He’s asleep now. Finally. Real sleep. Not trauma induced loss of consciousness, not coma, not anesthetic recovery. Sleep. The real thing.

The thing I haven’t been able to do at all since I shot him.

“She’s got a gun!”

Damn!

The moment plays again and again in my head. I can’t get away from it. Or the reality of my nearly dead, maybe paralyzed partner.

I shot him. I shot Fraser. Benny. My best friend. Brother (closest to brother I’ll ever get in this life).

No, Benny! No!

Why the hell did I shoot? Why didn’t I let the bitch pull the trigger? She might have missed. She might have hesitated. If not, at least it would have been her bullet in Benny and not mine.

Selfish to the end, eh, Ray? Wanting to blame her for everything when it is my bullet that put him here.

But then if it had been hers, I’d be sitting here blaming myself for not shooting her when I had the chance. That is if Benny would have survived a point blank shot.

There’s a moment frozen, where I don’t see what’s in front of my eyes. I don’t see that it’s Benny that is standing on the train — not the spiteful she-devil.

Why didn’t I hesitate? Why was it so easy to shoot at the woman that Benny loved?

Was it jealousy? Hurt? Betrayal?

Was it because he chose her over me? The past over the present? That maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of going with her?

Or, simply because she was bent on destroying us both. Not only me, not only our partnership, but Fraser’s entire life, his very soul. She wouldn’t settle for anything less. I thought so then. I think so now.

Maybe that’s why it was not hard to pull that trigger. Even though I have tried never to let myself feel satisfaction at seeing a genuine creep go down the hard way. It would have been more than acceptable to see that woman fall from the train … dead.

Her.

Not him.

Not Benny.

Fraser’s back is to me. And for almost seconds I think maybe I hit what I aimed for. And then he falls.

And I know.

That was the hardest, most nightmarish thing I can ever recall seeing in a none-too-tidy life.

How did he get between us?

I had a clear shot of the witch.

But Benny was too fast. So damn fast. I should have known that he would be.

Why the hell did he get in the line of fire anyway? Trying to protect the slut from hell?

There is a moan from the bed. Now. This is real. The present. Fraser is waking up.

Is he in pain? Can he even feel pain? Will he ever feel anything again?

His eyes are opening. Oh, God.

All this time waiting for this moment and now I panic.

Will he hate me for putting him here? Could he even imagine that it was my bullet? Or did he know? Will he forgive me? Will he wish the first thing he sees is her?

Will he be all right?

“Mmm … mmm …”

“Benny. Hey, Benny.”

“Fffrrr …”

“You wakin’ up, Rip Van Winkle?”

“Mmm … urrr …”

I can’t help turning toward the door. I know I should let someone know that Benny’s waking up, but he moans and I turn back to him. It’s hard to leave him like this.

“Nnnng …” Fraser’s head is moving from side to side. It’s like he’s fighting against something. “Unn … nnnnuh …”

“Hey. Take it easy.”

Is his restlessness caused by pain? I’d better get someone.

I run to the door, spot Kelly, one of the duty nurses, and give her a wave over. “He’s awake.” I notice her startled look before I duck back inside.

Moments later Kelly is checking Benny’s vitals — a routine I’ve become very familiar with. In the meantime his moaning is increasing. He seems agitated, distressed. Well, he’s been shot, Einstein. And the woman he loved has betrayed him, framed him, tried to kill him — what’s not to hate about that? And maybe he knows who put him here.

“Mr. Fraser?” She glances at me. “I mean, Constable. How are we doing here? Finally decided to join us again?”

Benny’s mumbling and his eyes are mostly open, but he doesn’t seem to be responding to Kelly, or even trying.

“Constable Fraser, do you hear me? Do you know where you are?” Benny is definitely not up to chit-chat just yet. Kelly pats his arm. “I’ll just go let your doctor know you’re awake.”

She looks at me again, before leaving. I must look like hell on earth because she’s got that pitying face I’ve seen so much of these past days. “It’s not unusual. It could take a little while for him to become fully responsive to the outside world,” she reassures.

“Mmm,” I mumble, about as articulate as Benny.

She leaves and I’m back at the side of the bed.

“Nnnnn …”

I put my hand over his, a gesture I’ve made so often and for such long periods that my wrist and fingers have cramped more than once. I don’t know which of us I’m comforting more.

“Donnn … Nnnn … Nnnn …” He’s still fighting something.

“Benny. It’s Ray. It’s okay, Buddy. It’s okay.”

“Lissen …”

“I’m listening.”

“… ‘sleep.”

“That’s okay, you can sleep, if you need to. Whatever you need.”

“Tried …”

“You can keep trying.”

“Sorrrree … Rrray.”

I lean closer to hear the hoarse words.

“Tried … to … tell … not … perrf … ‘m not … not … perrfct.”

“Oh, Benny. You don’t have to be perfect, just get well. Rest and get better.”

“Sorry … you wrrr ‘sleep. Tried to tell … about Vic … Vic …”

I can see the energy leave him, just like the air leaving a balloon. It would be frightening if I didn’t have so many indicators to let me know that he’s still alive, still breathing, heart beating.

Then Kelly reappears with the doc and I back out of the way. This time I keep going until I’m in the hall. I need time to absorb and make sense of Fraser’s words.

Was he talking to me in the here and now or in some mental replay of the past? The word “perfect” stung and had a sickening familiarity. I had called him that, more than once. I remember him trying to tell me he wasn’t perfect, but I was in no mood to hear it. When was that? Not too long ago. What did that have to do with my being asleep? When had he tried to tell me
about the she-monster?

“You’re a Mountie. What do Mounties know about love?”

Something like that. I said something like that to him once, I remember. When I was so taken with Suzanne Chapin. Jeez, I must’ve sounded like such an ass. Did he try to tell me then? I don’t recall it.

I run shaky hands through (what there is of) my hair and decide it’s time to hit the lav, wash up a little and then get some more coffee. Maybe by then the doc will be finished.

I don’t want to miss him altogether. I need to wring him dry of information on Fraser’s condition before I let him move on.

When I arrive back at Benny’s room the doc has made a quick getaway. Probably to avoid talking to me. He’s left Kelly to take the brunt of my “need to know” and she handles it like the pro she is. When I let her go, I settle in for my usual vigil. The staff has given up on trying to get rid of me.

It’s dark outside when Benny wakes again. This time I don’t run for a nurse. I let him struggle and mumble his way awake.

His voice isn’t very loud, so I sit near enough to hear. He rambles for quite awhile. I don’t watch the clock.

He mostly talks about the hell-bitch, mumbling about things that must’ve have happened here in Chicago and things that had happened long ago, when he’d had to bring her in.

He doesn’t know he’s talking to me, ’cause it isn’t that kind of awake. It’s not a conversation we’re having, but more like a confession. I find out a lot I never knew about Benton Fraser, and I’m glad that I’m here to listen. I find out things about his mom, his grandparents and his dad — the dead Mountie that had brought him here. I find out what I hadn’t heard before –
and why. I find out about the stakeout.

And this time I’m not asleep and I hear him. I hear it all.

It’s a good thing, too. Because when Benny wakes up for real the next day, he’s gotten quiet, and he stays that way for a long time.

The End

“Ray!” he shouted at the panting skeleton.

Having just come off the dance floor at the end of the band’s third set, Ray pulled the nylon hood off his head and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It was hot under there if you were dancing non-stop.

Ray signaled for Fraser to follow and the two of them moved off to one of the many alcoves along the side of the huge hall. It was enough away from the food tables and the bar to be relatively quiet.

Ray studied his ever formal friend. Fraser looked so uncomfortable in the middle of the raucous costume party. Not for the first time, he wished the Mountie had come as something other than a Mountie.

“Benny, why don’t you get on the dance floor? Have some fun?”

“I have to leave Ray. I have sentry duty in the morning, I must get some sleep.”

“Yeah, gotta be awake to be a statue, eh Benny?” Ray had thought it was the uniform that was keeping his friend from cutting lose, but now he had to admit it went a lot deeper.

“Ray, I’m not a . . . It takes a great deal of . . . Never mind. I simply have to go now.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No. Stay. You’re having fun . . .”

“Yeah. And you’re not.”

Fraser felt guilty at the underlying truth in Ray’s accusation. He’d tried, really tried to find enjoyment at this gathering, but if he were frank, he found the whole thing overwhelming.

“It has been . . . interesting . . . from a cultural standpoint, quite fascinating. Not wholly unlike the Inuit celebration of . . .”

“It’s okay. Spare me the anthropological viewpoint.”

Fraser could hear the disappointment and anger in Ray’s voice. It made him cringe inside to be the cause of it.

“I’m sorry, Ray. I guess I’m not used . . .”

Unheeding, Ray continued, “I really thought you could just be one of us for a change. Just drop the rigid Mountie pose and have some fun for once.”

“Ray, I . . .”

“Sorry to keep you up.”

Ray turned and strode away replacing the hood as he disappeared into the crowd.

Fraser stood where Ray had left him. He tried to absorb what Ray had said, tried to interpret his words in some way that didn’t hurt. But it wouldn’t wash. His one and only friend in Chicago had just pushed him away and told him he didn’t belong, he wasn’t one of them. Somehow he’d blown his chance to belong and he wasn’t even sure what he had done wrong.

Someone brushed against his shoulder and he turned to face a stranger who merely wanted to get past him. Fraser moved out of the way and, once in motion, he kept walking. He headed for the exit.

Pressing against the locking bar, he pushed open the heavy steel door and stepped out into the damp, foggy night. After the heat of the overcrowded hall the chilly night wind hit him with its misty tendrils and he shivered.

Since when did a little October wind make me shiver? It’s proof of how far out of shape I am.

Walking past the cars parked in the lot, he couldn’t help noticing Ray’s beloved Riviera. He shivered again and this time he knew that it wasn’t the night air. Not really. It was the coldness that had settled against his heart.

He didn’t belong. He should have know it from the beginning.

He had let himself believe that a true bond of friendship had developed with the brusque city detective. He should have realized it was probably only his own desperate need for a friend in an openly hostile environment.

He’d been particularly vulnerable, back then. Not only had he just lost his father, but finding out the depth of the betrayal that led to his loss was shattering. Ending up virtually exiled in a strange new world, he had reached out for the offered hand of Detective Vecchio with eagerness.

He cringed yet again, this time in embarrassment, at how quickly and totally he had latched onto Ray Vecchio and the man’s wonderfully embracing family.

How pathetic he must have seemed both to Ray and to the rest of the Vecchios. They had tried to pull him in, pull him out of his reserved shell, but it obviously had been motivated by pity. He could see that clearly now. All it took was looking back with a critical eye. At the moment he could only cut through the pictures of his recent past with laser sharp lacerations,
leaving everything behind him in tatters.

Ray had given him every opportunity to “come out of his shell,” and he had failed him repeatedly. It was a wonder the emotionally volatile man had put up with him for so long.

Ben had known from the beginning that he exasperated Ray, he just hadn’t realized how deeply he had been offending him. Returning Ray’s openness with reserve, his expansiveness with automatic defense mechanisms, his generosity with meagerness of spirit, his (and his family’s) warmth with reticence.

Still, Ray had given him chance after chance. Beyond inviting him into the heart of his family and his home, they had partnered successfully on several cases. He had thought that they had been learning from one another and — major self-deception — enjoying one another. But now he could see how wrong he had been. He was too stiff, too unyielding, too rigid. He had
pushed his friend away. Or, rather, he hadn’t left any opening for Ray to get close.

It was a terrible flaw. He knew that.

There were reasons for that formality. There were gaping holes that needed protecting. No one. Not his own father. Not his best friend could go there. He dared not look too deeply inside himself for fear of self-loathing. No one could be allowed to see how weak and incomplete he was.

He had worked too hard, for too many years to let the surface crack. He could go anywhere. Be as strong as any situation demanded. He would easily give up his life to uphold the law. But don’t look beneath the image of the perfect Mountie.

Ray grumbled and muttered to himself. He refused to go back to enjoying the party, opting instead to stew in righteous indignation. He grabbed a beer and went outside.

Sweating under the the clinging material of his costume, he shivered as the raw chill nipped at him.

He thought of Benny walking home in this.

Probably feels like Miami in July to him.

He pushed back the costume hood and took a slug of the beer, ignoring its iciness and the added shudders it caused to go through him. Sitting on the cold concrete steps Ray ran a mental litany of Fraser’s faults with every sip and swallow of the cold brew. By the time he’d downed the bottle his teeth were chattering. Oddly, though, his anger seemed to fade with each
“flaw” of Fraser’s that he trotted out, until gradually all he could hear were the echoes of his own words. The words he’d hurled at his very best friend in this world like weapons. How could he have been that selfish, that cold?

And finally the chill he’d let in rattled him to the core. What the hell was I thinking, treating Benny like that? Making him feel like shit, just for being Benny?

He got up from the step, realizing his butt was numb from the cold. He headed inside to collect his jacket and the car keys. He looked around at the wild party, if anything louder now than when he’d gone out.

Yeah, I wanted him to have fun, but did I really expect this kind of thing to be his style? What the hell kind of friend am I?

He retrieved his jacket and headed out to the Riv.

Now which way would Benny head home from here?

Still shivering, Fraser kept a quick, steady pace along the now quiet streets. Gone were any signs of the marauding bands of
Trick-or-Treaters who had been out in force earlier. All that was left were a few drying broken eggs on the streets, sidewalks and on some of the cars, and maybe a few more candy wrappers than usual swirling in the wind. Here and there would be a
discarded piece of tulle or feather boa from a costume.

It bothered him that he couldn’t seem to get over this chill. Normally, cold was second nature to him. Invigorating, refreshing, brisk. How could he be experiencing gooseflesh under these tame conditions?

He found himself feeling lonelier than he had when he’d been out by himself on a glacier for weeks at a time. He had let his life here make him so weak, so vulnerable, in such a short amount of time, that it was difficult to credit.

The moon disappeared behind dark, fast moving clouds, removing one small source of comfort in this depressing night. The city had become unbearably bleak and oppressive. By comparison his spartan apartment seemed a haven of comfort and warmth. And Dief would be there waiting for him. His one unquestioning friend.

He turned a corner and the street suddenly became darker ahead. The streetlights had been broken. Probably by vandals in the name of “mischief” making.

He shuddered and turned to his left, contemplating changing his route. That caused him to laugh at himself. “Since when are you frightened of the dark, Benton?”

He headed down the darkened street. Within a few steps he felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Every instinct told him that he was being watched.

He cocked his head right and left but his senses couldn’t pick up anything definite. He quickened his pace.

There were noises, almost whisperings in the dark, but nothing he could make out clearly. Every nerve ending shouted danger. He stopped and swept around in a full circle, but there was nothing to be seen.

He tried to steady himself. Halloween. The pranksters are probably still out looking for their idea of “fun.” He resumed his fast paced walking. The darkness seemed to be getting darker, the mist thicker and the cold air more frigid by the second.

My imagination. Running wild. Ignorant superstition. Childish fantasies.

Something was in the darkness with him. He could hear it, feel it closing in. It wasn’t teenage mischief makers. It wasn’t drunken partygoers. He stopped once again. Ahead the mist had become a solid wall of roiling black fog. The darkness inside was impenetrable. He turned back the way he had come and could see the same darkness moving in there, too. He was being cut off.

And he knew he wasn’t alone.

He shivered again, his blood seeming to freeze in his veins. Whatever was with him, he was sure of one thing, it wasn’t anything human.

The sounds now buzzed in his ears and impinged on the edges of his mind. Something evil, voracious.

He began to run, fleeing back in the direction he had come. The darkness hadn’t closed in completely there yet. He could still make out some of the buildings and a patch of sidewalk in that direction.

Adrenaline had taken over and he sailed past the doorways and alleys to his left, fully expecting something to reach out and grab him every second.

It couldn’t be much further. His mind knew that, but he could see nothing of the corner he had left behind only a minute or two before. Something touched his back and he bolted even faster, running, in as close to a blind panic as he ever had in his life.

There was a new sound in the mist up ahead. He could neither determine what it was, nor allow it to deter him. It was not only his life, but his immortal soul he felt imperiled by his pursuer.

His foot went out from under him. The curb! some pragmatic part of his brain noted, as he stumbled out into the street.

He was free of the clasping mist, but still careening out of control and there was … a car!

“Benny! What the hell!

Brakes screeched, the Riv swerved left and there was a terrible thump against the passenger door.

“Christ!” Ray wrestled the car to a stop and jumped out, leaving the door wide open behind him.

“Benny! Benny! What the hell did you do that for?”

He couldn’t see the Mountie in the darkness.

“Jesus, Benny. You just came outta nowhere.”

There was a patch of red on the ground. Ray ran over to it. Fraser lay sprawled, half on the sidewalk, half on the street.

“Benny! Christ! Are you all right?”

What a stupid question, Ray. You hit him with your car. As he knelt he couldn’t help thinking, It was more like he hit me. Before he could stop himself he followed up with, That won’t make him any less dead.

“He’s not dead. Dammit, Benny. What the hell were you doing?” Ray squinted in the darkness. Fraser’s tunic seemed to be rising and falling. He extended a shaky hand to the pale throat. The pulse jumped out at him, strong, but erratic.

He took out his cell phone and dialed 911.

Then he ran back to the Riv and pulled it in toward the curb, turning on the hazards. No sense making this a two or three car pile up. He grabbed a blanket from the trunk and ran back to the injured Mountie.

Fraser was groaning and moving. Ray unfolded the blanket as he ran.

“Benny, stay still.” Ray slipped the blanket over Fraser, tucking it under him. “You slammed into the Riv while I was swerving to avoid hitting you. Ambulance is on the way.”

Fraser struggled to sit up. “No, Benny, don’t move. I don’t know how bad you’re hurt.”

Ignoring Ray’s words, gasping against the pain in his chest, Fraser fought to sit up, staring almost wildly back to the corner from which he had emerged. “Is it there? Is it coming?”

Ray looked back at the empty corner. “What? There’s nothing there. What did you see? What made you run like that?”

Fraser sank back with a sigh. “Dark.” He fell back into oblivion.

Ray couldn’t help shivering as he sat guarding his friend, waiting for the paramedics to arrive. He felt he was caught in a dream, make that a nightmare. What a hell of a Halloween.

“Broken ribs, no apparent injuries to the lungs, in fact, no evidence of internal injuries so far. Contusions on both forearms and a fractured metacarpal — a small bone in the palm,” the doctor explained at Ray’s look, “in this case the palm of his right hand. We’ll keep him overnight, possibly till the following morning for observation, but your friend should be fine in a few weeks.”

Sighing in relief, Ray sagged as soon as the doctor left. He insisted on waiting until he could see Fraser. There was something he hadn’t gotten the chance to say to him.

“Benny, you really shouldn’t be running around in the dark like that. It might not be a friendly car you run into next time, you know.”

Fraser gave his friend a quizzical look at that. He thought Ray was taking things rather more lightly than he’d expected.

“Ray, I’m sorry I frightened you. I guess I got a little spooked. I must have let my imagination get the better of me.”

“What makes you say that, Benny?”

“Well, I was imagining all sorts of things in the dark on that street last night.”

“You mean this street?”

Fraser’s head whipped around. Sure enough he saw the place of his nightmare right outside the window of the car.

“Ray, I don’t think we should be here.”

“Why not, Benny? What’s wrong with here? It’s a perfectly fine street. Better than your neighborhood.” Ray stopped the car.

“Ray, I don’t think we should stop here.”

“Of course we should, Benny. You left too soon last night. You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.” Ray opened the door on his side of the car.

“Don’t, Ray.”

Ray stepped outside and was immediately enveloped by the swirling mists.

“Benny, I never figured you for a coward. Afraid of the dark?” He shook his head. “Tsk. Tsk.”

Ray disappeared into the darkness as the cold fog poured into the vehicle. Suddenly the passenger door opened and Fraser felt trapped as the chill reached for him.

“Ray!”

He awoke with a jolt.

Shaken by the nightmare and disoriented, it took Ben the better part of a minute to realize that he was in a hospital room. He tried to remember how he had gotten here. Images came and went, bits and pieces of memory floated by. How much if anything of what he thought he remembered was real? Where was Ray?

“Hey, Phantom Mountie? You up for a visitor?”

Fraser turned to look as Ray poked his head through the door.

“Yes, Ray.” Ray stepped inside the small room.

“How ya doin’, Benny?”

“I’m okay, Ray. Did I . . . Did I run into something?”

Ray nodded. “The Riv.”

“Oh.” That much was real.

“You came running out of the fog like the devil himself was after–” Ray cut himself off as the color drained from Fraser’s face and the expression on his friend’s face turned from mild confusion to flat out horror.

“You okay, Benny?”

Ray could see the effort Ben was making to regain some sort of control. Finally, after what seemed to Ray a long time, Fraser spoke.

“That was real?” He seemed incredulous, as though whatever he recalled was too appalling to be believed.

“Yeah. It was like you were running away from something or someone.”

Fraser worked on absorbing this. To Ray it looked as though Fraser didn’t want to make room in his mental files for this particular piece of information.

“Before you went down for the count, you kept trying to look back to where you had appeared out of the fog. You asked if “it” was coming.”

Fraser swallowed. “Did I say what?”

Ray gave a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, well, when I asked, you said one word, “Dark,” and then you passed out. “I was not able to make much out of that, but while we waited for the ambulance no one came from that street. Believe me, I kept an eye on it.”

“I must have imagined it.”

“Imagined what?”

Fraser felt a tiny shiver run through him as he heard an echo of his recent nightmare conversation with Ray.

“I’m sure it was nothing.”

“C’mon, share, Mountie. Inquiring minds have got an insatiable craving to know.’”

“Just a terrible sensation of foreboding, danger. The fog closed in, I thought I heard something, even felt a touch on my back. By that time I was running out of there. Ray, I was running scared and I never even saw a thing.”

“You got spooked. Happens to the best of us.”

But not Benny, his mind finished for him.

“Maybe some kids . . .” Ray offered.

“No. Not kids.”

“Older kids, teens. Or adults with . . .”

“No, Ray. Whatever I felt, or imagined I felt and heard, it wasn’t . . .” He balked at the jump, unable to make himself say, ‘it wasn’t human.” He went back to, “. . . kids. It wasn’t kids . . . of any age.”

“Okay. Main thing is you’re safe. Sorta. I mean, battered, but safe.”

“Broken ribs?”

“Yeah. And a fractured ‘metatarpal’?” Ray struggled for the exact
word.

Fraser lifted his splinted hand. “Metacarpal, I’d surmise.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

There was a lengthy silence.

“Ah, Benny?”

“Yes, Ray?”

“I owe you an apology . . . big time.”

“Oh, no, Ray. I ran into you. I do remember that now.”

“Not for that. For earlier. I was an asshole. I was looking for you . . . in the Riv . . . to tell you.”

Fraser felt his throat tighten. “You don’t have to . . .”

“Yeah, Fraser, I do. I wanted you to have a good time, but I knew that party wasn’t your kind of thing. Anybody who knew you would know that about you. And I’m supposed to be your friend.

“I made a mistake and then I punished you for it. I am so sorry.”

“Ray . . . I don’t mean to be such a stick-in-the-mud.”

“”You’re not. I keep telling you. It’s not you . . .”

“Ray, let’s be honest. I’m not a lot of fun to be around. You are naturally very gregarious and you’ve been tied down with a rigid, reserved, exacting, meticulous, stiff, formal . . .”

Ray listened as Fraser’s list went on. They were some of the very things he’d been thinking about him earlier, some of the things he had called him, he thought with shame.

“Benny,” he interrupted quietly. It was the soft intensity of his voice that got Fraser’s attention. “You are the weirdest person I know, in a lifetime littered with weirdoes. But you are — and I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up here — the best friend I have or ever have had. So I’m asking you as a very big favor, which I don’t deserve, don’t let me have blown this friendship with a few thoughtless, hurtful words.”

Ben’s throat was really tight now. It hurt, as well as his chest, and actually, quite a lot of him. But he knew at least part of the pain was coming from emotions far too volatile to handle. He flailed around silently trying to find some way to say anything while somehow still maintaining control.

It took some time and a lot of swallowing, even though his throat was essentially dry, but he did manage to say something. He only hoped it was enough.

“Okay, Ray.”

For once Ray could sense the emotional struggle that went into producing those two words. While he didn’t fully understand the cause, he felt he’d been given a tiny glimpse into the heart of his friend. He would think about what it all meant later. For now he was just glad that he’d been given a reprieve.

“Thanks, Benny. Thank you kindly.”

The End

Phones rang. Suspects filled the halls, the interrogation rooms, the holding cells. Every seat was filled. Even the johns (bathrooms, that is) were operating at full capacity. Officers, both uniforms and plainclothes were frazzled and exhausted, most surviving on little more than bad coffee and junk food. Forget sleep. The holiday rush was in full throttle at the twenty seventh precinct.

Only three days left until Christmas. The busiest time of the year.

No rest for a weary Italian-American cop.

“Come on, Fraser. Let’s get out of here and get that Chinese before something else comes up.’? They were in the process of putting on their coats when Lieutenant Welsh stepped out of his office.

“Vecchio!”

“Ah, Lieutenant… Fraser and I were just going out to get some . . .”

Welsh cut right across Ray, “Good. You’ve got your coats on.”

“That’s because–”

“We’ve got a body in an alley. Looks like it came from one of the windows overlooking.”

“But Lieutenant . . .” Ray was in full, hunger-induced whine.

“Look around here. You see anyone else who isn’t in the middle of something.”

Fraser did take a look as Welsh instructed. “Well, Ray, he has a point.”

“Benny, stay outta this.”

“Okay, Ray.”

It was true. Ray knew it without looking. Every other cop in the place was as busy as he had been until just a few minutes ago. But he didn’t want to postpone dinner again. His stomach had gone beyond rumbling. It was threatening to shut down altogether and move to another location if he didn’t do something soon.

“But, sir . . .”

“Vecchio, can it.” Welsh held out a slip with the information on it.

“Aah. This is just not fair. Even cops are allowed to eat once in awhile.”

“Pick up something from the canteen on your way out.”

“But–”

“Not another word unless it’s a yes, followed by a sir.”

“Yes, sir.” He took the slip. Not just a case. A dead body case. Just what he needed at this point — a possible homicide. He’d be lucky to get dinner before breakfast.

Welsh went back into his office. Ray headed toward the canteen. Fraser followed Ray.

“Great. Just great. Couldn’t you move any faster, Benny? We coulda been outta here.”

“Ray, that’s not fair.”

“Who said life’s fair?”

“Fairness is something we bring to life, Ray. It isn’t something that life brings to us.”

“Fair is a decent dinner.” Ray stared at the vending machines in dismay. “Aah, look at this stuff.” He slipped a dollar bill into a machine which promptly spat it back at him.

“I don’t believe my presence factored into any delay that resulted in your being selected by the Leftenant to pursue this investigation.”

“You’re still on about that?”

Fraser’s thumb stroked his brow as Ray tried once again to get the machine to take his bill. Out came the bill.

“Well . . .”

“You got a better bill than this?” Ray held up the offending piece of currency.

“Sorry, Canadian.”

“Why do they pay you in that stuff if you’re living here?”

“Regulations, Ray.”

“I give up.” He stuffed the bill into his pocket. “I don’t want any of this junk anyway. Let’s get outta here.”

Fraser followed his friend out through the station into the cold, snowy night.

One unremarkable car ride later, they were standing over a piece of blue plastic tarp. Although the form beneath it didn’t seem substantial enough, the two men knew that under the plastic was the body of what had been until very recently a warm, alive woman. The uniformed officers had covered her to keep the snow from accumulating on the body–at least any more than it had before the police unit had arrived.

The sparse crowd at the end of the alley was held back only by the two uniforms, curiosity pulling the onlookers’ focus to the small blue mound, as it slowly disappeared under falling snow. The tarp also performed the function of keeping the body from being seen by the gawkers. At least one person had a video camera pointed in their direction, probably hoping for a sale to the nightly news.

Both cop and Mountie found the scene depressing.

The Medical Examiner, Esther Pearson, arrived only moments after them.

The blonde M.E. was dressed for a date, in fact she was with a date. She asked him to wait for her in the car and then headed toward the alley.

After making her way through the small group of onlookers, she pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of her elegant black swing coat, slipping them on with the ease of habit. The contrast of the gloves with her evening wear did not escape the notice of either man. She obviously carried them with her everywhere.

Makes for an interesting date. Ray couldn’t help observing. Fortunately, he kept the observation to himself. Wonder what else she carries around with her?

She joined them in the dimly lit passageway. All three of them held flashlights which they used to help one another conduct their individual examinations.

Pearson knelt, peeled back the cold-stiff vinyl and began her careful, but quick preliminary on-scene exam. It didn’t take long to glean the basics. When she finished she stood up again, slipping off the gloves and tossing them into a Ziploc bag. She would dispose of them later. Ever since she had happened to see a civilian at a crime scene remove a discarded pair from the trash she had developed the habit of taking the used gloves with her.

She gave Vecchio what little information she had, making sure to include the Mountie in what she passed along, although she was sure he had no official status in this case.

“Female. Caucasian. Approximate age: early to mid-thirties. Contusions to the head and torso. Massive head trauma. Multiple fractures. She fell or was pushed. All other injuries evident on quick examination are consistent with a lengthy fall.”

At this point, Fraser interjected. “From the position of the body in relation to the two buildings it would appear she fell — or was pushed –from this one.”

“Agreed,” threw in Pearson. They all looked up at the five story building. All visible windows were closed. “Most likely from the roof.”

“No identification on her,” Ray put in.

Ray walked over to the end of the alley. He spoke to one of the uniformed officers. “Riley, anyone see anything? Anyone know who she is?”

“No one seems to have seen anything. But there’s a man here says he’s the super of this building.” She indicated the building behind her, the same building from which they believed the woman had fallen. “If she’s a tenant he might be able to make an I.D.”

“Yeah, thanks. Which guy?”

The young looking officer turned toward the waiting group. “Mr. Kulicki.” A small man with thinning brown hair moved forward. He had a pleasant, though somewhat weathered face.

“Yes, officer.” There was a definite accent. Eastern European maybe, Ray thought, though he couldn’t place it.

“Mr. Kulicki. Detective Vecchio. I’d like you to take a look and see if you can identify the body of the woman in the alley. You think you can do that? She might be someone who lived in your building.”

To his credit, the man did not appear eager to see the body, as some of the others waiting around obviously were, nor did he seem squeamish enough to pass out or be sick at the sight of death. He struck Ray as someone who had seen death before, maybe in some of its less peaceful forms.

Kulicki moved toward Ray and away from the growing crowd. The added personnel and vehicles were attracting more people by the minute. Ray noticed the ambulance making its way down the street. No flashing lights this trip, no life to be saved here.

Ray turned and headed back toward the still unknown woman. The shorter man followed him dutifully.

Fraser and Pearson were in deep, thoughtful discussion. Their heads were tilted toward one another, Fraser’s Stetson somewhat shielding Esther from the snow. Ray thought it could have looked like a romantic exchange under different circumstances. *And with two totally different personalities.
Actually make that one…* He thought Pearson had made it quite clear that she’d be interested if Benny were. But Benny didn’t seem to be. Benny never is. Least not that I can ever tell. Can anybody be that uptight?

“This is Mr. Kulicki. He’s the super of this building. He’s going to take a look and see if he recognizes the deceased.”

God, I hate that word, but wha’re you gonna do? The deceased. The body? The dead woman? What way was there to make it sound right? None at all.

The man stepped right up to the woman’s side. He knelt down without touching anything. Ray noted that he did this without being told — he knew. He’d been in the presence of violent death before. Ray was sure of it.

The super leaned over until he could see the face illuminated by the flashlights pointed down on it. He let out a sad sigh. “I know her. Ms. Allinette. 3D. Her first name starts with C. I don’t know what it is.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kulicki. I assume you have the key.”

“Yes, of course.” He stood up.

“Would you wait for us at the building entrance. We’ll be right there.”

“Sure.” He left looking sad, shaken.

Pearson came over to Ray. She filled him in on the details she had gleaned.

“There’s not much to add. No signs of a struggle, but a clean shove off a roof wouldn’t leave anything. That means we’re still in the same place — it could be murder, accident or suicide. It does look like the fall was from roof height though, in terms of the nature and severity of the injuries. Either that or one of the uppermost floors. Almost impossible from her apartment on the third floor.”

As the M.E. spoke Ray became aware that Fraser had stopped scanning the area for evidence and was now standing looking down at the dead woman’s body.

“Thanks.” He moved over to stand next to the Mountie. Fraser didn’t react to his presence. “What?”

Ben didn’t answer immediately. “Not . . . not case related . . . just . . .”

“I know. Certain things don’t really get easier.”

Fraser seemed to pull himself from some far away place. “Right,” he acknowledged.

The two men headed inside, leaving Esther to stay and oversee the crime scene photos and the removal of the body.

Mr. Kulicki was waiting at the lobby door. He held a set of keys in his hand.

“Thanks, Mr. Kulicki. I think we should take a look at the roof first. I assume there is access to the roof for the tenants.”

“Yes, they like to use it — in the summer, of course. But it is unlocked from the inside year round, in case of emergency.”

“Yeah, let’s start there then.”

The roof told a simple story. One set of prints. No sign of struggle. It looked, in fact, like she had stood at the edge looking down for some time before simply jumping off. That was how Fraser read the prints. They were still quite clearly visible, though slowly being filled in by falling snow.

Nothing Ray saw contradicted what Fraser read in the snow.

Imagining all too clearly those last moments of the young woman’s life, Ray left the scene behind. Fraser remained for several seconds before turning away.

They went down to Apartment 3D.

Ray led the way, after being let in by the helpful super. In fact, Fraser seemed to hang back as Ray began exploring the sparsely furnished apartment.

Kulicki handed the key to Fraser. “I’ll be in my apartment if you need anything. 1G. In the back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kulicki. We’ll let you know when we’re done.” The super left. Fraser stood just inside the door. He made no move to come in further.

There wasn’t much to distinguish this place from thousands of other low rent places. It wasn’t quite so rundown a neighborhood or building as the one Fraser inhabited, but it wasn’t cheery either.

Ray saw little to give them further insight as to what had taken place on that rooftop, or more to the point, why this woman had seemingly taken her own life.

Ray found what proved to be her purse on top of a bookcase. Now they had her first name. She was Christine Allinette, thirty four, accountant. There was no evidence of drugs or drug paraphernalia. No sign of liquor, not even wine, in the apartment.

“Ray.” Fraser had eventually taken a few steps into the apartment. He seemed loathe to interfere with Ray’s investigation. As if, for once, particularly aware of his lack of jurisdiction.

“The bookcase.”

“Yeah, Benny.” Ray saw nothing unusual.

“The books, Ray.”

Ray looked down at the three low shelves. They contained all children’s books.

“Oh.” Ray’s shoulders sagged a little bit more. There was a kid involved in this somehow, somewhere.

He continued his search for clues or insights. He found both in a dresser drawer. There were photos. Hundreds of loose photos in careful stacks and several albums. Almost all of them were of a happy family and earlier ones showed a younger couple at various stages of their courtship, wedding and marriage. None showed the child any older than about seven.

The next drawer held the papers that told the story of the past.

Ray was really hating this case.

It was then, Fraser found the letter. He stood looking down at it as though it were some creature that would devour him whole. He had slowly made his way into the small, bare place that had, until so short a time ago, held a life. The life of this woman who had somehow lost hope and let go.

He sat at the small kitchen table, not too unlike his own. He sat and stared at the envelope and the neatly written words. “If you find this… read it and try to understand.”

He sat there watching the thing as Ray explored the photos and the papers that filled dresser drawers. Fraser swallowed.

“Ray.”

“Yeah, Benny?”

“I found the note.”

“Ahh.” Ray stood up from where he had been kneeling at the bottom drawer. He walked over to where Fraser sat.

“I found it, Ray.”

Ray read the same words Fraser had been reading, had read several times over already.

“I should be the one to read it. She asked whoever found it.”

“I see.”

“But I have no jurisdiction . . .”

“That’s not important, but you don’t have to . . .”

“Do you think it mattered to her — that it be whoever found it? Or just . . .”

“If you’re up to reading it, Benny, it’s okay with me. We both know what’s going to be inside.”

“Not to a certainty.”

“I found the death certificates, burial plot and headstone receipts.”

“Oh. Her family?”

“Husband and child.”

“Both of them?”

“Both of them. There are a few newspaper clippings. Drunk driver. Found guilty of vehicular manslaughter. She wasn’t in the car.” Ray sat at the other side of the table in the one other chair. “You going to read it . . . or you want me?”

“I can do it.”

Still it was many more seconds before he reached out for the envelope. He pulled it toward him, sliding it across the table top, then lifted it with his thumb at the bottom edge and his middle finger at the top. He turned it over, lifted the flap and slipped the paper from inside.

It read:

“Whoever you are, you don’t know me. You will never know if what I did was the right thing or the wrong thing. You may feel sorry for me or condemn me, but please understand that I just couldn’t bear another day.

Maybe you would have been stronger in my place, but I am me, alone, facing
things I could no longer face.

I wanted it to be clear that no one else had a hand in my death.

And I want my will to be executed as instructed. If the law allows, would you see to that. I know it is a lot to ask of a stranger, but you are probably a law officer and it shouldn’t be such an onerous job. I have a very simple will.

The deaths of my husband and child left me with a considerable amount of insurance money that I could never have touched. It is in trust for my niece and nephew. The will simply stipulates the details of that trust beyond my death.

If you want to pass this on to someone else I understand, but I would appreciate that it be another member of law enforcement.

Death for me is welcome. Life has been empty except for pain for so long. Not one day more.

I want to be a wife and mother again.”

Christine Allinette

Ben handed the note to Ray. The two men sat in silence as Ray read, and then for some minutes more.

Eventually, Ray broke the silence.

“She lived with her siste’s family in Connecticut for the first few months after the accident. Then she left and just kept moving. There are dozens of letters from the sister, most forwarded at least once or twice, she was begging her to come back.”

“She wasn’t alone. She just felt alone.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

They sat for some time more.

“I don’t know, Benny. I don’t know. Who knows what we’d do after that kind of loss.”

“Hmm.”

Ray thought his friend was taking this a lot harder than he was trying to let on. That slight quiver in his jaw was a dead giveaway. “You going to try being the executor on that will?”

“Assuming my Canadian citizenship in no way interferes with my legal standing in such a capacity.”

Ray noted the shift to formality and verbiage. A Fraser defensive action. When threatened throw words. “That’s a yes?”

“Yes, Ray.”

“Then I guess we’re wrapped here.”

“Hmm.”

It was an agreeing ‘hmm,’ but Ray thought that was the other defense of choice — silence or monosyllables.

Ray got up and looked out the window down into the alley. It was empty now. Body, M.E., cops and crowd — all gone.

He took out his cell phone. “I’ll call Pearson’s office. Let ‘em know we got the note. Save someone a little extra work. C’mon.”

Ray headed for the door while hitting the buttons. He spoke into the phone as he walked out. “Yeah, hi. Rea, that you? Yeah. Ray Vecchio. Could you tell Pearson that the Allinette woman is a definite suicide. No suspicion of foul play. We got the note. The whole package. Yeah. The Happy Holidays. Ya got that right. Thanks. Merry Christmas to you, too.”

He was actually walking down the hallway when he realized that Fraser wasn’t with him. He doubled back before clicking off the call. “Benny? Benny?”

Ray stopped at the open door. There was his friend, still sitting at the table.

Ray slipped the phone into his pocket, walked into the apartment and pulled the door shut behind him. He walked back over to the table, studying Fraser as he went.

To look at him, you wouldn’t think anything was wrong. He was just sitting at a table. But the fact that he hadn’t gotten up and left was wrong. The fact that he didn’t acknowledge Ray’s calling his name was wrong. The fact that they had just had to deal with a woman probably their age or maybe younger who had just taken her own life was wrong, too.

Yeah, tis the season, all right.

Ray sat back down in the other chair.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No, Ray.”

“You wanna go?”

“No.”

“You wanna stay here?”

“No.”

“So, where does that leave us?”

For a long time it left them sitting in the quiet apartment. The only sounds those of the city from outside the window. Finally, Fraser spoke.

“It didn’t have to be like this.”

“No, it didn’t, Benny.”

“She had people. She had family.”

The thought really came home to Ray, And you don’t, I know.

“Yeah, she did, Benny.”

Ray continued studying his friend. “You wish you’d been here to stop her?”

“Yes.”

Progress. He’d gotten his first yes. “You can’t . . .”

” . . . save everyone. I know, Ray.” Fraser sat. He felt this woman. He felt for her. He felt he knew her. She overran him. Her loneliness, her hopelessness, touched something deep and inexpressibly sad in his soul. “She felt so alone. She felt… disconnected.”

“Yeah. I imagine she did. She was there, but she couldn’t touch the people around her.”

“That’s it.” Recognition. “Grief can do that.”

“Yeah, it can, Benny.”

“It can separate you from everything and everyone.”

Oh, God, who are we talking about here?

He had to venture. He had to. “You feel that alone, Benny?”

“No . . .” The cheap, easy lie.

” . . . sometimes . . . ” Some small price and still not complete.

” . . . yes.” Costly. The truth.

“You feel that . . . isolated?”

He tried to say . . . something. He took the breath, then pushed the air past his larynx. Nothing came.

He tried again.

“I . . . don’t know . . .” Words came out slowly, taking a great deal of effort. “I’ve lived a life that’s isolated. It’s. . . it’s . . . a way of life, Ray. For many people.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“Loneliness isn’t about being around people…”

“I know. Lonely in a crowd, etc. Yeah, I get that. But what about you, when you’re around people?”

“I don’t know, Ray.” Ray noticed Fraser seem to gather his controls and close off access to the vulnerability he had let be glimpsed. “I’m sorry. We were talking about Christine Allinette, not about me.”

“You’re right.” Ray slapped the table, causing Fraser to startle. “And we should get out of here.” He stood up. “Okay? You ready to go now?”

The abrupt action wasn’t what Fraser expected. He certainly didn’t look ready to go. Not really, at all. Nevertheless he stood. He placed his Stetson back on his head. He was impervious now to inclement weather. Well, not really that either.

Once again, Ray headed to the door. This time he opened it and turned back, holding it, waiting for Fraser to pass through. Fraser took a few uncertain steps. He stopped and just stood there looking to Ray like a lost little boy.

Ray had never known anyone like this man before, nor anyone so alone in this world.

Once more, Ray closed the door. He took a few steps back toward his uncertain friend.

“You’re not, you know.”

“What?”

“Alone . . . like her.”

“Ray . . .”

“I know you lost a lot . . . you lost your family . . . but you’re not alone the way she was . . .”

Fraser tried to speak. No words came. He tried again. Again nothing would come out. His throat had closed so tightly he could barely draw breath through it. He stood feeling awkward and exposed. Ridiculous and in pain.

“You know, don’tcha? You got a family now. You know you belong like one of us. You can’t let yourself back away from that. ‘Cause that would be the cowardly thing to do. And . . .” Ray let out a breath. “you’re no coward, Benny.”

“Ray . . . I . . . Ray . . .” Too tight. His throat was just too tight.

“Now, I know we’re not exactly the kind of family you’re used to. A bit noisier… nosier, too, for that matter. But I think you fit in pretty good… fer an uptight, Canadian, tightass, Mountie type, that is.”

“Well, you don’t have to get insulting.” His voice was wavering and coarse, but it was there.

“Course I do, Benny. It’s the only way to get your attention. You don’t listen to me unless I insult you. It’s kinda like with a mule. Why’d I hit him over the head with that piece a wood?”

“First you had to get his attention.”

“That’s right, Now . . .” He had his hand on Fraser’s arm, pulling him out of the sad little apartment with its memories of love and pain and loss. Fraser let himself be guided out. “We gotta get us some dinner.”

The End

Note: Some readers didn’t find the underlying thread of hope in this story when I first posted it. So I’ll spell it out.

Sometimes, when you’re at your lowest, when you’re feeling alone and lost, and you think there is no one, you’re just not looking hard enough. Don’t give up. Keep and make connections. Who knows? There just may be a Benton Fraser (or a Ray or a Ray) right around the corner. It’s much better if you’re there to meet him when he arrives.

May your holidays — and everyday — be filled with the sharing of love and friendship. Best — Dilanne

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round.”

The sweet, soft crooning, mother to young child, drifted past the passengers seated and standing at the back end of the crowded bus. It was the woman’s second time through the song at the behest of her three-year-old daughter. She continued singing softly.

One passenger in particular, a noticeably handsome man in a heavy plaid jacket and Stetson, was enjoying the singing and the interplay between mother and child. From where he stood (he had, of course, given up his seat the moment the bus filled up) he could only occasionally glimpse the brunette mother and the strawberry blonde child. They were sitting in the center of the back row of seats.

The bus slowed for a right turn, then picked up speed and veered sharply coming out of the turn. The passengers tilted and swayed then righted themselves only to be shifted once again as the driver changed lanes.

As people leaned way this way and that he would suddenly get a clear view of the little girl. He smiled at the delight in her tiny expressive face as she was pushed up against her mother and then slung the other way. It was obvious that to her the bus was providing the same effect as an amusement park ride.

The mother, who also had an infant nestled against her chest sleeping in a baby sling resumed singing once the motion subsided. “The babies on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down.”

On cue the front tires hit a deep pothole — hard. Barely recovered from the turn and lane change everyone on board jounced, tottered and collided, and then the back tires hit the same pothole.

At this point three things happened in what seemed like an instant.

The mother suddenly shrieked out, “Oh! Oh! Oh, my God!”

Her toddler bounced up and off the seat and began to fall toward the unyielding surface of the floor before her mother’s grasp could stop her.

The man in the Stetson let go of the metal pole he had been holding and lunged toward the back seat. Practically knocking bodies out of the way with his momentum, he stretched full out, leading with his arms and miraculously caught the falling toddler before she hit, although his jaw impacted with a jarring thud.

“Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you.” The shocked mother reached out for her daughter. With the man’s help she pulled her back up beside her, this time wrapping her right arm protectively around the child so that no amount of bus bouncing would dislodge her again.

Several nearby passengers offered their hands to help the fallen man back up. Before he could decline they had assisted him into an upright position.

A male voice shouted up toward the driver, “Hey, you should take it easy, you got precious cargo on board, buddy.”

A few other voices echoed agreement.

Someone handed the man the Stetson that had snagged on a woman’s knee as he’d sailed past.

“Thank you.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Thank you kindly.”

“Thank you. Thank you again,” the grateful mother reiterated. “It happened so fast, I couldn’t come close to catching her.” She looked down at her little one. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

The child looked uncertain. The ride had gotten a little rough, but it hadn’t hurt. She was still trying to decide if it had been fun or scary. “Okay.” She knew that much, but whether she wanted to do it again. . .

“Selby, that’s the nice man who caught you.” The mother pointed to the rescuer who was putting his Stetson back where it belonged.

The little beauty looked up at him and smiled shyly. She liked his eyes and his funny hat. He smiled back at her. She liked that, too.

“Can you say thank you, Sweetheart?”

“That’s not nec–”

“Tank you.” She smiled even wider.

His head was still reverberating from the impact with the floor, but her face made it all recede into so much background clutter. She had a smile that could crack open a heart like a peanut shell.

“You’re very welcome, Selby. That’s a pretty name. I’ve never heard it before.”

The little girl just beamed. Her head tilted downward for a moment and then back up again, hazel eyes sparkling at the compliment.

“It’s a family surname, but we thought it had a good sound — unusual but not too strange.”

“You’re right.”

“We wanted her name to be as special as she is.”

“It’s a perfect name. I can’t imagine a better one.” He smiled at the little girl once more and she looked at up her mom then back to him. She reached out her hand and seemed to be offering him whatever she held inside it.

“For me?” he asked. She nodded and he looked to the mother for permission before accepting whatever it was. At the mother’s encouraging nod he crouched down and held out his open hand, placing it under the child’s. She opened her fingers and pressed a small stone into his palm.

“Special,” she said simply, with just a hint of childish lisp.

“Yes, it is. Do you want me to keep it? Or do you want it back?”

She thought about it. “Keep it,” she said decisively. “I have more special ones.”

“Thank you Selby. I’ll keep it in my place for special things.”

That seemed acceptable to Selby.

Realizing that the bus was pulling out of a stop, Fraser straightened and looked through the nearest window. They had just left the stop closest to the Vecchio house.

He gave no indication that he had missed his stop. “I have to get out at the next stop.”

Hearing that, one of the people who had helped him up moments earlier hit the stop request tape, though it wasn’t his stop. Fraser would have thanked him had he noticed.

“Good-bye, Selby.”

“G’bye.”

“Thank you again for the stone.”

“It’s magic,” she informed him.

“I’m sure it is.” He smiled at Selby’s mom, who smiled back.

He made his way past the passengers standing between him and the exit. Each person got his or her very own own customized, individualized, “excuse me, please,” and “thank you, kindly.” Glancing back he caught one tiny shy wave which he returned and then the little girl disappeared from his view behind the other standees.

At the top of the steps to the door he looked back one more time, but could see neither Selby nor her mother through the remaining passengers.

The bus lurched to a halt and the indicator light turned green, someone pushed open the door ahead of him. He made his way down to the sidewalk and held the door for the last of the disembarkees.

As the bus pulled out past him he could see no sign of the winning little girl. Nevertheless he stood watching until it was nearly out of sight. It had been a good feeling to hold her — to help, protect and share her for a moment with her mother — almost as though she had been his own daughter.

Placing the “magic” stone in a pocket, he smiled as he pictured her smiling face. He was abruptly reminded of his jaw’s hard contact with the floor as his muscles tugged against the soreness under his chin. Setting out in the direction of the Vecchio family manse, he felt his jaw line with thumb and forefinger. It was already a bit swollen and definitely tender. It would certainly be black and blue before dinnertime. He wondered what his friends would make of it.

It would look like he’d been in an altercation.

Ma and Francesca would fret over it. Maria would be mildly concerned — and mildly impressed. Tony would assert that he could have taken… whoever it had been. And Ray… Ray would tease him unmercifully. He wouldn’t let up until Fraser told him exactly how he’d acquired the injury and then he’d tease him even more.

Once the truth was out his relentless partner would never let him hear the end of it — not only had he once again lived up to Ray’s image of him as Dudley Do-Right, but he’d been flattened by a three-year-old — in more ways than one.

The End

Fraser watched as Ray untied the strings on the square, white cardboard box.

“Ray, that isn’t yours.”

“I know. I just want to see what’s inside.” Moving aside the string and lifting the lid, the detective smiled and let loose a satisfied sigh as he stared at the contents. “Perfect.”

“Ray, what are you doing?”

“I’m just admiring this beautiful creation.”

“But it’s not yours.”

“So you said.”

“You should put it back.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ray, you can’t take that.”

“Why not?”

“It would be stealing.”

“But I’d put it to good use.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I can replace it.”

“The intention of reparation does not excuse knowingly stealing another’s property.”

“I’ll make it up to whoever bought this. I’ll go out and buy one just as soon as I’m through.”

“Ray, you can’t eat that.”

“Who said anything about eating?”

The Mountie looked at the detective warily. His scrutiny held both appraisal and an element of mistrust.

“Ray, what are you planning to do with that pie?”

Ever since his ostensible friend had picked up the custard pie, Fraser had gotten the uneasy feeling that said friend had a motive other than gustatory.

“Pie?” Vecchio echoed innocently. He held up the potential weapon as if only just discovering that it sat in the palm of his hand. “Why, what does a person usually do with a custard pie, Benny?”

“That depends on the person’s intentions, his or her needs and/or motivations.”

“And what do you think my ‘needs,’ my ‘intentions,’ and my ‘motivations’ would be, Benny?”

“I’m not certain, but they are entirely suspect at the moment.”

“And why would they be that, my best friend in the world, Benton Fraser, RCMP?”

“I have no idea, Ray.” Fraser took a step backwards. “Unless you are blaming me for the damage to your new shoes and your suit.”

“Now why would I do that?” Ray advanced a step.

“It would be unreasonable.” Fraser retreated a step.

“That’s right.” Ray advanced.

“The wet cement was not my fault.” Fraser backed up again.

“Of course not.” Ray stepped forward.

“I couldn’t predict that the sidewalk around that corner had just been replaced.” He took another step back, only to find himself up against a desk.

“Who could?” Ray took a final step and raised the pie to shoulder height.

“Ray.” Fraser sidled along the desk away from Vecchio.

“Benny?” Ray pulled back the pie.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t I dare what, Benny?”

“Don’t you dare throw…”

It all happened in a blur of motion. Lightning fast reflexes pitted against calculated cunning. Not quite totally blameless innocence, versus the all-consuming need for revenge.

Ray’s arm began the forward swing.

Fraser ducked.

Ray continued the motion, spinning his entire body around one full rotation before letting loose the pie.

Fraser’s reflexes were too fast for his own good. He had already popped back up into a full standing position before he realized his mistake.

He took the full brunt of the pie in his face.

His eyes had flinched shut in reaction just as they were smacked, but his mouth was open in shock and he practically inhaled the sweet gooey mess that filled it. Whipped cream and custard were in his hair, up his nose, dripping from his chin and slipping down his neck under his collar.

The aluminum plate slid from his face, glancing off his chest before hitting the floor with a tinny clang and a small explosion. The soft, wet shrapnel landed mostly on the Mountie’s perfectly polished boots.

Fraser coughed and spluttered, spraying gobs and flecks of pale goo from his mouth and nose.

Ray rocked back on his heels and smiled in great satisfaction. It was a rare time that he got the Mountie back for some of the abuse he’d taken since they’d teamed up.

Fraser was beginning to wipe away the gunk, starting with his eyes. After scraping away the worst from each lid, he took a large white handkerchief from a pocket and cleared the orbs enough to open them and peer at Ray with disbelief and blame.

That was all it took for the detective to launch into uncontrollable — and much needed — laughter. The sight of those innocent, grey-blues peeking from a face full of whipped cream and custard was just too precious. Oh, how he wished he had a camera handy to immortalize this moment.

“Ray, that was uncalled for.”

“No, Benny.” He managed to quiet his laughter. “It was very called for. I called for it. My spirit called for it. And you called for it. You should know by now — never tell a Vecchio, ‘don’t you dare,’ because we do.”

The door to Lt. Welsh’s office opened and the lieutenant stepped out. Ray didn’t really notice until he heard the voice behind him.

“Vecchio! That better not be my custard pie all over Big Red.”

Ray turned to face the music. It would be Welsh’s custard pie.

“What the hell happened to you?” The lieutenant’s shock at Ray’s appearance overran his indignation.

Ray had almost forgotten his sorry state. “Cement, Lieu. Long story. Fraser’s fault. I had to hit him with the pie. I’ll buy you one. I swear, sir. I had to use it or things might have gotten ugly.”

“Things look pretty ugly from here, Detective.”

“I know, Sir.”

“Constable, you okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Didn’t duck fast enough this time?”

“Ducked too soon, Sir.”

“Oh. How’s the pie?”

“Excellent, Leftenant. Despite the circumstances I’d say, quite delectable.”

“Strasser’s is a good bakery. And they close in fifteen minutes, Detective.”

“I’m on my way, Lieu.”

Ray grabbed his cap and started for the door, passing Fraser without looking at him. He didn’t stop as he called over his shoulder, “You coming, Benny?”

Fraser turned in Ray’s direction. “Is that a dare, Ray?”

“Sure is.”

Fraser scooped up his Stetson. “Yes, Ray.”

The two law officers headed out of the quiet station acquiring the stares of the second watch who were just entering the bullpen. A few continued staring after they had gone.

“What the hell do you suppose those two have gotten into now?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Was that cement?”

“Custard pie?”

The End

The wind shifted over him once again. Earth, inhaling. He felt the gentle coolness wash across his body.

Lying on his back on gray rock. Staring up at the sky. Watching clouds, and spinning hawks enjoy the breeze’s turns.

Ben thought about his last private place. His spot to go. Collect his thoughts, his dreams, his hurts into himself. It was very much like this place. Open, quiet, alone.

Back there he’d had a few friends, though. He didn’t have to be alone, quite so much of the time. Here…he hadn’t had time or he didn’t fit in. He couldn’t tell yet. But, for now there was no one.

Since his grandfather died last March–made it through another winter but not the spring–it was only him and Gran.

The wind shifted once again. Earth, exhaled.

As birthdays went this wasn’t the worst and not the best. He’d waited for his father till he knew–this was not the day he would return.

Perhaps he couldn’t find this new cabin. (Best tracker in the force.) Maybe he’d forgotten, once again.

Ben knew he wanted to follow that great man. Track him all the way to…where? A future with the force. That much he planned. That much…

He’d try to be like him in every way. In every way but one.

If he had a son or daughter, he’d be there. He’d never leave them alone like this.

Not like this.

He lay, arms folded under his head and waited for the Earth to breath again.

An End

Packing the last of these material belongings. Hammering the final nails into the slats that will turn this cabin into a silent tomb. Nothing but memories will remain, and those scant and chilly.

The last home of real warmth I can recall was the one my mother made. She kept it warm with her loving presence.

Gran and Grandpa saved my life, gave me a home . . . well, homes. They gave me the strength I would need to survive. Instilled the love of knowledge. Fanned the devotion to duty. Cultivated the worship of justice. And, I know, they loved me . . . in their fashion. But it was a chilly love, tasking and demanding. I struggled to meet with their expectations.

Still do.

My mother’s love had been unconditional. She delighted in who I was; everything I did was just right for her. Her love had been the one and only warmth in my life. Until that other time, once in a lonely mountain crag, when another woman’s warmth saved my life.

This is all irrelevant. All of them are gone now. One way or another. It’s only me . . . and Dief. And exile.

This Chicago. How am I going to live there? How can I give up all that I know? But the alternative — the only one I can see — would be to leave the force and that is simply not a consideration. The RCMP is all that I have left. The last tie to my identity and to my father.

Dad.

I sent the trunk ahead. Everything I have left of you . . . of Mom . . . of our small . . . dwindling . . . almost extinct family.

Your journals. They’re in there too. Except for the one in my coat pocket. I’ll read that on the trip.

Do you realize, Dad, that’s the most you’ve ever talked to me in my life? Reading one of your journals is like having the conversations I dreamt of every day of my childhood . . . every day of my life . . . older I merely admitted it less often.

Your rifle. My gun. What do I do with these?

I won’t have a permit in the States. Don’t want to apply for one either. Not after . . .

Oh, Dad.

Do you realize how close I came?

It scares me how much I wanted to pull the trigger. I don’t know how I found the strength to stop myself. I don’t know where. Maybe it was from you.

I won’t give in again. Not to that kind of rage. Maybe this Chicago will be good for me. Maybe I’ll be better off without my gun.

What if I had killed him?

If I had given in, would you have been ashamed? I think you would.

Or did you want revenge?

Did I fail you? Should I have shot him?

The ghost of Hamlet’s father egged him on. Pushed him to the edge of action. Murder. Retribution.

But you upheld the law your whole life. Even died for it.

I don’t believe what Gerrard said . . . about the money. I don’t believe that account was really yours.

I’m sorry I let myself doubt you when he told me . . . even for a few hours. Gerrard was smart about that. It worked long enough for him to escape alive. The doubt. The fear that you would have betrayed your life. . . and mine. . . and Mom.

I’m sorry for those few hours. I know that money wasn’t yours. It couldn’t have been. Because then I would have lost you more completely than to death.

There, it’s done. Nothing more left to pack, or close or carry.

Oh, Dief. Do you have to be such a baby? You don’t see me complaining about my arm, do you?

All right. I’ll carry you out to the sled.

I did thank you for saving my life again, didn’t I? All right, okay, I guess a little babying won’t hurt.

Ah, Benton.

I wish you hadn’t boarded up the windows. I miss the air and light.

I guess it’s only fitting since I left you alone so much of your life. How did you find your air and light?

I’m glad you didn’t shoot Gerrard . . . at least I think I am. Much as I want him dead, I’m glad my son isn’t a killer . . . like his father.

I’m sorry I’m not the man you think I am. At least, I wasn’t. Maybe I can be now. I’m not sure. I don’t know how this death thing works. Maybe there’s a chance for repair work. Maybe not.

I guess I’ll give it a go. Don’t seem to have much choice.

Wish you’d left the windows open.

I guess you’re not to be blamed, though.

You can’t know that I’ve decided to stay up here awhile. Just for awhile, son.

Until I get my bearings.

I’ll look for you soon. I promise.

I’ll try to be there if you need me.

Just not ready to leave right now.

Okay, Dief. I’ll be right out. You don’t have to whine.

That’s it, then.

The jacket, journal in pocket.

The guns.

One last look around.

Goodbye to the past.

Goodbye, Dad.

Goodbye, Son.

The End

I held the gun to his face. How could my hand be so steady when my soul was shaking apart? I could feel shards of myself falling away. I could kill him. I could do this. Here, now, in this moment . . . he would die.
He deserved to die. This would be justice.

Not the law, some tiny voice argued . . . But justice, I answered back.

You mean revenge.

No!

The son-of-a-bitch deserved this.

The bastard killed my father. His friend.

“He was your friend,” I say out loud. Did I shout it? Scream? Maybe whisper? I can’t tell. The words are lost in the roar — not of wind, but of rage.

My . . . rage . . .

I’ve never given in before.

Not to rage.

Not since . . . Not since I was a boy.

I see my son, gun pointed at the son-of-a-bitch Gerrard.

Good, I think. You got the bastard.

“He was your friend, you son-of-a-bitch,” he says.

Go ahead, son. Pull the trigger. Nail the treacherous, murdering bastard. He betrayed me, betrayed the force.

He doesn’t deserve to wear the uniform, doesn’t deserve to live. What he did was beyond disgrace. It was a total corruption, a perversion of all that we stood for, all that we believed — at least all I believed.

Look at him, standing there poisoning your mind. Trying to fling his dirt onto me. Telling you I was corrupt when it was him. It was always him.

The worst of it was that I trusted him, trusted him for years. Took him into our home. Encouraged you to look up to him. I let him befriend you, son.

It was all a lie. He was a lie from beginning to end.

Pull the trigger, Ben.

End the man.

Avenge my death . . . your father’s death.

Pull the trigger, Ben . . . now.

Now . . .

Be like me.

Do what I did.

Avenge . . .

You let the gun drop down . . . unfired.

Thank God, Ben.

You didn’t listen to me.

Maybe it’s better that you can’t hear me, can’t see me, after all.

I can’t believe the relief that floods through me. You’d think that being dead I’d be immune to “feelings.” No such luck, son.

But right now I’m glad that I can feel this. I’m glad.

You’re a better man than I.

I let the gun drop to my side . . . unfired.
I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.

The End

It was in his hands, though they could no longer feel it.

He stared at the thing that wavered in and out of focus. The thing he had most needed and most dreaded.

At first there had been a tingle in his fingertips when he touched it. The charge had streaked straight to his heart causing it to lurch to a stopbefore speeding up insanely. Then numbness overcame his hands, but somehow he never let it fall from his grip.

Just paper. That’s all it was.

He studied the faintly blue-tinged husk, an envelope with contents unknown and yet somehow already a part of him. A letter from her. No name necessary. Postmarked in Illinois only two days before.

He should burn it. Destroy it unopened. Or turn it over to the authorities. He should not give in to her so much as to read whatever it was she had sent.

But he knew he couldn’t destroy it. He knew he had to open it. Read it. Know exactly what it was she would say.

God help him. He needed whatever she gave. However little or bitter or harsh. He needed her crumbs of love or hate. As punishment? Atonement? As help or hope or salvation? As an end or answer or release?

He didn’t know. Couldn’t say. Wouldn’t try.

He turned the envelope over in his hands and watched his trembling fingers work it open. The sheets, folded once in half, slipped out easily.

Letters, words in her handwriting shimmered and swam before his eyes as he felt her, inhaled her presence from the page.

And then, his name.

Ben,

If you burn this without ever opening it, I’ll understand. But I have to write it no matter what it means to you. I owe you so much more than this… I owe you… more… and less… my life… my absence from your life…explanation… confession… apology…

This is nothing near enough, but still more than nothing.

I should never have left you there on that train platform. I thought you were dead. But I should never have left you there. I think of all the things I did, that was the most selfish.

You were coming with me, weren’t you. I felt it. Saw it in your eyes before…

You had just committed the most unselfish act of our, for want of a better word, relationship, and I followed it up with the most selfish.

After the train pulled away I hid, somehow managing to evade the conductor and all I could think was that I had killed you. I had orchestrated all of this for some kind of revenge…control… some need…

And then I thought, what if you were alive, what if you needed me? Why hadn’t I made the same sacrifice for you that you were about to make for me? Everything — freedom, choice, way of life, life itself — for love. You made it and I didn’t.

It was then I knew that I had killed love. Regardless of whether or not I’d killed you, I had killed us.

When I found out you had survived, I so very nearly came to you. In fact I did return, almost made it into Chicago, but I couldn’t quite close the distance. I couldn’t face you or face the consequences of everything I’d done. I don’t know which. I only know that I’m a coward. That I should have stayed or should have returned for you and I didn’t. I did neither. I’m not capable of that kind of sacrifice.

Now, I know that you are not only the better person, but that yours was the greater love.

I had actually convinced myself of the opposite during all those years in prison. I had made myself believe that my love was stronger and that you had betrayed all love for your so-called duty. I didn’t even believe it was that. I thought what you called duty was really your pride and devotion to your own self-image.

I finally get what you truly wanted. You wanted me to live up to your own best hopes of what I was and could be. I didn’t. Maybe I couldn’t, I don’t know. But the worst thing was that I didn’t even try. I just blamed you for everything.

I won’t even ask you to understand or forgive. Just know that I’ve finally figured out what I did to myself — twice.

I cheated myself out of the best chance for happiness I will ever have in this life.

I cheated us both.

I’m so sorry.

So unutterably sorry. I thought you had thrown us away ten years ago. I see now that it was me then and it was me now. The biggest fool I will ever know stares back at me from the mirror every day.

It’s too late, but I will love you forever and regret forever, too, not that I love you, but that I couldn’t see how much you loved me back, how much you wanted for me and for us.

Forever,

Victoria

He folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope, hands still shaking. He rose stiffly from the table and limped his way over to the stove using the metal cane the hospital had provided.

He turned the working front burner on and touched the pale blue stationery to the flame. Vibrating in his grip the bottom corner ignited, flame scorching and rising up the side. He turned it round to let the hungry tongues lap up and over the entire surface. He didn’t let go until the fire hurt enough to make him. He poked the last corner into the ring of flame and watched it darken and wither away into ash. Scorched as he was.

He limped over to the kitchen window. Eyes dry but hollow he stared out into the darkness.

Now, at last, it was done.

The End

“C’mon, Frannie… Give!”

“Ow! You’re hurting my arm!” she wailed, tears welling.

“So. You wanna hurt more? You know I can. You better give over!”

He twisted her skinny little arm until her entire body tilted almost to the point of tipping over.

“Stop, Ray! Ow! Ow! Stop!”

“It’s mine! And you better give over now!”

“Here!” She threw the toy as far as she could with her free arm, hoping it would break. Hoping it would make her brother let her go. Then she could run and hide until their mother got home and she could tell her of Ray’s latest brutality.

Instead of letting go, he dragged her by the arm to the spot where the cap pistol had landed.

“It better not be broke, or you’re in big trouble.”

“You’re gonna be in trouble, Ray. When Mama finds out what you did to me.”

“Yeah?” He tugged on her wrist, further hurting the already sore arm.

“Ow!”

“You gonna tell her?”

“Yes!”

He yanked and twisted again.

“You gonna tell?”

“Ow!” Tears fell freely now, and she sniffed back the mucous that threatened to run into her mouth.

He twisted harder.

“Ow. Ow. Yes.” Her voice was no more than a whimper. “Ow. No,” she whined, defeated.

“No, what?”

“No.” She sniffed uselessly as the snot coated her upper lip. “I won’t tell Ma.”

“You swear on your immortal soul.”

Sniff. Sniff.

He gave another small twist of coercion.

“Ow,” she squeaked. “Yes.” She took a big gulp. “I swear.”

“Good.” He let her arm go, almost tossing it away from him.

His little sister stumbled away, hurt and angry. She sobbed at the injustice, at the pain. Ray should be punished, she knew it. She wanted to tell their mother in spite of her promise. But she was afraid of Ray. Even more, she was afraid of losing her immortal soul, although she wasn’t at all sure just what that was. She only knew for certain that she didn’t want to lose it; even grownups were afraid of that.

Still, it wasn’t fair.

Somehow, she had managed to forget that she had “started it,” by taking his prized new toy, knowing full well it would provoke her brother’s anger. All that she could focus on was her own outrage, her sense of betrayal.

She could never tell anyone in her family why she had done it. They would have been more upset by her reason than by the fact that she had “borrowed” it without asking. Worse, some of them might have made fun of her. Girls weren’t supposed to want to play with guns. Girls weren’t supposed to want to pretend to be cops.

Only boys could play that game.

She watched her brother retrieve his special toy. Watched him check it for cracks or missing pieces. As much as she had wanted to break it to spite him, she was glad to see that it was intact. She really liked the way it was made. The way it felt. She liked the little nubbly plastic on the handle, and the smooth metal round part, and the way the hammer and trigger
clicked when she pulled on them.

Even without caps, it was fun.

And now her brother would make sure she never got to play with it again.

He had been so angry; much more than she had expected. And he had been too rough. He had hurt her.

“You are so lucky this isn’t broken, you dumb little squirt.”

“I didn’t hurt your stupid gun. I only wanted to play with it.”

“Well, you didn’t ask. And besides, you’re just a stupid girl. Go play with your dolls.”

“I am not a stupid girl. You’re stupid. And mean. And the worst brother in the whole world. And you hurt my arm.”

“So what? You’re a little thief.”

“I didn’t steal it. I would have put it back.”

“Who cares? No one said you could take it in the first place.”

She sucked in a ragged breath. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair,” he echoed.

“It’s not! I can’t have a cap gun. I can’t play with yours, and you’re the meanest brother.”

“Aw, poor little Frannie. What a horrible life she has.”

“You… You…” The dam burst.

Ray was both fascinated by, and guilty at, his sister’s response. She emitted a heart wrenching wail, which quickly settled into strangled, heaving sobs. Her face was red and ugly with tears and snot.

“Crybaby.”

Frannie took off past her brother. At the doorway she stopped and turned back to face him.

“You’re my big brother, Ray,” she hiccuped her way through the words. “You’re supposed to protect me!” She spun away and fled up the stairs.

Ray pretended that the words they had heard so often from their mother hadn’t hit home.

Every time Ma had said them, he had taken them to mean, he had to protect his sister from their drunken father. It had never occurred to him that she might need protection from him.

He plopped down on the sofa and threw his feet on the coffee table (the things his mother didn’t know he did when she wasn’t around, didn’t hurt either of them).

He turned the toy over in his hand, noticing the way the light from the window caught the shiny metal.

“Stupid gun.”

He wanted to blame the gun for his problems and shift his guilt onto the seductive toy. He needed to find something to make himself stop feeling so bad. It didn’t work.

“Stupid sisters.” That didn’t help much either.

“Stupid Ray.” That felt a bit closer to the mark, but didn’t really make him feel any better.

He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger on the pistol several times. He liked the way it felt and sounded — even “empty.” But with the added sound and the wonderfully pungent smell of the caps, it was just about perfect.

What would his little sister want with this? How could she possibly understand what it meant to him? How it fed into his dream of one day becoming a cop, and once and for all, being able to stop all the bullies from bullying their wives, their kids… or their little sisters, his conscience finished for him. Boy, he’d have to squash that cricket.

He sat, twirling the gun on his finger. He was getting better at that. Finally, he pulled his feet off the table, rolled his skinny bod off the sofa and onto his feet.

He headed for the stairs. “Frannie!”

Maybe she couldn’t appreciate it the way he did. What girl could? But he could let her do whatever silly, girlie thing she wanted to do with it, for a little while, provided she didn’t paint it pink or something equally awful.

Maybe sometimes, being a big brother meant that he had to have a little more understanding and flexibility than your average, ordinary boy. Maybe he had to have a little give.

The End