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Can't Stop Falling by Starfish, (c) 2004 Author's Note: This story is AU, which should be obvious quite early on. The title is borrowed from a song by Great Big Sea, to whom also belong the lyrics quoted within. The characters and concept of Due South belong to Alliance Atlantis. Many thanks are due to the raft of betas, editors, and other folks who held my hand though the long genesis of this story. Rowan, Carla, Beth, Kalena, Shoshanna, Kellie -- I owe you guys big. Dear Benny, I wasn't looking for a friend. I wasn't working undercover, And I wasn't trying to pretend ... "Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve explained it sufficiently, I think. I cannot call Ray to pick us up, because Ray is not available as a limousine service for lazy wolves anymore. I suggest that you come to terms with that, or alternatively, I will leave you at the Consulate with Turnbull in the future. Now, do you think perhaps you could help me out here and get out of the truck? For God’s sake, Diefenbaker, it’s a beautiful morning, and it will do you good to walk. Try to remember that you’re not some pampered lap dog." Sometimes I regret ever bringing the ungrateful beast back to Chicago with me. And then I remember that, if I had not, I would be even more alone than I am now. At least I still have someone with whom to argue. I sigh loudly, but to no effect, of course. He’s still perched on the passenger seat, staring haughtily out through the windscreen. "Very well, then. I’ll leave you here. I hope the owner of the garage isn’t inclined to call the nearest animal shelter upon finding you, but it would serve you right." More wasted breath. I fish in my pocket for the keys. The garage does not seem to be open for business yet, although it's a bit after eight, but there’s a drop box in the door, as promised. I’ve taken no more than a step toward it, however, when the door bursts open and a man runs out of it, straight into me. His momentum pushes me back against the side of the truck, and we are tangled together for a moment in a strangely intimate embrace. I feel the whole of his body plastered up against mine, and my arms come around him instinctively. He's panting, as though he’s been running, but one look at his too-white face and I put it down to sheer panic instead. "He's -- there's -- Carlos -- " I can make nothing of what he's saying, but before I can ask any questions, he turns even whiter and sways alarmingly. Diefenbaker has finally moved, and I manoeuvre the stranger into the passenger seat, thankful that the small pickup is fairly low to the ground. I push his head between his knees in the time-honoured position to prevent fainting. His breathing is much too fast, suggesting to me that he may be hyperventilating, so I get a small paper bag out of my glovebox and unfold it. I put my hand on his shoulder and crouch down next to him. "Breathe into this, it will help." He takes the bag without question and begins to do as I've instructed. In a matter of moments his breathing has slowed to normal, although his complexion is still too pale for my liking. Once I am satisfied he is in no immediate danger of passing out, I put my other hand over his and lower the bag from his face. I don't wish to provoke another panic attack, if that is what it was, and so I start gently rubbing his shoulder where my hand was resting. This calms him further, and as a bit of colour comes back to his face, I decide he is ready to be questioned. "Can you tell me what happened, sir?" "Yeah, there's -- my mechanic, Carlos. He's in there. He's, uh, dead, I guess." His face goes pale again, and he swallows several times. "Are you going to be all right if I go check on Carlos? I'll leave Diefenbaker here with you." "Diefenbaker? What, the dog?" He looks at Dief, who has come closer and is watching the proceedings with interest. "He's half wolf, actually. But extremely civilized, don't worry." I turn to my lupine partner and grab his muzzle, turning his face so he has no choice but to look at me. "Dief, stay. Guard." He whines acknowledgment and leans against the man's leg. He's very sensitive to human frailties, and although he takes advantage of mine, I know that he will comfort this man as best he can until I return. With one last squeeze of the stranger's shoulder, I leave him to Dief's care and head for the door. Inside the building it is cool and dark, but over the familiar scents of motor oil, rubber, anti-freeze, and such, I detect the unmistakable coppery smell of blood. I follow my nose, as it were, to the back corner of the garage where I can now see the still form of a man I presume to be Carlos, lying in a large and rather dramatic pool of blood. I check for a pulse, careful not to disturb the scene more than is necessary, but as I expected, there is none. The blood appears to be dry, and the body is cool. From that I place the time of death sometime late last night or very early this morning. The killer is not likely to still be present, which is very fortunate for the man outside in my truck. Although I am itching to investigate further, procedure dictates I call in the proper authorities. I look around for a telephone and spot the lighted window on the opposite side of the large doors. As I make my way over to the office, I regret again the circumstances life (or perhaps fate) has forced upon me. Six months ago, I would have been assured a place in the investigation, an outlet for my skills. Now I can only pass the information along to others and watch from the sidelines. The telephone is on the desk, and I note gratefully that it has a speaker function. Still being careful not to touch anything, I take a pencil from a cup full of them and dial the number from memory. It rings twice and is answered by a familiar voice. "Good morning, 27th squad, Detectives division. Civilian Aide Francesca Vecchio speaking, how may I help you?" Francesca has obviously been taking lessons from Turnbull on how to answer a telephone. "Good morning, Francesca. May I speak to Lieutenant Welsh, please?" "Fraser! Are you going to be coming in today? 'Cause you haven't been here in just ages, and I was just saying how we never see you anymore. And I just convinced Harding -" Harding? " ... to let me get a cappuccino machine -- well, almost convinced him, but I got it anyway, he'll come around as soon as he tastes my espresso. I was going to try it out later this morning, and I know you don't usually drink a lot of coffee, but I thought you might like a latte as a change from tea ... " As rude as it might be for me to interrupt her, if I don't, we'll be here discussing beverages all day. "Francesca." "Oh, sorry, Frase, what did you need again?" I sigh. "To speak with the Lieutenant, if you would be so kind." I seem less able to tolerate her never-ending attempts upon my 'virtue' of late. She's a sweet girl, and I would not hurt her for the world, but my patience isn't what it used to be. Fortunately for both of us, she connects me with no more delay. "Constable! Long time no hear. To what do I owe the honour of this call?" "Unfortunately, sir, I am calling to report what would appear to be a homicide." He sighs. "Why am I not surprised by this?" "I'm not sure, sir. I myself was quite surprised. And since the crime has occurred at the garage which you recommended to me, I thought you would want to know about it as soon as possible." I hear his indrawn breath. "Ah, jeez, it's not Kowalski, is it?" "I -- I don't think so, sir. The victim's first name seems to be Carlos. Would Mr. Kowalski be the owner? Tall, slender, sandy brown hair, blue eyes?" "Yeah, that's him. God, you had me scared there for a minute. Thought I was gonna have to call his parents and --" "My apologies, sir, for giving you that false impression." "Okay, so I'll send a team over. Ah, Huey and Dewey are tied up on another case, so it'll have to be Vecchio and somebody. Just so you know." "Understood. Thank you kindly." We exchange good-byes and disconnect. My relations with the detective presently known as Ray Vecchio are somewhat strained. First impressions are often hard to overcome, and I unfortunately did nothing to endear myself to him on our initial meeting. His violent allergy to Diefenbaker aside, he vociferously resented being thrown into the middle of a case that involved driving a burning car through the streets of Chicago. He has since been assiduously avoiding contact with me, for which I find myself somewhat grateful. While I can understand the need for a 'cover' here in Chicago while Ray is in Las Vegas, I do think the powers-that-be might have looked beyond simple physical similarities. The 'real' Ray was often out-spoken and abrasive, but he could also be kind and caring. His replacement seems to me to be neither of the latter two things. I do not like him or trust him, as one should a partner, and so I am very relieved to not be called upon to work with him at present. With help on the way, I go back outside to see how Mr. Kowalski (if it is indeed he) is faring with Diefenbaker. They are getting along famously, from the look of things. Dief's lying on the ground in a seldom-seen posture of submission, having his belly rubbed. It would seem introductions are in order. As I approach, Dief scrambles to his feet and tries to look cool. "It's too late for dignity," I tell him. "You are, as they say, busted." He has the grace to look ashamed, and slinks off to sit on the opposite side of the truck. I turn to Dief's new best pal and extend my hand. "Mr. Kowalski, I presume? I'm Constable Benton Fraser." He grins and shakes my outstretched hand. "Nice to meet you, Constable. Call me Ray." "In that case, I'm Ben. I've phoned the police, they should be arriving shortly. We should remain out here until they come, so as not to contaminate the crime scene any further." His face falls. "Oh, God, yeah. Poor Carlos. I guess he's really -- uh -- dead?" "Yes, I'm afraid so. Did he --" I stop abruptly, realising again that I have no standing to ask questions here. Ray looks at me quizzically for a moment. I change my question. "Was he a friend?" "Nah, he just started last week. Seemed pretty reliable." "Ah. I see." He shifts his feet and looks around at the empty parking lot, then back at me. "So, 'Constable,' huh? You some kind of cop?" "Yes, in fact, I'm a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." My spine tries to straighten as I say this, and I will myself to relax. After all, I'm still on medical leave for another week, and while I may never admit it to another living soul, I am not looking forward to resuming my empty duties at the Consulate. "A Mountie in Chicago? Long ways from home." "I first came to Chicago --" I stop myself from trotting out the same tired spiel and try to just answer the question. "Yes, I am a very long way from home. Some days it seems like another planet." Ray nods and moves to lean against the truck. He seems calmer now, for which I am glad. "What part of Canada are you from?" "The Northwest Territories." "Really? Huh." He frowns for a moment and looks up at the sky. "That's ... up near Alaska, right? Snow, ice, polar bears?" "Yes, and moose, elk and caribou as well." He nods, seemingly pleased that he's gotten it right. "Is that where you got the wolf?" "I'm not sure if I would ever say that I've 'got' Diefenbaker. He stays with me because, according to him, I'm far too clumsy to survive on my own. He's rescued me several times and he never lets me forget it." He gives me the skeptical look I'm used to getting whenever I talk about Dief's opinions, but seems to let it go in favour of more questions. "So how did you happen to be here today to rescue me? For which I never thanked you, by the way, so thanks." "No thanks are needed, really. I was happy to be of assistance. And I came here to have this truck looked at. At present I am leasing it, and it seemed prudent to have a competent mechanic look at it before I actually bought it. Lieutenant Welsh recommended you very highly." "Left- who? Oh, Harding Welsh? Hey, I'll have to thank him, too. Don’t know what I would've done -- I'm not too good with blood and death and stuff. Kind of ironic, seeing's how my dad's a meatpacker, but there you go." "Indeed. Do you know the Lieutenant well?" I am curious, since on the face of it, they seem unlikely friends. "He used to coach basketball at the CYC back when I was a kid. We got to be friends, he used to tell me what it was like being a cop. I even thought -- well, doesn't matter now. We still hang out once in a while, go to a game or something." We stand for a moment in silence, out of small talk, and I take the opportunity to give Ray a second look. He's quite attractive, especially when he smiles. His hair is somewhat unusual, though -- more blond than brown in places, and half spiky and half flat. He catches me looking and puts his hand to his head. "Oh, God, I can't believe -- I woke up late this morning." He's running his fingers through his hair as he talks, and soon it's all standing on end. He checks the side mirror of the truck and oddly enough seems happy with this result. "So what happens now? I mean, when the cops get here." "They'll begin by securing the scene, so that no evidence will be disturbed. Depending on how many officers there are, one or two may go door to door in the neighbourhood looking for witnesses. And of course, they will want to question you. I’m afraid you’ll probably have to close the garage, at least for today." He looks concerned. "Shit. What else?"" "They’ll take photographs and dust for fingerprints, and all your employees will have to have their prints taken for exclusionary purposes." He looks a little blank, and I explain. "To rule out their prints from the ones found. They’ll be looking for prints that don’t belong. Oh, and as a side note, the blood is rather hard to clean up afterward. I can recommend a cleaning service if you’d like." He's shaking his head and holding up one hand. "Whoa, okay, that’s enough info there. I was thinking you were just on vacation here or something. How does a cop from Canada know local police procedures and cleaning services?" Damn. "Well, until very recently I worked quite closely with the Chicago PD as a liaison between the department and the Canadian Consulate. The situation has changed, however, and currently I no longer ... liaise." He looks at me searchingly. "You don’t sound real happy about that." "Naturally, I miss the work, but part of the reason for the change is that I was on medical leave after being shot by a performance arsonist, and I simply couldn’t keep up on the street." "Hmm. Still, it sounds like you’re pretty smart. I bet they could’ve used your help with the thinking part, even if you couldn’t do the running-after-the-bad-guys part." He smiles so brightly I can’t take offence at this intrusiveness, and I have to grin right back at him. So I’m standing in my parking lot, looking at a very hot but possibly fucked-in-the-head Mountie. Sounds like a typical Monday to me. Not. I mean, what kind of guy gets shot by a performance arsonist? And what the hell’s a 'performance arsonist' anyway? I kind of want to ask, but I’m afraid he’ll tell me. Exclusionary fingerprints and Canadian liaisons. Damn. Two cars pull into the lot, a plain black Crown Vic and a patrol car, and I see Harding Welsh in the passenger seat of the first one. I know he's some kind of boss-man, never thought I’d rate a visit from him. 'Course I never thought I’d have a dead body in my garage, either, so there you go. The driver of the car is a real tall guy; he’s got to be about six-foot-four or so. Little ring of dark hair around the sides of his head, big nose, bigger attitude. He gets out of the car fast, and starts in on Ben immediately. "Hey, Fraser, how come you called the Lieu on this one? You don’t think I can handle the case?" He laughs a little to make it seem like a joke, but I read body language like I read Ring World, and this guy is not joking. He doesn’t like Ben, and he’s not too thrilled to be riding around with H, either. Ben gets all defensive, which is probably what the guy was looking for. "No, er -- Ray, not at all. It’s simply a matter of --" H steps right in. "It’s a matter of Kowalski’s a personal friend of mine, Vecchio, and Fraser knew I’d want to know about this personally. Capisce?" The guy backs right down; Harding Welsh is nobody to mess with, if you know what I mean. I figure I’ll throw my two cents in too, while we’re all so buddy-buddy. "Thanks for coming down, H. You really didn’t have to." "Well, Vecchio here’s short a partner since he let the last one get shot," he nods his head toward Ben, "so I figured I’d come down and see how much I can remember about detecting." Whoa. This Vecchio guy (who I haven't been introduced to yet, but I’ll let it slide for now) was evidently Ben’s partner in the liaising thing. And Welsh’s crack about him letting his partner get shot made him grit his teeth -- I can see the muscles working on the side of his jaw. Something's definitely going on there. Ben seems to wake up just then. "Forgive me, Ray, I should have introduced you." Hey, psychic much? Scary. "Ray Kowalski, meet -- er -- Ray Vecchio." I stick out my hand 'cause it’s what you do, and Vecchio takes it and shakes for the same reason, I'm sure. He gives me a cool nod and says, "You’re the one found the body?" "Unfortunately. I could’ve done without the pleasure, believe me." He looks me up and down and sneers. I really don't like the vibe I'm getting from this guy. Then he turns to Ben. "And what were you doing here, Fraser? Not exactly your neighborhood, is it?" He puts a nasty spin on 'neighborhood' that makes me think he’s not just talking about where Ben lives, but I have no idea what it’s about. For some reason my instinct is to leap in front of Ben and take the guy’s questions myself, which is just a little strange. I mean, in the very short time I’ve known him, Ben’s proven to be a pretty articulate guy. I’d think he could talk to his partner without me running interference. And, evidently, I’d be wrong. "Well, Ray -- that is, Mr. Kowalski -- was going to look at my truck. Of course it’s not my truck, it’s the truck I’m thinking of buying. And I wanted his opinion -- well, not precisely his opinion, since I didn’t know him, but the Lieutenant recommended -" Vecchio’s shaking his head disgustedly. "Fraser. Fine. Whatever. Am I going to find your fingerprints in the garage?" Something that looks almost like anger flashes across Ben's face real quick, but all he says is, "No." "Good. I’m going in. Stay put." I can only assume the last part is meant for me, since he’s got no reason to keep Ben here that I can see. And duh, of course I'm not going to leave; it's my place they're going to be taking apart, but as usual I just have to push. So as he's walking through the door I yell, "Detective Vecchio? Is it okay if I go across the street for a coffee? I promise not to flee the country or anything." Guys like that bring out the worst in me. He gives me a brush-off type wave that could mean anything from "Yeah, go ahead" to "Bite me" and goes into the garage. The uniformed cops from the second car are following him and another car is pulling into the lot now. H looks over at it and says, "Crime scene guys. Hope Vecchio doesn't piss them off too bad." He walks over to talk to them for a minute, then they all go into the garage too. H pops his head out of the door a second later. "Kowalski -- where's the light switch?" "Left of the office door." He waves his thanks and goes back in. The lights go on after another second, and he comes back out. "I told Vecchio I'm taking your statement, Ray, so let's go get that coffee. Fraser, you coming?" Ben looks real surprised. "Lieutenant, as you know, my medical leave isn't over for another week. I wouldn't want to compromise the -- er -- situation in any way." What the hell? It's still about Vecchio, I can tell. I'll have to get the story out of Ben sometime ... and why am I thinking like we're going to be spending time together in the future? I don't know the answer to that, but I feel like we bonded somehow this morning. He saw me at my worst (well, just about, there was the one-night drinking binge right after the divorce was final) and he got me through it. I like him, and it's not just the tight jeans and the leather jacket, either. But he's probably trying to get out of this gracefully. Do I want that? No, I do not. And I get a little help from the wolf, of all people. I've been kind of leaning against the side of the truck, and I jump about a mile when I get a cold nose shoved into my ear, and then a wet tongue follows it. Dief's got his paws on my shoulders and he's leaning half out of the bed of the truck, so if I move away he'll fall. I like the furball, but this is too much. "Ben, what's he doing? What does this mean?" "It could mean that he likes you." "Or? Ah, jeez, that's gross." Wolf spit in the ear ... yuck. "I really couldn't speculate. Diefenbaker's motives are often quite mysterious to me." His voice is serious, but his eyes aren't. "Ben, I think your wolf is making intimate with me. You have any opinion on that?" By now, H is laughing at me, and Ben's almost cracked a grin. "You know, Ray, he's never before shown any interest in interspecies relationships. It's quite possible that -" He can't keep any kind of a straight face now, and I'm one step from losing it. "Gah! Ben, I don't care if he wants me to have his babies, just get him off me, please?" He comes over and grabs Dief's muzzle again. Hauls his face around and talks right at him. "That's quite enough, Diefenbaker. I'm sure if Ray wants someone to lick him, he's capable of telling them so." Dief whines, and Ben blushes. "Don't be ridiculous. Now get down. We're going across the street for coffee. If you can manage to behave, I'll ask the proprietor if you may join us. Just try to act like a police dog, please." The whole time, he's right inside my 'comfort zone,' about six inches away from me, and it should feel awkward, but it doesn't. And I think about what he just said, about me being capable of asking for what I want. And I wonder if I am. And then I wonder if he would ... oh, man. I am in so much trouble. br> Leave it to Diefenbaker to embarrass me in public. Honestly, the things that wolf can get into ... And his comment on how good Ray tasted was entirely inappropriate. Thank God no one else can understand him. It seems impossible to get through to him that human relationships are not always about how others taste or smell. Although I must admit that while I was dissuading Dief from giving Ray a tongue-bath, my close proximity did allow me to appreciate his scent. Ray's, not Dief's. Good Lord, I must be unhinged. We've only just met. The owner of the coffee shop knows Ray, and allows Diefenbaker in without a problem. It's good that I don't really have to say he's a police dog; although he has worked with the police quite often, he usually objects to the 'dog' part. I think he might have let it go this time though, because where food is concerned he has no pride, and his sensitive nose must be able to appreciate the wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen. Heaven knows I'm hungry again and it's only an hour since I ate breakfast. I follow Ray and the Lieutenant to a table near the back and we sit. I am between the two of them, and the table is rather small, so it takes a few moments before our feet are sorted out to everyone's satisfaction. I didn't notice Ray ordering anything, but the owner brings over a thermal carafe and three cups, sugar, and cream on a tray along with an assortment of muffins. Ray smiles widely and says, "Thanks, Giorgio. You’re a lifesaver." "No problem, Ray. What’s goin’ on at your place?" Ray looks at Lieutenant Welsh, who nods. "Uh, Carlos got killed last night. I found him first thing this morning." "Ah, jeez, no. That’s awful. Robbery?" "Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t keep much cash on hand anyway." "Damn. What’s the neighborhood coming to, eh?" "Yeah, so keep your eyes open, okay?" "You bet. I’ll see you later, Ray." Giorgio leaves, and Lieutenant Welsh pours himself a cup of coffee before taking out his notebook. Ray pours one too, and adds sugar, stirring it for much longer than necessary. I seldom indulge, but it seems I may need a mental edge this morning, all things considered. As I consider doctoring my cup with cream and sugar, the Lieutenant flips to a blank page in his notebook and uncaps his pen. "Okay, let’s start with the basics. Name, Stanley R. Kowalski." "Ah, no, H, do you have to put that down?" I blink, then stare. "Stanley? Your name is Stanley Kowalski?" "Yeah. I go by Ray, Raymond's my middle name, but my dad was this big Brando fan, so ... Stanley." He sighs. "My mum's the only one who still calls me that. I'd appreciate it if it didn't get around." Lieutenant Welsh smiles and says, "You're telling somebody who barely survived the name 'Harding' ? I got you covered, don't worry about it. S. Raymond Kowalski it is." The Lieutenant begins his questioning in earnest, and I half listen as I study Ray. I find myself wanting to know all about him, the details of his life up until now. I already feel I have a good handle on his character. I have found Lieutenant Welsh to be a good judge of the mettle of a person, and if he calls Ray a friend, I imagine that says a lot. And Diefenbaker certainly approves of him -- even more so now that he's being fed bits of muffin surreptitiously. Ray says he was at his parents' house until quite late, watching a baseball game with his father. As the consumption of alcohol had been involved, he wisely decided to spend the night, and drove back to his garage this morning, arriving there around ten minutes to eight and going in the back door to his office. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary, but says he wouldn't have seen the Rockettes, whoever they are, had they been there. I am curious as to why he appears to be living at his place of work, although I am certainly in no position to be critical. There is suddenly another presence at our table, and Dief yelps as the chair under which he was sheltering is abruptly pulled out. I open my mouth to protest this cavalier treatment, but before I can, Ray is speaking. "Hey, Vecchio! I don't know where you're from, but I'm from a little place called America, where we got this thing called 'being kind to animals.' You might want to give it a try sometime." Oh, dear. I could warn him that the bad side of the detective currently known as Ray Vecchio is not at all where he wants to be, but I fear it is too late. And I must admit to being somewhat amused by his clever turn of phrase. Despite his thick local accent, which I am coming to find charming, he really is quite well-spoken and intelligent. I look forward to future conversations. Vecchio is giving me this look that says 'Be afraid. Be very afraid,' but I'm not buying it. I've been threatened by the best, you mook; one slightly oversized detective isn't gonna scare me. I sincerely doubt he'd be a match for some of the kids I coach. Who, by the way, are much nicer to animals. So there you go. Street punks 2, Vecchio 0. "Listen, Kowalski, I don't have time for this. Whose stuff is that in the back room? Looks like a Goodwill store exploded. Was the victim living there?" Oh, crap. Way to make me look pathetic, Vecchio. "Uh, no, that's my stuff. My building went condo, and I've been living at the garage while I look for a new place I can afford." He smirks, and says, "Okay, well, we're about done with the scene, so we need the guy's home address and next-of-kin, stuff like that. You got a Rolodex or something?" He makes it sound like it's impossible I could be that organized. Jerk. "I don't need the Rolodex, I got his info in my DayTimer. Hang on a second." I pull the thing out of my pocket and look up Carlos under the S's. "Here we go. Got a pencil?" I can see that he doesn't, and I smirk inside as he fumbles in his pockets before taking the pen and paper Welsh offers him. Payback's a bitch, ain't it? "Carlos Santana. 2387 East Racine, number 10-B. Phone's 546-2897. I think he's got a girlfriend, but I don't know her name. Maria something, maybe." Ben's looking at me kind of strange, with a hint of a smile. "The victim's name is Carlos Santana?" "Yeah. Some people's parents, huh?" The three of us snicker a little, and Vecchio doesn't get the joke, so it's even funnier. He just frowns and goes on asking me questions in a nasty tone I don't care for at all. "So, he got a green card? Sure would hate to have to involve the INS in this whole mess." What is that, a threat? I am so incredibly tired of this guy, and I know it's just the beginning of a very long day, and I'm probably making it much worse with my attitude, but where does he get off? "He didn't need a green card, Detective. I've got a copy of his Social Security card on file in my office, same as I do for everybody I've ever hired. And as soon as Lieutenant Welsh and I are finished, I'll come across and show it to you." Praise Jesus, he takes the hint and gets up to go. H says, "We'll only be a few more minutes here, Detective. Did you start the door-to-door yet?" Go, H. Put him in his place. He mumbles something about getting started on it and slinks away. We've laid waste to the whole plate of muffins between us (including the bits I was slipping to Dief when Ben wasn't looking), and I pour the last three ounces of coffee into my cup and drain it. H is looking at me now, and I have a feeling I know what's coming next. "What?" "Jeez, Ray, what the hell are you thinking, living in the garage like that? My spare room's not good enough for you?" Yeah, I figured right. "I didn't know how long I'd be there, H. It's not exactly like I said. I mean, at this point, a place I can afford is going to be about the size of my lower desk drawer." "Is it really that bad?" He looks concerned, and I figure he's gonna go for his check book in another minute, so I play it down. "Nah, it's just kind of tight. Trying to put together first, last and security and still leave a big enough cushion for payroll, insurance and loan payments doesn't quite work out. But it's not so bad, you know? I'm getting used to it." "You sure?" No, I'm lying through my teeth, but I can't impose on the guy, so ... "Yeah. Soon as I finish paying off my lawyer I'll have a little more cash to work with. Thank God Stella didn't want alimony, huh?" It seems like Ben's about to say something, and I turn to look at him, but he closes his mouth again and blushes. He's a little hard to figure out, but I can work with weird. He clears his throat and tries again. "You know, Ray, I too have been having difficulty finding a place to live other than my office. Budgetary considerations aside, the number of landlords who are sympathetic to the plight of displaced wolves is so small as to approach zero. And Diefenbaker doesn't help by barking loudly whenever anyone calls him a 'nice doggie'." Dief makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughing. H is nodding his head. "Actually, Ray, I was going to suggest this to Fraser, 'cause I know he's looking for a place, but maybe it could work out for the both of you. This lady I know from my old neighbourhood, friend of my mother, you know -- she's got a big old house that's cut up into apartments. I happen to know she's got a couple free right now. The rent's not too high for the area, but I also happen to know what she really needs is help around the place. Fixing windows, mowing the grass, stuff like that. She'd give you a real good discount on the rent if one of you wanted to take on the job." I look over at Ben to see if I can tell what he thinks of it, and he's staring at H with a really surprised look on his face. Then he smiles and says, "It sounds ideal, sir. I'd certainly like to meet her." "Yeah," I say. "Set it up, H. Let's do it." The rest of the morning goes pretty much like I imagined it would. I have to go down to the station for paperwork and stuff, and I also get to spend some quality time having Vecchio take my "exclusionary" fingerprints. It's not nearly as interesting as they make it look on TV, and way more of a pain in the ass. Then I make phone calls, re-schedule appointments, and worry about all the money I'm losing while my shop sits empty except for the cops. Well, all that and watch Ben. Whenever my eyes start to close from boredom, I look up and see him just standing, back against the wall, shoulders straight. Parade-rest, I think they call it. And it's weird, because he works here, but it's like he's just ... observing. Nobody really talks to him; except for a couple of "Hey, Fraser, how are you?" kind of remarks he might as well not even be here. He looks kind of ... lost. Vecchio calls me back into the room he's been using for what I devoutly hope is the last time. Ben starts to follow, but Mr. Personality snarls, "Fraser, what are you still doing here? You're not part of this investigation." Then he drags me off, but not before I see the look on Ben's face. I just can't understand how anybody could be so nasty and still draw breath. "Vecchio, what is your problem? Ben's here because he's waiting for me. We got stuff to do later." He sneers, which if he knew how it looked on him, he probably wouldn't, and says, "Didn't know you two were so close." Whatever that means. Dude is seriously weird. "I still need to look at his truck, if you ever let me back into my place." "Yeah, well, about that." Oh, shit. He looks way too smug about what he's about to say for me to think I'm going to like it. "We need to keep you out of there a while longer. There might be more evidence that we missed." This guy is treading a very thin line with me. "You already tore the place apart. What more could you possibly hope to find? I told you, nobody ever visited Carlos at work. Hell, he was only working for me for three days." He's flying high now, striding around the room, talking about circumstantial this and partial prints on the lockers, and I can't take another second. I slam my hands down on the table to get his attention. "Listen, Detective Vecchio. I think it must be pretty clear to you by now that I have a bit of a temper. And I'm trying very hard not to lose it, but it seems to me I've told you all I can. If I can't get back into the garage to work today, fine. But I'm trying to run a business, and tomorrow, I want to be able to open at 8 a.m., same as usual. Can we do that?" He sputters a little, but I don't back down, and he agrees that he can try and have everything sorted out by tomorrow morning. "Whatever. Are we done here?" He gestures toward the door, and I slam it behind me as I leave. I look around the big office -- no, H called it the 'bullpen', which makes me think of baseball, but whatever. I don't see Ben right away, but I see a door marked "Lt. H. Welsh," so I walk over. I can hear through the glass that H and Ben are talking, but they stop when I knock, and H waves at me and shoos Ben out. "Vecchio's let me off the hook for now, Ben. You still want me to check out your truck? I can't use the garage yet, but if I drive it around and check under the hood and stuff, I can get a pretty good idea of what's what. Or I could recommend another guy you could take it to, if you want." "I'd ... certainly appreciate any opinion you might have," he says. I check my watch and see it's almost two. Jesus, what a time-killer. Ben sees me looking and checks the clock on the wall. "It's well past lunchtime, Ray. Would you like to get something to eat with me?" He says it kind of off-hand, like he thinks I'm going to turn him down, but I look carefully, and he seems to want me to say yes. Strange guy. "I'd love to. You got anywhere in mind?" Yeah, I was right. He looks surprised, but happy. "Oh. Well, I was thinking -- there's a small deli nearby. Or we could go somewhere else. It's up to you, really." I shrug. "You know the neighborhood better then I do. I'm pretty easy -- lead on." I follow along behind him, through the maze of hallways and people. He nods at people as they pass us, but nobody stops him to talk until we're almost out the door. Then this really pretty chick with big eyes, wavy black hair and a killer smile sees him. "Fraser! You didn't tell me you were coming in today. How's the shoulder?" She grabs his sleeve as she's talking, and I can see him tense up. "Ah, Francesca. My shoulder is improving steadily, thank you. I am indeed still on leave, but certain extenuating circumstances necessitated my presence here today." All of a sudden he's talking like he ate a dictionary, which makes it seem like he's nervous, which I don't get. Pretty women touch me, I tend to like it. He remembers I'm behind him, though, and gets his arm back by using it to pull me forward. Keeps his hand on my shoulder and introduces me. "Ray Kowalski, I'd like you to meet Francesca Vecchio. Ray, Francesca is the department's Civilian Aide. And, of course, Ray's sister." We do the 'nice-to-meet-you' thing, which on my part at least, is a lot more sincere than when I did it with Vecchio. "So, Frase," she says, giving him a sideways look from under her eyelashes, "you got time for lunch? We should, you know, catch up." "Oh. Well. I'm very sorry, Francesca, but Ray and I have ... an appointment. Perhaps another time. If you'll excuse us, we must be going." He smiles and turns toward the door, so I shrug and trail after him again. Dief's curled up in the back of the truck where we left him, sound asleep. I cross my arms and stand in front of the driver's door so Ben can't get in. "Okay, Constable Fraser, talk to me. Why'd you lie to the nice lady in there?" He doesn't pretend not to know what I'm talking about, which I appreciate. "I'd hardly call it lying, Ray. I might have prevaricated." "Lied." "Misinformed." "Lied." "Dissembled." "Lied." "Hedged." "Lied, lied, lied, Thesaurus-Man. Suck it up." He looks at me weird, and says, "I'm sorry, Ray, suck what up?" "It's an expression, Ben. It means -- just stand up and admit it." He sighs and looks at his feet. There's a tiny little smile at the corner of his mouth, though. "Oh, very well. I lied. Are you happy now?" "Not until you tell me why. More intrigue?" "No, it's just ... " He sighs again. "Well, after I was injured, certain females of my acquaintance were, perhaps, overly concerned for my well-being. Which is not to say that I was ungrateful for the concern. But it became ... a bit trying at times." "Ohhhh, I get it. The Florence Nightingale thing. Yeah, I've seen that down at the gym. Chicks go nuts when a guy gets hurt. All touchy-feely and stuff." I chuckle. "So, what, there you are stuck in a hospital gown, and you can't get away, right? Oh, man. Should I start carrying a stick now?" Again with the puzzled look. I have to get a Canadian-American dictionary, I guess. "A stick. To keep the women away with." He makes a sound that more than slightly resembles a snort. "Perhaps you should, Ray. Although I'm surprised you don't have one already." Then he blushes. Huh? Ray's looking like I've hit him, and I can't for the life of me think why. Perhaps he's offended by my compliment. For some reason, I seem to be generating quite a few misunderstandings lately. It would be a good idea to clear this one up immediately, if I am to maintain this fragile friendship we have started. "I only meant that, well, someone who looks like you do would already seem to need a stick. To, as you say, 'keep the women away'." His expression quickly changes to one of suspicious disbelief. "What is that, is that a compliment?" I nod, and he continues. "Yeah, right, Ben. Next to you? I don't think I'll have that problem." But his face is open again, his eyes bright. "Now, where's that deli?" We walk the few short blocks side by side, Dief trailing along or bounding ahead in turns, and I feel somehow in tune with Ray. Connected, on some odd level that has little to do with the length of our acquaintance. Over sandwiches in one of the small booths, we talk more. He tells me about himself; that he wanted to be a policeman, but decided to become a mechanic instead to avoid estranging his family. I tell him that it was expected I would follow my father into the RCMP, and that I had never really considered any other career. When I mention traveling with my grandparents, he becomes curious. "Why'd you have to do that? Where was your mother?" I feel again the guilt I have no reason to feel. "She died when I was six. My father -- he changed then. He took it very hard. And after a short while, he sent me to live with his parents, because he had to go back on patrol." "Man, that's rough. I'm sorry for bringing it up." "Don't worry about it, please. It was a long time ago." I muster a smile, and get one in return. "Okay." We sit for a moment, suddenly awkward, and I realise I have folded my empty sandwich wrapper into a rather good origami likeness of a maple leaf. "It was right after the first real snowstorm," I hear myself say. "We flew south to bury her, back where her family lived. The leaves were still on the trees, and they fell on the snow. It was so beautiful. That's all I remember of her funeral. Seeing the leaves falling all around, and trying to be brave, as my father wished." Dief whines, and rests his head on my knee. Good Lord, how maudlin I've become. I gather myself, ruffle Dief's ears and say, "We should go." "Yeah, sure." Ray scoops up our debris onto the tray, and I toss the folded wrapper on top of the pile. He gives me a warm look I don't quite understand and takes the tray to the refuse bin. When he returns, I have recovered what little dignity I have left, and I precede him to the door. Outside, I automatically turn back toward the station, and Ray falls into step beside me again. "So, now what?" he asks. "I'm not sure. Do you think -- that is, if it's not too much trouble -- " "Too much trouble? After this morning you could ask me to drive to Sault Ste. Marie and I wouldn't even bat an eye." "Why would we need to drive to Sault Ste. Marie?" "We don't. It's a figure of speech." "It is?" "Yeah. Like, y'know, swim the widest ocean, climb the highest mountain -- forget it. What were you going to ask me?" We have arrived back at the parking lot behind the station, and I gesture. "My truck. You were going to take a look at it." He gives himself a slap on the forehead and says, "Of course! What a dope. Okay, I got an idea. How do you feel about taking a little drive with me?" I reach into my pocket and hand him the keys. "Anywhere but Sault Ste. Marie." "Will you get off that? Let's get on the road and see how this baby handles." Ray's driving style seems somewhat erratic at first -- all hard accelerations and abrupt stops. After the third such halt finds me braced against the dashboard, one arm restraining Dief, I have to say something. "Ray, I really hate to complain, but -" He flashes a grin. "Wanted to see how the brakes felt, and how she moves. I'll behave now. Sorry, Dief." And we drive off again, in a much more sedate manner. He pushes up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and I notice a silver beaded bracelet on his right wrist. Dief noses at it, and Ray laughs. "Hey, buddy, don't harass the driver." "Diefenbaker, sit. My apologies, Ray, he's just rather inquisitive. Perhaps we should put him in the back." "Nah, he's fine for now. Okay, hang on to him, we're going down Pothole Alley so I can feel how the shocks work." He turns right down a narrow side street, which is indeed liberally peppered with potholes, although no worse than what one finds in downtown Inuvik in the spring. Three jarring seconds later, we turn left onto another street and continue in our northerly progress. "That wasn't too bad. You're never going to have a really great ride in one of these, but I guess you're good for now. Maybe you'd want to think about some real heavy-duty shocks if you're going off-roading in it." " 'Off-roading'?" "Yeah, like if you go camping or whatever. Up in the mountains. When you go home." "Ah. I'll make a note of that. Thank you." I don't bother to explain how unlikely it is that I'll be 'going home' again for any length of time any time soon, or that the cost to ship this truck there would be more than the truck is worth. "Okay. Next stop, suburbia," Ray says then. "I beg your pardon?" "My dad's got everything except a lift and a hoist. I can run this up onto ramps in his driveway and check it out almost as good as I could at the shop." "I'd hate to impose..." I say. Ray laughs. "Trust me, it's not imposing. Dad'll ask to help and Mom'll try to feed you." "If you're sure, then -- thank you kindly." I'm blindsided by his generosity, with no idea of what more to say, and we drive a few moments in silence until he turns on the radio. It's not far to go, though, and in short order, we turn into the wide driveway of a small well-kept house. "Home sweet home," he says. "Let's get at 'er." We all get out of the truck, and Ray leads the way up to the side door. He looks down at Dief and purses his lips for a moment, then crouches down. "Sorry, furball, but my mother's not too big on strange dogs in her house. You mind waiting out here for a minute?" Dief woofs softly and sits on the grass beside the path. "Thanks. I'll make it up to you later." The door opens then, and a man I take to be Ray's father steps out. "Raymond! You back again? Where's the GTO? I was just thinking we could change the oil." Ray looks at me and shrugs. "Hey, Dad, thanks, but I did it last week." "Oh. Sparkplugs?" "Dad, come on. I got it covered. Listen, this is Ben Fraser. Ben, this is my dad." Although I feel I'm being silly, I desperately want to make a good impression on Ray's parents. "It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kowalski," I say, holding out my hand. He shakes it in a firm grip while eyeing me. "Fraser, eh? Scottish?" "Several generations back, yes, sir. I myself am from Canada." "Ben's a Mountie, Dad. He's stationed -- is stationed the right word? -- anyway, he's living here in Chicago and me and him are looking at apartments tomorrow, trying to find someone that'll put up with the wolf." Ray's words are tumbling out of his mouth, and I wonder if he is nervous about something. Ray's father only grunts at this news. "Well, come on in and say hello to your mother, at least, before you go rushing off again." "I was here all last night, Dad," Ray says, as we enter the house behind Mr. Kowalski. "Barbara! Raymond's here!" A voice comes from the back of the house. "Don't shout, Damian, I'm in here." We proceed down a hallway into the kitchen, where a motherly-looking woman is drying her hands at the sink. "Stanley? Why aren't you at work, dear?" Ray's expression turns sheepish. "I, uh, had to close for the day. We had a ... problem last night." We are urged to sit at the kitchen table. Ray makes the necessary introductions, and Mrs. Kowalski offers us coffee. I observe Ray's parents as he recounts a slightly edited version of the events of the morning. His mother seems shocked and worried for his safety, his father somewhat less surprised and ... dare I say resigned? Almost as if he expected something of this nature to occur. My theory is proved correct by his next words. "Now do you believe me when I say the neighbourhood's no good? Anything could happen. It's those gangs. You'd be better off ...." Ray sighs, tapping his fingers on the table. I sense this is an old argument between the two of them. "It wasn't a gang, Dad. There weren't any tags, and nothing was wrecked. The cops think it might have been somebody who had it in for Carlos personally, but they don't know much. "And there's nothing wrong with the neighbourhood, either. You sound just like those guys who want to 'revitalise' the waterfront. The people who live in those neighbourhoods are no different from the people who live here, except they don't have as much money as they need. And it ain't gonna help them to tear down their homes." He shakes his head. "You've met Damon and Malik. How can you sit there and say this shit to me?" Mrs. Kowalski, obviously used to the friction between father and son, defuses the situation by turning to me and asking, "Benton, can I get you something to eat?" Ray catches my eye, and almost imperceptibly shakes his head. I believe he would enjoy a change of venue, so I say, "No, thank you, ma'am, we've just eaten." Ray jumps in with, "Yeah, sorry, Mom, I didn't know we were coming here or I'd've saved some room." "Well, surely you'll stay for dinner. I'll put in a roast. Would you like that, Stanley?" Ray sighs. "Mom, don't fuss. We just came to take a peek under Ben's truck. Dad, you mind if we use your driveway?" "No, I'll get the ramps. You need any help?" Ray smiles, resigned, I suppose, to his father's assistance. "Sure, the more the merrier." We troop out to the driveway, collecting Dief along the way. Ray produces a cookie from somewhere, and before I can object, it has disappeared into thin air -- or wolf, as the case may be. "Ray ... " "It was peanut butter, no chocolate, I promise. Homemade, too. Practically health food." I shake my head, trying to hide how pleased I am at their rapport. Dief looks insufferably smug at his good fortune in finding another human to own, and I resolve to increase his exercise rather than argue with Ray about it. It is more than time that I get back to my own regimen, in any case. I watch from the grass as Ray and his father, with the ease and familiarity of long acquaintance, manoeuvre the truck onto four small metal ramps, thereby raising the tires off the ground by about six inches. Tools and a work light are brought out, along with a slider. They communicate mostly in mono-syllables and gestures, each secure in the knowledge that the other knows what to do, and I am struck by a pang of envy. My father and I never had this, not once. Our infrequent times together mainly consisted of forays into the wild, which were always lessons for me. After I grew old enough to be out on my own, that was how I was left, for the most part. The closest I ever came to the relationship Ray shares with his father was when I was with Quinn. Dief butts up against my leg, and when I look down, he jumps up and licks my face. I suppose this is another bad habit of which I should try to break him, but I don't have the heart right now. Frustrating though he is, he's all I have left of home. I crouch down next to him and ruffle his ears, something he pretends to find annoying, although I'm sure he secretly enjoys the attention. Suddenly another hand joins mine on the soft fur. I look up and see Ray. "Okay, Ben, here's the deal. You do not want this truck." I can only gape at him, looking, I am sure, exactly like a fish on a riverbank. He's taken off his baggy grey sweatshirt to reveal a tight black singlet. The superb muscular definition in his shoulders and biceps takes me somewhat by surprise, in a very pleasant way. There is a smudge of grease on his left cheek, and another on his upper arm. I am nearly overwhelmed by the desire to drag him to the ground and lick him clean. "I found where the frame's been straightened. No way I can let you buy this, it's going to go out of alignment every time you turn around." Good Lord, it's not grease on his arm, it's a tattoo. That's ... quite erotic. I swallow, and try to concentrate on what he's saying over the pounding blood in my ears. Try to remember we're out here on his parents' front lawn, in full view of his father and the neighbours. But oh, if we were alone somewhere ... "Ben? You okay?" I marshal my thoughts for a reply. "I'm ... fine, Ray. The frame's been straightened, you say? I did a cursory check, but I didn't notice that." "Yeah, it's a good job but I spotted it. Lucky for you I have a suspicious nature. Who was it tried to sell you this, anyway?" I can barely remember my own name at this moment. "I ... have his business card in my desk." "Good. I want to have a word with this weasel. Okay, we're done here. Let me just put stuff away." It is odd what a warm feeling I get when I see how fiercely Ray is trying to protect me. When Ray Vecchio used to do the same, it would make me feel inadequate; as though he thought I couldn't take care of myself. I suppose the difference may be that in this case, I asked for the help and advice, but I don't believe that is all of it. I rise to my feet, watching Ray's lithe and graceful form as he coils an extension cord and carries it into the garage, then comes out to back the truck down off the ramps. Finally, he gets his sweatshirt out of the bed and tosses me the keys. "It's safe to drive, but you should see if you can get your money back on the rest of the lease. How long you still got on it?" "About two weeks." He nods, looking thoughtful. "Okay." Then he flashes me a mischievous grin. "Hey, we can use it to move first, though, right? No sense in renting a U-Haul if we don't need one." And again I can do nothing but grin back at him. Made it through dinner with the parents, two nights in a row for me. It's kind of rough, I know they're still disappointed about Stella. Ben was great, though; I think he got how my dad is and tried to steer the conversation away from me and my problems. He seems to have recovered from whatever made him loopy out in the yard earlier. Of course, maybe he was just trying not to laugh at the huge grease spot I had on my face. And the fact that he's been carrying the conversation gives me the chance to do some thinking. From everything he's said and done today, I've got kind of a line on him now. And what I'm seeing most, besides the good looks, is this earnestness, like he's the world's biggest Boy Scout. It's a strange kind of thing to find, these days, when most people are out for what they can get and not too worried about how they get it. It makes me want to shake him and say, "Look around! That's not how the world works anymore." It also makes me want to be totally up-front and honest with him, about everything. I mean, I can be discreet, but he's either going to find out sooner, or later. I don't think 'never' is an option. So I'm thinking about coming out, for the second time. Well, the first time wasn't planned, so ... I guess I'm actually thinking about it for the first time. Problem is, I'm absolutely terrified, now that it's come down to it, that he'll bolt before we have the chance to really get to know each other. I have no idea how he'd take the news, being raised how he was and all. So I just keep going back and forth with it in my head. After we're done eating, Ben insists on helping Mom clear the table and clean up, so I go along with it. Dad just shakes his head and goes in to watch the news. Most nights I'd've joined him without even thinking twice, that's just how things are at Chez Kowalski. With the three of us it takes no time at all, but as soon as the big platter's put away, I'm getting itchy to get out for a while. Ben calls H to find out what time we're supposed to look at the apartments tomorrow. I can only hear half the conversation, but from the look on Ben's face I can tell something's up. "What?" I say as soon as he's off the phone. He scratches his eyebrow with his thumbnail and says, "The lieutenant said there was a slight hitch." "Which is?" I say. He's making me antsy. He fakes a smile, like he's trying to break some bad news to me, and says, "There's only one apartment available at this time." "Oh," I say, but what I'm actually thinking is Oh, shit. "You should take it, Ray," Ben says, while I’m still floundering. "I'm fine where I am." Dief barks twice and Ben looks down at him. "Please," he says, "I hardly think so. How would you pay the rent? You've gone through your savings." "No, I can't do that to you," I say, because I can be kind of a selfish bastard at times -- according to Stella, at least -- but I do have some manners. "You take it." "No, really --" he says, and there he goes with the eyebrow again, and suddenly I realize that's more than a sign he's got an itch. "What else did H say?" I ask, and Ben looks surprised. I try not to look smug when he goes on. "Well, it seems that the available apartment has two bedrooms." "Really," I say, stalling for time, because on the one hand, sharing an apartment at almost-forty is a little weird, but on the other hand, so is living in your office. I think I'd rather be weird and have a working shower. It has nothing to do with who I'd be sharing the shower with. Nothing at all. Just as I'm about done processing all that, he opens his mouth and says, "Lieutenant Welsh suggested ... that is ... perhaps we could ... share." Holy cow, he looks so hopeful it feels like being picked first for stickball and hitting a home run. "Yeah?" I say. He nods. "If you're amenable?" I think that means do I want to, in Canadian. I fight the urge to jump for joy and say, "Can you cook?" "Reasonably well," he says. "How do you feel about turtles?" I say then, like it's a deal breaker or something. He looks thoughtful. "Properly prepared, they're quite tasty." What? I start to splutter and I'm about to lose it when he giggles. "I'm sorry, Ray," he says. "I saw the tank on your desk this morning." Jesus. Who'd have thought he had such a twisted sense of humor? "Freak," I say. "Next time, warn a guy." "Understood," he says. And we stand there in the hallway just smiling at each other until Dief barks again. We escape from the house by saying we need to walk poor Dief, who thinks it's about time, evidently. There's a park a little ways down the street, and I walk along beside Ben, looking at the sky, which is just getting dark beyond the streetlights. Neither one of us seems to have anything to say, so when we get to the park, we sit side by side on a table and watch Dief trying to catch fireflies. When he does catch one, he spits it out real quick, like they taste nasty. I'm wondering whether now is a good time to break the news when Ben says, "Ray, is something wrong?" He's way too good at reading people. My heart rate speeds up some, but I say, "Nah, not really." That almost feels like a lie, though, and I have to go on. "Just -- did you ever have a secret, and you wanted to tell somebody, but you felt like it would change your whole world if anybody found out about it?" He looks at me and frowns a little, then looks away again. "I think I know what you mean. And yes, I ... have. In my experience, most people do." "And did you? Tell?" He sighs. "I thought about it for quite a while. I even tried, once or twice -- dropped hints here and there. Then the point became somewhat moot ... " His voice gets quiet at the end, and I think he's done talking. Then he says, "In the end, I felt I had to say something, although I was still very unsure how it would affect things." "So what happened?" He shakes his head. "I'm still not quite sure. Things are -- up in the air, you might say." "Hmm. D'you think it's lying, if you don't tell?" "I suppose it depends on the secret, Ray. In my case, it was mostly a matter of not correcting false assumptions. If anyone had asked me directly, I don't think I would have lied." "Hunh. Okay, thanks. That helps a lot." "Glad to be of service." I lean over towards him and bump him with my shoulder. "How much you charge for the office call?" He smiles. "I usually give one free initial consultation, but in your case ... ." "Gonna charge me double?" He bumps me back. "I'll send you a bill." "How 'bout an even trade for the truck thing?" "Ray -- no. I couldn't possibly allow you to do that." "How're you planning to stop me?" "You gave up your afternoon for me. I can't take advantage of you like that. A few words of advice are hardly a fair trade." "They are if I say they are. And I wasn't doing much with my afternoon anyway. Not like I had anyplace else to go. Think about it this way -- you saved me from a real boring day hanging around the coffee shop." "Well, I suppose if you put it like that ... Ray, I just realized -- do you need a place to spend the night? There's room at the Consulate." "Nah, Mom keeps a room for me." "Ah. I see. Of course. Forgive my curiosity, but why didn't you stay there when you were in need of a place to live?" "Because guys my age do not move back in with their parents. My dad made that real clear when I turned eighteen. Besides, it was hard enough on Mom when I left the first time. Didn't want to go through it all over again." "She was upset?" "Cried for a week. Then she got over it, started baking and stopping by with cookies, ironing my shirts while she was there ... it was what she needed to do, I guess. Mothers, huh?" "Indeed. Although ... " He shrugs. "I have little direct experience in the matter." "Oh, shit, I forgot. I really don't mean to keep bringing that up." He turns his whole body towards me, and I get the full effect of his smile, even if it is a little sad around the edges. "I don't mind. As I said, it was a long time ago. I barely remember her, just ... impressions, mostly. Her eyes, her smile, how she laughed ... they're all good memories, Ray." He looks right at me, into my eyes, but it's like he's seeing through me, like I'm not even there. Then he shakes his head a little and says, "Well, then, if you've no further need of me, I'll take myself off." "Sure. See you tomorrow?" "Certainly. The lieutenant said ten o'clock -- should we meet there, or ... " "I could pick you up. If you want." I feel like I'm setting up a date, for Christ's sake. "Save gas, do our part to conserve, right?" He smiles. "That sounds fine. About nine-forty-five, then. Do you know where the Canadian Consulate is?" "Not a clue." Dief comes running over. I guess he's done chasing things, so we head back to the house, Ben giving me directions to the Consulate as we walk. We get to the driveway and his truck, and stop walking. All of a sudden I feel awkward, like I don't know where to put my hands. Like a first-date kind of awkwardness, wondering whether you're going to get a kiss. "Well," he says, and he gives me a funny smile, almost like he feels it too. "Thank your mother again for dinner, if you would. It was very kind of her." "Sure, no problem." We stand there, looking at each other, not saying anything, until Dief whines and breaks the spell. I crouch down beside him to say goodbye, and decide I can at least give him a hug, so I do. "G'night, furball," I say. Then I stand up and hold out my hand. "Goodnight, Ben. It's been a hell of a weird day, but I'm definitely glad I met you." He seems surprised, but shakes my hand anyway. "Likewise, Ray," he says. He gets in the truck with Dief and drives off, and I stand there in the driveway watching the tail-lights long after they're out of sight. Then I take myself inside and try to remind myself, over and over until I finally fall asleep, all the reasons why I'm not ever going to fall in love again. Nine-thirty finds me haunting the foyer, hoping for Ray to be early for our appointment. Turnbull looks at me oddly, as is only fair, for I am not, in general, a man who paces. And yet I am pacing; checking the windows on every turn, Dief dogging my heels. Earlier this morning, Inspector Thatcher had decided that my medical leave was no reason for me to be exempted from the yearly psychological reviews, and consequently had brought the doctor into my office promptly at eight a.m. I tried to beg off, but the fact that I'd had dreams that left me feeling a bit ... unsettled ... was hardly a reason to forego the exam. The mysterious, evidently illusory chainsaw noises coming from my closet only added to my discomfort, and were almost enough to make me want to skip the tests entirely and beg for committal. I can only hope that I acquitted myself well enough to be allowed to continue here. It would be the sheerest irony if, after all my previous requests, I were to be transferred back home now, after meeting Ray. At last a car pulls up to the curb, and with a profound sense of relief I recognize Ray in the driver's seat. I open the door and Dief is through it like a shot, leaving me far behind. I call good-bye to Turnbull over my shoulder, and hear his response only vaguely as I take in the sight of Ray getting out of his car. He has dressed to make a good impression, I assume, in well-pressed khakis and a polo shirt in an odd shade of green that suits him well. His hair is evenly spiked this morning, so I am forced to acknowledge that this is how he prefers it. Again, it is odd, but it suits him. I glance down at my very ordinary jeans and flannel shirt, wondering how I appear to him. Too casual? Too 'backwoods'? Boring? "Hey, Ben," he calls. "Ready to rock 'n' roll?" Diefenbaker hits him then, and he staggers a bit, laughing easily as he fends off the lupine attack. "Hey, Dief. How's my best bud, huh? Sorry, no cookies this morning. Maybe later, we'll see." They tussle for a moment, Dief tolerating far more indignity from Ray than he will from me. Perhaps he, too, is enamoured. I approach the car, suppressing my utterly ridiculous pangs of jealousy, and I am treated to one of the brightest smiles I've ever seen. "Good morning," I say, realising I have not yet replied to his greeting. "You look very nice today." Too late I think of how that might sound to him, and I cringe mentally. Ray Vecchio would no doubt have had a mildly sarcastic remark to make about my compliment, but this Ray only smiles again, shyly, and looks down at himself. "Thanks. Figured I'd at least make an effort, you know? Can't do too much with my wardrobe, but ..." he shrugs, "I thought this was okay." I nod, agreeing. Then I indicate my own apparel. "Should I change?" He looks surprised. "Hell, no, don't change! I mean ... you look great. Probably look better when you first get up than I do after I've worked on myself for an hour." Then he blushes. "I, um, don't really do that. Just ..." He seems taken aback by his own comment, and I am somewhat gratified to know I'm not alone in my awkwardness. I set aside his compliment for further consideration at a later time. "Another figure of speech?" I offer. He seizes the metaphorical rope eagerly. "Yeah. So. Ready to go?" "Indeed I am." He looks at me searchingly as we get into the car. "Rough morning?" "You could say that." "I thought you were on leave. They're not making you work, are they?" "Not as such, no. Just ... what do you think of if I say the word 'closet'?" He turns to me, affronted. "What the hell kind of question's that?" "It's word association." "Oh," he says, mollified. "Okay. Um, closet ... door." "Not chainsaw?" He grins. "You should maybe think about having some kind of mental evaluation, there, Ben." "Too late," I say glumly. He starts the car, shaking his head, still grinning. The address Lieutenant Welsh gave me is a mere seven-minute drive from the Consulate. Dief endures being relegated to the back seat for the ride as long as a window remains open, and he rests his head on Ray's shoulder at stoplights. They have reached an agreement about, as Ray put it, 'the licking thing'. "Not while I'm driving, and not on the ear. Or the mouth, thank you very much." Which leaves very little, as far as Dief is concerned. I'd like to tell him to be happy he's allowed to do that much, but I am afraid the envy I feel will be apparent in my voice, so I remain silent on the matter. The house, when we arrive, is in a mostly residential neighbourhood. There is a small grocery store and bakery on the corner, which will be convenient. The rest of the street is mixed types of housing, ranging from a row house with five units to several side-by-side duplexes, to our destination, a huge old Victorian badly in need of painting. My father chooses this moment to put in an appearance. "I don't think much of the neighbourhood, son," he says from the back seat. "Too noisy. Look at all those children. You'll never have a moment's peace." After months of solitude it is habit to answer him, and I forget that Ray is there as I snap over my shoulder, "Then perhaps you should remain at the Consulate -- or wherever it is you keep yourself these days." Ray has pulled up to the curb in front of the house, and he sets the brake before turning to me. "Ben, who in the hell are you talking to?" Damn. I really must remember not to let Dad bait me like that. "I was speaking to Diefenbaker. He's extremely opinionated lately." Ray looks skeptical, but says only, "Okay. Come on, Dief. Let's at least see what the yard looks like before you give up all hope." Dief whines at me as we follow Ray up the front walk. "Behave yourself," I say. "And no barking, I don't care what she calls you." As we approach the porch, the door opens and a woman steps out. She has straight, iron-grey hair reaching past her shoulders, and she's wearing a butcher's apron spotted with a reddish substance I take to be paint or possibly clay. Her left foot and ankle are in a walking cast, and she holds the door wide open as we climb the stairs. "Good morning, gentlemen. Might you be the two young men Harding Welsh told me to look out for?" She has a beautiful lilt to her voice that makes me think of bagpipes and tartans. "Good morning, ma'am. I'm Constable Benton Fraser, and this is my part--" I stop, shocked at what I've almost said out of sheer habit. "This is Ray Kowalski." "I'm Elizabeth Duncan. Come on in and we'll have some tea." "Thank you kindly, ma'am," Ray says, and turns to wink at me as I stare at him. He seems to enjoy disconcerting me. Ray Vecchio often would tease me about my 'excessive politeness', but not in this manner. I realise that comparisons of this nature are inevitable, given the circumstances, and I do not wish to be disloyal to my friend, but ... and I stop my train of thought there. It makes no difference whether I have two friends or twenty -- people are not interchangeable. Ray Kowalski is not Ray Vecchio, nor would I wish him to be. I need not forgive myself for enjoying his company as much as I do. It is no disloyalty. Ray has entered the house, and I turn to Diefenbaker and tell him to wait on the porch. He gives me a speaking look, but thumps down at the top of the stairs. "Oh, heavens, Constable Fraser, your dog can come in. Harding assured me that he's very well behaved." I try to demur, but the traitor-to-his-kind has already vanished through the door, leaving me to look foolish once again. Deaf, my eye. We're going to have a little chat soon ... "And now you, Constable. Before the others drink all the tea?" Good heavens, my manners are execrable. "I beg your pardon, ma'am ... please, after you." Ray and Diefenbaker have made themselves comfortable on the sofa and under the table, respectively. Mrs. Duncan has laid out a lovely tea: scones, jam, butter, and what looks to be clotted cream. She hangs up her apron and joins us, sitting in a wing chair and propping her cast up on a small footstool. "Constable, if I could prevail upon you to pour ... ?" "I'd be honoured," I say, removing the cozy from the pot and placing it on the table. "And may I say, ma'am, that it all looks delicious." "You may," she replies, "if you can do so without calling me 'ma'am'." "Ma'am?" I say without thinking, and she laughs. "Liz," she says firmly. "All right, Liz," I say, trying not to think of how horrified my grandmother would have been. "And I'm Ben, of course." Ray pipes up then. "Me, I'm thirsty. Pour the tea, Ben, before we die of waiting." I pour the tea. Over the excellent Earl Grey (which Ray sniffed suspiciously and then drank with evident enjoyment) and truly wonderful home-baked scones, I can feel myself starting to relax. Liz asks what part of Canada I am from. "The Northwest Territories. I was raised by my grandparents, and we traveled around a great deal. They had a sort of travelling library -- a book-mobile, I think you'd call it. I suppose if I'm from anywhere, it would be a small town called Inuvik." Liz examines my face closely. "You miss it a great deal, don't you?" Simple question, simple answer. "Yes, very much. But I have been posted here, and so I will remain until I am transferred." And how to say I miss it less today than yesterday? It would seem presumptuous. Ray rescues me with a question of his own. "So, Liz, how'd you break your ankle?" She smiles. "Oh, it was one of those foolish things I am so prone to. I tried to make it down a double-black-diamond trail at Sugarbush." I have no idea what that means, but Ray seems to. "Skiing? Cool. I never tried it. Love to watch the guys on TV, though. The Olympics and stuff. All that speed, just -- wow. So you gonna do it again? After the cast comes off, I mean." "Undoubtedly I will, Ray. Although perhaps not that particular trail." There's a noise and the kitchen door is slowly pushed open. In walks a very regal Siamese cat, followed by three miniature versions. Mama and babies, I assume, and I put my hand on Dief's head. He's quite well behaved in most regards, but he doesn't take well to being sneered at by strange felines. He may sulk for days afterwards. This cat doesn't seem prone to sneering, however. She jumps up into Liz's lap, and indulgently watches her kittens as they crowd around Dief. They seem to think he is some sort of mountain that must be conquered. He looks up at me beseechingly. "No, I don't think it's at all beneath your dignity. The Siamese are a proud breed. You should feel honoured." Ray laughs and reaches over to pet the cat on Liz's lap. "What's her name, Liz?" "This is Madame Ling, and the three on the floor are Yum-Yum, Pitti-Sing, and Ko-Ko." "Cool. Not Peep-Bo?" He slides to the floor, lifts the kitten in question and turns it over. "Oh, I see why. Can't call a boy-cat a girl's name, I guess." Ray places Ko-Ko onto Dief's back, where he balances precariously. I look at Ray curiously and he shrugs. "Mom likes Gilbert and Sullivan. So?" "Nothing. I just -- nothing." He smirks at me, and picks up another kitten, carefully setting it beside the first. Dief moans as its tiny claws dig in, and Ray laughs again. "Don't worry, Dief, I won't tell a soul about this." He leans down closer to Dief, who licks Ray's face in answer, then sighs and lowers his head to the floor in resignation. Our tea is finished now, and Liz proposes a tour of the apartment. It would seem she has made up her mind about taking us on as tenants rather quickly. Of course, I am no one to talk about snap decisions, as I am here looking to move in with a man I've only known for a day. But I still feel something; a pull, a connection. I can no more walk away from this than I could leave my post. I think Ben's in love. If you can be in love with a house, I mean. Between me and Liz (who's a very cool old lady, I must say), we've got him loosened up pretty good. And the sight of Dief with three kittens climbing all over him helped too, no doubt. But I think what really tipped the scales was the house. The way he's looking at the paneling and the whatchamacallums, moldings, makes me think there's something he wants here. Something other than just pieces of wood. Maybe it has to do with how he moved around so much when he was a kid. Never thought about how good I had it, growing up in my old neighborhood. Continuity. Roots. Yeah, that's a big thing. Turns out Liz is a retired art teacher who's now trying to be an artist. The back half of the ground floor is her studio. The apartment she wants to show us is directly over it; so, she says, if we were to make any noise, it wouldn't disturb her sleep. I can't imagine she means what it sounds like, but she looks at Ben and he just says we'll try to be considerate, of course. As if he’d know how to be anything but. To get to the apartment, we have to go out the front door and over to some stairs at the side of the porch. When we get upstairs Liz unlocks the door and we walk into a kitchen with big windows on two sides, and nice modern appliances. I'm already thinking I can't wait to move in; I'm so sick of living out of the back room of my garage I could spit. Past the kitchen it opens up into a big room I guess is the living room. It's got a window seat on one wall, which is pretty cool, and a fireplace, which is even better. Ben's eyes light up when he sees it, and he asks if it works in a kind of weirdly hopeful tone. Liz says it does, and she usually gets a cord of wood delivered every fall; if we'd like to get in on the deal just let her know. Oh, yeah, I think we'll be doing that for sure. He looks at that fireplace like it's a big-screen TV with a free satellite hook-up and a beer cooler attached. Which I guess maybe, where he comes from, it is. Personally, I'm more impressed with the floor, which is a good smooth hardwood, perfect for my dancing fix when I need one. The other door to the outside's on the back wall. I walk over and see there's a nice little porch area we can put a couple chairs on, maybe a grill. Stairs leading right down to a fenced yard, which Dief will love, I'm sure, no matter what he said earlier. It strikes me then to wonder whether I'm missing out on conversations with my turtle. I mean, Spartacus never answered me back yet, but maybe I'm just not listening right. Liz is opening the door on the other side of the room, and I guess it's one of the bedrooms. I hate to be rude, so I hurry to catch up with the group and collide with Ben, 'cause he's stopped just inside the doorway. We do a little dance thing before it becomes clear nobody's going to fall. I swear the damn wolf is laughing at us. "Dief, knock it off or you get no table scraps. Ever. Just 'cause you have the advantage of four feet to balance with, don't look down on us poor pathetic humans. I have two words for you, furball. Opposable thumbs." Liz laughs a little and says, "This is the bedroom, gentlemen. It has a nice big walk-in closet, and there's a door to the bathroom right here. This side of the house gets the afternoon sun." I am all over that. "Dibs on this one, Ben. You probably like getting up early every day, but I need to wallow on the weekends. Okay, lead on. Where's Ben's room?" Liz looks a little confused. Then she turns red and says, "I beg your pardon, I thought -- well, that is I assumed -" Oh, God, she thought we were a couple. I'd laugh if it wouldn't hurt her feelings -- and probably Ben's, too. I mean, obviously I'd have no objection personally, but I'm sure there's whole chapters of the Canadian penal code devoted to the punishment for corrupting a Mountie. Ben's doing the lip thing again, and then he rubs his eyebrow with his thumb and says, "I was under the impression that -- Lieutenant Welsh said there were two bedrooms." "Well, there are, but I told him how small the other one was, and he just laughed and said it wouldn't be a problem, so I thought ... oh dear. I'm so very sorry." "The Lieutenant was undoubtedly referring to the fact that I have been living on a cot in my office." They're both still way embarrassed, so I try to lighten the mood a little. "Hey guys, no harm, no foul, right? On with the tour." Ben glances at me, and I smile in what I hope is a reassuring way. Don't know what he's so worried about; I'm not going to back out of this because somebody got the wrong impression about us. Frankly, I'm flattered she'd think I had a chance. I almost say this, but manage not to, which is probably good. That might be a little too much info for the freaked-out Mountie. Liz starts toward the bathroom, and I make pushing motions with my hands to get Ben moving. After another second, he follows after Dief, who's acting like this is all going to be his someday, as long as he sticks close to Liz. The bathroom is pretty cool. There's a room with a toilet and a sink, and another door. Through that door is a room with a nice big bathtub/shower combo and another door. Through that door is another room with another toilet and sink, just like the first one. And then finally there's another door that lets you out into a hallway on the other side. The living room's to our right, and straight ahead across the hall is what I figure must be the other bedroom. Liz opens the door, and I was right. And it is small, enough to make me feel really guilty about dibs-ing the other room before we'd seen them both. "Uh, Liz? Could you excuse us for a second? Just need a conference here." "Certainly, take your time." I drag Ben into the tiny room and shut the door. "Okay, here's the thing. I shouldn't have done that, before. I'm sorry. Here's your chance to even it up. I'll flip you for it. Fair?" Again with the looking like I'm speaking Chinese. "The big room, Ben. I'm taking back my dibs. Heads or tails?" I fish in my pocket for a quarter. "Ray, you don't have to do this." "Yeah, I do. Stanley Raymond Kowalski does not take advantage of anybody. Heads or tails?" He shakes his head. "This bedroom is fine. I refuse to flip you for it." "I -- what? You can't do that." "I just did." "You can't refuse a coin-toss. It's -- it's -- it's un-American!" He smirks at me. "Perhaps so. But Ray, lest you forget, I myself am un-American." "Oh, you had to go there, didn't you? You had to play the Canadian card. Stubborn Mountie. Fine. Take the damn small bedroom." He's smiling now, having fun like I am, I guess. I love how we can do this back-and-forth thing. "Fine, I will." "Just see if I go trying to be nice again." "Well, don't put yourself out on my account." We're almost yelling now, and Dief is looking at us like we're crazy, which he's right about, I guess. I start laughing, I can't keep it in any longer, and after a second, Ben joins in. "Poor Dief, what a trauma, huh? You just hate it when your daddies fight, don't you?" I crouch right down beside the furball, give him a good head-rub, and then I hear what I just said. Oh, shit. Okay, so that was a joke, but maybe not so funny to Ben. I sneak a look at him, and he's just staring -- jaw dropped, everything. Damn, damn, damn; Mom should have glued my mouth shut like she always threatened to. And then he starts to laugh again. Thank God, we're going to be okay. We hash out the details of our tenancy rather quickly, all things considered. In exchange for a few minor repairs and some weekly yard work; we are given what I can only assume to be a sizeable discount on the rent. When Liz tells us that utilities are included, the look on Ray's face tells me the figure is unacceptably low. "Wait, wait, wait. You cannot possibly sit there with a straight face and tell me the rent is $500, utilities included. My Mom finds out, she'll come over here and kick me in the head. No way, Liz." "Way, Raymond," she says. There is evidently a sub-cultural language here that I don't understand, because Ray seems to find this very amusing. Liz continues. "Now, I do hope you're not insinuating that I'm some easily duped little old lady. I know exactly how much rent I could be charging. But the house is paid for, and I have enough to live on from my pension and the life insurance my husband left. Frankly, I'd let the place stand empty if I didn't like you two." Dief whuffles, and she smiles. "Excuse me, Diefenbaker, you three. Don't argue with me on this, or I'll be forced to throw in Sunday dinners as well." Ray laughs at this, as do I. "No, not that," he gasps in mock horror. "We'll do anything ... please, not Sunday dinner!" "So we're agreed?" "All right, Liz. You drive a hard bargain, but I guess if we have to ... ." We shake hands all around, and Ray and I agree to begin the repairs at the earliest opportunity. It's hardly the burden Liz seems to think it -- I believe I'll rather enjoy it, in fact. Since the apartment is ready for immediate occupancy, and Liz is amenable, there seems no reason to delay my moving from the Consulate. My possessions consist mainly of what I brought back with me from the Territories, and Dief has only his new food and water dishes -- it should be simple enough to load them into the truck. We take our leave of Liz, and walk out to Ray's car. Now that I am somewhat less preoccupied, I notice how beautifully it's been taken care of. I sigh inwardly at the thought of another automobile enthusiast in my life, but at least Ray comes by it more or less naturally, as his chosen profession. And there is very little chance that we will ever have to pursue miscreants together, so this car, at least, should be safe. Ray notices me looking and beams proudly. "Looks like it just came out of the showroom, doesn't it?" "Yes, it's quite nice. A Gran Turismo Omologato; 1967, if I'm not mistaken?" He cocks his head to one side and looks at me narrowly for a minute, and I'm afraid I've said something wrong. Then he says, "Yeah, it's a GTO. Me and my dad worked hard on it -- six coats of paint. It's kind of a ... it's a thing we do. Even when he ... well, me and him could always talk about cars." I nod. "With my father it was tracking." "Yeah?" He seems to relax a little with this revelation. "Yes; that and stories of his days on patrol. We seemed to ... connect best that way. If you can call it connecting -- usually he talked and I listened." "Yeah. I get that." There is another silence between us, similar to last night's final exchange outside his house. I can't call it awkward, precisely; perhaps charged is the better word. I wonder if Ray feels it too, and I have to force myself to speak of commonplace reality, lest I blurt out what I'm feeling. "Well, I should let you get back to work. I can easily walk from here." "No way. I can bring you back." "Don't you have to get back to the garage?" "Nah, it's cool. Come on, let's go." I give in to him and open the door for Dief, who bounds into the back seat as though he's done it a hundred times. Ray and I get in, and on the short drive back to the Consulate he is animated, turning on the radio again and singing softly along with the music. He punctuates this with a running commentary on the features of our new neighbourhood, which include a Laundromat, a pizzeria, and a liquor store. When we reach the Consulate, he pulls up to the curb and shuts off the engine, obviously preparing to get out. "Ray, you don't have to come in. I can pack what I need easily. I'm sure you have work to do." "Hey, I want to help. I can carry some stuff, can't I? 'Cause I am for sure gonna need help when it comes time to move me in, so I gotta do the quid pro quo thing, right?" I shouldn't be surprised at his use of a Latin phrase, but my face betrays me. He grins that infectious grin. "Yeah, you caught me. I'm not as dumb as I sound most of the time. It's just a -- whatsit -- a posture. Had to be the tough guy on the street, at the gym, in my old neighbourhood ... I was already the skinny freak with glasses. Didn't need to stick out any worse than that. Stella didn't like it, so I used to talk better around her. But now it's just a habit. Don't rat me out, okay?" "Your secret is safe with me, Ray," I say seriously. "Thank you kindly, Ben, " he says with a mostly straight face. Then he grins, and we both laugh. I honestly haven't laughed so much since ... I can't remember. It augurs well for the future, I think. I lead the way up the walk to the front door. Constable Turnbull greets us in the foyer. "Constable Fraser, good day. Did your morning appointment turn out well, sir?" "Very well, Turnbull, thank you kindly for asking." "May I offer your guest some refreshment?" "Oh, my apologies. Ray Kowalski, allow me to introduce Constable Renfield Turnbull. Ray and I will be sharing an apartment, Turnbull, and we've come to pack my kit and collect Diefenbaker's dishes and food." "That's wonderful news, sir. Mr. Kowalski, welcome to Canada. Allow me to show you to Constable Fraser's office." "Turnbull?" "Yes, sir?" "I think I can take care of showing Ray around." "Well, sir, I assumed you would want to return Lieutenant Welsh's telephone call." I silently count to five, then say in an even tone, "I was unaware that Lieutenant Welsh had called me." "Oh, yes sir, didn't I mention that?" I sigh. "No, Turnbull, you didn't. But now that you have, please do show Ray to my office. Ray, I'll be with you momentarily." Ray and Turnbull go off down the hall together, and I pick up the telephone on the desk and dial the number for the 27th. After the usual dizzying conversation with Francesca, I am finally connected to the Lieutenant. "Constable! How'd you make out?" I'm rather puzzled by his tone, not to mention his question, but I answer truthfully, "Very well, sir. I'll be moving in today, in fact. Ray is waiting until this weekend so that he has time to get his belongings out of storage." "Good, good," he says, and his tone is still odd. "May I ask, sir -- was this the reason for your call?" I hear his sigh clearly. "Not exactly. And I can't tell you how much I'm going to regret this, but ... would you consider looking into this Santana thing a bit? On the Q.T., you know. Vecchio's just spinning his wheels over there. I gave him until noon, unless he actually finds something useful. So if you could head over there after lunch, say, and just have a little look-see, I'd appreciate it." I am speechless on two counts. Firstly, I cannot remember the Lieutenant ever asking for my help in such a way; secondly, I have just discovered exactly why it was that Ray was in no hurry to get back to work. "Lieutenant, are you saying that Ray's garage is still a crime scene? That he wasn't able to open this morning?" "Yeah, I thought you'd seen him. He didn't tell you?" "No. I'm not sure why, either. Well, thank you kindly, Lieutenant. I won't let you down, sir. This will have my full attention." He mumbles something that sounds like "That's what I'm afraid of," and then says "That's very reassuring, Fraser. Let me fill you in on what we've got so far." So evidently Mounties only come in Large and Extra-Large. Must be something in the water. Turnbull keeps trying to call me Mr. Kowalski, even after I tell him twice to just call me Ray. I give up and just say "thank you kindly," and he goes away. Not a bad sort, I guess. Didn't think they made 'em starchier than Ben, though. Maybe it’s the uniform. I bet Ben looks real nice in his ... Okay, Kowalski, that's it. Enough of the teen-age-girl crap. It's bad enough you got a jones for the guy. No fantasizing allowed, got it? No drooling, either. If the roommates thing is going to work out at all, get over this or deal with it somehow. Unless he wants me, too. Yeah, right. I have to laugh at that one. Dief looks at me, but I don't feel like sharing the joke. I'm looking at the bulletin board, which is painfully neat, of course, when Ben comes in. He's frowning a little, and I hope the phone call was nothing bad. "Ray, why didn't you tell me you couldn't open the shop this morning?" Oh. H must've told him. "I didn't want to bother you about it, okay? It's not your fault Vecchio's an asshole." He frowns. "Ray," he says, and I feel terrible. "Sorry about that, I kind of forget myself sometimes. What did H want?" Wow, that is one incredible smile there. Like a kid at Christmas. "He asked me to look into Mr. Santana's murder." "And you're going to, right?" "Of course. Unless you object." "What are you, crazy? Why would I object? I'm assuming you're not incompetent, 'cause H wouldn't put up with that. Anything that gets this over with faster is a good thing." "Shall we go, then?" "Yeah, sure. Let's get at 'er." Ben stops to grab a knapsack out of his closet, then puts it back down. "I can come back later for my things, I suppose," he says. "We shouldn't delay." As we head through the lobby again, a pretty, dark-haired chick in a suit comes out of an office. "Constable Fraser," she says, "a brief word, if you please." "Of course, sir. Ray, please excuse me again. I'll only be a moment." He follows her into the office, and she shuts the door in Dief's face. He looks at me, and I shrug. I wander over to the desk where Turnbull's sitting and lean against the wall. For lack of entertainment, I start trying to mentally rehearse for the speech I have to give tomorrow in front of the City Council, but that just makes me even more antsy, so I quit. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Kowalski?" I sigh. Here we go again. "Constable Turnbull, what do your friends call you?" He looks confused, but says, "Most of them call me Ren." I think about that for a second. Ren and Ben? It's going to get weird. But if I have to ... "Can I call you that too?" More confusion. "Certainly, sir, if you wish." "And then maybe you can call me ...?" "Oh! I understand. Ray. My apologies." "That's okay. We're cool. You think he's going to be long in there?" "I couldn't really say. I believe it has something to do with our yearly reviews." "Yeah? Was that the boss-Mountie?" "Inspector Thatcher is our superior, yes." "Hunh." I stand for a minute and watch Dief watch the door. "Hey, why'd you welcome me to Canada earlier? They move it or something?" He giggles a little. "Not precisely. But the property of the Consulate is considered to be Canadian soil, in the legal sense. It's a little joke, of a sort." "Oh. Cool. So if I was a draft dodger, I could've come here, instead of going further north?" "Something like that." "The things you learn. You have to search me when I leave or anything?" He giggles again. "Oh, goodness, no. And even if it was procedure, I'm sure Constable Fraser would object to my taking the liberty." Before I can question that piece of weirdness, Ben comes back out with a relieved look on his face. "Ready to go, Ray?" he says. "I guess so. Everything turn out okay?" "Yes, my mental state was found to be ... adequate." "Adequate? And you're happy with that?" He turns a little pink. "Ray, can we please just go?" "Sure, I guess." I turn around, face the desk, and stick out my hand. Ren stands up real straight and shakes it like I'm the President or something. He's kind of a goofy guy, but he grows on you. "It was good meeting you, Ren. You'll have to come over sometime and see the place after we get moved in." He smiles real wide and says, "I'd like that very much, Ray. I hadn't realized that Constable Fraser was ... involved, but I've been honored to make your acquaintance." Involved? All of a sudden, Ben's right behind me, talking in a low voice. "Turnbull, for God's sake. We are not 'involved', as you put it, in any way other than friendship. Kindly don't leap to conclusions of that sort." Ren's face turns red, and he looks down at the desk, then back up at Ben. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. I meant no offense." "Yes, well, none taken, I suppose. Come on, Ray, Dief." I wave goodbye and follow along. It strikes me as kind of odd that two people so far today have thought that about the two of us. Ben still seems a little bothered by it, but I don't know what to say to make it better for him, so I keep my mouth shut about it and get in the car. We get to my garage in record time, and lo and behold, there's no cop cars around. "Are you sure it's okay for me to be here?" I say. "Of course; it's your garage, isn't it?" "Yeah, but I don't know if I should, you know, contaminate the scene." He smiles at me. "I shall probably need your help in determining whether anything is out of place or missing. You are the best source of information we have, in spite of what others might think." 'Others' being Vecchio, I suppose. "Okay, Ben, I'm game." "Shall we get to work, then?" "We shall," I say, and we get out of the car. He pulls out a small notebook and flips it open. "Now, Ray, you said that Carlos was here on a Sunday because he agreed to do an oil change on his day off." I nod. "Yeah, some guy called on Saturday and said he'd pay double if I'd open on Sunday for him. After I made the appointment, my dad called and reminded me about the game, and Carlos said he'd cover, 'cause he needed the extra money. I let him in before I left for my parents' house, told him to lock up when he was done." "But you don't know who the customer was." I shrug. "I never talked to him before. Just got a name and number -- guess we could check the receipts." He shakes his head. "That's been done already. There's no record of anything with yesterday's date, and the telephone number was bogus." "So you think he never showed?" "Perhaps. Or perhaps he did come, but not for a tune-up." He looks down at the ground and says, "Hmmm." Then he drops flat so he's lying in the dirt in front of the doors. He gets his nose about an inch from the ground and he says, "Ray, where do you park your car?" "Around back, usually." "Was it there yesterday?" "Yeah. What'd you find?" "I'm not sure ... but we may have something. How did Carlos get to work?" "Mostly walked, I think." "Good. Since it rained hard Saturday night, and the garage was closed Sunday except for the mystery customer, the tracks I see are almost surely from that car." "Really?" "Yes indeed. If I'm not mistaken, these tracks were made by Firestone steel-belted radials with an all-weather tread. And there's a distinctive nick in the right rear tire. It might be enough to identify the car, should we find it." "Wow, you're good." He looks up at me and smiles. Then he gets to his feet again and brushes the dirt off. "If we only had a camera, so I could document this ... ." Finally I get to be of some use. "I can get you a camera, Ben. Wait here." I run inside to my desk and grab the Polaroid I got for a high school graduation present. It's old, but as long as they keep making film for it, I guess it's still good. When I get back outside, Ben's back on the ground again, looking closely at something near the doors. He looks up at me and I hand him the camera. "Is this okay?" "It's perfect, Ray." He hands me a measuring tape. "Please extend that to twelve inches, and hold it next to the tread-marks." This is so cool, helping like this, almost like I'm a cop. I do what he tells me, and he takes a bunch of pictures of the tire marks and the footprints he found near the door. Then he looks around and sighs. "Ray, I have to go inside the garage now. If you wish to remain out here with Dief, I'll certainly understand." "No way. I can take it. I think." I hope. His eyebrow goes up, but all he says is, "Very well, I'm sure you'll be of great help." I don't think that's sarcasm, not from him, so I lead the way around to the side door and in through my office. Which I knew from yesterday is a complete and utter mess, after being searched by the overly enthusiastic Vecchio. Ben looks around in what I'd guess is dismay. "Ray, your files -" "Yeah, I know. Don't sweat it, okay? Maybe I'll sort through some stuff later. Not your problem." "Still, I'd like to help, if I may." "Sure, I'm not stupid enough to turn down free labor. After, though? Investigate first." "Of course. We should start in the garage, I'm afraid." "Okay. Let's go." I follow behind him, switching on lights as we go, trying to brighten it up as much as possible. The big pool of blood is still there, dried now, but I can see how it's got the shape of a body in the middle, and I get a shiver right up my back. "Ray?" I shake my head and turn away so I can't see it. "I'm good. What's next?" He frowns at me a little, but just says, "Can you tell me if anything is missing or misplaced?" I start at the far wall, looking at all the shelves, bins and pegboards one by one. Everything looks okay until I get to the tool-board. There's a big empty space right in the middle. "Hunh." "What's wrong?" "There should be a big screwdriver here. Really big, about eighteen inches long. It was there when I closed up Saturday, I know it was." "A screwdriver?" "Yup. Kind of a gag gift I got when I opened the place. I keep thinking maybe someday I'll find a use for it, but for now I just keep it on the wall." "Hmmm." I look around the rest of the shop, but it's all just like it's supposed to be. "Nothing else, Ben." He's been crawling around on the floor with Dief, but somehow when he gets up, there's not a speck of dirt on him. I keep the place clean and all, but not that clean. Weird. Like dirt doesn't stick to him or something. Too bad we can't bottle that. He dusts off his hands and says, "I was also unsuccessful. Perhaps if we questioned a few of your neighbors." "Didn't the cops do that?" He raises an eyebrow at me. "In my experience, most people are more likely to be helpful when it is someone they know asking for their help." "Makes sense, I guess. Just let me lock up again." I honestly never knew being a cop was this much of a pain in the ass. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker ... twelve down, three to go. Nobody's seen anything out of the ordinary, which stands to reason since it was Sunday, and half these people were home in front of the tube, but we're asking anyway. And here we go again with the same old song. "Hey, Ray, how you doing today?" "I'm good, Lenny, thanks. This is Ben Fraser, he's investigating this thing that happened over at my place Sunday." "I been out of town all weekend -- just got back this morning. What happened? Everything all right?" Man, I hate saying this. "Carlos got killed. Late Sunday night, they think. So we're going around trying to get some idea if anybody saw anything." Lenny looks thoughtful. "Carlos? Do I know him?" "Yeah, maybe -- I sent him over Friday for my usual. He's about my height, bleached-blond hair, skinny ... " And all of a sudden Ben's got my shoulder in the Grip of Death. "Ray --" he says, and his voice sounds completely weird. "Ow, Ben, what the fuck?" I say, as I grab at his hand and try to pry it off me. He lets me, but then he grabs my fingers and won't let go of them. "It's not him, it's you," he says, and maybe I shouldn't understand that, and maybe I don't want to, but -- oh, shit. What if -- maybe -- someone's trying to kill me? When we arrive at the station I am relieved to see the battered green Saab parked in its usual place. I lead Ray in through the main doors, then down to the basement. As we near the doors, I can hear Mort singing opera, also as usual. I join in as we enter the morgue. I have never yet managed to surprise him, and at the sound of another voice, he merely turns with a broad smile and conducts us in the last few notes with his scalpel. "My dear boy, I am delighted to see you. Are you back to work so soon?" "Not exactly, but I wanted to ask you some questions about Mr. Santana." "I will tell you what I can, of course, although it's too early to tell much. I would say he was unconscious when he died, judging from the size of the bump on his head. The bruising is consistent with impact with a cement floor. Cause of death was blood loss from this stab wound right here, which as you can see, tore this artery." I lean closer, studying the body. "Hmmm. Any idea of time of death?" "I would say ... sometime late Sunday evening. I will know more later." "What about the murder weapon?" "Mmm. Not as easy. Something long and thin, twelve inches or more. Not a blade, the edges of the wound are not clean enough. That's all I can tell you right now." "Would a large screwdriver be a possibility?" He raises his eyebrows and nods. "Yes, it would do very nicely, I think, if you could find one that big." "You've been very helpful, thank you kindly." I turn to Ray and find him ... missing. "If you are looking for your friend, he is probably out in the hallway. He did not follow you in when he saw the body." Mort shrugs. "Some people just cannot take it." I feel like kicking myself. Ray told me just yesterday he doesn't react well to such things. How callous he must think me. I hurriedly take my leave of Mort and go out into the corridor, where I see Ray sitting hunched over about ten metres away, arms around Dief. "My God, Ray, I'm so sorry!" If ever I were inclined to profanity, this would be a perfect opportunity. I call myself ten kinds of a fool as I walk down the short stretch of hallway. He looks up, face pale but eyes steady. " 'S'okay, Ben. I'm good. What'd you find out?" As he makes no move to rise, I sink down beside him. "An approximate time of death, for one thing. And it's entirely possible that the murder weapon was your missing screwdriver." He shudders; only slightly, but I notice it. "Are you sure you're all right?" He smiles wanly. "I'm fine. Just kind of a surprise, that's all. Where to next?" He rises to his feet gracefully, then grabs my hand and pulls me up. "We should check in with the Lieutenant and tell him what we've found out." "Lead the way, then. Anywhere but here is fine by me." We climb the stairs and arrive in the bullpen to see Francesca at her desk. Her eyes widen as she sees us. "Hey, Frase," she says, as usual mangling the sibilant. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Or--" "I'll take some coffee if you got some, Ms. Vecchio," Ray says. She glances at him briefly, then turns her attention back to me. "How 'bout you, Frase?" "Thank you kindly, Francesca, but I don't believe I require any refreshment at this time. Can you tell me if Lieutenant Welsh is in his office?" "Well, I haven't heard him bellow in a while, but -" "Ms. Vecchio!" "Oops, guess I spoke too soon. I'll tell him you're here, Frase." She raises her voice slightly as she walks unhurriedly towards the office. "Coming, O Mighty One." I hear Ray chuckle. "What's so funny?" "It's like I said yesterday, 'Frase'; I might as well be invisible standing next to you." "Francesca is hardly a test case, Ray. I'm afraid -- " I glance around the room. It is momentarily empty, but I lower my voice anyway. "You must have noticed that she has a bit of a crush on me." He snorts. "You think? I'm surprised you haven't found her at your door in nothing but a silk teddy and high heels." I wince, remembering, and speak without thinking. "Well, actually it was leather ... " Ray's jaw quite literally drops. "You're kidding." "Unfortunately not." I'm hoping he doesn't go on with this line of questioning, but no such luck. I suspect he'd have made quite a good detective. "And? Come on, don't stop there." "It was quite awkward, to say the least." "So did you ... ?" He makes a complicated hand-gesture, which I believe I can decipher. "Ray!" "Cool your jets, I was just asking." "For goodness sake, she's Ray's sister." "Yeah, so what's the problem? He didn't want you dating her?" "I'd really rather not discuss this." He shrugs. "Okay. Whatever. Hey, you want to point me at the coffee?" "Through those doors, turn right -- Dief knows the way." Lieutenant Welsh's voice comes from behind me. "Constable Fraser, my office, if you please." With the wolf's help I locate the coffee, which is pretty disgusting even with all the sugar and powdered creamer I can load into it. I sit for a minute, not knowing where else to go, and a couple of cops I sort of recognize from yesterday walk in. They must be partners, they seem to be discussing a case. Or possibly a bad date -- it's hard to tell. One of them notices me and looks puzzled, then he sees Dief and I guess it clicks. "Hey, you're Fraser's friend, right?" I nod and stand up. "We never really got introduced. I'm Jack Huey, this is my partner Tom Dewey." "Ray Kowalski, nice to meet you." I shake Jack's hand and nod at his partner, who's over at the snack machine. He throws a nod back, not too friendly. Just then Ben appears in the doorway. "Ah, Ray, there you are. Good afternoon, Detective Huey, Detective ... Dewey, isn't it? I'm sorry to interrupt, but the Lieutenant would like to speak to Ray." I say goodbye, and we're off to the races. H is on the phone when we get to his office, saying "yessir" a lot, and he rolls his eyes at me. I know how much he hates the bullshit of politics, but evidently it goes with the job. After another minute, he says, "Absolutely, sir. You can count on my men. Yes. Seven a.m. They'll be there." He hangs up and rubs his face with both hands. "Some pol gets himself and his girlfriend shot at and suddenly we're in the bodyguarding business. Like I don't have enough problems." He shakes his head and looks at me. "Okay, Ray, what do you think about this thing? You think someone's out to get you? Because that call just made me shorthanded in the detective department, but if you can give me a name or two, I can check 'em out myself." I shrug. "Dunno, H, it kind of made sense when Ben said it, but the more I think about it, the less sense it really does make. I mean, I know I can piss people off just by breathing sometimes, but I can't think of anybody who hates me enough to kill me." "Yeah, well ... hunh. I can't allocate men I don't even have for a threat I can't specify, so ... okay, stay away from the garage unless somebody's with you, for now anyway. Fraser, you're still on leave, and even when you're not you don't work for me, but-" Ben's nodding his head so hard I'm afraid it'll fall off. "Of course, Lieutenant. I'd be glad to." I understand that one, loud and clear. "I don't need a babysitter, H." I get the Cop Stare from H, and a wounded look from Ben, and I cave. "Fine, whatever makes the two of you happy," I say. Dief barks. "Not you, too. Jeez, even the wolf's ganging up on me." H's phone rings again, and I take the chance to get out before he threatens to call my mother. Back out in the bullpen; the shift's changing or something, and I check the time. Four o'clock? Can't be -- we missed lunch entirely, no wonder I'm starving. "Okay, Ben, unless you have objections, here's the schedule. Drive to the Consulate, load up your truck and my car, drive to the apartment, eat, and unload. Sound like a plan?" He blinks. "Yes, I suppose it does." "Good. How 'bout if we call ahead, order a couple pizzas from the place down the street -- what was the name? Papa Luigi's?" "I believe so." "Phone book, phone book --" I look around and yell across the room. "Hey, Frannie, you got a phone book?" She turns around quick, walks over slow. "What did you call me?" I think back and wince. "Um, 'Frannie'. Sorry, I don't know where that came from." She's frowning, but not mad. "It's okay, just R- somebody else used to call me that. I haven't heard it in a while." She shrugs. "My phone book's been missing for a week now. I'm considering putting out an RBI on it." I'm about to ask what the fuck an RBI has to do with it when I see Ben mouthing "APB" at me, so I let it go. "You got any ideas where I can find somebody else's?" "Yeah, my brother's got one in his middle drawer. Help yourself." "You sure? I'm not his favorite person." She rolls her eyes at me. "I'll get it, then." She walks over to Vecchio's desk and hauls open the drawer, pulls out the phone book, and closes the drawer again, or tries to. It sticks out about two inches. "Hey, it's stuck." "Here, let me try something," I say. "This happened to me last week." I crawl under the desk and feel up into the space behind the drawer. Sure enough, there's something wedged in there. I open the drawer a little, then try to loosen whatever it is. Feels like ... got it. A folded-up envelope, looks like it's been in Lake Michigan or something, the way it's all water-stained. I stand up and unfold it, and there's writing on it, all blurry from the water, but -- "Ben, this has your name on it." "What?" he says, and takes it from me. He smoothes it out on the desk, and Francesca muscles in between us. "That's Ray's writing," she says, in a soft voice. Then she looks at me quick. "Some other Ray. Who used to work here." She grabs Ben's arm. "What's it say, Fraser?" I poke her. "Maybe it's private, huh? Give the guy a minute. Come on, let's go use your phone." I drag her away, leaving Ben looking at the envelope like it's going to bite him. I call the pizza place and order two larges with everything for pick-up in an hour. I can't remember the address, so delivery's out 'cause I don't want to disturb Ben right now. He looked pretty surprised and freaked-out when he saw the envelope, and even though it had his name on it didn't look to me like it was sealed when he opened it. But it's obvious Ben hadn't opened it, so that leaves the current owner of the desk as my primary suspect. Bastard. Ben sits down kind of hard, and his arm hits the edge of the desk. He rubs his shoulder, and then I remember that he got shot. Probably where he's rubbing, duh, and how's he going to be able to move in today with only one good arm? I check the book and make another phone call. "Good afternoon, Canadian Consulate, how may I help you?" Sounds like him. "Ren?" "Why, yes, my name is Ren. How did you know that, sir?" "Don't 'sir' me, it's Ray Kowalski. What're you doing tonight?" "Oh! Ray! I'm ... I'm free until eight or so." "Good. I need a favor." I don't know what stuns me more; the actual contents of Ray's letter, or the implications of where and how it was found. I am, of course, pleased and relieved to read that Ray has accepted what I told him and that it needn't affect our friendship. I am also quite touched by his worry for me. I have indeed felt abandoned, wondering at odd moments if I'd made a horrible mistake and driven away my closest friend with my compulsive need for truth. But I am appalled and horrified that the letter has been read by another, and by someone I never would have favoured with the confidence. It is obvious to me now that Detective Simonetta's attitude toward me has been affected by his illicit knowledge of my private life. I can only wonder about his reasons for not making the knowledge public immediately, but I am sure he has not. Even if no one else had told me, surely Francesca could not have remained silent, once she had received such information. Perhaps his standards of behaviour are such that, while he will not hesitate to read another's personal correspondence, he does not want his own prying held up for scrutiny. My first thoughts upon discovering my erstwhile partner's perfidy were of finding him and confronting him with his actions. But what would be the use? If I confronted him, chances are good that he would take that opportunity to hold the release of the information over my head. I am not ashamed of what I am or of whom I have loved (with one distinct exception), but I will not have myself held up for ridicule over it -- and I am sure that would be the result. I understand far more of the world than most people would believe. I understand about prejudice, and fear. Police officers, whether Canadian or American, are not immune to irrational bigotry, as I've learned to my sorrow. But now, in my truck headed toward my new apartment, followed by Ray and Turnbull in Ray's car, I am beset with second (and third) thoughts about keeping my secret so closely guarded. While I know that the prevalent attitudes toward bi- and homosexuality in society are negative, I also know that there are exceptions. Certainly Turnbull's comments earlier were favourable -- he seemed genuinely pleased to think that I was in a relationship with Ray. And Ray's calm reaction to both that conversation and Liz's assumptions leads me to believe that perhaps he, too, is capable of accepting me as I am, even on our short acquaintance. I'm surprised at how much a part of my life Ray has become, after only two days. More sensitive to the feelings of others than he'd like to acknowledge, he only reluctantly admitted that he asked Turnbull to "volunteer" to help me move my belongings. They seem to have become fast friends in the short time I was in Inspector Thatcher's office. Ray possesses a gregarious nature that I both admire and envy. Dief and I arrive at the house first, as Ray has stopped to pick up the pizza. I am under Ray's orders to carry nothing that requires two hands, and I will admit that I am relieved to have this stricture. My injury, while mostly healed, still gives me occasional pain when stressed. I would have tried to manage on my own, but I must say I like having someone care about my welfare again. I make two trips upstairs, first with my duffel, and then a floor lamp; feeling somewhat silly, but unwilling to stand idle. My second return to the truck finds Dief looking expectantly down the street. The GTO pulls up behind my truck in the driveway, and Dief is at the driver's door before the engine is turned off. He is shameless around pizza; I will have to watch him carefully. Ray gets out of the car and stops to ruffle Dief's ears, then hurries around to the passenger side. He opens the door and reaches in to relieve Turnbull of two large pizza boxes, then steps back. Turnbull gets out, reaching to the floor to retrieve a six-pack of brown bottles which a closer inspection proves to be root beer. We proceed upstairs, Dief endangering all three of us with his inability to decide whether to lead the way or keep an eye on the pizza, with which Ray is bringing up the rear. Once in the apartment, Ray takes charge again. "Okay, Ren, put those in the fridge for now. Dief, you're going outside if you don't stop bumping into me." He puts the pizzas on the kitchen counter, and looks around. "Hmm. Ben, can we use your footlocker to eat off of?" "Certainly." "Good. You guard the pizza from its natural predator, and me and Ren'll haul up the trunk. We can all sit on the window seat, I think, unless somebody's fond of the floor. You got any plates we can use? I forgot to get some." "I have some, they're in the footlocker, in fact." "Cool. One convenient location. Come on, Ren, let's go." They clatter off down the stairs again. I hear Ray's voice again, and then Liz's and Turnbull's, and I suddenly wonder how he is being introduced -- as "my friend Ren" or "Ben's co-worker." I realise that I've made no effort to befriend Turnbull in the time I've known him -- his awe of me, my distant nature, and the formal atmosphere of our workplace do not lend themselves to casual friendships. But only now do I find it odd that we are still so formal with one another. Footsteps and laughter on the stairs herald the arrival of our makeshift table, and I hurry to prop the door further open. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and just barely foil Dief's attempt on the pizza. Chagrined at my inattention, I speak to him more sharply than I ought to and earn a puzzled glance from Ray on his way to the living room. He returns quickly to the kitchen, comes up behind me as I stand staring out the window, and puts his hand on my back. "Never saw a wolf sulk before. You okay, Ben?" I hang my head, fighting my automatic response of "I'm fine," which would, of course, be a lie. "Actually, I'm not sure," I say finally. I feel oddly free admitting that, and continue, while I have the advantage of momentum. "My life is somewhat unsettled currently, and I believe I need to find an even keel again." "Oh," he says. The comforting hand is abruptly removed and he steps away. Oh, dear. I turn to look at him, and his face is red, as though he's embarrassed. "Ray, I didn't mean-" I take a deep breath. "It's not you who've unsettled me. Well, perhaps it is, but only in a good way. I -" I stop when he walks closer. His eyes search mine for a moment, then he says, "That letter threw you, huh?" I nod. "Anyth |