing Nick to take a step back. "Don't you dare dream that you
can take your upset out on me. I will not tolerate it, and you know what I am
capable of. If you have an argument to express, I am open to debate. Otherwise,
consider yourself warned."
Nick released her, his expression somewhat abashed. "You're right." He
turned, choosing not to apologize, and continued toward the Cadillac.
"If Jennifer Schanke saw something," she called after him. "You cannot just
ignore it."
He stilled at the driver's door. "I know." His face was haunted, anguished.
Clare moved to the other side of the automobile, frowning in consideration.
"I mean the girl no harm."
Nick did not believe her, she could tell from his expression. He started
the car, and she breathed in heavily to release some of her tension before
joining him inside. "I don't comprehend your antagonism. What do you think that
I'm going to do to Jen - drag her into the precinct and beat the truth out of
her?"
Nick countered in dispute, "Can you swear that you have never intended to
cause a child injury?"
Clare's mind flashed to the aftermath of her husband's destruction, and the
villagers she'd slaughtered regardless of age. "I cannot," she admitted softly.
"Exactly. You hurt Daniel. I've seen the damage that you can do."
Clare stared at him in surprise. "Daniel? Are you suggesting that I
destroyed him out of malice?" She shook her head. "You spent time with him, you
were there - how could you so misapprehend the circumstances?"
"I don't think that I did."
"A friend informed me recently that what we choose to think and the truth
are not necessarily identical. Perhaps this thought could do you some good as
well."
Nick did not reply, but gazed steadfastly at the night traffic.
"This isn't over," Clare warned quietly, then turned away for her own
contemplation of the passing street lights.
**********************************************************************
The Log & Oaks Brewery resided in a medium-sized warehouse and factory.
Constructed with a log cabin inspired exterior, the entrance to the plant
invoked an outdoorsman's hominess, at least until the mechanical sounds of the
third shift hummed busily to the ears. Forensics had combed through the factory
since lunch, searching for evidence of the murder occurring on the premises.
Packs of their labeled jackets still conferred in huddled clumps about plant
floor. Also cluttering the factory floor, a tapestry of hoses and pipes
interconnected amongst the vats and into the walls, evidently for transporting
gases to waste and product to the bottling sector next door.
Before Clare and Nick had an opportunity to discover forensics' progress, a
thin, middle-aged, mustached man rushed up to them, rubbing his hands together
worriedly.
"Are you the police in charge? Detective Knight?" he pleaded. As Nick
confirmed his identification, the man continued. "I am Victor Barger, the co-
founder of Log & Oaks. Do you have any idea how much longer your people are
going to be searching through my vats? It's wasting time, and time is money."
"May I remind you that the waste of time is in search of your partner's
murderer?" Nick answered gruffly.
Mr. Barger smoothed his moustache. "Why, yes. I understand that Detective.
I certainly want to see Frank's killer to get what they deserve. It's just that
I don't want to go bankrupt in the process. Your people have halted production!"
Clare's phone rang. She stepped away and answered the insistent beep while
Nick trounced Victor Barger's protests. It was Natalie, sharing the results of
the toxicology report on O'Leary. Ending the call, Clare motioned Nick aside.
"That was Natalie," she informed him. A substantial degree of animation
faltered from his expression. Clare noted to herself, deciding to tiptoe around that
fact for the moment. Natalie ought to be on the scene, but she was apparently
giving Nicholas a wide berth. "Toxicology indicates a significant amount of
Lysergic Acid Diethylamide in Frank O'Leary's system and his stomach contents."
"LSD? There weren't any physical signs of prolonged drug use in the
autopsy, were there?"
"There were none," Clare confirmed. "There is another way we may find out
about O'Leary's drug history, though."
The leader of the forensics team approached them, ready to report. Clare
slipped a glance in Barger's direction and noticed him pacing impatiently
between copper wort kettles, on the verge of interrupting again.
"We're ready to clear out," they were informed. "We've identified the
location of the murder. The vat was apparently drained and shipped out by the
time we got here, but there are significant signs of struggle and blood stains
in the surrounding area." The team leader indicated a particular tank, leading
Nick and Clare to where metal rungs climbed up the vat's side. "There are signs
that O'Leary was disabled here. We found some tiny glass fragments that we could
luminol blood on. O'Leary could have been struck by one of the label's bottles.
The glass is of a thicker gauge than that which caused the cuts on the wife's
forehead."
"That would explain the similarities yet differences in their wounds,"
reasoned Clare.
The team leader nodded. "We believe that O'Leary was beaten repeatedly over
the head with a bottle, carried fireman-style up the ladder, and then dumped
into the fermenter. The killer held his head under until the deed was done."
After the forensics head excused himself, Nick posed a question. "He stated
that the vat was already bottled and shipped out by this morning?"
"Right."
"Isn't that unusual? Beers are typically stowed for a time, especially the
gourmet types, to improve smoothness. That's where the term 'lager' comes from--
it's derived from the German 'to store'."
"What *have* you been sipping besides cow, Nicholas?" murmured Clare on a
teasing note.
Nick gave her A Look. "Brewing was one of Schanke's hobbies," he confessed.
"After Myra dragged him to an Oktoberfest, he was set on becoming a basement
brewmeister. It went rather well with his other passions: bowling and souvlaki."
Clare grinned. "I'm not laughing. It may look as if I'm laughing, but I'm
not. It's a good point. I wonder if anyone here had the power to send out
product before it was ready besides the founders. And why would they?"
"Perhaps Victor Barger could provide some illumination."
"Perhaps."
***********************************************************************
Barger's office was a mesmerizing design of wood paneling and mounted
animals. Their vacant glass lenses stared in surprise at the room's livelier
occupants, who were unsettled either by the preponderance of surrounding wood or
the concept of a police interview. Barger had become somewhat content when they
informed him that Forensics had completed their work. Production would be
resumed to his eminent satisfaction.
Nick and Clare were playing good cop/bad cop. Clare had volunteered to be
the nice and friendly one, since, as she put it, "Behaving around Mother Teresa
might be a stretch for you right now." Nick had begrudgingly assented.
First, Clare innocently brought up the subject of employee drug testing.
"We certainly do have a screening program, what with machinery and drivers
being such a staple to the business," Barger assured her, naming a local tech
lab. "They randomly come in every twelve to sixteen weeks and test all the
employees."
"All?" Nick exacted. "Including yourself?"
"Well, yes."
"But you own the company!" Nick protested. "Surely you and O'Leary trusted
each other."
"Of course we did," Barger excused. "It was Frank's idea that we include
ourselves in the testing, for employee morale, a sense of company camaraderie -
something like that. Frank was more of a personnel and product type of guy. I'm
the businessman of the two of us. Or I was."
"But the lab would inform you of any potential narcotic problems in your
staff, including Mr. O'Leary and yourself. Is that correct?" Clare requested.
"Well, yes. Though Frank was usually the one who checked the status of the
tests, we've had very few problems over the years."
"Were you aware that Frank O'Leary used any sort of recreational drugs?"
Nick asked flatly.
Victor Barger's pulse jumped just slightly, and both Clare and Nick took
note of the fluctuation. "No. I mean...he wasn't a stranger to our brews. After
all, he developed most of the recipes. I don't understand - why do you want to
know?"
Clare smiled angelically, and acted unconcerned. "We just have to cover all
the bases. He was murdered..."
At this cue, Nick jumped into the conversation once more, inserting
suspiciously, "In one of *your* fermentation vats. The contents of which have
been sent out, possibly containing evidence relating to the case. Who here has
the authority to make such a decision?"
"Frank did, and myself, as well as any of the shipping managers."
"Their names? Who was in charge last night and this morning?" Nick shot
back.
"That would be Louis Secour. He was on duty from eight p.m. to six in the
morning. I can't imagine him really involved in this situation, though. You
could look at the shipping records to double check. I'll call down at the office
if you like."
Clare hid a frown. This man was not acting nearly as difficult as his
earlier greeting had intimated he would. "Were you here yesterday evening?" she
could not resist asking. Nick glared at her, for he had been prepared to pose
the exact same question.
Barger stroked his moustache again. Nick wondered.
"I was here until around seven. I went on vacation recently, and I had some
work to catch up on."
"Can anyone verify your activities?" Nick continued.
"I don't like that insinuation, Detective. Surely you don't think that
I..."
"I think Detective Knight is attempting to be thorough Mr. Barger," Clare
interjected. "It is nothing personal."
"Humph. Well, I spoke with Frank's personal assistant briefly before I
left. My own left at five-thirty. I was alone in my office for about an hour and
a half. I suppose that doesn't clear me of any nefarious suspicions." He sent a
little sneer towards Nick, which was returned with much greater skill and
delicacy.
Suddenly, there were shouts and commotion that leaked to the office from
the hallway. Nick, Clare, and Victor Barger all crowded to the scene of the
disturbance.
One participant was Maude O'Leary. Her face was flushed red, and she
swerved on her feet while trying to leap at the shrinking figure of another
woman. Maude was screeching at her, and attempting to swipe at her with an open
palm. Evidently, Mrs. O'Leary had been successful with at least one of her
assaults, for the other female was trying to soothe a reddened cheek with her
hand while speaking in pleading tones. A man and a woman held Maude out of reach
for any further contact, but she continued her abusive yelling of slurred
epithets.
"You take care of one, and I'll take care of the other?" Clare posed softly
to Nick. He grimaced, obviously not enticed by either prospect.
"You may have Mrs. O'Leary," he pronounced.
"Why, thank you. A most generous offer. You're all heart," she drawled.
Nick's lips twitched in spite of his foul mood. "You're certainly more
qualified to temper a bloodthirsty female. Kindred spirits and all that."
He approached Mrs. O'Leary's victim, leaving Clare to mumble to herself,
"Give a fool enough rope..." before she accosted Maude. Clutching the warlike
woman firmly about the shoulders, she forced her away from the object of her
enmity.
"Good evening, Mrs. O'Leary. Imagine running into you again so soon." She
aimed the woman down the hall, and into what resembled a boardroom.
"Lemme at 'er! Homewrecker! Tramp! Shrew! She took my Frank-ie!"
Maude moved to scramble back down the hall, but Clare caught her with an
arm around the waist, then sacked her into one of the meeting chairs.
"Oh, no you don't. Let's have a little chat, shall we?"
Maude was still intrigued by all sorts of potential slander she could spew.
"That slut secretary! She-devil! Whore! Bit-"
"Now, Mrs. O'Leary," Clare interrupted. "There are ladies present. Tell me
how many martinis you've had. You can hold up fingers."
Maude frowned, stymied.
"And toes," Clare continued.
Maude barked out a laugh. "You're funny. I was counting *slowly*. I've
had," She held up one hand of splayed fingers and one foot. "Martinis." She
proceeded to giggle hysterically, then succumb into sobs, moaning "Frankie,"
over and over again.
"Oh dear. You didn't drive here, did you? I would hate to have to arrest
you for vehicular manslaughter, too." Clare appeared uneager to perform this
duty, yet stoically resigned.
Maude became somewhat sober, in technically non-sober terms. "I took a cab
from the police station. I made pit stops."
Clare gave her a congratulatory wink. "Well, good for you."
"But...you still have to arrest me?" There was doubt and hope in the
woman's question.
"Let me ask - Did you or did you not jump on that woman and slap her silly,
whereas *she* made no move to retaliate?"
The woman delivered an ungainly burp, then scrunched her forehead in
intense consternation, as though she were formulating a new geometric postulate.
"Uh, I guess so."
"Then she could very well press charges," Clare sympathized. "It's called
assault and battery in legal circles."
Maude let out a discordant wail and sputtered. "But she was having an
affair with my Frank! Alie-ation of in-fections! That's gotta be some kind of
law!"
Clare patted her on the shoulder. "Maybe in a higher court, but not in
Canada. Now, look at me Mrs. O'Leary." Maude did, temporarily ceasing her
whimpering.
"No-More-Martinis."
************************************************************************
The victim watched dazedly as Clare led Mrs. O'Leary away noisily. Nick
moved to block her view, as if placing her attacker out of sight would render
the continued verbal arrows nonexistent. She was short and frail, with dark
blonde hair - one of those people who seem too fragile to withstand a faint
breeze, much less the stings of an angry wife. Tears welled from her large hazel
eyes, overflowing only to rush unabashedly into large blots on her collar She
looked guilty. She looked penitent. She looked pathetic.
Nick wondered. How could anyone watch this over and
over without eventually needing to turn away? How much sympathy could reach out
from any one soul? A harsher sense of self-loathing furrowed deeper into his
gut, and doubt at the necessity for such anguish bloomed in its place.
"I don't know your name," Nick stated in a low voice.
Her bright, shiny eyes stared at him in dismay. "I'm sorry. My name is A-"
her voice caught for a fraction. "Amy Martin. I was...Mr. O-O'Leary's per-
personal assistant." She brushed wonderingly at her cheek again. "Oh, it's all
my fault!" She broke down and began to weep in quiet earnest.
Nick's expression was solemn and dispassionate. His words came out
strangely flat and calm. "How can it be your fault?"
"Mrs. O'Leary thinks we were having an affair, and it's not true. But -"
She looked away in distress. "She's mad with him, and she shouldn't be. He was
the nicest man , and I ruined his marriage with my own problems."
"And how did you accomplish that?" Nick challenged with a trace of
disbelief.
"Why, he was consoling me over my boyfriend. We've been having lots of
problems lately." Amy bowed her head with some form of sadness or shame,
shrinking her slender form into a smaller huddle. "He'd been using drugs, and
Mr. O'Leary knew. It's been affecting Louis' work."
"Your boyfriend works here? That wouldn't be Louis Secour, would it?" Amy
nodded glumly in answer, disconsolate with the admission.
"Is he working right now?" Nick added, increasingly interested in speaking
with the fellow.
The reply was negative. "I'm sorry. It's his night off. Is that bad?"
"Not catastrophic." Nick fidgeted impatiently as Amy searched for a tissue
to wipe her nose. "Do you want to press charges against Mrs. O'Leary?"
The girl's eyes widened in horror, newfound fluid welling in their depths.
"Why would I do that?" An ironic statement, considering how the skin was swollen
around her jaw.
"She assaulted you. That is a crime. You could have her arrested," Nick
informed her.
Amy Martin gasped in protest. "Oh, I couldn't do that. She's not wrong. She
saw her husband giving me a hug, comforting me. It looked pretty bad, I guess. I
offered to explain, but Mr. O'Leary said to not bother, that his wife was just
being silly." She was sobbing again, quiet snorts and blows interrupting her
words. "I should have talked to her anyhow, but I didn't. I'm such an awful
person. The whole misunderstanding is my fault."
Nick had heard enough. His unusual resentment had taken verbal form during
the girl's ready acceptance of any and all blame. "It's not your problem. You
can't take responsibility for the shortcomings of others or the twists of fate.
No one can, believe me. You're just being selfish, keeping all the pain to
yourself and letting it tear you down inside. You should stop trying."
With astonishment, Nick realized that releasing those words felt good.
Amy wiped her nose with her sleeve and watched warily as the Homicide
detective's mouth curved into a grin of contentment.
******************************************************************
End of Part Five
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:08:44 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (06/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
********************************************************************
Beginning of Part Six
Amy Martin desisted from sending any legal retribution Mrs. O'Leary's way.
She staunchly protested granting the right to punish anyone but herself for the
night's blowup. Nick, feeling his hands were tied and just a bit disgusted,
turned Amy over to the care of her co-workers with some relief.
Clare bundled Maude into a brand-new taxi, giving the driver orders to
deposit the woman at a neighbor's house with absolutely no alcoholic detours.
Nick shared the contents of his session with Amy, especially the data
concerning her boyfriend, and Clare agreed the man deserved further attention.
"I obtained his address from personnel. I also received confirmation from
shipping that Louis Secour did, in fact, sign out the beer shipment that Frank
O'Leary drowned in, " Nick explained, waving a piece of paper which Clare
snatched away for a quick perusal before returning it. "Barger, though he
couldn't confirm any problem offhand, offered to find the employee drug reports
for us and fax them to the station."
Riding in the Caddie, Clare slipped Nicholas curious looks. She still
sensed that he was disturbed and prepared to rage. Dealing with the meek Miss
Martin had not eased matters in the slightest. In contrast, Nicholas seemed more
relaxed within the fit of his foul temper and prepared to allow it free rein.
Louis Secour lived in a small house not too far from the brewery. Nick and
Clare strolled up the weedy drive to the front door, knocked, and identified
themselves as Metro Police. They heard a scramble inside, which Nick followed by
kicking the door in with a blow of his foot. They couldn't see the figure, but
they could hear him race through the rooms.
"He's heading out the back!" Nick exclaimed.
Neither vampire went through the pretense of hefting their firearms. Nick
slalomed through the halls on his quarry's trail, while Clare went back out the
front door, lifting through the air.
Louis Secour had no chance. Nick breathed down his neck before he was
halfway across the backyard. Nick hooked him about he neck and threw his body
flat on the lawn. The brief rush of the hunt lured Nick's instincts forward. For
a change, he felt no qualm in expressing them. His eyes glowed and he hissed as
Secour attempted to kick away and clamber to his feet. The man moaned his
disbelief at the creature before him, collapsing into a fetal position, his arms
wrapped about his head.
The noise reached Clare, not to mention the sight. She dropped to the
ground, heaving Nicholas' figure several feet away. He thrashed about and
appeared ready to pounce on her in return with a growled threat.
"What are you doing?!?" she railed.
His stance seemed to smolder. "Catching a suspect." Sarcasm ripened his
delivery.
"Then look at him!" Clare gestured at the man still writhing in the grass,
desperately wailing for the visions to go away. "He's incapable of going
anywhere! He's in the middle of a drug trip, and you're making it turn for the
worse, in addition to jeopardizing us."
Nick swaggered around her, pulling his handcuffs loose. He yanked Louis
Secour's arms behind his back. One flailed freely, slapping the demons away,
only to incense Nicholas further. He snapped Secour's free limb back again, and
Clare thought she heard a crack before the sound of the closing cuff latch.
The suspect undoubtedly secured, Clare forced Nick to release his hold on
the man. "Dammit, Nick! Let him go!" She was exasperated and furious, exacting
all her composure not to physically rip into him.
Nick's face twisted, and he stumbled in retreat. "You know, you almost
sound like Natalie." He began to chortle maniacally, stalking towards the front
yard.
"Where are you going?" she protested. She turned to Louis, who was mumbling
incoherently into the night air. "Where's he going?" Clare sighed, and squatted
beside the fearful man. She brushed his hair back and commanded intently, "You
have witnessed nothing tonight. You will remember only the sweetest of dreams in
the morning and an eagerness to cooperate with the police. We're going to the
car, and when you get in, you will fall asleep. Quietly. Peacefully. All right?"
Louis stared forward in a haze, offering up a mellow gurgling sound. Clare
helped him to a standing position, rubbing down his arms to search for breaks.
She thought she felt a fracture in the right humerus, so Clare gently proddedd
the man to march in front of her, giving him verbal orders that he followed like
the best of trained pups.
Reaching the Cadillac, Clare spotted Nick roaming down the street. She
opened the car's back door, sat Louis Secour inside and reminded him, "Go to
sleep."
She slammed the door after making sure the fellow had all limbs within the
confines of the Caddie, then Clare stormed down the curbside after her partner.
When she had gained all but a few meters behind him, Clare halted him with
her voice. "You're going to have to stop, Nicholas. You're out of control."
His lips pulled into a taunt. "I'm going to have to stop? I am a vampire. I
can do whatever I want. Isn't that what thrills you so to shove in my face? You
and LaCroix. You can stamp out anyone who tasks you, get under anyone's skin,
and you don't care what the consequences are as long as you get your way."
Clare's disdain for this suggestion was apparent. "But you still miss the
point. You're a vampire, yes. You are *not* Bela Lugosi, Nosferatu, or some
demon from the bowels of Hell. It isn't black or white, good or evil. When is
that concept going to penetrate your thick head?"
Nick bared his fangs, and arrogantly leaned to sniff under Clare's jaw.
"What's the matter, Clare? I've seen the light, or the darkness, as it were.
Don't you want to share in some of the action?"
She tilted her head and brushed him away. "I don't understand you,
Nicholas. It's as if you deliberately make everything difficult. The way you
take a problem and mentally grasp it - it's as though your brain is missing an
opposable thumb." Nick sneered, looking askance, but she continued to speak.
"I'll tell you what I want. I want you to think long and hard. I want you to
actually sit back and employ reason for a change. You know, sometimes you can
actually be downright likable. Other periods, like right now, you're an abyss, a
black hole just sucking the enjoyment out of everything, and I have that
recurring delicious fantasy of setting you on fire."
"I am a vampire. I destroy things. I am a servant to death and pain," Nick
said in a mocking voice.
Clare resisted, placing a hand on his chest. "No. *No*. That isn't true."
Her voice was entreating, but firm. "Listen to me. You are falling apart. I know
that. LaCroix knows that. But we can't help you. Natalie can't help you. The
ghosts of Janette, Schanke, Tracy - they are not going to help you. You have to
help yourself." Nick looked away, silent in torment. "It isn't life or death
that is the issue. It isn't morals." Clare gently turned his face to look in her
eyes, to see that she was being truthful and sincere. "It is a question of
happiness. You don't know how to be happy, do you? You aren't angry at LaCroix's
vices or mine; you are jealous of our contentment with what we are."
The shroud of grief came over him again, draping forlornly over his
features. He was frantic. He was in despair. "I want to be different than what I
am," Nick choked in a simple plea.
Clare released a ragged breath. "There isn't a cure for misery. There is no
one to imitate. Simply becoming mortal again, or the most ferocious undead
creature you can imagine - it will make no difference. There is not a magic wand
to sway in order to solve your sadness. No one can rescue you but yourself. It
is unreasonable - no, selfish - to expect otherwise. Surely you have experienced
moments when you were overjoyed, simply pleased with the world and your own
merits over the centuries. Follow those thoughts. The path you chose to feel
that way. Maybe you can find something more stable to cling to than this agony."
With a thoughtful frown, she added, "And Nicholas?"
He was touched by her words. Something inside sparked, flared to life, and
accepted the sense of her counsel. For a first step, Nick chose to listen. He
took her hand, answering quietly. "What, Clare?"
She earnestly offered an encouraging smile. "Don't be scared of your past.
Do not let it shame you. Shame is a vicious playmate. It bites and it scars. If
you can accept the good and the bad of your actions, learn from them both, you
will become a better, much stronger, man from the effort."
A whisper of hope graced his face, beaming forth a promise of the future
ahead. "Why did you take this job? So you could watch over Natalie? Give me
advice?" Nick rebuked mildly.
"You may find it impossible to conceive, but I always intended to be
helpful in my own way. At first, I thought that I could be a crutch. You had
lost two mortal partners. If you worked with another vampire you wouldn't have
to worry about their protection. The same applied to Natalie. When we went to
the morgue, she could relax in our company, unafraid of letting herself slip.
But I suppose nothing worthwhile remains so simple for long. You have been very
difficult," chastised Clare. "Are you satisfied with that answer?"
He nodded gruffly. "I need to be alone for now." Nick pulled out his car
keys and passed them over. "Can you manage Secour?"
"I dare say I will manage just perfectly. He's going to need to sleep it
off, anyway. I thought that I would partake in a glance around his house, then
drop him off at the precinct."
"Well, there's book of regulations in the glove compartment," Nick
suggested. "If you have any questions."
"I think we have passed the point of any misgivings about the rules already
tonight," Clare retorted.
He squeezed the palm he held before letting it drop to her side. "Thank you.
For everything."
"You're welcome. Be safe, Nicholas," she answered, then watched him tread
alone down the dimly lit road.
**********************************************************************
Clare observed Louis Secour's form snuggled in the Caddie's back seat, his
snores detectable through the windowpane. She re-entered the house, probing for
drug paraphernalia or anything of equal interest. She rummaged through drawers,
cabinets, under beds, behind the clock, and in general, found nothing of note.
Stymied, Clare ventured into the connecting one-car garage. Like many of
its kind, there was no car to be found within this shelter. Instead, the floor
was littered from wall to wall with boxes, the bodies of spiders suffering
repellent-induced paralysis, and tools of varying sizes and shapes. Clare
wrinkled her nose with disfavor, but buckled down and gave the garage contents
her best look-see.
A fair percentage of the boxes appeared to contain beer: crates of twelve
six-packs each. They sported varying degrees of fullness and dust. Secour no
doubt obtained them at different times. The least worn of the containers missed
only a single bottle. Clare plundered her memory for the shipping number Nick
had shown her earlier. Could this case of beer have been lifted from the
evidence shipment? It looked like a match, so Clare borrowed an unopened draft.
She meandered back to the front of the house, her newly primed eyes latching
onto another, yet uncapped, beer on the den table.
Lifting it, Clare realized the bottle was half full. She doused a fingertip
with the liquid, giving the brew a thorough sniffing. Frowning in distaste, she
wondered if there was more to this shipment than just hops, water and syrup.
Drifting to the kitchen, she wandered through the shelf contents for some sort
of plastic wrap to guard from spilling the sample.
She arrived at the precinct in good time, speeding only somewhat, burning
just a small fraction of the rubber in Nick's tires. On her way, she used her
cell phone to set up the lab work she wanted: analysis of the contents of both
beer bottles, as well as a urine and blood sample from Secour. She kindly
provided for a technician to draw the blood, rather than give the job her
personal touch.
She took Louis to lockup. As the night was slow and the blocks were not
crowded, Clare requested in a quite persuasive manner that her suspect remain in
a private cell. She received no argument.
Tiptoeing through the bullpen, Clare tried to determine if the faxes
Victor Barger had promised of Louis Secour's drug tests had arrived. A few quiet
questions asked of Officer Miller found the papers, which Clare happily read. On
two separate occasions in the past six months, Secour had tested positive for
LSD. She shared the significance with Officer Miller.
"Oh, there was a delivery for you, too." The policewoman looked frankly
envious, drawing Clare's attention to her desktop.
It was a bouquet of gardenias, two dozen blooms off a Cape Jasmine. Clare
picked out one flower, touching the waxy snow-white petals. She brushed the
pulpy yellow center under her nostrils, and the scent, rich and exotic, wafted
through her. There was a card.
Clare lifted it delicately, slipping the paper free of its envelope and
staring at the words it contained. She closed her eyes briefly, then ensconced
the message in her pocket.
Offering the lone blossom to Miller, Clare spoke. "I'll take the
arrangement with me. You'll brief Captain Reese, won't you? I have an urgent
lead. So long..." She left the officer to sputter as she headed back to the
Cadillac for her next mission.
*************************************************************************
Nick intended to walk aimlessly through the night, searching for some
answer to the formidable task of his deliverance. To hunt himself, not some
object - legendary book or cup, treatment or medication.
Could he already be aware of the secret to his own salvation, as Clare had
intimated? Beyond mortality, beyond the vampire - just a measure of contentment
defined the goal. The idea that his peace of mind resided within his own heart,
not the grand philosophy or religion of someone else, was a revelation.
Perhaps that was why he had always fallen short. He attempted to live up to
someone else's expectations, someone else's plan or formula for fulfillment, but
never his own.
But what did his own fulfillment entail?
Nick found that he had subconsciously returned to his loft. , he mused,
So near to the entrance lay the bane of his torment - the kitchen. He
paused through the cabinets, noting how empty they sat. There was so little of
him inside. Only a few pots and pans provided for the use of people other than
himself.
Last night, he had dumped the remnants of the cracked blender in the trash.
The plastic shards still waited there for the final discard into a bin outside.
He closed the lower cabinet, realizing that it made him nervous to look at the
pieces. Turning away, the refrigerator confronted his sight. He was afraid to
open it, afraid what that action might mean. He was frightened that the shelves
contained his undoing, a method to scatter every other thought from his head but
the fever for the taste. He was terrified that he was nothing more than a
vessel for the blood. Maybe if it was taken away, there would be nothing left -
perhaps he was only the blood. Partnering this doubt danced shame, the
undeniable shame if the emptiness was true.
He stepped away from the kitchen, choosing instead to wander about his
possessions. He ran his fingers over the top of a canvas. His art. That was
something. He found joy and release in painting, transforming the images from
nothing to an expression of his soul. Whether the product was intrinsically
beautiful or horrific, he had no regrets about the process.
He smiled with pleasure. It was a merit. He was an artist.
Nick next felt himself pulled towards the piano. His fingers began to form
around a melody before he had assumed position at the bench. He indulged in
playing for several minutes, letting the sounds flow around him and echo in the
open room. His hands stilled on the keys. Nick closed his eyes as he savored the
reverberation, the fading waves of the tune still repeating in his head. He
swam in the awe that an amalgamation of tones could alter the air into magic,
serenading the sullen heart.
He was a musician. Another merit.
Nick began to warm to the project, lifted a book here, a photograph there,
and finally, plunged into his memories, considering his past. He had known so
many people over the years, regarded many of them with affection, but mere
handfuls had he truly loved. His parents and his sister had been the first. They
were part of him, they had molded him, and he still cherished their memory.
Then he encountered Janette.
With Janette he had delved into charm and flirtation. He felt capable of
the impossible, and in the end, that is what he became. He was a crusader. He
was noble, admirable and righteous. These were facets Janette let him discover
in himself. Around her he became receptive to his own sensuality. She urged him
on, and set him free. That had been an incredible gift. Nicholas agreed.
And LaCroix. The nature of his feelings for LaCroix was almost
inexpressible. Nick did love him...his closest friend, brother, another father.
In his sire's presence and persecution, what characteristics had he found in
himself of note? Of which to be proud?
Strength. He had to be a strong person to aspire to stand against LaCroix's
will once, much less repeatedly throughout the centuries. Nick shook his head in
amazement.
Compassion. The memory of placing his hand in comfort on LaCroix's shoulder
as he prepared to destroy Divia's corpse floated back to him.
Then there was Alyssa, his wife. He had believed that making her a vampire
would be a blessing. He would have committed to love her for eternity. Yes, once
upon a time he could share what he was unabashedly, never second-guessing the
consequences. For a shining moment, he had faith.
The idea of faith and love brought him irrevocably to Natalie. He had been
intermittently haunted, unworthy and broken since he had met her that April
night, years ago. On the other side of the coin, he had experienced more cause
for hope and rejoicing than ever before. In the glint of her angel eyes, he knew
he was proud of himself and his accomplishments. He believed he could help
people. He could be a hero. Maybe that explained his panic and pain at her
recent pulling away - it was the assumption that without her he had none of
these virtues. Nick understood now that he couldn't change Natalie, he couldn't
control her, but he could still have faith in himself.
Lastly, Nick had loved Schanke. How much of his own hope and rejoicing had
derived not only from faith and affection, but camaraderie, humor, and trust.
Nick moved abruptly back to the fridge and opened the door without
trepidation. He stood and examined the contents without repent, without qualm.
Rows of green bottles lined before him, along with one white and black tube that
LaCroix had presented to him months earlier. They did not control him. They
would not control him.
A calm wonder had settled over Nick. It was a start, an initial hill, and
he felt incredulous at the achievement. Regardless of what lay in the future for
him, he appreciated one concept. Like the line in a song,
He had unearthed something more stable to cling to and was ready to leave
the loft. It was time to respond to the question of Myra and Jen Schanke's well-
being. He would go to their house and watch for any sign of trouble. Clare still
had the Caddie, so he flew.
Nick hid in the shadows near the Schanke abode for half an hour before he
observed a swaddled figure trip quietly down the front steps and street. He
guessed the figure was a man from his height and his girth, but had no clue as
to the fellow's features. There was a dark toboggan cap pulled over the man's
head, a scarf wrapped about his neck and lower face, as well as a long, baggy
coat that draped him from shoulder to knees.
Nick trailed behind the mysterious person, noting that he entered a non-
descript sedan about a block away, driving off. Nick rose into the air, choosing
to fly in pursuit.
***********************************************************************
Clare pulled the Caddie up to the curb scant minutes after the Schankes'
midnight guest had departed. She missed the sight of the man skulking to his car
and Nick soaring after him into the night sky.
She had lowered the convertible's top, desiring the breeze of the motion to
muss her hair. It proved to have a relaxing effect, and as she threw the auto
into park, Clare debated whether or not to raise the roof.
She was debating more than just convertible tops. Knowing there was a
rabbit in the magician's hat was quite a different thing from pulling it out,
exposing the mammal to the audience. So was it worth the trouble for Clare to
win her bet with Nicholas? Just what kind of trauma was she destined to handle
if she did win?
Clare shrugged to herself, turning her attention to the house. Getting out
of the Caddie, she moved for a closer inspection. She chose to bring her
gardenias along, sniffing them absentmindedly as she peeked in the downstairs
windows. There was no one in the kitchen, no one in the den or dining room.
Clare floated to the upstairs, aiming first to examine a lighted room. It
was Myra's bedroom; she was getting ready for bed. Perfectly innocuous. Another
window: second-floor center front, darkly lit. Clare landed on the roof, walking
delicately to look inside. The room contained a sleeping Jen Schanke.
The girl was hibernating between two impossibly large pillows, her head
resting on neither, one arm hooked over each. Her dark hair streaked as if it
were a cloud running across the purple sky of her pillowcases. The tortoiseshell
was curled into a ball at what appeared to be the crook of Jen's blanketed right
knee.
Clare couldn't resist entering and found the window unlocked, maybe because
it was supposed to be too high and inaccessible. The cat blinked sleepily at her
as she pushed the pane upward and slipped inside.
She carefully moved one of the pillows so that it was no longer stuffed in
the girl's face, wondering at Jen's ability to breathe through its wadding.
Moonlight poured into the room from the clear night sky, bathing them both with
halos.
Clare simply sat and watched Jen sleep, lulled herself by the rise and fall
of the girl's chest. The cat had begun to purr rhythmically, and Clare scratched
it behind its velvet ears. Minutes passed, then Jen became agitated, crying out
softly in her sleep.
"Shhh," Clare soothed, brushing a palm over the girl's stressed forehead.
Jen's hand clutched in her sleep for the relocated pillow, and Clare swiftly
pushed it back into place. The girl quieted, feeling secure once more.
Clare let her hand trail from Jen's brow and over her soft hair.
"Sweet dreams," she murmured softly as she stood once more. Picking up the
bouquet from where she'd left it on the floor, Clare leaned the flowers on the
bedside table.
She tiptoed back to the window, ducked into the fresh air, and slid the
frame into place.
Then her cellular phone rang. Not waiting to spare a glance indoors again,
Clare leapt off the roof and into the Caddie before the second pulse. By the
third she had started the car, pulled away from the curb, and answered.
"It's Clare."
"Hello. This is Feliks. I have completed that research you requested." His
voice sounded happy and expectant over the line.
"I suspect you found something interesting," she prodded.
"I would say so. I suppose that you are already aware Donald Schanke died
almost a year ago?"
"Yes," Clare confirmed with a hint of hesitation.
"It is strange, though...His police pension is available to the wife and
child, but it remains uncollected. The same holds true for his life insurance.
Did you realize Nicholas had a trust fund set up for the girl?"
"No, I didn't. I gather that it is untouched as well."
"Exactly. They have existed off of Myra Schanke's income. The ultimate
curiosity concerns residences. They maintain the home you described, but also an
apartment across town." Feliks rattled out an address. "It's a one-bedroom
studio in a large, anonymous complex - not exactly convenient for a mother and
child. I expect you have some theory as to who lives there?"
Clare bit her lower lip. "I'm afraid so." A moment of silence, then she
wrapped up. "I'm glad that you found the information in such a timely manner.
Oh, and Feliks?"
"Yes, Clare?"
"Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful."
"Who deserves them more?"
Clare smiled wistfully and broke the connection, whispering to herself.
"Only the angels."
*************************************************************************
The non-descript sedan traveled for about forty minutes before pulling into
an underground parking lot. Nick landed outside and drifted through the shadows
of the cement cavern on foot. It looked like a hotel or an apartment building,
maybe twenty floors high.
The only sounds came from the man heaving out of his car, slamming the
door, and the motorized ventilation shafts of the enclosed space. Nick saw the
man move towards an elevator, pulling out a ring of keys to unlock the outer
doors.
The fellow recalled the elevator, and began to tug at the scarf mummifying
his neck and lower face as the doors slid open.
Nick held back until the elevator began to close before rushing into the
chamber. The man had just pulled off his toboggan and exclaimed with startled
surprise at the sudden movement.
Both men gaped at each other in recognition. Nick, dumbfounded as he was,
realized he spoke involuntarily in an astonished tone.
"Schanke?"
***********************************************************************
End of Part Six
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:20:19 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (07/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
**************************************************************
Beginning of Part Seven
Schanke was giddy. "Oh, Jesus! Nick!"
"Is that your idea of a welcome?" the vampire's voice was stilted and
bewildered.
Schanke ran both hands over his face, as if to wipe away the dismay. He
then leaned against the lift rail, looking exhausted and strained. "God, Nick. I
don't know what to say. To run into you like this, you know? I mean, where do I
start? How do I start? This is beyond uncomfortable." Schanke shifted his weight
between feet and added, "How did you find me? Did Myra tell you?"
Nick shook his head. "Find you? You're the last man I expected to confront.
No, I was just tracking an unknown guy that I observed leaving the Schanke
house. Someone that Myra and Jen were hiding. I was being protective in *your*
memory."
Schanke managed to look sheepish. "Gee, thanks, Nick. So you're just as
surprised as I am?"
"More so, I would dare say. You were supposed to be dead," Nick retorted,
nodding towards the lift door. "Is there someplace where we can talk?"
"I'm leasing an apartment here," Schanke admitted as the elevator drew to a
halt.
"Then we'll go there."
They walked stiffly down the hall, speaking no further. Schanke stopped in
front of a door and inserted his key. He stopped before turning the lock, giving
Nick a worried glance. "Look, I can't hold this back any longer. I'm sorry I
didn't let you know I was still around. I am so sorry. But I promised -"
"You *will* explain everything. Later." Nick's voice was curt, burdened
with emotion. "Just open the door, Schanke. I don't want to have to do this in
the hall."
Schank swallowed nervously, felt the latch unlock, and pushed inside.
Flipping the light switch, his tiny foyer was bathed in light. "I don't have
much stuff here. We were planning to move in a couple months."
"Yeah. To Chicago. Myra *did* mention that." Nick examined the apartment's
contents. Schank was right - the place was rather devoid of furnishings and
space. It was basically a den with a kitchenette. There was one other door, and
Nick assumed it led to a bedroom. The furniture consisted of a sofa, and a
circular table with two wooden chairs. The table was covered with a single,
thick-rung notebook.
The most redeeming feature of the place was an enormous window that covered
two-thirds of the far wall. With the clear night sky, the view of the Toronto
skyline was fabulous.
"Right. I was in the upstairs bedroom when you rang the doorbell. Talk
about having a heart attack. My knees were knocking harder than two squirrels in
springtime. I snuck out while you were in the kitchen with Myra. Kicked the
tires of the Caddie on my way past. It's still looking as smooth a ride as
ever." He still looked nervous, rubbing his thumb under his collar.
Nick's gaze had focused upon a familiar object. Schanke's god-awful ugly
duck lamp. He remembered Schanke sharing his loft, transforming it into a
'bachelor pad' for a couple days. He caught himself staring and moved over to
the table, flipping the notebook open. "What's this?"
Schanke protested his inspection, waving his hands. "Just a few pictures.
Nothing important."
But it was important.
The notebook contained newspaper clippings and photocopies covering the
past year: the investigation of the plane crash, the bombings of several Metro
precincts and death of Vudu, the Jerry Show murders, the killings surrounding
Christine Black and Dr. Ben McGee, the Jordan Manning murders, on up through the
deaths associated with NeoGen Corporation. Every case Nick had worked on since
Schanke's plane went down that had been mentioned in the news was given tribute.
Tracy's obituary occupied one page, her smiling face in an academy portrait
captured in newsprint. Nick felt overwhelmed. He closed his eyes, running his
fingers across the photo.
"I tried to keep track of what you were up to," Schanke intoned humbly. "To
see if you *could* manage without me around."
Nick stepped away from the table and enveloped his friend in an enormous
hug. "Oh, God, Schank - I missed you."
He returned the embrace, patting Nick on the back, his voice choking back,
"I missed you, too. Man, Nick. I figured you'd want to kick my butt from here to
Timbuktu!"
"Don't give me any ideas." Nick replied gruffly, pushing back from Schanke.
"I'm still furious with you. You've been alive all this time and didn't breathe
a word. I feel betrayed. How can I not feel betrayed?"
Don frowned and looked prepared to offer an explanation, but there was a
knock at the apartment door. Then both Nick and Schanke frowned.
"It's one in the morning - are you expecting anybody?" questioned Nick.
"I guess it could be one of the neighbors..." Schank walked to the entrance
as Nick put his hand on his firearm out of protective habit. Schanke gazed
through the peephole and let out a wolfish whistle. "Hel-lo neighbor..."
Nick paused in pulling out his gun, and awareness settled over him. "It's
okay, Schank...I think." He then rapidly unlatched the door and swung it open.
Clare waited on the other side. Her welcoming smile had fallen farther than
a hole drilled to China at the sight of the other vampire. Rather than ply for
an invitation to enter, Clare stormed inside.
"What are you doing here, Nicholas?" she demanded.
"I could ask you the same, Clare," Nick retorted.
Schanke's eyes widened. "You're Clare? Nick's new partner Clare?"
"*Temporary* partner," corrected Nick.
"*Temporary to permanent* partner." Clare corrected the correction,
extending her hand politely, delivering the kindly expression she had planned
before she felt Nicholas through the door. "I gather Myra mentioned me?"
"Well, Jen did, actually. She thought you were pretty cool." At this
comment, Clare beamed in Nick's direction a glow which seemed to translate 'See?
I'm cool. Silly boy.'
"So you've heard of each other." Nick was still obviously displeased. "That
still doesn't explain what she's doing here." He looked accusingly in Schanke's
direction.
Schanke shrugged. "Hey, consider me a blank slate - fill me in." Both men
looked expectantly in Clare's direction. She didn't disappoint.
"Detective Donald Schanke was my project for our wager, Nicholas. Shall I
explain the bet for you?" Nick looked ambivalent, but Schanke nodded in
encouragement. "You see, Nicholas was not thrilled to find out I was his new
partner. He can get so cranky and moody. Then, he acts as though he is the only
Homicide detective in Toronto."
"Tell me about it. Mr. I'm-Either-Away-Or-Incommunicado. No problems with
sharing there," Schank agreed.
Nick glared at him. "I hear Timbuktu has lots of sand. Do you still have
those flip-flops?"
Schanke gulped. "Uh...You were saying something about a bet?"
Clare continued. "So to nip that problem in the bud, I suggested a
challenge. I would solve a case that Nicholas overlooked or closed incorrectly,
and he would cease questioning my partnership."
"She has to accomplish this before we finish our latest one," Nick
interjected.
"The Frank O'Leary case?" Nick nodded, so Schanke continued, asking Clare.
"You mean to say that you figured out I was alive for this bet?"
"That is exactly what I did."
"All right. I'll bite. Why wasn't Schanke on the plane? Where has he been
for the past year? And most importantly, Schank - why?" Nick placed desperate
emphasis on the last question.
"Well," Schanke debated. "It's kind of complicated. It all started...I
don't know when." He shook his head in frustration. "But it all ended with that
plane ride..."
**********************************************************************
Schanke's Plane Story
Don wore the good suit, just as Nick had suggested. It was navy and double-
breasted, with a natty pinstripe. His shirt was white with a button-down collar.
His tie was red, with a pattern just flamboyant enough to indicate that he was a
Schanke man. He'd kissed Myra and Jen goodbye, gotten a haircut special for the
occasion, had his shoes shined, popped a couple Dramamine (flight sickness,
don'tcha know) then showed up at the Ninety-Sixth during the daytime. Just how
often did that happen?
He was pretty nervous at all the press attention waiting for Captain Cohen,
Dawes and him at the airport, and it seemed that nine times out of ten, Nick was
the one who ended up on camera. Was it the blonde hair? The knight in shining
armor demeanor? Schanke had long ago given up sweating over that one. He was
determined that this prisoner transport would go off smoothly, and he would come
out smelling like a rose.
In the end, he'd gotten worked up over the whole project. He'd even had a
dream of his death, standing naked in a bowling alley. Talk about letting the
stress get to you. Don was certain some rogue reporter was going to snag him
picking his nose or something equally humiliating. That little gem would show up
on the evening news, not his brilliantly rehearsed treatise on 'Donald Schanke -
Making the Western World Safe for You' complete with a perfectly timed wink
aimed at the general public.
He'd been nigh on bursting, counting the mental rosebuds, when the
interviews went well. Except for that moment towards the end of his speech when
Cohen could be seen covering a yawn, they'd gotten the prisoner through the
detectors without a hitch. The group made their way to the ticket counter,
*then* everything decided to go screwy.
He'd made the reservations himself, so that Nothing Would Go Wrong. Due to
a computer error (Yeah right. More like some rookie flight clerk spilled their
OJ on the keyboard just as they typed in three consecutive coach seats under the
name Schanke. Some computer error.), Don had ended up with a pair and one lone
seat in two different rows. How were the Captain and he supposed to escort a
felon in sync with that kind of seating arrangement? Hand signals? Instead of
roses, Schanke felt as though he was beginning to smell like one of those
hanging pine tree deodorizers people slung over their rearview mirrors - a
strong artificial scent to overpower something stinky.
Finally, Cohen insisted that they board the plane, saying that they would
make the problem turn out for the best, meanwhile giving Schanke a look that
said,
Once they boarded the plane, Don tried to keep close contact. One of the
first rules in escorting a prisoner is keeping close contact. So he stood at the
end of the row Cohen and Dawes were placed in, holding the fort. This plan
didn't work out well, either. Being coach, the plane aisles were extremely
narrow. Narrower even than Captain Cohen's and the flight attendant's lips as
they frowned at his location.
Okay, so he blocked the walkway. It was a tight squeeze, for he was a
decent block of manhood, and not just because of the two souvlakis with double
onions he'd sniped for lunch. Mothers, fathers, little old ladies and small
children were either intimidated or irritated at the thought of squishing past
him, but Schanke was just trying to do his job.
Finally, he decided to sit down. Only when he turned, Don was struck upside
his head, like a bolt of judgment from heaven.
First Schanke felt the burning of his jaw, the unreal crack-crunch of a
tooth exploding, and the sensation of his dental bridge (a remnant of youthful
hockey fun with cousins in Milwaukee) becoming an UFO. Don felt his mouth burn
in pain and flailed about. Then he experienced someone treating his head as if
it were the last spike of the Transcontinental Railroad. *Bam!* - right on top
of his skull!
He was dizzy, lisping exclamations, and bleeding all over his good suit.
The culprit responsible blinked at him in horror, but Schanke suspected he saw
the twinges of a grin in the guy's face, too. Man, the guy didn't look like he
packed such a sledgehammer wallop - it must have been that the guitar case he
carried was lined with steel or tungsten, or some equally impressive metal.
Schanke swayed as needles jabbed through his mouth and head. He heard
Captain Cohen order him to get the blood cleaned up. He would be dead when Myra
got a hold of him and the state of his best clothes. It was a designer suit! A
Newton Original! There were rivulets of blood trailing down his white shirtfront
and onto his suit. What would the dry cleaner think? His personal scent-o-meter
that judged how the trip was going plunged from artificial tree to something
resembling a skunk's nether regions.
Don stumbled after the stewardess, toward the front of the plane in search
of a wet-nap. He made it to their station between first class and coach before
the effects of the brain-panning and Dramamine combined to make him irresistibly
nauseous. The memory of his two souvlakis spewed over the cabin, decking the
walls like a Jackson Pollack painting (Myra had new art books in the john). The
room turned blue, then yellow, and finally, a peaceful sleepy black.
**************************************************************************
"Remembering this makes me hungry. Can I get you something to eat? Or
drink?" Schanke offered, heading for his kitchenette.
"No, thank you," Clare called, then added quietly for Nick's benefit, "That
event made him hungry, and he needed Dramamine for a baby plane trip? Now that's
a dyslexic gastrointestinal disorder."
"So, did you know about the fellow with the guitar?" Nick wondered softly.
"I *know* the fellow with the guitar - it was Vachon."
"What? He didn't mention anything to Tracy or me!"
"Vachon says You-Didn't-Ask. How was he supposed to know that playing
croquet with the head of a police official was important?" Clare defended.
"I didn't ask. Oh, yeah. That makes sense." Nick sighed as Schanke returned
to the room carrying a soda and an inordinately large piece of pizza. The notes
of eau de garlic floating through the air made both vampires wrinkle their
noses.
Schanke hefted his goodies onto the round table. "I knew Nick wouldn't eat
anything - he never does - but what about you, Clare? Are you on one of those
New Age diets too?"
"You don't have any fruit here, do you?" Clare responded.
"No...Why?"
"Because I'm a fruitarian. I only eat fruit," she fibbed.
"Like pineapple and mangoes and stuff? How can you only eat fruit?"
"Well, it takes about ten years to wean everything else from your diet, but
just think - I'm not killing anything to survive!"
"Only eating their young," Nick murmured and Clare glared at him, while he
mouthed the word 'Liar!'
Schanke was oblivious, commenting, "Well, I guess it's either that or
eating rocks."
Perhaps they were punchy from the seriousness of the night's earlier
events, or slightly hysterical from the tension which still slunked in the dark
corners of the room. Whatever the reason, they all lost it, chuckling
uncontrollably.
Schanke snorted and wiped his eyes. "Ouch. Where was I?"
"You'd just passed out on the plane."
"Yeah, right. And a one...And a two...And a -"
*******************************************************************
Schanke's Plane Story, Continued
Don woke up in one of the airport offices, sprawled on a stretcher. His
gums felt raw and bloody, as did his head. He moved to sit up, but his brain
began to bounce between his ears. He was alone, except for a frantic-looking
secretarial person who anxiously fiddled with the tuner on a small radio.
"'L-Lo?" Don said, finding it a challenge to form his lips and tongue
around a rudimentary greeting.
The secretary jumped, startled that there was someone else alive and making
noises in the room. Schanke had collapsed again, watching the fluorescent lights
of the ceiling swirl. The secretarial person scurried over to his stretcher-
side.
"Oh, dear," the man fretted. "You don't look very well. Are you going to be
okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"
Don tried to inform the man that he had eight fingers, and that he should
probably see a doctor about the problem, but his mouth just warbled
incoherently. Much to his dismay, he also drooled.
"Oooh. You aren't doing well at all! Let me see if I can find some medical
people - I'm afraid they've all rushed out to the crash site." The many-fingered
man zipped out of view, closing the office door behind him with enough of a
clatter that Schanke saw stars. Again.
Time passed. At least he thought time passed, he wasn't precisely sure.
Schanke gritted his teeth (what was left of them) and pulled himself into a
seated position. He pushed himself to his feet, trying to stabilize his balance
by holding onto any furniture scattered throughout the room.
He gingerly began to step towards the door. The door did not choose to
cooperate. Instead of standing stationary like a good, useful door, this one did
a hula dance. Don imitated the wiggle in an attempt to keep his eyes in line
with the motion. Apparently objects were also closer than they appeared, for he
bumped into the door, and would have lost his footing had he not fortuitously
grabbed onto the doorknob.
Both Schanke and the door swayed backwards. He scowled at the hunk of wood
- Don was supposed to move it, not the other way around. He inched his way
through the entrance, finding himself in an alcove off an enormous terminal. He
swayed across the floor, bumping into only a handful of people. Unfortunately,
after one collision he dropped his wallet. It was destined to become the
property of an elderly man with pinochle debts.
Schanke stumbled to a flight display as if it were a holy shrine. His
flight...had gone. Dejected, he shuffled through the terminal, deciding to lean
against the wall for support. He would make his way back to his car, then
venture home to expose the state of his suit and teeth to the Wrath of Myra. He
bobbed and he weaved, dreaming of the field day the guys at the precinct would
have because he had missed the flight to Edmonton.
Stepping outside, Don's floating brain pictured Myra's face at the
bloodstained suit paired with an image of his standing naked in a bowling alley.
He moved off the curb, and not paying attention to the road (as is
frequently the case with victims of head trauma), Schanke did not perceive the
taxicab bulldozing his way.
One big thump later, unconsciousness embraced Don once more.
**********************************************************************
"A-ha!" Clare exclaimed. "So you were in a coma this past year!"
Schanke shook his head. "No coma."
"You had amnesia?" Nick proposed. Clare rolled her eyes at the thought, and
he protested stridently, "It *could* happen!"
Schanke was dejected. "Nope. No amnesia."
"Well, since we're being outrageous," Clare gave Nick a pointed look. "How
about...you were mistaken for an escaped mental patient and committed against
your will to an asylum. Paperwork non-withstanding, it took Myra a year to
spring you."
"No. No asylum. Why would anyone mistake me for an escaped mental patient?"
Clare shrugged innocently.
"Then *what* happened?" Nick pleaded.
"I'm getting to that," insisted Schanke.
********************************************************************
Schanke's Plane Story, Continuation Continued
Don awoke in the intensive care section of Toronto General. His head
sported a large bandage, Schanke could feel that much, though he was still
foggy. He had an IV hooked to one arm, and an identification bracelet encircled
his other wrist. The bracelet read...John...Doe... thought Schanke.
He coughed, and his chest hurt from the force. A nurse entered his cubicle
and expressed surprise that his eyes were open.
"Well, well stranger. We didn't expect to see you alert for another two
days. You've been through quite a rigmarole, you know."
Don grunted his assent - he *felt* like he'd been through something.
Something large without brakes.
"Hmm. You aren't quite alert enough to talk, eh? No shock there...First you
had that nasty concussion and cracked ribs from the car accident...then you had
all that nausea from the concussion - you must have breathed something in,
because five days later you had a raging bout of pneumonia. I bet that we can
put off forms for a few days...At least until the erythromycin kicks in..."
Schanke wheezed his agreement and fell back into slumber.
He dozed off and on for the next two days, never really having the strength
to do much more than groan at the comments of orderlies and their brethren. He'd
been in the hospital for eight days before he sat up, fed himself a meal, and
performed other interesting personal functions.
Now the nurses wanted his name and insurance information before they moved
him to a regular room for another couple of days. Schank gave his name(though
with his teeth still absent, it sounded like Donawd Thanke - the staff thought
he was very polite), but the rest, well that information was at home with Myra.
There had been no identification on him when he'd been carted off in the
ambulance, and he assumed everyone believed he was in Alberta still, hence the
lack of visitors.
He could lift his arm and dial a phone - it was time to call Myra.
"Hello?" She answered after many rings, her voice soft and strained.
"Hey, hon. You'wa never gueth where I am!"
Screams emitted from the other end, and the connection terminated.
"Myra? Myra!" Schank dropped the phone, yanked himself out of bed, and
groped for the closet. Ignoring the breeze from the back of his gown, he
scrambled for his stored clothing. His shirt and suit were missing.
He peeked around the doorjamb to his room, waiting until he heard the
commotion associated with a STAT before attempting to sneak past the nurses'
station. Shuffling successfully, Don slipped into a stairwell and descended one
floor with tender steps. Stepping out into a new hallway, Schanke peered into
private rooms until he spotted one that was occupied, yet temporarily empty for
surgical purposes.
Hunting in their closet, Schanke discovered a suitcase replete with a
variety of sweat suits fit for an extremely large man. He expected the pants to
plunge about his knees at any second, but their coverage was still more adequate
than that of the hospital gown. He also found some tube socks that would
suffice, though this other patient's shoes did not fit. He made do with a pair
of slippers.
Lastly, Don pilfered through the bedside table, spotting a wallet. He
lifted two twenties, tried to make a mental note of the name and address of his
victim, then shuffled down to the lobby.
He hailed a taxi and rode straight to his house. He didn't have a house
key, so he anxiously rang the front doorbell. The soft tapping of footsteps
approached the other side of the door, and it was cranked open in a lackluster
fashion.
Myra stood there, mouth agape and eyes reddened.
"Oh God, Myra!" Schanke exclaimed, rushing over the threshold to embrace
her. "Are you okay? On the phone, when you screamed, I didn't know what to
think! Is it Jen? Is she alright?"
Myra sputtered, tears running down her face. She ran her gaze over his
face, as if she could not trust her vision. Myra smoothed her hands over his
cheeks, whispering, "Oh, Donnie...Everything's okay now. Everything's okay.
You're okay." She gurgled back a laugh and kissed him.
************************************************************************
"That's sweet," Clare commented. Nick, sentimental at the picture, nodded
in agreement.
Schanke almost blushed. "Yeah, it was a moment." He waved his hand, trying
to keep the story on track. "We were reunited, and I found out about the plane
bombing, that my funeral service had taken place four days earlier, and,
well...everything. I saw Jen, and I explained to both of them why I hadn't been
on the plane. They coddled me, fed me dinner, and I slept some more.
By the time I woke up that evening, Jen had already gone to bed. I
suggested to Myra that I call you or the precinct..."
***********************************************************************
"Before you do that, Don, we need to talk," Myra began.
"Okay, hon. Let's talk."
Myra took his hand, looking unsure as to how to start. "This isn't the
first time that I've felt this way, and I know that you have had the same
thoughts..."
"Thoughts about what, Myra?"
"Your job - being a Homicide detective." Seeing her husband frown in
acknowledgment, Myra rushed on. "You know, last year during the meteor scare,
when you talked about quitting and moving to Scottsdale, and when...when you
moved into Nick's loft for a couple days...*that* problem."
Schanke rubbed the back of his neck, aiming to relieve some tension. "I
know you're upset - you're scared and upset right now, Myra...This isn't good
time to jump into a life-changing decision."
"Life-changing?" Myra stood up, her face stark. "Life-changing is having
your husband get on a plane that blows up. Life-changing is when your husband
comes this close," She pinched up her fingers in demonstration. "Night after
night to getting his head blown off, and every phone call sets off a panic
button in your heart. Life-changing is when the first night in months that you
spend with your family, with your daughter, is only because everybody else
thinks that you're dead!" Myra's face twisted up in exhausted sobs.
Don pulled her down beside him, hugging her close. "Shhh, honey. It's going
to be okay."
"No, it won't. Not if you go back to your job. We'll just lose you again,
only this time, fate won't intervene with a guitar case."
"So you want me to quit? Okay, I'll quit. I'll just call Nick up and
explain first," he offered.
Myra shook her head. "If it was that simple, don't you think you would have
done it last year? No," She wiped at her cheek with an angry hand. "You're too
good. You're too unselfish - you just have to save the world. You'll gradually
go back if you're around them..." She suddenly grabbed his hand, her pleading
becoming intense. "Make a clean break now. They all think you're dead - let them
get on with their lives, and we'll get on with ours. Do it for me. Do it for
Jenny." She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. "I love you. I love you, Donnie,
and I never want to have to face life without you again. If you love me,
please..."
*****************************************************************************
Clare and Nick now watched Schanke silently, blankly stare in reflection.
He shrugged away the musing, speaking again. "I love Myra. I love Jen. So I did
it."
******************************************************************************
End of Part Seven
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:25:53 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (08A/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
********************************************************************
Beginning of Part Eight A
"You did it?" Nick's voice was incredulous. "Myra just asks you to pretend
you're dead, and you do it?"
Clare protested on Schanke's behalf, thinking on the loss of Conchobhar.
"When you love someone, it is not that simple."
"Yes. I realize that," Nick amended. "But it still hurts."
"Okay, I know it may sound a bit crazy - just throwing away my whole
career, my whole identity, but at the time we weren't exactly thinking
rationally." At Nick's wondering look, Schanke continued, practically begging
for him to understand. "Myra'd gotten the idea in her head that if I went back
on the job, I'd be a dead man. And if I went around any of my friends, I'd be
back on the job. It was a vicious circle. As for me, coming so close to the
grand finale - I mean, one minute I'm worried about paperwork and Cohen, the
next she's gone - just like that." He snapped his fingers in punctuation. "I
thought to myself...Don, which is more important to you - being right or being
happy? The road to happiness is warped for a grieving widow and a guy getting
over a concussion and pneumonia."
"So, you admit that it wasn't right to let us think you were dead?" Nick
wasn't being spiteful. He just wanted to hear the words and close the wound.
Schanke watched him solemnly. "It was wrong. I hate that I did it. A month
passed, two, then I began to regret the decision, but I felt committed. Too much
time had passed - my hands were tied."
"Myra was right, though. You will go back. You've already started."
"Why do you say that?" Clare was at a loss as to how Nicholas could be so
certain of Schanke's leanings.
Nick nodded towards the notebook on the table, and Clare walked over to
peruse it. "Schank's made notes and records concerning every case I've covered
since the plane crash." He looked at Schanke. "You never let go completely, did
you?"
"No. Though what good it does me, I don't know. Even if Myra encouraged my
returning, it's not as if I could just stroll back into the Ninety-Sixth and say
'Oops. I'm not really dead - what say we start over?' There'd be hell to pay."
Nick grinned to himself, then towards Clare. "I don't know. I believe there
are some people capable of paving the way...if you wanted to come back."
Clare looked up from the loop-ringed pages, where she'd been giving a
little sneer to a newsprint image of Maeven's face. "It might be a good idea to
brief Schanke on the O'Leary case, Nick. There are several *aspects* you may
wish to share with him." She turned to Don. "Nick said you were familiar with
beer production and the victim was a neighbor."
"Which we can do once we reach the loft," Nick proposed.
"Loft? Why do we need to go to the loft?" Schanke protested.
"It's the closest. You may not have noticed, but the sun's almost up," was
the reply.
Schanke began to don his coat, scarf and toboggan again. "Let me guess -
you want to ride in the trunk."
A phone rang. It was Clare's portable - the precinct was on the other end.
She listened, paused, then spoke to Nick in an aside. "It's the lab results on
some items I pilfered from Secour's place, plus a drug screen for tonight. You
have a fax machine at the loft, don't you?" He nodded, so she replied to the
officer, "Send a copy via Detective Knight's fax machine. Do you have the
number? Good."
She broke the connection and inquired of the men, "Am I going to fit as
well?" Clare did not appear enthused. She did not skulk in automobiles by habit.
After all, her Ferrari's trunk would hold nothing more than a pair of shoes and
a toothbrush. She grimaced. Too much light was pouring in the view window, and
she was feeling overly peckish to spend the day lurking in a parking garage.
"Largest trunk space of its kind," Nick informed her. "You only have to get
over the ignobility of sharing."
"Don't tell me you've also got that sun problem, Clare. What are you - pod
people?" Schanke was incredulous.
Clare pulled the Caddie's keys out of her pocket, tossed them to the
designated driver (i.e., the one who would not burst into flames), then headed
out the door on the cusp of another fib session. "No, Schanke. It's not the same
thing at all. It's a by-product of my fruitarian diet. I don't get enough
Vitamin D, so I'm extremely sensitive to sun exposure."
"Vitamin D deficiency?" His forehead wrinkled with intellectual
contemplation. "Yeah, I've heard of that."
"Of course you have, Schank," Nick humored, watched his friend leave in
front of him, then closed the door with finality.
********************************************************************
Natalie shrugged off her coat as she entered her apartment. Sidney bounced
from the bedroom, full of feline chirping relating his day's activities. He
pushed his cheeks and hips against Natalie's ankles, then cantered towards the
kitchen for feeding time.
Natalie lifted the remote control off her coffee table, rotating the blinds
so they filtered out all of the dawn sky. The window coverings were similar to
Nick's. They had been rapidly installed the week after Clare brought her across,
during Nat and Sidney's stay at her sire's vampire-friendly hotel suite.
She tossed the remote onto the couch and squinted in displeasure as she
observed the black rectangle slip between two cushions. She would have trouble
finding the control later, she was positive. Natalie smirked. She had all of
eternity before her, yet she experienced a nagging certainty that a generous
portion of forever would be spent looking for knickknacks, car keys, and
jewelry.
A commanding yowl erupted from the kitchen. Sidney was becoming concerned
with her non-appearance. Natalie let his noises lure her into his catly den.
Over the past month, Sidney had displayed a devout pleasure at her new
schedule. She no longer stayed at the morgue for extra hours in the morning. She
always fed before she departed for work. Sidney hadn't failed to capitalize on
the opportunities available for requesting a food supply.
Natalie had not failed to spoil him. She refreshed Sidney's water and
kibble before moving to the refrigerator.
"Now we get the moist stuff, don't we, Sid?" Her cat looked up from
crunching his dry food, the loss of concentration causing the pellet to pop from
his mouth and tumble to the floor. The noise of hard meal bouncing on the
linoleum made Sidney start with surprise. He prepared to bat the food into
submission in punishment for the unexpected sound, but the opening of the fridge
door made thoughts of revenge flee his head. He resumed his rotation around
Natalie's feet, looking at her expectantly.
Both Sidney and his person preferred eating wet food nowadays. Of course,
the cat's meal with high water content came in a can with the words 'Science
Diet' printed in black on peach. Natalie's liquid diet did not come with labels.
It came in bottles with corks, or if she was really good, the carafe that
matched her Osterizer. The dilemma was...did Natalie want to be good?
She satisfied the cat first, scooping several ounces of squishy goop onto
a saucer. Then she fingered her own containers: the human blood that usually
only Clare drank when visiting, the cow blood Nat had never quite accepted, and
the canister of mix for protein shakes.
Natalie chose cow. She uncorked a green bottle as she pulled a glass from
the cabinet. The redness splashed and twirled before settling into a tempting
hemisphere that bobbled slightly with her movement.
She brought the glass and bottle into the living room, kicking off her
shoes and cuddling into the sofa. Natalie set the bottle on the coffee table,
sucked a deep breath in and out, then took a drink. It seemed to tingle down her
throat and swirl through her body. She felt hungrier than before, insatiably
hungry.
She swallowed another gulp, felt a wave of pleasure, yet some lingering
shadow that this taste, this flavor, wasn't enough. She wanted something else,
something more, a richer brew flowing through her veins.
Natalie tilted her head back, drained the glass, then refilled to the rim.
She consumed a long draught, subtracted half of the contents, then sat back once
more. She wanted more than the burning, she wanted fire. She needed more than
the glow - she wanted memories and sensations. She wanted...
Natalie picked up her telephone and dialed. It rang once, twice, then she
abruptly hung up. She sat thoughtfully, then chose to push another set of
buttons. She heard multiple tones, then the sound of a desk clerk requesting to
take a message. Natalie declined.
She set the receiver down, deciding to turn on the television. The
obnoxious sounds of a morning talk show twittered at her as she lifted her
breakfast once more. Another morning, drinking alone with no one to talk to. The
frustrating notion struck Natalie that nothing in her life had really changed.
She hadn't allowed it.
************************************************************************
"Oof!" Clare grunted as the Caddie soared over a bump, and Nick's knee
gouged her in the stomach. "I'm *really* hoping," she growled, "that you have
something besides cow stashed at the loft."
"One bottle." Nick made the token offering. "From LaCroix's private stock."
"Ah. Jackpot. Your Schanke friend narrowly avoids another demise. By the
way, I find it odd that you did not rip into him upon discovery. After all, you
assaulted practically everyone else yesterday."
"That's exaggerating."
"Me? Exaggerate? Never!" Clare couldn't see him scoff at that comment; her
face was squished up next to the tire jack. She would swear, however, that she
*felt* him scoff. Then she sensed an impending mischievousness.
"Schanke is my friend. Killing him wouldn't have been practical, not when
he's my prize for the bet."
"Your prize?"
"My prize. You are running out of time, Clare. Remember: when I win - you
quit, then ensure I am paired with the partner of my choice. I choose Donald
Schanke."
"Wait one second." She mentally projected a glare. "Is there some
confusion? I did all the detective work towards finding the man - I solved that
mystery before you did."
"Not exactly."
Clare fumed internally.
"Actually," Nick continued. "I found Schanke first. We were in the middle
of a nice chat before you arrived at the apartment, if you recall. The impetus
of my discovery doesn't matter, only that I encountered him before you did. Case
closed."
Clare conceded to herself that he had a valid argument. To Nick, she
retorted in her best I-am-LaCroix-and-you-are-not impersonation, "Indeed."
Sneering icicles hung off the word.
Then the Caddie must have hit a pothole, for she - oops! - slipped and
kicked him.
"Watch where you stick your knees," Nick growled.
Clare smiled contentedly.
***********************************************************************
Maude O'Leary woke blessed with a hangover comparable to God's own army
bursting from the middle of her forehead. If righteousness and redemption were
the order of the day, Maude's newfound sobriety was the perfect foil.
She scoured her neighbor's medicine cabinet - Phyllis had so many little
bottles, and Maude's eyes ached terribly. Finally her hand clutched the
treatment she was after. Spilling two aspirins in her hand, she then tucked them
on top of her tongue, feeling the bitter flavor seep around her taste buds.
Maude brushed her hands over the vanity, searching for one of those cups
people use to store their toothbrushes. Finding a ceramic holder, she swished it
full of water, and took a hefty gulp from a little side hole, all the while
ignoring any dregs that had pooled in the bottom.
A small measure of the bitterness rinsed from her mouth, Maude coughed and
wiped a thread of spittle from the corner of her lips. The insides of her cheeks
felt pasty and rotten. She smacked her palate a few times to release some of the
dryness, but was unsuccessful. The lining was still doughy, and her pebbled
tongue resembled moss.
Into the hall, into the kitchen. Phyllis put on an overly cheery display,
making too many perky noises for Maude's sanctimony. She chose to nibble on an
isosceles of toast proffered by her hostess, silently willing the aspirin's
effects to take hold.
After the toast and one too many exclamations sharp in her ears, Maude
excused herself from her neighbor's hospitality and wandered towards her own
abode. It was her house. Her own little kingdom, and it was empty. No precious
kitty to purr at her feet, no husband to tell what to do.
It was awful. It was unjust.
Maude marched resolutely into her backyard. She had never actually done
anything in her yard but supervise others, favoring labor done by lawn
professionals rather than do it herself. This, however, was a special
circumstance.
Colored plastic ribbons wrapped about the trees and littered the grass,
cautioning that she violated a crime scene. Maude didn't know if it mattered
anymore, and she didn't care. Stripping away any tape blocking her path, she
ventured to the tool shed tucked in a verdant corner. A shovel was her prize.
She carried it to the clogged and desecrated pond hole, and commenced
digging. It was a strange feeling, jamming the spade of the shovel in the
ground, fighting the grip of the earth, and lofting the dirt into the stone
circle. She'd never employed those muscles before, never attempted anything
remotely resembling back-breaking work. It was a physical discovery.
The police had drained the pond somehow, looking for clues and evidence.
They had siphoned the water, yet abandoned every nasty lily and every grotesque
fragment of algae possible. The malignant flora now plastered the walls and
bottom of her pitiful pool lining.
She intended to bury the foul things once and for all.
Maude dug. She barreled and scooped and delved in the dirt until the
burning pounding of her arms, back, and legs matched that of her post-drunk
headache. Her palms began to blister, moist circles of skin shaving away to
expose tender patches of flesh. She had forgotten to slide on gloves. Had she
remembered, nothing suitable would have been handy, so she shrugged away the
additional discomfort.
She mined and exhumed and burrowed in the soil until she had craters at her
feet and a meters' worth of ground piled above the pond rim. She paused, panting
her exhaustion, but the work was not done.
She smoothed the shovel as though it were a hoe, spreading the pile of
dirt so it browned each decorative stone. The shelf of the waterfall became
caked with mud and clay. She tossed the tool on top of her finished product,
thirsty with satisfaction, and returned inside.
Yes, she was thirsty. Thirsty. Maude homed to the kitchen cabinet where she
kept the liquor, opened it and shoved her hands inside, but as the coolness of
the glass soothed her raw hands, she was frozen by her thoughts.
The idea was painfully sharp in her head while she stacked the fifths of
alcohol in a row on the counter. She rushed to the sink and twisted the cold
faucet, letting the pure water flush and sting her hands and face.
She slurped back a few swallows, licked the ripe, pure flavor from her lips,
then risked another glance at the bottles.
But there was something else.
Some form of indignation, some cry for vengeance snaked in the back of her
mind. Another collection of words, a charming affirmation struggled to break
free.
Maude's brain was sharp and screaming.
"A higher court," she whispered.
Collecting the alcohol containers in her arms, Maude wobbled with the load
into the den, grabbing some matches off her mantle. Then she heaved her load
outside. She set the pile down gingerly at the edge of the last willful lily
pads invading her lawn.
She would have no more martinis.
Uncapping each bottle, Maude doused the unwanted sprouts in her grass with
equal parts vermouth and vodka, then threw in a good measure of gin and rum as a
cherry on top. She stepped a few paces back, struck a match, and let it fly.
The eruption of flames was a pretty sight. The light flared brightly for a
moment, filled with added blue and orange streams in a rainbow of pyrotechnical
wonder. Then, when there was no more alcohol to feed upon, the fire fizzled out.
The grass was gone, but the lily pads remained. They were scorched black on
the surface, yes, but they retained their lily pad shapes and ugliness.
Maude cackled at the view, clutching her sides.
She would have no more martinis, and she would have her higher court.
******************************************************************
End of Part Eight A.
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:28:31 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (08B/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*******************************************************************
Beginning of Part Eight B
The sound of the garage door clanking to rest was ambrosia to both Nick's
and Clare's ears. He pushed the trunk open immediately, leaping out to stand on
his feet.
Clare unfolded slowly, stretching her arms in the air, inching forward to
sit on the rear bumper.
Nick stilled in awareness, then she perceived the presence as well.
"LaCroix is here," he murmured.
Clare nodded in assertion. "The day grows more interesting yet."
Schanke had jumped from the Caddie as well, and headed straight for the
lift, whistling a cheery tune.
"Come on, you two," he urged. "Let's take this party upstairs."
Clare frowned. "Did he say 'Let's stake this party upstairs'?"
"Uh-uh. Wishful thinking, Clare?"
"Certainly not. I'm simply tired. *And* hungry."
"Then perhaps I'll distract Schanke while you feed."
"How sweet of you to offer, Nicholas. Does that mean I have the honor of
distracting LaCroix?"
"To your heart's content."
They joined Schanke in the elevator, who rubbed his hands together, anxious
to exit the chilly garage. They cranked to the second floor, alighting to the
already shuttered loft.
Coming to a halt, Schanke eagerly scanned Nick's home, exclaiming, "Boy, oh
boy! The memories in this place!"
"How true, Detective Schanke." LaCroix stepped into view, holding a glass,
his voice splintering through the room.
Schanke swallowed in an involuntary gulp, though otherwise he appeared
amazingly unafraid. "Um... Mr. Nightcrawler, isn't it?...Longtime no see." The
mortal gave an awkward smile.
LaCroix gave him a considering look. "It has been a long time, indeed, and
you appear so...lively."
Clare slipped a whisper to Nick, consumed by curiosity. "They've met?"
"For a few nerve-wracking minutes, yes," Nick replied. He acknowledged his
sire with a slight bow of the head, then called forth Schanke's attention.
"Schank - let me show you what we have on the O'Leary case so far. *Over
here*." His voice was a hybrid of an order and a beg.
Don broke his gaze away from staring at this mysterious 'family member' of
Nick's and moved towards the computer. "Oh, sure. Show me what you've got."
Once they were across the loft, Clare pasted on her most charming smile for
LaCroix's benefit, advancing leisurely in his direction.
He captured her eyes and held them, taking a languorous drag from his
goblet. Clare let her mouth drop open a little as she watched, then scraped her
lower lip with her front teeth. Stretching out a hand, Clare wiped at a tiny
droplet that still clung to LaCroix's own lips, then she ravenously sucked at
the finger. He gallantly passed her the glass, and she luxuriated in a slow,
feverish sampling.
"You simply could not stay away, could you?" she challenged softly,
allowing a minor shudder to pass through her after she dipped into the cup once
more. "From Nicholas? Did you intend to attempt helping him, despite your
protests to the contrary?"
LaCroix had recruited another glass for his own use, adding blood to
halfway between base and brim. Another quantity of his personal, human brand
that he had brought this night with gifting intentions - but not to her. Clare
realized it, and momentarily LaCroix caught himself wondering if she even cared.
Certainly they had shared in the exchange the night before, but that was only a
fraction of their souls. They were too experienced to not hide many secrets from
a lover, offering only what they chose. LaCroix found that the small taste of
insight into Clare taunted him even more.
"I have sensed a certain...violence...from Nicholas tonight. The prospect
was too delicious and intriguing to ignore. Yet his *friend*," He twisted his
lips in forming that word. "Schanke is conspicuously present. So what phenomenon
holds responsibility for these mixed signals?"
"He *has* been violent tonight." Clare observed Nick and Schanke bent over
his desk, discussing some matter intently. "Angry, vituperative, and still just
as uncontrollable. Tedious, actually. But he has...changed...over the course of
the night - I am not aware of the exact reason. Whatever the cause, I believe it
involved Nicholas alone. His choice and reason, in some unfathomable nature. His
ex-partner is nothing more than a sentimental affection. Unfortunately, he plans
to indulge it." Clare murmured the events behind Schanke's reappearance, and the
displeasing possibility that she might lose the wager.
"How galling the prospect must be for you." At LaCroix's ridiculing
expression, Clare had a delightful desire to bite him.
"Quite. Though, it may be for the best. I was hoping there would be fewer
annoying mortals in Homicide...and more dead people. Furthermore, I have not
found time to hunt since this employment began."
"That would be three-whole-nights?" A raised eyebrow mocked her torment.
"Bah. But why go without?" Clare seductively trailed the tip of her tongue
along the rim of her glass. "Would you?" She tilted her head back slightly,
flashing a brief stretch of neck, pooling the remainder of her drink on her
tongue.
LaCroix stepped forward catching her slightly parted mouth with his own.
The blood slipped over both of their palates in the sharing of the kiss, and
slowly trickled down their throats. He pulled back, his voice seeming hot and
hissing in her ear. "No. I would not."
******************************************************************
Nick displayed the crime scene photos that had amassed over the past two
days. There were shots of Frank O'Leary's body in and out of the ornamental
pond, the fermentation tank at the brewery, the ladder leading up to it, and a
plethora of autopsy images.
He described the injuries, showing examples of the beer bottle shards
Forensics believed caused the initial debilitating wounds. He outlined the
secretary, partner, boyfriend and wife, the latter whom Schanke admitted he had
encountered a couple of harried times in the neighborhood.
"I've never seen her sober and, man, can that woman talk your ear off!"
Nick then produced the copies of the shipping statement for the crime scene
batch of brew, to which Schanke exclaimed, "But that's not enough time for -"
"Aging," Nick finished. "I know. Not to mention the evidence that it might
contain."
"So why didn't you intercept it?"
Nick grimaced. "I checked into that. It had already crossed the border.
Once the shipment reached the States, it seemed to disappear. I wanted to
question Secour about the destination, but he wasn't exactly fit for
interrogation when we found him."
"Whoa," Schanke perked with interest. "You mean the evidence just happened
to be an exported shipment?"
"What do you think that signifies?"
"I'm not sure, but right now it seems like you're kind of loose on a
motive. I mean, either the wife or secretary could have killed out of jealousy,
right? But you already don't buy that. That leaves Victor Barger and Louis
Secour - but what's their incentive to murder O'Leary?"
"Secour could be another jealousy, like the wife. He could have
misinterpreted their relationship, attacked O'Leary while he was under the
influence, and speeded up the shipment to hide evidence."
"Possibly - but where did all the LSD in O'Leary's system come from?"
Schanke wondered.
"The partner acted as if there were no way to be certain if he was a user
or not. Their mandatory drug tests went through both their hands, and O'Leary
could have edited his own." Nick's eyes wandered, catching sight of several
papers stacked in the receiving tray of his facsimile. These were the lab
reports Clare had mentioned at Schanke's apartment. He scanned the news the
pages contained, informing Schanke, "Clare confiscated beer samples from
Secour's house. The lab found traces of blood matching O'Leary's type, not to
mention an incredible quantity of LSD. That's what the man was high on when we
found him."
"And in O'Leary's corpse - the drugs could have come from the beer he
drowned in," Schanke concluded excitedly.
"Using the beer as a method to hide drugs?" Nick echoed. "There has been a
resurgence in LSD usage in recent years. The street value per bottle would
certainly be worth more than selling the straight brew. The culprit would
already be committing a felony. Perpetrating another like murder to protect the
operation might not have seemed a stretch."
"The shipment went to America. Crossed the border. You know they check for
narcotics smuggled in random cargo like that." Schanke frowned at the conundrum.
"Yes, but usually inspectors would be looking in the boxes, not opening
bottles and examining the contents. U.S. Customs would work with the FDA to
establish that the beer fulfilled purity guidelines, but they would take a
sample for analysis once in a blue moon."
"Still, that would be a pretty risky proposition, even if you interspersed
the LSD-laced cargo with the standard. At any given time, someone could demand
for your bad brew before allowing it in the country."
"Certain drivers could be involved, with instruction to turn back if they
are challenged while carrying contraband," Nick reasoned. "Or there could be a
weak link with Customs, someone on a payroll."
"Yeah, you could look for a pattern in who signed shipments through. You
know there's gotta be a mile of paperwork just for somebody trying to sneeze
past Customs."
"Schank, the more I think about this in terms of drug smuggling, I become
very uncertain that Louis Secour is behind the organization. He may have been
involved. He may be the murderer, but I guarantee one or both of the partners
were embroiled in the crime."
"So how can you be sure?"
Nick suddenly appeared uncomfortable. "There is a possibility that there
was a witness to the dumping of O'Leary's body in his backyard," he suggested in
a low voice.
"Great! So bring them in! Do a composite!" Schanke was enthusiastic, yet
perplexed as to why Nick wasn't eager to latch on to the obvious.
"Jen was the possibility."
Schanke fumbled. "Jen? My Jen?" He sat wearily at the desk. "What makes you
think she saw anything?"
"The O'Leary's cat disappeared from the scene between the time before the
body was dumped and the arrival of the police. Jen admits to wandering around
the neighborhood at the time in question. Does she normally have a cat?"
"No," Schanke admitted. "I'm allergic."
Nick released a labored sigh. "Well, she has one. It resembles a photograph
that I've seen of the animal in question. She's hiding the cat in her bedroom."
"What could she have seen? Someone dumping a dead body?" Schanke rubbed his
hand alongside him temple and cheek, pushing at the tension. "God, the kid's
only ten years old. She hasn't breathed a word. What must she have been going
through?"
"There may be some other explanation, Schank. I just think that you should
be the one to talk to her about it. If she did witness the culprit - your
daughter is smart and resilient; she will be fine in the end. Myra and you will
see to that."
"Myra..." Schanke repeated. "She has no idea that anyone's aware that I'm
alive, that the charade is over. She doesn't know that our kid could be a
witness in a homicide case. How am I going to tell her?"
Nick put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Just be honest. At this point,
that is the greatest thing you can do. Another thought, Schank - you can go
back. If that is what you really want, you *can* go back."
************************************************************************
End of Part Eight B.
End of Part Eight.
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:34:52 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (09A/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*******************************************************************
Beginning of Part Nine A
Donald Schanke shook as he exited the Caddie. It was June - why did the day
feel so cold? Leaving Nick's loft, he had again dressed in his surreptitious
outwear that should have been too warm for the season. It was a habit now, he
supposed. He had grown accustomed to hiding his identity.
Despite his shivering, Schanke pulled off his hat and scarf and stood
unabashedly in the middle of the sidewalk for a few minutes. This was his
identity. He was a man coming home to his house, planning to talk to his wife.
He was planning to talk to his wife about felony-witnessing daughters,
failed death-faking attempts, and his return to a job she disliked, but hey -
good, old-fashioned talk nonetheless.
He'd called Myra from the loft, telling her something had come up, and she
shouldn't go into work. She should call in sick. A minor version of hooky
compared to his own.
She had been worried. Schanke, he was just a leaf shaking in a gale force
wind. Nothing uptight there.
Nick had seemed reluctant to watch him go. Maybe he had a minor case of
separation anxiety. Don remembered those first few weeks after he returned
unscathed from the crash. Jen had become a clinging vine, Myra one-step-removed
from a python. Man, it wasn't that they smothered him - it was that they seemed
to need him so much. Through every argument, every tiff, each celebration and
joy they'd had before, he had never felt so *needed*. That was what molded the
guilt - those thoughts that something so precious had almost been blown away.
The culpability festered as the months flew by, because he realized that he
wanted everything back: the danger, the challenge, and yeah, even the paperwork.
With those came a life he'd thrown away. It had been a life of camaraderie, of
dignity, and he knew too little of those sensations anymore.
The parts he had clung to in the meantime - Myra and Jen, they meant no
less to him. Maybe they mattered more. His life was just as transparent without
their presence.
So how come he couldn't have it all? Somebody, somewhere, on any particular
day in the world, got their way. Why not him? Why not today?
There was no reason why he couldn't hug his child off to school in the
morning, see her beautiful smile and the sunlight in her hair. No excuse to stop
kissing his wife, making love to her, honoring and sometimes obeying her. No
rationale to never experience trust, and to unravel a few of the world's dirty,
tangled knots. To have courage, and to recognize in the middle of gunfire,
bullets blazing and heart pounding, that you were somehow safe because your best
friend, the best guy you knew would be by your side in the trenches.
Was it a selfish dream? Unreasonable?
But Schanke wanted it back, all back.
He walked into his home and greeted Myra with a caress on the lips.
Schanke shared that need with her.
************************************************************************
Clare had drowsily consumed another half bottle of vintage, flirted
outrageously with LaCroix, waved Schanke off with a smile and a whisper, then
promptly fell asleep. She lounged on the couch, her hair loose and gliding over
the black leather. One arm draped off the couch, her fingers loosely shielding
her now-empty glass where she'd placed it on the floor.
LaCroix watched her silently, even as Nick approached. He made no
acknowledgment until his offspring seemed indecisive at the degree of
disturbance turning off a lamp would cause.
"Go ahead," LaCroix murmured. "She typically sleeps like the dead. I know
of only one exception."
"When?" Nick could not resist the temptation of asking.
"The day her sire died."
Somehow, Nick discerned that was not the complete answer, and yet there was
foreboding - was this one of those 'lessons'? Was LaCroix making a point, or
simply conversing? Despite his wariness, Nick really wanted to know more. It was
a combination of curiosity and a need for some private insight into LaCroix.
Most of his sire's earlier existence was a mystery to Nick, save the recent
revelations about Divia. More information, including his history with Clare,
would certainly be intriguing.
"Her sire? I have never heard word of Clare's sire. Was this vampire an
ancient?"
LaCroix stared at him with a cold blue gaze. "Hardly. He was Conchobhar,
her mortal husband. He was interesting company - called Clare by the name
'Cliodhna.' I considered him...a friend." Then LaCroix seemed to catch himself,
realizing that he had confessed too much. "In the end Conchobhar was careless;
he existed little more than three centuries. Not an auspicious reign, to say the
least." His eyes translated that this was the end of that subject. He moved to
another. "You have not fed."
Nick did not look away or glare indignantly. He did not attempt to revert
to the subject of Clare's sire in hopes of irritating LaCroix, though he was
still interested in hearing more. He merely shrugged and commented, "I had more
important concerns at the time. I suppose that I am ready now."
"Ready?" Interest and disdain emblazoned his sire's voice. "When did your
*readiness* become a factor? Did you experience an epiphanal transformation over
the course of a night? You are so impulsive, Nicholas. Who holds the blame for
your deliverance on this occasion?"
Nick spoke with quiet certainty. "I do."
"Well, well. No shaman, no cure, no twelve-step program...Assuming
responsibility for your actions - I suppose that would sound different to you.
But still, Nicholas, what of your guilt? You have clung to it for centuries.
Could you possibly be strong enough to let go after nursing that bastard child
for so long?"
"How strong do you think I am?" There was a confidence to the question,
one that Nick rarely showed in reference to himself.
LaCroix's lips spread in an amused line. "Not strong enough, Nicholas."
He shrugged, considering the assertion. "You may be right, LaCroix. But as
always, I will find out for myself." Nick strolled to his refrigerator, grasping
a container of the cow blood, uncorking and drinking it in lackadaisically. He
examined the sleeping form on the sofa once more, his face tinged with
perplexity. "Why did Clare become my partner? What reason do you believe she
had?"
Another frown arose from LaCroix. Nick realized that his sire was very
disinclined to discuss anything that involved Clare and himself. He tucked this
information away for future consideration.
LaCroix finally spoke. "It was a lark. She commits to everything
temporarily except herself. Surely you did not imagine that Clare would be
disturbed at the thought of being replaced by Detective Schanke? Or vengeful?"
"I wondered if she would be upset. I think her intentions were to watch
over Natalie and me, especially Nat. She couldn't be content if that plan was
usurped."
"You suspect Clare of being protective?" LaCroix drawled. "Really,
Nicholas - how positive your belief system has become." His voice subsided from
laughter to a dark warning. "Clare may say anything, do anything, but what she
thinks - that is a mystery."
Nick nodded. "Ah." Then he smiled at LaCroix, a simple offering of
companionship. "Could you remind me about Daniel? I wonder if I remember him
correctly. In fact, I believe there are still scores of stories that you have
not refreshed in my memory since I was shot in the head."
This calm and openness in Nicholas intrigued LaCroix, so he decided to
indulge his offspring's request.
It was to be a day of discussion and renewed closeness between the two
men.
******************************************************************
With dusk came movement. In the late afternoon, Schanke called to inform
Nick that he was coming in to the precinct. After discussing the murder with her
parents, Jen had agreed to make a statement, describing what she had seen. Both
Myra and Don wanted to be with their daughter, giving her support.
The goal was complicated. For Schanke to visit the Ninety-Sixth, there was
bound to be some uproar. The potential turmoil would be inappropriate for Jen to
observe, and could upset a delicate situation.
Schanke wanted to end the deceit, to broadcast that he was alive and
confront his actions. His plan involved Myra and Jen arriving at the precinct
first. Once they were sequestered in an interrogation room, Schanke would
follow, Nick by his side for support.
LaCroix left at the first suspicion of darkness, bound for the Raven. Clare
made no comment at his absence when she woke, choosing instead to discover what
progress Nick and Schanke had accomplished. Any reserve on Nick's part, she
attributed to a return of his melancholy of the night before.
She found the concept of smuggling LSD in the beer bottles fascinating,
commiserated on the likelihood that at least one on the partners was involved,
but was unconvinced of Secour's guilt.
"If he was aware that O'Leary drowned, bled, and who knows what else in
that fermentation vat, do you really think he would be drinking it? His garage
held a variety of beer cases - I think Secour is in the habit of pilfering from
shipments for his own private consumption - just enough to slip through the
cracks. He didn't have to know that the beer contained drugs to be affected by
them. If there were any ill effects, whom would he complain to? It was stolen
merchandise."
"Amy Martin, his girlfriend, said O'Leary was aware of Secour's LSD use."
"He tested positive twice in the past six months," Clare confirmed.
"If Secour confessed to embezzling beer," he reasoned. "Justifying that the
positives came from something off with one of the brews, O'Leary could have
investigated further."
"Killed because of what he discovered?"
"He could have threatened going to the authorities." Nick added the
information concerning the Schanke family's ensuing sojourn to the police
precinct.
"So Jen *did* witness who dumped the body in the backyard?"
"You don't have to sound so pleased," Nick chastised.
"It does simplify things," Clare insisted. "The girl is extremely alert -
I'm certain that she will give an excellent description of the culprit."
"If only Schanke's reappearance at the precinct was so easy."
Clare rose from the couch, somewhat tousled and wrinkled. "We have methods
of dealing with that, if you put aside a few scruples. First, I need to change,
feed, and run one errand. I'll meet you at the Ninety-Sixth in about an hour and
a half."
Nick nodded, and she was gone.
****************************************************************************
Clare had a shower, slipped into another suit, spent less than enough time
savoring blood, but too much on the phone along her way. Perhaps the rush
explained why she hurried into the morgue, declaring crossly, "Natalie, I have
two things to tell you, and I have to be quick, so listen. One, make up your
mind about Nick. Now." Natalie opened her mouth to protest, but Clare held her
off. "I said I wouldn't make that decision for you, and I won't. But Natalie,
you already know your preference. You've thought it over and over, ad infinitum.
Accept your choice and act upon it - anything else is unacceptable. Eternity is
no excuse to waste time. I know this from experience...wasted centuries."
Natalie panicked. "What brought this on? Did something happen to Nick?"
Clare groaned in frustration. "If he is so important, why aren't you with
him? Case in point brings me to item number two...Donald Schanke is alive. The
teeth you declared him dead by were, in fact, knocked out of his mouth in a
collision with Vachon during boarding of the ill-fated flight. Due to his
injuries, Schanke was removed from the plane before it ever left the ground. He
has not come forward to overturn his death, because Myra asked him to stay
silent. Why did he do it? 'He loves her', he says, both Myra and Jen. He was
being selfless. How many people has that sacrifice hurt? You said he was 'a
peach'. Well, your friend is coming to the precinct," Clare checked her watch.
"Any minute now. He is bringing Jen in for a statement. I thought you would want
to know." Clare turned abruptly to leave.
Natalie stood bewildered, poring over the discoveries in amazement.
Suddenly she realized Clare was almost out the door, and yelped for her to stop.
"Wait a second. I'm coming with you." Natalie struggled out of her smock
with supernatural speed and ran after her sire.
***********************************************************************
Nick had shown Jen to the interrogation room five minutes earlier, Myra
falling a bit behind as she nervously greeted acquaintances. Nick uncomfortably
put Jen off when she asked about Clare.
"She'll be here soon. Promise."
"Cool. I wanted to thank her for the flowers."
"Flowers?"
"Yeah. A big bouquet of white and yellow things. They smelled excellent."
"Gardenias?"
"If you say so. Clare came to check on me while I was asleep and left them,
but I saw her as she drove away because she started beeping."
"Her phone?"
Jen nodded. "Anyway, I wanted to thank her. No one's brought me flowers
before. It was...I don't know...neat."
Nick looked deep in thought. "You know, there's a language to flowers," he
confided with a devastating smile. "Gardenias mean 'You're lovely'."
"Really?" Two patches of pink bloomed on Jen's cheeks.
"Really." Nick stood to leave as Myra finally entered the room. "I'm going
to get your Dad. Perhaps by then, the flower lady will have arrived."
Schanke appeared surprisingly calm as he sat in the driver's seat of the
Cadillac. The shaking had ceased, only to be replaced by an otherworldly
numbness. Maybe hashing everything out with Myra had done the trick - with all
the arguing, pleading, and emotion released, they had portrayed patience and
composure by the time Jen arrived home from school.
Somehow, the surroundings no longer felt real. Yes, there was Nick
descending the precinct steps, and Schanke was stepping from the car to meet
him, but the setting was out of focus and moving in slow motion.
Nick asked if he was ready, and Schanke nodded while taking a deep breath.
They climbed the stairs side by side, and Nick held the front entrance open.
Schanke then felt his friend's hand on his shoulder, gently directing him
onwards. Don considered this anchor with gratitude, squeezing Nick's upper arm,
whispering, "Thanks, partner."
Then they entered the bullpen.
Almost immediately, it seemed as if a spotlight beamed over Schanke's head.
The busy shuffle melted, voices ominously quieted, and the people - some
strangers, former co-workers, and friends - all stared at him.
He was naked in a bowling alley.
A fog permeated his brain as the murmurs started, all unintelligible to his
ears. Nick was pulling him forward, but his feet would not move. Then he heardd
the sound of brisk footstep and opening doors, followed by a voice, missed but
familiar.
"Schanke!"
It was Natalie, braked near the entrance, looking rushed and a little
breathless with wonderment. Eyes crinkling, a smile so enormous enveloped her
face that she appeared to glow. Natalie was happy that he was here and wasn't
abashed at letting anyone know she thought it was cause for celebration. She
approached, then embraced him in an enthusiastic hug.
"I missed you, Donald Schanke. We *all* missed you."
His vision seemed to clear, and the joyous laugh Natalie shared at his
return rang like cathedral bells. He began to observe the faces surrounding him,
seeing no censure, but expressions of welcome instead.
Nick's attention was tempered by Natalie. Her hair curled exuberantly
around her shoulders, and her sparkling eyes reflected the image of a thousand
perfect skies. She looked so pleased, so delighted at the moment that Nick
wanted to seize credit...to have her look at him like that.
He caught Natalie's eye and returned her grin, enjoying the excitement, but
her face suddenly fell. Nick felt swamped by a desperate urge to rescue that
smile, to conjure it back again by any means necessary. He then realized that
the worried look was not directed at him, but at someone at his back.
It was Captain Reese, unearthed from his office at the sound of commotion,
a stern demeanor on his face. He walked towards Schanke, then extended a hand.
"Mr. Schanke? I've heard a lot about you, but I never thought I'd get to
shake your hand." He enveloped Don's hand in his large grasp. "Nick and Clare
explained how reports of your death were premature. How's your health now?"
Schanke's mouth drooped. "My...health."
"We let it slip how you've been in the hospital the past year," Clare's
voice answered as she joined the group.
"In a coma," Nick added.
"And then the pneumonia," finished Clare.
"You did?" Schanke's expression appeared tinged with unease.
"I hope you don't mind," Nick continued innocently. "But I also mentioned
that you might be prepared to return to work as a Homicide detective."
"I want to talk to you about that, Schanke. We can work with the health
issue, and the precinct could use your return immediately," Reese offered. "I
understand that your daughter is here tonight to give a suspect description in
the O'Leary case. I know she's at the forefront of your concern tonight. Maybe
you could come in for a talk sometime?"
Schanke was in a minor state of befuddlement. "Sure. I'll see you
tomorrow."
Captain Reese nodded in acknowledgment of everyone in the party, then
returned to his office. The acceptance of Reese and Natalie seemed to signify a
general sense of relief and happiness at his presence. A mass of fellow officers
rushed forward as though on cue to greet Schanke and celebrate his return.
Natalie found herself pushed to the outer edges of the throng where Nick and
Schanke were the centerpieces of interest. She watched Nick share his enthusiasm
with his co-workers, just as he had with her in the mutual smile before Reese's
entrance. She began to back away towards the exit, intended to slip out
unnoticed.
Clare caught her. "One down, one to go," she reminded her offspring.
Natalie passed through the first doorway, then observed the reunion again
through the glass. "I know. I've made my decision, and I *will* tell Nick about
it. Captain Reese was right, though. There are other more important concerns
needing attention tonight. I can wait until tomorrow." With that, Natalie
brushed out of sight.
******************************************************************
End of Part Nine A
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:40:29 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (09B/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
********************************************************************
Beginning of Part Nine B
It took about fifteen minutes before the police dispersed back to their
desks, allowing Schanke and Nick to lasso the sketch artist and proceed to
interrogation. Nick experienced a surge of disappointment when he noticed that
Natalie was nowhere to be seen. Nick promised himself.
Clare had gone ahead to join Myra and Jen, accepting the young lady's thank
you for the gardenias with grace. She spent the remainder of the wait quizzing
Jen about the cat's antics, much to the girl's delight.
"Have you named it?" Clare finally asked.
"She has to return it to Mrs. O'Leary soon," Myra replied before Jen had an
opportunity to propose any potential nomenclature.
"Hmm. That part slipped my mind," Clare consoled.
Jen displayed a small pout. "Yeah, mine too."
Her father arrived then, along with Nick and another man. "Jen, this is
Edgar," Schanke introduced. "Nick and Clare need you to repeat what you saw at
the O'Learys'. Then you need to describe who you saw, as much as you can
remember, and Edgar will draw a portrait."
Edgar gave the girl a friendly smile coupled with a wave of his graphite-
clutching left hand. The artist then took a seat at the far end of the table, as
if to duck out of the way of interest.
Jen fidgeted slightly in her seat and began to talk in a moderate voice.
"I left my house around seven o'clock. I'd spent the afternoon visiting with
Dad, so after Mom got home from work, and we'd eaten dinner, I cleared out so
they could be alone. First, I went to my room, but I only stayed there a few
minutes before I decided to go outside and walk around the neighborhood for a
while. As I passed the O'Learys' I heard a scratching sound, and some pitiful
meowing, so I decided to check it out. I followed the sound to the backyard, and
opened the door in its wooden fence. It was just a latch, no lock, at the end of
the driveway. This cat just flies out of there and into the next door neighbor's
front bushes. I decided to catch the cat and put it back. So I'm shuffling
through the bushes on my hands and knees. It takes me about ten minutes to lure
the cat close enough so that I can grab it.
By the time I make my way back to the O'Learys', I saw there was a new car
in the drive. It was tan - a Mercedes. It had one of those circular symbols,
kind of like a peace sign, that's how I could tell. At that point, I'm not
worried, so I continued heading for the fence gate. When I get there, the fence
was opened farther than I left it, and I heard brushing sounds, like something
pretty large was being dragged across the yard.
I decided to peek inside. I didn't want to get caught snooping around
their house. I saw a skinny guy that I didn't recognize who was pulling
something heavy wrapped in a plastic tarp towards the pond. Then I noticed Mrs.
O'Leary, laying flat by the edge of the water. That's when I got scared.
The stranger unrolled the plastic, releasing Mr. O'Leary, and he just kind
of flopped into the pond, like a fish out of the water. I got out of there,
pronto. I took the cat, went back to the next-door-neighbors' bushes, and
watched for the guy to leave. When he did, I got a decent look while he got into
the car with his tarp, because the O'Learys' had their floodlights on.
When he was gone, I just kind of stayed in the shrubbery, you know, I just
wanted to hide out. Like, a half an hour passed, and the police started
arriving. Once the place started to get pretty crowded, I ducked out and went
home. I stayed outside of my house until Clare - I mean, Detective Douglas -
heard me moving at the side of the house. I guess I was scared to say anything."
Schanke took his daughter's hand, giving it a squeeze, while Myra delivered
an encouraging smile. "You're doing great, Jen," he praised.
"Did you see any of the license plate on the man's car?" Nick inquired.
Jen shook her head. "Nope."
"Maybe you should start describing the stranger," prodded Clare.
The girl scrunched her face in concentration, visibly determined to picture
the man mentally. "He looked thin and gangly, kind of like that guy who played
Gilligan on TV. I'm not sure how tall he was. Everyone looks tall to me."
"What about when he got into the Mercedes?" Nick suggested. "Could you
judge how much taller than the car he was?"
Jen subsided into more deep thought. "I'm not sure. Around thirty to forty
centimeters maybe. That would make him pretty tall."
"Good job," Schanke congratulated.
Jen smiled, pleased with herself, then continued her description. "His hair
was brown, but light, like, he had gray hair at the temples, and scattered
throughout. It was fairly short, and parted to one side - the right, I think.
His eyes were small, kind of squinty, as if his eyelids were too big and he
couldn't open them any farther. Almond-shaped, but flatter. His nose was bent
just below the bridge, narrow through the nostrils. His chin was narrow and
pointy, too. His lips were thin. His cheekbones stuck out - he looked sunken
around the jaws." Jen suddenly looked at Edgar. "Hey! Can I see the drawing?"
Edgar turned the pad in her direction, sliding it some across the table.
"Sure. Tell me what doesn't look right."
Jen bobbed out of her chair and across the room. Her face was filled with
excitement as she pulled the paper closer, but upon inspection, she frowned. "He
had a mustache - didn't I tell you that? Maybe it was just too obvious." Nick
and Clare exchanged a look at the mention of that attribute.
Edgar shook his head. "You didn't. What was it shaped like?"
"It was bushy and covered part of his upper lip. That's probably why his
mouth looked thin." She waited patiently as Edgar added additional scribbles to
the portrait. "That's right. This is pretty close, but his hair was longer in
the front, stopping at his eyebrows. Oh, the chin was even pointier than that.
Exactly."
"Can we see?" Nick moved closer as he made this request.
"Yeah. It looks like the guy now."
At Jen's approval, Edgar turned the pad over, displaying the portrait for
general inspection.
"It's Victor Barger," Nick announced.
"The partner?" questioned Schanke.
"Then you know who this guy is?" Jen grinned. "Cool."
"We should head for the brewery," Nick appeared ready to leave, and looked
expectantly at Schanke, then Clare.
Myra clasped her husband by the hand. "Go with them, if you like, Donnie."
She spoke to Nick. "We drove in separate cars so we could give your Cadillac
back. Jen and I will get home fine."
"Thanks, hon." Schanke slipped her a quick kiss.
There was a knock at the door, and Officer Miller poked her head inside.
"Detective Douglas? There's a problem with the guy you brought in to lockup.
Louis Secour? We need you to come downstairs."
"I'll come along," Nick announced. "Schank, we'll meet you at the car, so
you can see your family off safely." He said his goodbyes to Myra and Jen, then
shook Edgar's hand.
Clare let Jen give her a hug goodbye. "You did a wonderful job. You should
be proud of yourself."
"Thanks," the girl replied with a happy smile.
Clare gave the Schankes a farewell wave and followed Nick out of
interrogation.
"What's wrong with Secour?" he demanded as they headed towards lockup.
"Officer Miller simply said there was a problem. That isn't an enormously
descriptive description. You won't be surprised to hear that I had to 'convince'
him to forget a few things. Since he was under the influence of a narcotic at
the time, technical difficulties may have developed in controlling him. Mind-
altering substances can make the message scramble."
Nick nodded. "What if he's a resistor now that he is sober?"
Clare expression became stern. "He *won't* be a resistor."
The yelling reached out to them through the door leading to the cells. The
sounds spoke of someone upset and hysterical. They approached softly, coming to
a halt behind the guard who grumpily ordered Secour to be quiet.
Louis Secour caught sight of Nick and started screaming even louder. "He's
a monster! Keep him away from me! Please!"
"It appears you made a lasting impression," Clare jousted Nick before
waylaying the guard's attention.
"Just unlock the door - you can leave the prisoner with us. Alone." She
told him firmly.
The guard automatically complied, opened the cell and handed Clare the
keys, then shuffled out of lock-up. Louis Secour cowered away in the corner of
the cell, begging them not to come closer.
"Please! Don't hurt me! Leave me alone!"
"Your well-being depends on your cooperation," warned Clare. "Cooperation
is a good thing." She moved to Secour's side and he threw his hands up in fear.
She firmly grasped those protesting hands, then sent Nick a warning look not to
interfere. "Shh." Clare whispered softly, melodically, slowly pulling Secour's
hands down to his sides once more. "There is nothing to frighten you here - no
need to scream. Just listen to my voice, carefully. Look into my eyes. Do you
understand?"
Louis Secour released a breathy sigh and relaxed against the cell wall. He
nodded dumbly as he stared devotedly at Clare's face. She let go of his hands,
and he made a whimper of loss. "Hush," she reprimanded. Clare now ran her hands
over his upper arms, feeling a lightweight cast wrapped about his right one.
"Tell me how this happened," she commanded.
He broke his vision away and glanced towards Nick as the panic began to
return. "He attacked me. H-he was this horrible thing..."
Nick wanted to look away, but he remained steadfast, returning Secour's
fearful gaze with a calm expression.
"No, no, no," Clare replied, turning his face so that he looked at her once
more. "Detective Knight is a fine, upstanding officer in the police force. He is
only here to help you. To protect and serve."
Secour's head lolled back in capitulation, passively exposing his throat.
Clare nibbled on her lip, considering her shoddy dinner, until Nick cleared his
throat in warning. She waved him away with an irritated brush of her hand.
Speaking again to Secour, she murmured, "Look at Detective Knight again. He
doesn't frighten you, does he? You only want to cooperate with him. With me. He
is not a monster, is he?"
Secour did as she requested, staring at Nick once more. He shook his head.
"No, I'm not afraid. I want to cooperate," he sighed.
Clare patted him on the cheek. "Good. Good. Remember that, and you will be
leaving here very soon." She moved to exit the cell. Louis Secour's eyes watched
in wonder as Clare departed with Nick, locking the door behind them.
"Sleep tight," Clare called.
They readmitted the guard and returned his keys, then aimed upstairs to
meet Schanke by the Caddie.
"I think we should let Secour go," Nick suggested.
"I don't believe he is involved either, but it would be better to first
make sure the persuasion took this time."
"And if it didn't?"
"Then Louis Secour has a very large problem," threatened Clare.
The thought twisted slightly inside Nick, but he worked to thrust it away.
More important responsibilities existed for him at the moment.
They reached the Cadillac, and no Schanke waited for them. Nick frowned,
looked about, then gifted Clare with an exasperated look.
"Did you have to park so close to the station?"
She followed his gaze, spotting Schanke mooning over her car about ten
meters away. "I was in a hurry."
Schanke delivered a whistle as they approached. "Get a load of this car -
can you believe it? Man, what kind of cop drives a Ferrari? It must belong to a
lawyer."
"It's mine, actually. An F550 Maranello," Clare informed him.
Schanke was astounded. "Yours? Whoa, Clare - I don't know whether to shower
you with envy or fall on my knees in worship."
Clare's mouth twitched with a mischievous grin. "Supplication is always
nice."
"Yeah, right. You and my mother-in-law should play poker some time,"
Schanke drawled. "So how does a homicide detective afford such an amazing ride?"
"Some members of her family are excellent investors," Nick supplied.
"Yes, they are," Clare echoed. "We've flourished quite a bit over the
years."
Schanke ran his fingers down the sleek, black curve of the hood. "Man, look
at the upward tilt of the front grill. It's almost as if the car is smiling."
"Wouldn't you be happy if you were a Ferrari?" Clare teased.
"Yes, the car is nice. Now can we go arrest a suspect?" Nick started to
herd them both back to the Caddie.
As they got into Nick's automobile, Schanke was still focused on the
other. "So, Clare. How many cylinders does that thing have?"
Her eyes twinkled. "Twelve. I get tingly by just looking at the engine -
and the underbody is just sculpture...a veritable work of art. Plus, the Ferrari
makes the most delicious noises when I change gears. Vroom! It turns on a pin
and swerves perfectly."
Nick changed his own gears, pulling out of his parking spot. "Remind me,
Clare," he gibed, "to *never* let you borrow my car again."
******************************************************************
End of Part Nine B
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:47:27 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: Fwd: The Unselfish Partner (09C/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*******************************************************************
Beginning of Part Nine C
Amy Martin's days were numbered.
At her job, that is. The man she worked for was dead, and there were no
open positions with any similarity to that one available within the company. Amy
released a heartfelt sigh. Her occupation had transformed into a matter of tying
up the loose ends in Mr. O'Leary's work files, then she was unemployed.
When Mr. Barger had first requested that she transfer the material in Mr.
O'Leary's files and computer, she had hoped the responsibility meant she would
have future employment under the other partner.
Not so. Within one day, she realized that Victor Barger believed she was
stupid and incompetent. He had only offered her the task so that his own
assistant would remain at his personal beck and call.
Amy had tried to delve into what could have given Mr. Barger such a bad
impression of her abilities, and her mind repeatedly sank to thoughts of Mrs.
O'Leary. No doubt her former employer's spouse had given her two-cent opinion to
Mr. Barger, hence her numbered days. Amy couldn't fault the woman - if their
roles had been reversed, she most likely would have requested Mrs. O'Leary
booted out of work.
She gave another sigh. She felt the helpless tears begin to well up again,
and fought them back. She should finish her work and be done with this place.
The only material she had not transferred to Barger's computer yet was the
personal diary.
Despite the trove of information that O'Leary kept on the computer,
whenever he worked on recipes, came across something interesting that he wanted
to pursue further, or brainstormed ideas, he would scribble the concept into a
spiral bound notebook. The method came in handy since he frequently piled up
notions while he was out and about in the factory. He would then put the
notebook in her desk, for her to transcribe into the computer before she left
work, or before he arrived in the morning.
Mr. O'Leary had placed his notes in her drawer as usual, sometime before he
was murdered. Amy had felt too traumatized by his death to even look at the
messages, much less type them up. She supposed she had to force herself to
examine them now, if she wanted to give Mr. Barger a complete set of files.
She gave the pages a cursory glance, eyed the scribbled words and hand-
sketched charts. She froze as their meaning seeped into her brain.
Mr. O'Leary had confronted Louis about the drug tests. When he had first
tested positive, her boss had asked Amy if she was aware of any problem. She
hadn't been. She begged her employer to let it go, that she was certain the test
must have been a lab error.
Mr. O'Leary had complied until the second positive had arrived last week.
Amy's heart sank as she accepted the fact that her pleading had amounted to
nothing in this instance. Louis had found trouble head on. Could he have been
the killer? Amy thought back to how she mentioned her boyfriend to that
detective. Her eyes widened in horror.
"Oh no!" she whimpered. Another life destroyed by her carelessness. Any
thoughts of Louis' potential guilt flew out of her head. He simply *wouldn't*
harm anybody.
At this internal declaration, Amy began to devour Mr. O'Leary's final
messages with close attention. Louis had confessed to regularly lifting cases of
beer for drinking at home. Amy recalled seeing the many boxes stacked in his
garage; she had never suspected that this was stolen merchandise.
Louis claimed that some of the beer shipments were off, that he had become
disoriented and started seeing things on less than a whole bottle. This aspect
pricked Amy's interest even more. Apparently Mr. O'Leary had given Louis the
benefit of the doubt, and he had followed up on his employee's accusations.
Amy found additional notes concerning the shipment numbers Louis admitted
he took and thought contained suspicious material. Every last one of the
shipments had never reached their final destination once they entered the United
States. They were labeled as lost or destroyed by Victor Barger.
Amy leaned back in her chair, contemplating this discovery. There certainly
was a large amount of missing cargo involved. Normally, that amount of
undelivered inventory would result in a loss in profits in the company. She
recalled only a slight increase in the profits over the past two quarters. So
why was there no loss?
Her boss had questioned the same thing. She found calculations based upon
the company's earnings if all products shipped out had been delivered and
separate calculations for the profit involved with what actually reached its
destination. The company report, prepared by Mr. Barger, did not reflect the
latter figures, but the former.
Mr. O'Leary, incensed by this information, had then perused his partner's
accounting records. He had included copies of pages folded into leaves of the
notebook with payment inflow entries circled. Her employer had made notes in the
margins that declared these figures consistently overstated the actual income
derived from the shipment. Victor Barger had been ameliorating the numbers.
The final finding Amy's employer described was his sampling of the days'
brews. Normally, Mr. O'Leary did not taste every product on a particular day,
but due to Louis' defamation and his other concerns, he was concerned about
quality control.
Her boss had described an odd taste to one batch. Amy noted with dismay
that he had referred to the fermentation vat that the police claimed he had been
murdered in.
Then she saw a personal note at the end of the entry addressed to her:
Amy,
Please keep the above information to yourself until I
have a chance to follow-up. I am making copies of this
material and confronting Barger with this damming picture.
I'm not feeling well, maybe due to that awful beer, so I may
call in sick tomorrow.
Thank you for your discretion,
F. O'Leary
Her hands jittered as she replaced the notebook on top of her desk. These
words assigned a heavy motive to Victor Barger. She should run it to the police
immediately. She started to get up from her desk, but a harsh voice cracked
whip-like in her direction.
"Stay where you are."
It was Maude O'Leary, cold wrath in her eyes and a gun in her hand. Amy,
speechless at the threat, collapsed into her seat once more.
Maude stepped menacingly closer, a wicked twist to her mouth. "What? No
pleas?" She gave a sharp cackle, utterly frightening in its sober seriousness.
"No cries for help? It doesn't really matter. You'll still pay. You took my
husband, and the police won't do anything about that. I'm taking you to another
court - a higher court. Higher than provincial, country, or even this world. I'm
going to kill you. Then Hell can sort you and Frank out."
Amy stretched out a small whimper of fear. She tried to gather her
thoughts. She didn't want to die. What had that detective said?
It wasn't her fault that this woman's husband was dead. Victor Barger
deserved all the blame, she felt it in her gut. She sensed her indignation stir,
and suddenly found the heart to argue.
"You're wrong - there was never anything between your husband and me but
friendship and respect. I had nothing to do with Mr. O'Leary's death, but if you
want to know who did, just take a look at his last words." She urgently thrust
the notebook in Maude's direction. "Here. Take it. You must."
Maude snatched the spiral away, sneering at the paper as she tentatively
examined the pages. She darted quick looks at the words it contained while
continuing to train her vision and weapon on Amy. As she dissected the final
message, her arm faltered as if the weight of the gun was too great. Then her
hatred seemed to boil up again.
As she stormed out of the room, Maude snarled, "He won't get away with this
- Barger will know what pain is!"
Amy breathed rapidly from her combined relief and shock for a few minutes,
then decided to follow.
******************************************************************
Victor Barger looked rather innocent until the bitter Maude O'Leary
slammed into his office, waving a gun and a notebook.
"You killed him!" A furious waggle of the spiral followed. "I've got the
proof right here. I just can't decide - should I shoot to kill, or just crack a
kneecap so you'll have a hard time running away from your future boyfriends in
prison?" She paced about with predatory fervor.
Barger slowly rose from his chair and came to stand in front of his desk,
arms crossed in disdain. "Really. May I see this oh-so-incriminating evidence?
No doubt this is just another one of your drunken rampages - one step up from
mauling secretaries."
Maude darted him a poisonous glare. "Here!" she spat. "Read it and weep!"
Barger smirked as he began to peruse the notebook. Very quickly, his face
began to knot with ugliness. "Where did you get this?"
"Ha! As if I would tell you. Now give it back, or you're dead!"
Maude stepped forward in an attempt to rip the papers from his hands, but
because of his height, Barger could hold them out of reach.
At that moment, Amy Martin ran into the office, letting out an angry squeal
as she witnessed the struggle. It was enough of a distraction, for Maude
temporarily looked away, giving Barger the opportunity to snatch the gun from
her grasp. Maude let out a gasp and scratched at him to gain control of the
weapon again. He sneered and shoved her away, so that she crashed down on the
floor.
He watched as Maude crawled to her knees. In disgust Barger growled, "Lousy
bitch." Then he fired the gun once, twice, and finally a third time.
Amy screamed. Witnessing a murder was too much for her new forcefulness to
take, and she erupted in hysterical tears.
Barger grabbed her by the arm and slugged her into his desk. He bent her
over, pressing her face down on the bureau's surface and his gun into her
temple.
"I know you gave her that notebook. You fool! She's dead now because you're
so stupid. Do you want to stop being stupid? Do you? Answer me!" He banged her
head against the desk for emphasis.
"I-d-d-do," Amy choked out.
"So tell me if there are any more copies of this notebook. Tell me, then
maybe I'll only kill you, and not your boyfriend."
Amy couldn't stand the fear any longer and released a disjointed wail.
*****************************************************************
Nick, Schanke, and Clare heard the cry from the other end of the hallway.
They picked up the pace, Nick and Clare pulling out their weapons, and ran
towards Barger's office.
Schanke held back, peering into the room after his partners entered. He
spotted a woman's body sprawled across the floor and the gun Victor Barger held
to the crying woman's skull. He remained ducked behind the door jamb, listening
and waiting.
Upon Nick and Clare's arrival, Barger whirled around with Amy shielding his
front, still threatening her by cocking the trigger. "Drop your weapons, or I
swear, I'll shoot her."
Amy let out a frantic gurgle of laughter at that. "Y-you said you were k-
killing me anyhow."
He slammed her in the head with a quick pistol swipe. "Shut up!"
"Just stay calm," Nick reasoned in a low voice. "Look. We're putting down
our guns." He slowly bent to comply, Clare following in reluctance.
Once both weapons uselessly rested on the floor, Barger barked. "Now kick
them over here." Again, the detectives cooperated. Satisfied, Barger continued
speaking. "Miss Martin and I are going to walk out of here. If I see any sign of
you following me, she dies. If I see the first hint of any police on the road,
she dies. Get it?"
Nick and Clare nodded and observed Barger gradually back his hostage
through the doorway.
Schanke lay in wait, patiently lurking out of view. He held his breath as
Barger inched backwards, moving closer and closer. A meter away, then
centimeters. When Schanke felt he could practically blow sweet nothings in the
guy's ear, he struck.
With surprising speed, he snatched Barger's arm and hammered his wrist into
the doorframe. Barger grunted in pain and dropped the gun. Schanke happily
wrenched the fellow's arms behind his back in immobilization, leaving the girl
free to scurry safely back into the room. Clare and Nick had moved to aid
Schanke, but found little more to do than offer him a pair of handcuffs.
"Nothing like a little kung-fu fighting to make you thirsty. I wonder if
they have anything to drink around here?" Schanke quipped.
Nick grinned, saying, "Good to have you back, Schank."
Walking back into the office, they inspected Maude O'Leary and found that
she was dead.
"Barger shot her. I saw him. She confronted him with Mr. O'Leary's diary,
and he shot her."
"This notebook?" Nick scooped the spiral-bound and his own gun up from
their resting places on the floor.
"Yes," Amy Martin nodded. "It's evidence of Barger's motive in killing his
partner."
Nick thumbed through the pages, then passed them in contentment to Schanke.
Then he sent Clare a pointed look. "Case closed," he murmured.
******************************************************************
End of Part Nine C
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 09:55:30 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (10A/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*********************************************************************
Beginning of Part Ten A
Squads of backup officers descended upon the Log & Oaks Brewery to escort
Victor Barger to the precinct and Amy Martin home. A couple Forensics workers
also arrived to deal with Maude O'Leary's corpse. Both Nick and Clare were vexed
when Natalie did not appear on the scene, but sent one of her assistants
instead.
Nick, Schanke, and Clare returned to the station soon after the party had
congregated at the brewery. When they arrived, Nick began acting distracted and
quickly excused himself for the rest of the night while referring to some
mysterious and urgent errands. He offered Schanke a ride home, and the two men
departed, abandoning Clare to her own devices.
The O'Leary case was essentially complete, and she should gather up her
pencils, tissue, and Handi-wipes, then leave. Clare imagined illegalities of her
own that she could indulge to pass the night away. She pushed those thoughts to
the back of her mind and let her gaze sweep over the folders littering Nick's
desk and her own.
Four open cases remained. Over the past three nights, Nick and she had
practically ignored the lot. Perhaps on this fourth moonlit shift, Clare would
devote a smidgen of legwork to this brood of paper. She collected the files and
began to examine the progress notes that Nick had added so far.
One case, the death of a known Taiwanese street gang member, jumped out at
her. It was her own handiwork, her last hunting expedition before joining the
police force. She thumbed the crime scene photos attached in delicious memory.
She had slit his throat instead of straight biting, but excessive blood loss had
been noted. Of course, a high degree of blood loss was expected when the victim
bleeds to death.
Clare wondered if Nick's suspicion of vampire involvement prompted his
delay in follow-up. She tended to be careful in her feedings, and the evidence
did not overtly suggest anything out of the ordinary. Maybe the frequency of
gang murders and a lack of eager witnesses typically made these cases difficult
to close.
Regardless, Clare had inside information. She propped back in her chair,
raking through her brain for images absorbed from the victim's mind. The man had
committed many murders of his own before meeting up with her and had several
compatriots worthy of convincing to confess to this crime.
A handful of faces on her mind, Clare withdrew to begin her street search
for an appropriate scapegoat.
******************************************************************
Clare slid open the loft door with one hand, her other arm occupied with
balancing two baskets. She shuffled over to the kitchen table, setting her load
down.
"Nick? I know you're here..." she called, meanwhile flipping the lid up of
one of the baskets to peek inside.
Nick appeared at the top of his stairs, looking groggily over the rail. He
still wore the same black pants and burgundy shirt of the night before.
Discovering that Clare was the source of the summons, he appeared slightly
relieved, yet disappointed. He casually descended the stairs to find out what
she wanted.
"What did you bring me?" he wondered, eyeing the baskets with unease.
Clare's lips twitched. "Alas, they are not for you. These were my
unexpected gifts from the Schanke clan."
Nick grinned at the orange and yellow contents of one container. "They gave
you fruit?"
Clare appeared resigned. "Apparently there were drawbacks inherent to my
fruitarian excuse. Somewhere, there are naked citrus trees due to my perfidy."
She sighed. "Stop laughing. I'm sure I'll find somebody with a grapefruit fetish
to take them off my hands."
Nick swallowed his amusement and suggested that Clare play fruit donor to
Grace. "She's always talking about diets. The grapefruit should be welcome. So
what is in the picnic basket? And why is it making noise?"
"The booby prize." Clare lifted the opening of the woven receptacle,
unearthing a purring bundle. "The O'Leary's Precious. Schanke *is* allergic. He
must have sneezed out half of his brain cells when he handed the mite over."
"Ah. So with Maude O'Leary no longer available to accept her cat, Schank
and Myra thought you would be a convenient victim?"
Clare scooped the feline into a cradle position against her chest. She
proceeded to tickle the cat's belly fur, which earned her a miffed glare as well
as prompt and generous shedding all over her melon-colored suit.
"It was Jen's demand, actually. She insists that the cat likes me." Clare
touched its nose with her finger, eliciting the feline's verbose licking of the
digit with a gravely tongue. "She is rather engaging and comes equipped with
fangs. She should fit in nicely."
Nick was somewhat surprised. "You're going to keep the cat?"
"Why not? I've had pets before. Of course, they never last long..." At
Nick's stern look, she protested. "I meant compared to me - Fifteen or so years
is not a lengthy period of time when you're over two thousand."
"Okay. I take the look back. See? I'm all smiles." He gave her an innocent
grin.
Clare considered him bluntly. "You do not look rested. What have you been
doing? I would have thought your presence at Schanke's grand interview was a
forgone conclusion, but I heard you took the night off. You left me to do
paperwork which, I might add, is not going to happen again."
"Let Schanke do it. He has a special bond with paperwork," Nick joked. "For
your information, I talked to Schanke on the phone just after his meeting with
Captain Reese, so I know all about the arrangement."
Clare returned her new pet to its temporary carrier, then asked, "And how
much did Schanke tell you?"
Nick noticed a splotch of dried paint on his wrist, and began to rub at the
spot. Unfortunately, the blot extended in a lobate squiggle onto his cuff.
"Because of his supposed health problems over the past year, plus the time he's
spent away from the job, the force wants to put Schanke on friendly probation
for the next three months."
Clare nodded slightly. "That about covers it."
Nick shook his head. "That isn't all, as you're perfectly aware. You were
chosen to report on Schanke's performance, his health, etcetera. Apparently,
Captain Reese believes you will be impartial. However did he get that idea?"
Clare scowled. "I had nothing to do with the decision. It isn't as if he
realizes that I know more about irresponsible law enforcement than the
alternative. You should be happy. Your wish has come true: Donald Schanke is
your partner again."
"But you haven't quit. Your end of the wager is unfulfilled."
"Don't be ungrateful. You certainly don't want me to leave, only to be
replaced by someone who actually *cares* how Schanke readjusts to the job. I
will magnanimously deliver sterling reviews. In three months, the man will be
all yours, and I will be gone from here."
"Gone from the police force, you mean," Nick corrected.
"What else could I have meant?"
Clare started to wander about the loft. "Have you seen Natalie since last
night?"
Nick viewed her suspiciously. "I haven't. Why do you ask?"
"I have no particular reason." She nonchalantly fingered the carving in the
fireplace wood. "Since I plan to stop by the Coroner's Office to dispose of my
fruit gift with Grace, and in all probability I will encounter Natalie...Is
there anything you would like me to mention to her?" Clare snuck a sideways
glance at Nick to judge his reaction.
His lips spread in a secret smile. "That won't be necessary, but thank you
for the offer."
Clare lifted her eyebrows slightly, then continued her inspection of the
loft. She stopped by a canvas propped against an easel, clandestinely draped in
linen. "Have you been painting?" She gingerly sniffed the air. "And recently
too, it smells like. Is art what kept you awake all the day?"
"Among other things." Nick shrugged noncommittally and worked his way
closer to stand where Clare curiously twitched the fabric covering.
"You don't mind if I peek, do you?"
Nick intercepted her rising hand, firmly encouraging the shroud to float
back into place. He shook his head, tantalizingly confiding, "Uh-uh. It's a
*surprise* project."
Clare's eyes widened with interest. "Ah. Will it have a restricted
audience, in that case?"
Nick playfully considered the question. "Something like that."
She forsook the hidden artwork, choosing instead to inspect the grand
piano where reams of staff paper leaned against its music stand. She noticed the
array of quarter-notes, chords, and additional musical nomenclature were all
hand written. Settling on the bench, she hummed a few bars of the melody.
Nick approached, letting the tune lilt through him. "I didn't realize you
were musically inclined."
Clare looked up from the pages. "I inherited the trait from my mortal
family. I didn't realize you composed. This is truly lovely."
Nick took a place on the bench beside her, thumbing a page of staves
lovingly. "It's a song that has lingered in my mind over the past several days,
maybe longer."
She smiled knowingly. "I suppose you will be on vacation tomorrow night as
well?"
He returned with a grin, admitting, "There's a possibility."
Clare rose, murmuring softly, "Good for you, Nicholas." She strolled
towards the lift. "I'll leave you to your surprises."
She paused as Nick called out her name. "Don't forget your presents," he
reminded.
Clare's vision drifted to the baskets, still waiting where she had
positioned them. "My, how could they have slipped my mind?" She hooked her arms
around both packages once more, then exited with the load.
Nick watched her departure with amusement.
It would have been a surprise if they hadn't.
******************************************************************
As per Nick's prediction, Grace was delighted with the bounty of citrus
that Clare presented. She promptly left Natalie and her sire alone, in search of
a refrigerator that did not contain body parts.
"I won't pester you for too long," Clare began. "The O'Leary's cat is
waiting in the car. Or, more appropriately, my cat."
"Oh-ho...aren't you the lucky one?" Natalie teased. "At least Myra didn't
give you any cosmetic samples."
Clare pretended to cringe at the notion. She paused, appearing to examine
Natalie with concern. "Joking aside, Natalie, you seem to be rather harried.
Perhaps you should escape work early."
Natalie demurred, bustling over to one of the morgue's stationary visitors
and finding something incredibly fascinating about his fingernails. "I still
have some work to do, and you never know what mischief and brutality the
denizens of Toronto will get up to."
Clare launched her counterattack. "Both activities could be capably handled
by one of your associates. Grace, for instance, cannot eat oranges for the rest
of the night. Besides, I'm taking the evening off, Nick's taken the evening off,
and Schanke is not working either. If anybody gets killed in the shadows
tonight, *we* aren't going to lift a finger. So..." She took Natalie's hand and
shook it in encouragement. "Go home. Take a long bubble bath. Pet Sidney. Curl
your hair. Just have fun - it won't hurt. I promise."
Natalie hesitated then tentatively assured, "I'll think about it."
"That is all I request." Clare gave her offspring a brief kiss on the
cheek. "No matter what your choice, have a good night."
Natalie waved goodbye to her sire, then proceeded to continue with her
physical exam of Mr. Doe. Half an hour passed before Grace returned, fruitless,
yet bearing lab results.
Another thirty minutes passed. Slowly, the odor of formalin grew more
oppressive to Natalie's nostrils. It clouded about her, seeped into her clothes,
her hair, and even her skin. The memory of Clare's suggestion of lengthy soak
returned alluringly.
She tended to do her quality thinking about life, the universe, and herself
in the bath. Perhaps quitting early wasn't such a bad idea.
"Grace?"
"Mmmm-hmm?"
"You wouldn't mind if I cut out for the rest of the night, would you?"
"Oh, Nat. I wouldn't mind at all," Grace clucked. "Are you feeling under
the weather? You've looked ready to come down with something for days."
Natalie suppressed a shudder at
the idea.
"Maybe I just need some rest and relaxation. Nothing dire, Grace."
The woman collected Nat's things and patted her on the back. "Don't worry.
I'll hold down the home fort. You just get better, you hear?"
Natalie chose to only put away her apron, leaving her scrubs on instead of
changing back into a skirt and heels. She thanked Grace and headed for her car.
She drove slowly due to her distraction, but Natalie still had to mentally kick
herself as she made a wrong turn. She couldn't drive to her own apartment - that
was pretty bad.
Reversing through a U, she aimed her car the right way again, steadfastly
concentrating on nothing but the road. Finally throwing the sedan into park,
Natalie breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed her briefcase, and hied to her floor.
She fumbled with the lock on her door. Finally sensing the tumbler give
way, Natalie leaned her forehead against the frame, slowly counting to ten.
Her eyes remaining closed, Natalie pushed the door ajar. Her ears detected
a foreign click, and her lids snapped open with alarm.
Suddenly, there was music. A beautiful, flowing melody derived from a solo
piano. She closed the door quietly, set her briefcase silently on the floor, and
shuffled off her overcoat. Then she attended to the source of the entrancing
notes.
There was a portable stereo system - not hers, nor one she recognized. It
had an aura of newness, and a whirring sound derived from the cassette deck. She
looked closely at the winding reels of the tape. It was simply labeled 'For
Natalie'.
It was Nick's handwriting.
A wave of lightness swept over her. Each sound seemed to resonate in her
head now, lifting her higher and higher. She moved to her couch simply cuddled
into the cushions, letting her eyes drift shut again.
Somehow, the composition seemed romantic and gentle, yet it seduced her,
pulling Natalie into a blissful languor of fluctuating sound and silence. The
tune began a crescendo, consumed with passion, at first modest and tentative,
then expanding into an unyielding and unrestrained torrent.
Then there was complete silence. As the room absorbed the echo of the final
key, a tiny whimper escaped her throat.
Natalie rushed back to the stereo and rewound the cassette, playing the
gift again and again. Then she noticed three posies of small flowers seeming to
form a mini-trail towards her closed bedroom door.
Curiosity twisted, she turned up the volume on the stereo several notches.
Natalie lightly removed the blooms from the floor. They were white, star-shaped
flowers with short, narrow leaves and little outstanding scent. Perplexed, she
gradually entered her bedroom, picking up floral bunches until she had an entire
bouquet of emerald flecked with minute snowy bursts.
Then Natalie detected two things. The first consisted of a rectangular
object, draped in ivory lace, and slanted on an elegant stand chiseled from
lustrous rose marble. The other was a howling Sidney, evidently demoted to
enclosure in the bathroom because of his penchant for playing with new items.
She stepped to release her cat from his makeshift prison and chastised him.
"You would have eaten my flowers, my boy, so none of your protests."
He huffed and rubbed against the marble stand, quietly declaring it his
own. Sidney then eyed a corner of the lace that hung temptingly above his head.
He appeared fully eager to pounce, pull, and wrestle, so Natalie commandeered
his feline body. He let out an indignant squeak and swiped at her flowers as
Natalie carried him to her bedroom entry, condemning Sidney to the den.
Natalie brushed her hands together and breathed a preparatory breath. She
hesitantly edged towards the pedestal. Smoothing a palm across the woven
covering, her lips tilted in blissful beaming. The lace was ethereally soft,
finely entwined from a maze of silky threads into a complex arrangement of
flowers and buds. The material appeared to be folded in half, so that the
intersection of two layers would adequately conceal the treasure underneath.
Natalie raised the fabric in one fell swoop. At the first sight of what lay
underneath, she clutched the bounties of lace and flowers to her chest. She then
dazedly perched on the end of her bed.
It was a painting of her. Natalie's own face reflected from the canvas in
welcome. Her blue eyes seemed teasing, yet wondering. The sparkling sapphire
irises pulled her closer, and Natalie crouched forward to examine the portrait
more closely. Her skin was creamy, with blushes of pink. Her hair rioted in a
mass of curls bouncing as an unrestrained tumble of gold and bronze. She
appeared to be laughing, pleased and liberated in her smile.
Natalie realized her mouth had fallen open and she was breathing raggedly
in surprise. Her image was radiant. It glowed from within with some secret
light. She was somewhat amazed, for her post-sleep vigils at the mirror never
seemed to reveal such a woman.
"Oh my..." she sighed.
Natalie's painted neck slanted down, a continuing bridge of pearly pale
skin. A shawl encircled her upper arms in a reproduction of the lace she now
spread over her real lap. The virtual wrap crisscrossed her breasts, held in
place by her right hand. The left hand grasped a bouquet, but not the tactile
flowers she gently fingered during her perusal of the portrait.
The spray was a collection of different flower types. No two blooms were
exactly alike. Natalie recognized some: there were various colors of roses, a
white chrysanthemum pompom, a streaked tulip, and a sunny yellow jonquil. She
also noted what appeared to be sprigs of fern. Additional blossoms shouted their
rich colors and greenery through the brushstrokes, but she wasn't precisely sure
of their names. The unknown flowers added blasts of blue, purple, yellow, and
white. A type of unusual, heart-shaped leaves wound around her artful left
wrist.
The painting was unsigned, but a tangible vanilla envelope waited in one
corner, graced with her name, once more in Nick's handwriting. She tore the
paper pouch open, ripe with anticipation, and devoured the message it contained:
There is a language to flowers...
Chickweed means rendezvous.
Nick
Natalie felt strangely warm and expectant. She peered at her portrait again
in amazement. The beauty and brightness of her
likeness had her on the verge of tears.
She hugged her bouquet to her cheek. The white flowers were very pretty,
but a weed? Natalie grinned at the irony. She didn't care if they were a weed or
not, the significance was perfect.
Natalie placed her prizes on the coverlet and sprang for the bathroom.
Instead of the long, leisurely bubble bath, she opted for a frenzied shower.
After all, she had a rendezvous.
***************************************************************************
End of Part Ten A
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 10:10:39 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (10B/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*********************************************************************
Beginning of Part Ten B
Leaving the morgue, Clare had returned to her hotel to change out of her
fur-laden clothes. She released the cat from confinement, allowing the
tortoiseshell to roam and inspect its new home. Then Clare realized she had no
cat accoutrements. No proper food, no dishes, and certainly no litter box.
Something would have to be done.
She considered visiting Natalie's apartment to borrow some of Sidney's
accessories, but who knew what interesting, do-not-disturb happenings were
going on over there? Fearful at being doused anew with cat hair, she treated the
pet like a holy water bomb, reluctantly stalking the feline and holding it aloft
at arm's length as she secured it once more in the makeshift carrier.
Clare then inspected her gown of rich, mahogany, figure-hugging crepe de
chine for tufts of tan, black or orange. She had a fondness for gowns with no
back. This one was a particular favorite, and Clare was reluctant to have to
change due to excess lint. The gown's neck tied halter-like and below the band
at her throat, the material was slashed away in a forty-five degree angle. The
points originated about seven centimeters apart with the lower, slighter-sloped
side continuing under her arms to meet at another point at the base of her
spine. There was also a slit in the skirt that aspired to become an astronaut,
ending somewhere between the floor and the moon.
Finding her dress unscathed, Clare lifted the cat-in-a-basket, and darted
again into the night. By the time she reached the Raven, her arms swung free as
she slithered down the moody stairs.
She located her first prey, espying Vachon chatting with Cecilia and
Domino, two of Figaro's offspring. They had the same relationship to her as
Vachon, yet inspired little of the same fondness. Perhaps the dissimilarity
arose because they were carefully trained and tempered by their sire, and Javier
had been abandoned. Maybe she still wanted to compensate for rejecting him when
they first met.
Upon her approach, the fires of gaiety within Cecilia and Domino
extinguished. They rapidly excused themselves, obviously inventing an urgency
elsewhere.
Vachon grinned at their quick retreat. "Do you think they are terrified of
you or just plain intimidated?"
Clare displayed little interest in the cause of their avoidance. "They
probably blame me for Figaro's death. They were chicks to his mother hen."
Vachon played with a black napkin on the bar, attempting some form of
minimalist origami. "Then his loss must put them in an awkward position. They
want leading, but your reputation is just too scary."
That comment piqued her attention. "Do *you* find me scary, Vachon?"
"Bossy, manipulative, charming, maybe...and a snappy dresser, I might add,"
Vachon declared, momentarily distracted by the view of Clare's bare back as she
leaned across the bar to clasp a blood cocktail. She then frowned when he failed
to continue the statement, so Vachon crumpled up his napkin and completed the
thought. "But, no, I don't think you're scary."
Clare looked at him wickedly. "Good. I need a favor."
Javier scowled. "Have you noticed, Clare, that every time you see me
lately, you only want me to do some kind of work? Right now, I only want to kick
back and have a good time."
"That's what I want for you, too," Clare pronounced earnestly.
"Let me elaborate: A gorgeous female has recently come under my protection. She
has dark hair, delicious green eyes, and an alluring disposition." Vachon began
to listen more intently at the mention of these attributes. "I just want you to
look out for her, see to her needs, and make sure she doesn't come to any harm."
"See to her needs, huh?" Javier rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose I
could do that." He glanced about the Raven. "So where is this seductive
creature?"
Clare was suddenly all business. "She's waiting at the church. I left you a
list of things she needs. Here, you can take my car." She folded his hand about
the keys.
Since Vachon was occupied with fantasies starring needy, gorgeous
brunettes, he failed to be suspicious at the change in Clare's demeanor.
Instead, he gave her a cheeky grin. "Thanks. Don't wait up for me."
Clare waved him off with satisfaction. "I'll pick her up tomorrow night."
Then she proceeded to her own evening's entertainment.
**************************************************************************
Vachon whistled a happy tune as he climbed the church stairs. He alternated
between swinging the Ferrari's keys into the air and catching them, then
twirling them about his finger. Reaching the landing, he propped his door open,
casting a welcoming grin at the interior.
It would have been a perfect greeting, if anyone had been there to witness
his charm. He neither saw, nor sensed, any vampires or mortals. Vachon shrugged.
Maybe Clare's new friend wasn't as helpless as she had made out. He located a
bottle and glass before backing into his red brocade chair to sit down.
A sudden squawk resembling a duck coughing erupted from underneath him.
Javier leapt up and spun around. Then he released a tortured groan.
A cat lay curled into a semi-circle on the seat. Its luminous green eyes
reproached him in disfavor, as if to say 'How dare you sit in this chair?'
Vachon glared back, and the cat yawned, then dismissed him to groom a paw.
"I don't believe it." He squinted in indecision, then stalked around the
room, searching for the handy 'list of things she needs' Clare had oh-so-
generously provided. At the foot of his bed rested an unwanted picnic basket,
with a note in pencil (recycled, no doubt) taped to the lid. He ripped the page
off in disgust and begrudgingly scanned its contents.
Vachon-
I know it was wretched of me to conceal the
nature of my new companion. I think we are both
aware that you would have never agreed to pet-sit
had I not resorted to deception.
"Damn straight," Vachon muttered before he continued reading.
Be patient. She can be very endearing and
entertaining when given a chance. She does
need a litter box and some cat food immediately.
See what you can dig up. Oh, I need to rename
her as well. Her former owner called her
'Precious.' I want something a substantially more
dignified. Can you think of anything?
Clare
"Can I think of anything?" Vachon groused. "How about Demonspawn?" He then
noticed a postscript at the bottom of the paper.
P.S. Demonspawn would *not* be dignified,
Javier. You can do much better.
Vachon snorted in irritation, crumpled the paper and threw it across the
room. The feline immediately sprang from his chair, bounding after the
projectile. Regaining dibs on his furniture, Javier relaxed once more. He poured
a glass and started to unwind about the prospect of a dismal evening.
A handful of sips had passed when Vachon overheard the sound of snagging
fabric. He curled around to inspect the area behind his chair and caught the cat
red-pawed, scratching the upholstery. He extended a long arm, the tip of his
index finger to her nose and reprimanded in that purely Vachon way, "NO."
The cat calmly ceased its perforation, preferring to lick his hand
enthusiastically. Javier began to thaw just a tad. "All right. All right. I'll
take care of you. First up: a litter box." He considered the materials on hand
at the church then stomped downstairs. When he returned, he carried an aluminum
dish pilfered from the baptismal font, filled with backyard dirt.
Vachon set the pan in an inconspicuous spot on the floor, inviting his
guest's inspection. "Clare did suggest that I see what I could dig up." The
feline was not as certain about the dish's suitability for her purposes.
Javier petted her in assurance. "It's okay. Do you realize how tricky it is
for a vampire to get into a baptismal font? And dirt. I really don't like dirt.
They bury people in that stuff, you know." His promise that he had toiled and
suffered to obtain her litter pan seemed to make the cat content. Soon the
sounds of shuffling dirt echoed through the room.
Vachon contemplated the cat food issue next. Stale, moldy bags of communion
wafers were *not* going to do the trick. He would have to go out. The problem
boiled down to whether or not any nearby stores would have remained open at
midnight.
He was gone for half an hour, returning with a box of dry pebbles labeled
'Chicken Lickins'. Vachon then realized that he owned no dishes. Cursing under
his breath, he descended the stairs again, this time coming back porting two
collection plates, complete with cheesy felt linings. They had been much easier
to obtain, so Vachon happily filled the bowls, one with the food granules, the
other with water.
Locating the cat, he found her sprawled at the end of his bed, emitting a
faint whistle of snoring. Javier grinned, never having heard of such a thing
before, then stretched out on the bed himself for a good read.
Fifty pages into 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance', Vachon felt
the cat crawl onto his abdomen. He set the book down and began to observe the
feline more closely. She was sniffing his shirt and evidently approved of the
smell, for she began to purr wholeheartedly. The decibel level of the
reverberation was astounding.
His guest then commenced alternating the pressure on her forepaws, kneading
his stomach. He blinked out of habit, and the cat imitated the eye closure in
sultry response.
Vachon was caught. He set the paperback aside, propping his hands behind
his head for a better view of the feline's demonstration. She did not
disappoint. The cat emitted a nasal peep, then walked up his chest to sniff his
face. Then she began to lick Vachon's nose.
He found himself laughing. Her whiskers lightly teased his cheeks, making
him feel almost ticklish. Javier began to rub underneath the cat's chin, causing
the feline to slant her eyes in blissful delight and lift her head in order to
grant him better access.
"Clare was right. You *are* a gorgeous creature." The cat bestowed another
languid blink at the sound of Vachon's voice. He noted her features: the
parallel black and tan stripes running down her nose, the similar patchwork of
colors bisecting her forepaws and the fur of her neck and chin. The cat's
whiskers were black and fantastic in length. She wasn't short-haired, but she
didn't fall under the classification of a Persian either. Her fur fell somewhere
in between, maybe five or six centimeters long. The hair was soft and airy, as
though it was woven out of silk fibers.
The cat reared her head back, gave Vachon's petting hand a few quick licks,
then climbed off his chest to curl in the crook of his arm for another nap. He
turned to the side a little to watch her leisurely drift to sleep, the purring
gradually trailing into silence.
Javier thought.
As the feline began her soft whisper of snores, Vachon settled down to
discern the perfect appellation in her honor.
******************************************************************
LaCroix did not feel completely in control. He caught his thoughts drifting
too often to her, his mind haunted by the twist of unsatisfied possessiveness,
the faint shackles of need. He despised the ramifications.
Unwelcome, the memory of Maeven's words sang to him. LaCroix's lips sneered in
distaste. To insinuate that he had been entranced by the woman so long ago yet
did nothing to take her - it was absurd. That behavior was not Lucien LaCroix.
He was the master, the conqueror. Nothing that he wanted escaped him for a
prolonged interlude.
Surreptitiously, images from Clare's blood gravitated back to provoke him,
the faces mocking. Recollections of Conchobhar still proliferated her, wrapped
in some form of affection, maybe even love. Upon reflection, remembering the
man's life, his death through her eyes brought a twinge.
LaCroix denied that it was jealousy. Jealousy was weakness, and he would
not share in that encumbrance. He forced the feelings away, deliberately
banishing any emotion regarding Clare.
His most recent musical selection thumped to a close over the airwaves, and
LaCroix leaned over the microphone to grate out harsh words of lecture.
"To be selfish is not vile. The sermon-givers and do-gooders preach sharing
and magnanimity. Recycle your soda cans, feed the world, and turn the other
cheek. But the unselfish, what are they but victims? Sacrifice guarantees the
restaurant bill but not a pat on the head for your good deeds. This altruistic
immolation is the lowest form of submission. Think carefully before you fall
into the trap - if every individual became selfless, forfeiting their wants
without exception, who would achieve their desires? Someone must take. Someone
must prey on the yielding. So grab what you crave, my children.
Selfishness spins the world 'round."
Clare leaned against the wall outside the broadcast booth, eavesdropping on
the Nightcrawler speech. Vampires had to be selfish. Those who dabbled in self-
sacrifice rather than feeding their own pleasures did not last long or ended up
miserable. Nicholas was a perfect example of the phenomenon.
She agreed with the theory, but to hear LaCroix argue the point so brutally
disturbed her. She swallowed convulsively, experiencing a small twitch of fear.
She uneasily bypassed entering the sound booth and progressed to the back rooms
for relaxation.
She lounged on the divan, absentmindedly caressing the upholstery. She was
not afraid, merely...concerned. The nature of LaCroix's monologue had struck her
as too serious and intent. Her earlier mood had been frivolous and libertine
before his words had towed her screaming into sobriety. Clare no longer felt
flirtatious and bright, but solemn and restrained. she privately cursed. She was supposed to be independent of
such things.
Then she felt his presence. He entered, and Clare ordered herself not to
stare, but succumbed to the temptation anyway. LaCroix was undeniably
impressive. She had observed others unable to resist his magnetism. Too many
others, and the sight of his tall form encased in black, his broad shoulders and
back, had her braving the pull as well. Usually Clare would delight in the
sensation, willingly plunging into desire and seduction. At the moment, though,
she wished to subdue the feelings. Maybe it would be wise for her to employ more
caution. She suddenly felt too eager.
LaCroix broke the silence. "I did not expect your company so early. Did
Nicholas, in fact, win the challenge, leaving you unemployed?"
Clare sat up, quietly responding, "He won, but I will be his partner for
another three months. I simply escaped prematurely for the night."
"And in three months, what will you do?"
She shrugged. "I do not know. I am certain that I will be swept away by
something, and it will have nothing to do with the Toronto Police."
LaCroix moved closer, taking a seat by her side, stroking her neck idly
with his thumb. "How easily are you swept away, Clare?"
A tremor scalded down her spine. The echo of her words of the recent past
scolded her. Did that offer make her the sacrifice,
the victim? Was it subservience to allow this heat and hunger to wind about her
in a passionate cocoon?
LaCroix bent to flick his tongue over her throat, and Clare realized she
was losing the war. She wanted freedom and dignity, but she wanted him so badly.
She gasped and held his mouth to her neck, feeling the scratch of his teeth
shudder across her flesh. Her desire was intense, gnawing at her soul
and her reason, and it was excessively succulent to resist.
"Too easily swept away," Clare sighed, feeling the tie about her throat
loosen.
Then his fangs plunged through her skin. LaCroix drank as if to ravage, to
loot her soul and her will, branding them his own. Clare let her arms fall to
frame her head, moaning in rapture at the throb of the pulse from his
consumption.
Rather than drained, Clare felt she was overflowing. Every cell, every
fiber of her being demanded impatiently
It was submission, enslavement, and for the first time, Clare did not feel
she was LaCroix's equal.
******************************************************************
End of Part Ten B
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 1997 10:26:38 -0800
From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge)
Subject: The Unselfish Partner (10C/10)
To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com
*********************************************************************
Beginning of Part Ten C
Natalie nearly had a panic attack on the lift as it rose to Nick's loft.
She might be overly giddy with anticipation. That was a strong possibility
considering the past couple of months. While she was thinking about it, she
could throw in the past six years for good measure in terms of hopeful and
desperate expectations.
She twiddled a chickweed petal amongst the bunch in her hand - a recently
acquired habit, it seemed. Natalie had not brought the batch from her apartment.
She had spotted another trail of the perfect sprigs leading through the garage,
ending with a collection on the floor of the elevator.
Cranking open the grill to the lift and sliding the loft door aside,
Natalie caught sight of one more posy waiting in the entranceway. She tucked it
into her menagerie. Natalie then promptly dropped the lot.
Assorted around the room, over a dozen bouquets of flowers stood proudly,
each arrangement composed of a plethora of a single species. Natalie recognized
them without a doubt as the flowers from her portrait.
She crouched down to retrieve her scattered chickweed, crowding them into a
bundle once more. Natalie heard an exclamation from upstairs, then beheld Nick
hurrying to look over the rails of the landing.
His face broke into a jubilant welcome. "Natalie - you're here." he
announced breathlessly.
She waved the chickweed blossoms in the air as she strolled to stand below
him. "I got your message, so I rendez-ed-moi." She grinned piquantly and tossed
the bouquet in his direction. By the time the flowers peaked in height by the
rail, Nick was absent to catch them. He had flashed down to stand behind
Natalie. As the chickweed tumbled below again, he wrapped his arms around her,
lassoing the blossoms and presenting them to Natalie anew.
"I wanted to give you a proper hello," Nick murmured in her ear. "I didn't
think you'd arrive for hours."
Natalie turned to face him, placing a hand on his chest. "Well, a little
birdie told me to quit early tonight."
"Ah. Let me guess - it was a little raptor of prey named 'Clare.'"
Natalie laughed and fiddled with one of the buttons on the black silk
pajamas Nick was wearing. He looked down at her hand, appeared abashed by the
state of his clothing and swept his fingers through his tousled hair.
"I was asleep when you arrived," Nick admitted sheepishly. "I wanted to get
in a couple hours of rest since I've been consumed with other projects
recently."
"I'll say. I think you've been holding out on me, Detective Knight."
Natalie ran her palm upwards to curve around his neck and inquired enticingly,
"What exactly did your 'proper' hello entail?"
Nick teased her with a wicked grin, then replied, "Ummm. Well, first
there's this." He lowered his mouth to plant delicate nibbles just below her
ear. "And this." Nick trailed his lips along her jaw, running his fingers
through her loose curls and massaging her scalp.
Natalie had tilted her head back with delight and murmured, "Yes, I believe
I'm beginning to feel welcome."
Nick chuckled in a low voice, "Good, but we can't leave out *this*." He
finally captured her mouth with his, sampling her lips repeatedly.
Natalie felt compelled to speak between caresses. "I adored...the
painting...and the music...They were phenomenal."
Nick smoothed his hands down her back, experiencing the softness of her
lace shawl. Natalie had chosen to wrap this gift about her in a life-imitates-
art interpretation of her portrait. He pulled her body closer still, then tore
his lips away in order to nuzzle her neck. "How did they make you feel?"
Natalie's answer was soft and passionate. "They made me feel...loved."
Nick stepped back, flashing a mysterious smile, and took her by the hand.
He lifted her palm, and gazing into her eyes, brought the back to his mouth for
a courtly tribute. "Come with me. There's more."
He slipped the chickweed from her grasp, setting them in a pile on the
couch. Nick escorted Natalie to one of the enormous arrangements, this one
containing some purple blooms that she hadn't quite placed.
"There is a language to flowers," Nick pronounced, extracting a single stem
from the crowd and presenting it to her. Natalie indulged in its heavenly
fragrance, her nose moving from the deep lavender petal tips to the royal purple
center. Nick continued speaking. "Purple hyacinth means 'I am sorry.' Forgive me
for failing you by failing myself, for ever letting you feel unloved, and for
'holding out on you'."
Natalie hugged the flower close and pressed Nick's hand. "Oh, Nick, I'm-"
He stopped her speech with his other hand touching her lips. "Shh. Let me
finish the bouquet, then you can reply." Natalie gave a slight nod, so Nick
ushered her to the next display, picked out one of the blue blossoms with lance-
like stems for her, then explained. "A bluebell represents humility and
constancy. I am humbled by your faith, and your constant assurances of goodness
in me and the world."
The next flower he presented was the flecked tulip, in shades of yellow and
red. "The variegation in the tulip means 'your eyes are beautiful.' Yours convey
so much, from dismay and sorrow, to joy and enchantment. Yes, your eyes are
beautiful." Natalie fluttered her lashes in teasing, causing Nick to laugh.
"Come on. I'm just getting started..."
As she received her fourth token, Natalie couldn't resist speaking. She was
bursting inside. "A fern stands for..."
"Confidence and fascination," Nick supplied. "For your strength and
composure that you demonstrate day after day, or should I say night after night,
in your job and acclimating to your new life as a vampire. You are a scientist,
doctor, and medical examiner, fascinated by the secrets of life and death,
hence, a fascinating woman. And a yellow rose represents friendship." Nick
proceeded to the next bouquet. "You are important to me in other ways, but you
have been my friend since the night we met."
The sixth flower was one Natalie was familiar with. "The white
chrysanthemum conveys truth. You have always shown more honesty about your
feelings than I have. That's another strength, another beauty." Nick trailed his
fingers gently along her cheek, and Natalie leaned endearingly towards his palm.
The ensuing flower was a mass of pale pink double-blooms, scattered along a
thin branch. Nick read her thoughts. "Yes, it's from a tree. Flowering almond
means 'hope.' Your hope for us, and for the future."
The heart-shaped leaves that wound about her wrist in the portrait
followed. Nick simulated his painting by wrapping the braid of leaves about her
forearm and threaded them into her growing collection of flora. "From another
tree - the white mulberry. It stands for wisdom. You've taught me so much, and
that is an accomplishment when the student is almost eight hundred years old.
And violets represent loyalty." Natalie happily accepted the collection of
small, blue petals. "You have stood by my side and supported me, you came to
welcome Schanke at the precinct when he needed it the most, and you've even
stood up for Clare. You have an unshakable spirit."
They reached the tenth flower: strange, feathery sprouts that resembled
yellow hydra. Natalie did not know its identity, but the smell was somehow
familiar.
"Witch-hazel," Nick explained.
"Ah."
"It says 'You have cast a spell over me.' You are an inspiration to my
creativity in art, music, in everything."
Natalie bit her lip in expectation. She could not imagine any improvement
in the flowers, and there were still four to go. Nick next offered her a cluster
of tiny white petals.
"Ash blossoms. A promise to keep you safe. I swear to protect you and
cherish you as long as we exist."
Natalie felt her throat closing and the pressure of tears pooling in her
eyes. She wasn't certain she would last through the next three messages without
sobbing inanely at the sweetness of Nick's actions. The piano serenade had
started the assertion, the portrait clarified it, but these flowers, these
words, cemented her certainty.
He loved her. Nicholas Knight, nee de Brabant, loved Natalie Lambert.
Her thrilled inner celebration was interrupted by the next presentation.
Nick surprised her by bestowing to her two flowers at once: white and red roses.
"These go hand in hand. The red connotes passion and romance, the white true
love. I love you, Natalie. I ache for you. I adore you. I dream of sheltering
you, sharing with you at my side, in whatever form our relationship takes. If
you are ready or unprepared, I want to be close to you. Forever." The tears
started then. Natalie felt the wetness streak down her cheeks as Nick gave her
the jonquil. "The final flower is a question for you...Can you return my love?"
"Yes!" Natalie stamped her foot and threw her arms around Nick, a vise she
did not intend to loosen. "Yes, yes, yes. Why do you think I've sprung leaks?"
Nick laughed in triumph and picked Natalie up, swinging her around in
celebration. Setting her securely on the floor again, he tasted her lips
reverently, brushing softly at first, then gradually allowing the passion to
blossom as brightly as the bouquet Natalie clutched against his back.
Natalie felt intoxicated, drunk with the sensations whirling through her.
The blending of pure joy and the dark desire of hunger formed a magnificent and
heady combination. The flowers slipped from her hand as she moved to pull
urgently at the buttons on his shirt.
Nick engaged in a similar occupation, stripping the ivory lace off her arms
and waist, revealing additional lace of the same color stitched into a camisole.
Contemplating his response, Nick was overwhelmed at the light and darkness that
he perceived within himself: the balance, the parity, and impressions of
Natalie. While touching her glowing skin, watching the electricity in her
beautiful eyes, Nick recognized that he was happy. He was ecstatic. He released
another laugh and swept Natalie up into his arms, moving towards the couch.
As Nick placed her carefully on the cushions, Natalie produced a soft
exclamation. She reached behind her, exhibiting the mass of chickweed that had
crushed under her weight. Nick finished freeing his shirt and tossed it aside,
then bowed to alternate nipping and kissing her neck. Compared to that, a bunch
of flattened weeds fell pitifully short and into a heap on the floor.
Dizzy with the ripples floating along her skin, Natalie pushed Nick up and
flipped him over on his back. Their eyes now gleamed in arousal, reflecting a
tarnished gold. Nick growled softly, teasing her with the sight of his fangs.
Natalie refused to be impressed and exposed her own extended canines. She
swayed forward until her teeth lightly pricked Nick's chest, chewing daintily
until he released a groan.
It was his turn to twist. Nick rolled until they lay sardined on top of the
sofa, but side by side. They intertwined fingers and shared ardent eyes. Natalie
broke the gaze, winding her lips from his chin to his throat. Nick's lids
fluttered shut and he grasped her hands more tightly. Then she fed.
Natalie sucked in a mouthful and paused at the sensory overload. The
flurry of emotion, the tangle of remembrance, the sorrows, the victories, all
became hers in an instant. Floating through all of the input, she saw herself in
Nick's thoughts, a thousands of moments combined and erupting within her. She
had no idea that this experience was so tremendous. Words couldn't express it, a
mortal mind could never fathom it. Drinking human blood, that of a stranger, was
an addictive experience, she was quick to admit that. Feeding from someone you
cared for, someone you loved with all your soul - it reached another dimension.
She swallowed and savored more, delighting in the nuances for a minute.
Natalie relinquished Nick's throat, moving to kiss him tenderly on the lips. His
eyes flared open as she licked across his teeth. Nick responded with a grin,
then devoured her mouth in return. He took his turn, brushing his jaw against
Natalie's and piercing the skin of her delicate throat.
They swam in languor, each one consuming the other. They were everything.
They were together. They were one.
*****************************************************************
Nick reluctantly abandoned sleep as he detected something soft repeatedly
pelting his face and chest. Watching the room focus, he spotted Natalie at the
end of the bed, clad only in a toga composed of her new lace shawl. About half
of her multifaceted bouquet rested in her arms and the other fraction littered
the bed.
Natalie winked at him, wielded the variegated tulip, and arrowed it in his
direction. Nick was alert enough to intercept the bloom as it flew through the
air.
"You know, you have beautiful eyes, too," she drawled. Natalie tossed the
witch-hazel like a discus. "Obviously, you have fed my creativity by the looks
of my outfit." Natalie twirled around, modeling the precariously hung garment,
then bulleted the three roses for Nick to snare. "Friend, lover - and I don't
think I actually said it last night - I love you." She blew him a kiss, and Nick
pretended to catch it to his heart.
Natalie was left with an orphan flower - the jonquil. She considered it,
then twirled the blossom around her fingers like a baton. She flung it into the
air, but the yellow projectile tumbled to the floor rather than the bed.
"Oh well," Natalie shrugged. "So much for 'Can you return my love?' But
then, I am rather pleased with where everyone's affections lie right now."
Nick grinned, then instructed her with false sternness. "Not so fast. I
want my affections to come closer."
Natalie consented and found herself pulled into bed beside him.
"So how come I'm getting flowers?" Nick quizzed.
"Because," Natalie said as she circled a fingertip through his hair, "I got
everything. A song dedicated *to me*. A fabulous painting *of me*. Then, the
icing on the cupcake, a bouquet and sentiments of love *to me*. I feel like I'm
hogging an unfair portion of the gifts."
"Not necessarily," Nick countered. "The origin of every note, brushstroke,
and flowery expression was you. I was just the medium between the ephemeral
reality and the symbols."
Natalie grinned. "That does it. I'm just going to have to kiss you again."
"Do your worst."
Natalie dedicatedly tried her darndest.
As the bedside clock verged upon noon, Natalie wondered aloud, "So we both
get the blame for the existence-altering events of last night, huh?"
Nick pulled her to snuggle closer. "That's right. We share."
Drifting off to sleep, Natalie smiled to herself, reflecting,
******************************************************************
End of Part Ten C
End of "The Unselfish Partner"
Send opinions to: br1035@ix.netcom.com
The series continues in 'Thankless Child,' available at:
http://www.geocities.com/~br1035/fk/forever.html
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