Rated NC-17 for M/M sex and occasional bad words. If you're considered a minor in your community please take off now, you shouldn't be reading this. You may also want to skip this if you're narrow-minded, easily offended, or have something against Chicago Flatfoots with Experimental Hair-- unless of course you're masochistic, in which case knock yourself out. The characters Benton Fraser and Ray Kowalski are from the television series Due South. I don't own 'em, I wish I did. I'd be a lot richer, plus I'd be insufferably smug. Yeah, the characters are property of Alliance, yadda, yadda, yadda. Everything else is my smutty intellectual property. Timeline: Post CotW.

Soundtrack: John Gorka's "When the Ice Goes Out," and "Heroes;" Bruce Cockburn: I was going to list 'a few' songs from Dart to the Heart, then I realized it's pretty much the whole CD, but most especially "All the Ways I Want You," and "Closer to the Light." Also: Dar Williams' "Family."

Big honkin' THANK YOU's to my betas: Betty, who has a way of dynamiting me when I'm stuck, and being relentless on characterization; and to Audra, for reminding me that just because I've never done something, that doesn't mean I can't do it or that it shouldn't be done. Oh, and as always, that comma thing. Thanks also to realitycek who caught a little problem I'd missed. Additional thanks to Otsoko, for the new and improved psychobabble! --Kellie

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When the Ice Goes Out
© 2000, Kellie Matthews


It's strange. I never imagined this, when I thought of the future. Oh, I always imagined I'd be alone, that's nothing new, but I never thought I'd regret it. I always thought I'd be content in my solitude, because I always was before. But now I'm . . . not. I find myself avoiding going home to my RCMP-supplied apartment at night, because all I do is sit there and think of all the things I miss. Which really boils down to one thing. One man. One friend.

So instead I sit in my darkened vehicle long after my shift should have ended, outside the town's most disreputable saloon, waiting for someone inside to pick a fight. Which they do, predictably, nearly every weekend night. Thus I can occupy my time with apprehending miscreants, booking them into the two-cell jail, getting them coffee to counteract the alcohol, though I know it really doesn't help at all. Oh, and administering first aid if needed. It's almost become a ritual.

As if on cue someone comes flying out the door to land in a heap on the porch. In the flickering neon glow of the beer advertisements I can see that it's Louis Lamarque. Following him like an angry bear is Martin Campbell. Let's see, I last had the two of them four weeks ago. I suddenly begin to have a sneaking suspicion that the fights are actually staged for my benefit, and wonder if they take a collection to pay their fines since they're always out and drinking the next night as if nothing had happened. With an average of two fights a week (Friday and Saturday nights, of course) and two arrestees per night, that means there must be at least eight people involved, with altercations taking place on a rotational schedule.

I get out of my car and head toward them, and see Martin take a quick glance in my direction before he raises a bottle and lashes out at Louis, missing him completely but shattering the bottle. He swears and shakes his hand, and I know he's cut himself. I can't allow this to continue. I walk up to the porch and lean on the rail, one foot up, studying the prone and kneeling figures. "Hello Martin, Louis," I say conversationally. "Martin, would you like to come down to the station and I'll see to your hand? I'd take you to the clinic but I'd hate to wake up Margery at this hour if it's something I can take care of."

He looks at me, puzzled. "Hunh?"

"Ain't you gonna arrest us, Benton?" Louis asks, seeming equally confused.

I shake my head. "No, not this time. I think it's time we stopped this charade, don't you? It's got to be costing you all a fortune, and aren't you tired of getting hurt?"

They exchange a look, and then Martin speaks. "You. . . uh . . . figgered it out?"

I nod. "Yes. I thank you all kindly for your efforts on my behalf, but I think you and your friends can stop now. I'll find something else to occupy my time."

"You sure? 'Cause we don't really mind. Gives us all something to do, and it's kinda been fun. We know you don't have much to occupy you here after the big city, and you seemed kind of down."

"I'm sure," I say firmly. "Now, let me see your hand."

He shakes his head. "Nah, that's okay. It's just a scratch. I'll go get a broom and we'll clean up this mess."

"Good idea," I say. "And I'll head on home."

They nod and I return to the Jeep. It's not until I pull up in back of the apartment that I realize I have no memory of driving home. I must have been on some sort of automatic pilot. I fervently hope I didn't hit anyone or anything, though I expect I'd have noticed that. I sit there in the darkness and feel a strange mixture of amusement and humiliation, and I wonder what Ray would say if I told him this story. I can almost hear his laughter, hear his voice, that peculiar nasal drawl. 'Jesus, Fraser, they make up crimes just to give you something to do? They must really like you up there in Freezerland.'

The thought of Ray brings a tightness to my chest, and I swear under my breath. From the back seat Diefenbaker admonishes me for my language. "Fuck off," I snarl and throw open the door, practically hurling myself out of the seat. Dief scrambles out quickly, probably afraid I'll lock him in, and since I'm more than half-tempted it's probably wise of him. He hangs back as I climb the stairs and let myself into the apartment. I wait a moment, the door open, and he stops halfway up the stairs as if uncertain of his welcome.

"Are you coming in or did you intend for me to heat all outdoors for your comfort?" I inquire caustically.

He pointedly ignores me as he climbs the rest of the stairs and doesn't touch me as he enters. As I close the door and take off my outer garments he goes over and curls up under the kitchen table, facing away, and I wonder what in God's name is wrong with me that I can't even be civil to the only friend I have left. I know better than to try to apologize now: he'll want to snub me for a while to make things even. I go into the bedroom to undress.

As I hang up my brown uniform jacket in the closet next to my dress uniform I'm hit again with a wave of nostalgia. I haven't worn the serge in months. Not since I left Chicago, well, save for Sergeant Frobisher's funeral. I'd rather thought he might live forever: it had been a shock to get that call. Deliberately I turn my mind from thoughts of mortality to something more positive. Standing sentry on a sweltering Chicago summer afternoon, or on a chilly winter morning, the rush of traffic, the smell of exhaust, the giggle of schoolchildren trying to distract me . . . and Ray, succeeding in distracting me. An image flashes into my head: Ray in borrowed red. It's odd. The one thing I can really recall of him in Turnbull's uniform is that his posture, for once, was completely upright, not a slouch in sight. I can still remember the surprise of realizing he was not, in fact, shorter than I am.

Other things about those few days are far clearer in my mind. Ray sliding into the consulate on his knees, calling my name, needing me. A conversation in a darkened hallway. Assurances of friendship, of partnership. Ray wearing my clothes. Odd how I'd pressed them on him after we returned to the consulate, as if I had some visceral need to remove Turnbull's mark from him and replace it with my own. Or not so odd, perhaps. I had wanted to mark him in far less civilized ways as well, but would never have dreamed of letting him know that.

And that is, of course, what put me here alone. Well, that and the successful outcome of the Muldoon affair. After our adventure to the Beaufort Sea, Ray and I had returned to Chicago even closer friends than ever, and it had been increasingly difficult for me to maintain the necessary distance. Finally my unwillingness to put my friendship with Ray at risk over my increasingly insistent and unrequitable desires had made me put in for a transfer. The request had been granted with a speed that made my head spin: apparently I had been rehabilitated in the eyes of the RCMP. I'm sure Inspector Thatcher's kind comments in my file hadn't hurt.

I can still remember the look in his eyes as he stood at the gate at the terminal waiting for me to board the plane. He'd tried not to let me see it, I know that, but it was there, a kind of bewildered betrayal. I know he didn't understand why I was leaving, and I could no more tell him than I could stay. Even so, he'd hugged me and wished me a safe journey and a good life, and after that it had taken every scrap of strength I own to leave. But I'd done it, and here I am, though my heart is nearly four thousand miles south-east of my body. One wouldn't think it possible to live without a heart, but like the Tin Man I've found it is possible, although it doesn't make for the most comfortable existence.

I realize I'm standing in front of my closet fondling a flannel shirt, the maize and gray one, the one Ray wore . . . and good God, I'm past pathetic. I'm going to have to get some counseling, because if I can't stop this I may end up on the streets of Chicago stalking Ray the way Diefenbaker stalks rabbits. It's a wonder I managed to pass my yearly mental health evaluation three weeks ago. I suspect that has more to do with my familiarity with the test than it does my actual sanity. I force myself to let go of the shirt and get ready for bed, but I'm not at all tired. Knowing I need to be at work in a scant five hours, I head for the kitchen and my grandmother's sovereign remedy for insomnia, a cup of chamomile tea.

As it's steeping I remember I still haven't looked at my mail and pick it up from where I left it on the table two days ago after my last trip to the post office. Sloppy. My father would be appalled. I flip through the pickings, several flyers for local businesses, one a pizza place. I haven't had pizza since I left Chicago, and just seeing the advertisement brings back too many memories. This time I find myself reading the list of available ingredients and smile foolishly at the idea of 'blubber' and 'lichen' as toppings. Actually, if the flyer is to be believed, pineapple is as popular here as it was there. Another ache wells up, and I toss the flyers into the recycling bin and go on through the stack.

The unmistakable brilliant gold of a National Geographic peeks a quarter inch out of the brown paper wrapper which hides the cover as if it contained something more salacious than fossils and forests. A renewal notice for said magazine, which reminds me all too forcibly of how long I've been living here. A postcard reminder that it's time for Diefenbaker to have his teeth cleaned, which reminds me that mine probably need it as well. Finally there are two envelopes with American stamps, both postmarked in Chicago nearly two weeks ago. Mail service here is often slow.

One of the letters is clearly from Francesca, I know her handwriting and her return address since she writes me regularly, keeping me up to date on the life I left behind. But the handwriting on the second envelope is masculine and messy, and oddly familiar. There is no return address. With a sudden shock I realize why the writing is familiar. It's Ray's. I grab a kitchen knife and slit open the envelope, removing the contents

'Hey Frase; I'd've called to tell you this, but you're never home and I didn't want to bug you at work, so I thought I'd try that 'writing' thing that people are always talking about.'

I smile, hearing his voice in my head, but the smile fades quickly as I wonder how many times he'd tried to reach me before giving up, and wondering why he would ever feel he couldn't contact me at work. I read on.

'This is about my eighth go at this, and all the others sucked, so I figure I should quit trying to make it pretty or make excuses and just tell you right out that I'm quitting the Department. I know you're pissed at me now, and if you were here you'd give me the old 'tuck their kids in at night' speech, and it'd probably work, but you're not here so I'm doing what I have to do. I just thought you ought to hear it from me, not Frannie or Vecchio or, God forbid, Turnbull. Who, by the way, does not even come close to filling your granny-boots. Anyway, I hope you're doing good up there. Whenever I think about you I always remember the way you looked when we fell out of that damned plane. Nothing around for miles but snow and more snow and you with this smile on your face like you died and went to heaven. So I know you're where you belong, doing what you do best. Someday maybe I'll figure out where I belong and what I do best. Anyway, that's all the news. Say hi to Dief and give him a doughnut for me.'

There is no close and no signature. He knows I know who it's from, and after that letter 'sincerely yours' would be ridiculous. I reach for a kitchen chair blindly and sit down, staring at the page, reading it over again. I can hear his voice as if he were here in my kitchen, telling me this aloud, and the tone his words conjure in my head is the one I heard only once in our time together, the day he told me about Beth Botrelle.

He's hurting. I can hear it in every line. Hurting badly. Why would he do this? Ray is one of the best police officers I have ever known. How can he say he doesn't belong in law enforcement? How can he say it's not what he does best? For the first time I wonder if in trying to do the right thing I have, yet again, done the wrong thing. It's something I've found I'm all too good at.

After a few minutes of dumbstruck speculation, I finally remember the second letter. I doubt that it's a coincidence that I received both simultaneously, and open Francesca's missive. It contains two pages, one a photocopied newspaper clipping. Ray's face looks out at me from the page, the photo from his personnel file. Taken years ago, a much younger man gazes solemnly at the camera. He's in uniform, something I never saw him wear the entire time I knew him.

The article, from about a month ago, mentions that he received a commendation for bravery and details the events which led to the award; a jewelry-store holdup in which Ray's actions saved the lives of the elderly proprietor of the store, two customers and a clerk. I'm more than surprised that he didn't mention it to me. I know he doesn't like to speak of his record, but I would think he'd at least have mentioned the incident. The second sheet is a flyer announcing a going-away party for Ray Kowalski. There's a yellow post-it note stuck to the page: 'I thought you'd want to know.' is written on it in Francesca's feminine script. There is no accompanying letter, which tells me that she was upset. The date of the party was a week ago today. I can't believe he didn't tell me this, either.

I know it's four a.m. in Chicago, but I don't care if I wake him. This is important, too important to wait, and at least at this hour I'm fairly certain he'll be home. I pick up my phone and dial Ray's number, still memorized after all this time. After a second's delay the connection goes through and I get two rings, then a click and a series of three escalating electronic tones. That's followed by a flat female voice which informs me that the number I have reached, and she repeats it so I know I didn't misdial, has been disconnected or is no longer in service. She instructs me to check the number and dial again. There's no need, though. It's Ray's number and I know it.

Now I'm seriously worried. He's left his job and his apartment as well. The fact that there was no return address on his letter didn't seem odd to me at first glance but now it does. It seems to me an indication that he does not want to be found, which, given my perverse nature, means I am all the more convinced I must do so. I start to dial the number for the 27th's detective division, and then stop, realizing that it's unlikely that Lieutenant Welsh will be there at this hour. I'll have to wait until later.

Knowing I won't sleep now, I sit down and occupy myself in writing up a request to Sergeant White for emergency leave, then leave a message at the airstrip for Walter Scott, the pilot who usually flies us in and out when we need to leave the area. I know I'll be leaving in the next twenty-four hours, I'm just not exactly certain when.

* * *

Thirty-three hours later I walk into the 27^th, my duffle bag over my shoulder and Dief at my heels. I haven't slept, showered, or shaved in far too long, but I couldn't bring myself to stop anywhere along the line. Looking toward the civilian aide's desk I find a middle-aged black woman I don't know sitting there. I'd almost forgotten that Francesca is no longer working here, having decided to take on the more difficult but hopefully more rewarding duties of single parenthood.

I can see Lieutenant Welsh in his office, and head in that direction. I hadn't been able to reach him before I left home, and I'm pleased to find him here now. I'm halfway there when the black woman at the desk is on her feet and moving between me and my goal.

"Whoa there handsome, you can't just come waltzing in here like you own the place, and the dog has to wait outside."

"Wolf," The correction is automatic. "It's all right, I believe Lieutenant Welsh will see me."

"You do, do you?" she asks, putting her hands on her hips. "That's mighty presumptuous of you."

I'm reminded a bit of Momma Lolla. I try a smile, hoping it isn't too at odds with my unkempt appearance. "I don't mean to seem forward, ma'am, but I'm quite anxious to see the lieutenant, and I honestly don't believe he'll be displeased to see me. I'm sure if you check with him, he'll . . . ."

"Vera, is this man bothering . . . ."

The new voice trails off for a moment as I turn, surprised by familiar tones.

"Fraser?" she finishes, sounding just as surprised as I feel.

"Elaine?"

"It is you! What on earth are you doing here? You look like hell."

I'm not sure what to say in response, so I fall back on clichés. "It's good to see you, Elaine. Are you assigned here?"

"I've just been promoted to detective and reassigned here. I'm taking over for . . . ." Her eyes slide toward the desk that used to be Ray's, and her expression goes a little tight. "Um, did you come to see. . . ?"

I stop her from completing her question with a shake my head. "No. I heard."

She nods solemnly. "Oh. Frannie?"

"Yes, and Ray. I'd like to see Lieutenant Welsh."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to see you." She turns to the aide with a smile. "It's okay, Vera, this is Constable Fraser. You've heard about him."

Judging from the new aide's expression she has indeed heard of me. I wonder what wild stories Ray has told people about me. She looks a little awestruck.

"Constable Fraser?" she repeats. "The Mountie?"

"Well, it's Corporal Fraser now," I say as I put out a hand and shake hers firmly. "But yes, I am with the RCMP. And you are?"

"Vera Babcock," she says. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," I say, trying not to betray my impatience to see Lieutenant Welsh. Elaine must sense my mood, because she takes control.

"Corporal? Congratulations, Frase. You deserved it. Come on, let's go see Welsh."

I follow her gratefully, with a nod to Ms. Babcock. Elaine opens the lieutenant's door and grins.

"Hey, Lieutenant! Look what the wolf dragged in."

He looks up, and it's amazing to me how little he's changed in a year's time. Everything else may change around him, but he remains a constant. He smiles when he sees me, a big, open grin that's quickly muted to his usual gruff demeanor.

"Constable Fraser! No, it's Corporal, right?"

"Yes sir, it is."

"About damned time. So what brings you down here from the great white north? I gotta say your timing sucks. I really could've used you here about a month ago."

There is no doubt at all in my mind that he's referring to Ray's decision to leave the department, and I nod. "So I understand. I'm sorry, I didn't know about the situation or I would have been here earlier. I came as soon as I heard."

He looks surprised. "He didn't talk to you about it?"

I shake my head. "No, sir, he didn't. I've been somewhat difficult to reach of late. I knew nothing about any of this until I got his letter on Friday."

He looks at me for a long moment, and nods. "Well, that explains a few things. Have a seat, Fraser. Besbriss, shut the door, will you?"

Elaine shoots me a commiserating glance and I wonder if I am in for, as Ray would put it, an 'ass chewing.' If so, I richly deserve it, so I merely nod at her. The lieutenant is silent for a few moments after the door closes, then he leans forward, his hands together on the desk.

"You come down to see Kowalski?"

I nod. "Yes. Or rather, to try. I tried to call him when I got the letters, but his line has been disconnected, and there was no return address on the letter he sent me. I have a feeling he doesn't particularly want to be found."

Welsh nods. "Good call, Corporal. I talked myself blue in the face trying to change his mind, but he was dead set on leaving. When he walked out of the party he vanished off the face of the earth. Today was payday, I figured he'd turn up for his last check, but instead I found out he told Payroll to deposit it in the Widows and Orphans Fund. I had them check on his old account; they found out he closed it two weeks ago. I even had some of the blue and whites keeping an eye out for the GTO, and guess what? They found it on a used car lot. He sold it. I can't believe he sold that car. He loved that car. He's gone to ground in a big way."

"Do you have any idea why he would feel compelled to do so?" I ask, flat out, because I think if anyone knows, he will

He looks at me, puzzled. "You don't know any of this? I thought you two kept in touch."

Diefenbaker makes a low sound. It's a rebuke, but I'm glad because it gives me an excuse to look away, since I can't meet Welsh's gaze. "As I said, I've been rather hard to reach."

I'm ashamed to admit it even to myself, but the main reason I didn't replace my second-hand answering machine when it failed was because hearing Ray's voice when I was home alone was so difficult for me. I'd just assumed he would simply start calling me at work, he'd never had qualms about that in the past, but I realize now that he must have come to an altogether different conclusion. Any more it wasn't all that unusual for us to go for a week or two without contact, but how had I let that time stretch to more than a month? He must have thought I didn't want to hear from him at all. Robert Burns was all too accurate in his appraisal of tangled webs and deceit.

"Well, it's a little complicated," Welsh begins, slouching in his chair tiredly.

I'm confused for a moment because I'd been in my own head, and almost forgotten what I'd asked him.

"It all started with this jewelry store holdup. Ray happened to be in the area and he saw it going down. He went in and talked the kid out of his gun, saved a bunch of people's lives."

"Yes, Francesca sent me the newspaper clipping about the commendation."

Welsh winces. "That damned story, that's what did it, you know. That was the last straw for him."

"Why?"

"He'd told them he didn't want the commendation and would refuse it if they gave it to him. But the brass put out that press release anyway. He flipped out."

I study the Lieutenant for a moment, noting lines of strain in his bulldog countenance that hadn't been there a year ago. His explanation makes no sense to me. "I know Ray has never been one to need recognition for doing what he feels is simply his job, but it seems strange to me that he would react so strongly to a simple commendation. It's not as if he hasn't had them before."

"I know, I know," Welsh says with a deep sigh. "But Ray had his reasons. A couple of days after it went down the old guy comes in, wants to drop the charges, says he wants the kid to get a second chance. Well, you know we couldn't do that, not on an armed robbery with plenty of witnesses, but it made Ray suspicious so he went and talked to the kid in the lockup. After that he decided something really was hinky, and started digging. Finally figured out that the old guy who runs the place had paid the kid to stage a hold-up so he could scam the insurance company.

"Problem is that Ray came along and messed up the deal, so instead of getting paid, the kid goes to jail. But there'd already been a bunch of stories about the incident, and the brass had been talking up the 'one good cop against the odds' story, and so they wanted to go ahead with the award and keep the other stuff quiet until the hoopla died down."

"Ah." It makes sense now. Or at least more sense. Still, the Ray I thought I knew would have gotten angry, would have made a 'stink.' He wouldn't have simply given up and gone away. Welsh nods.

"Ah, indeed. He was not a happy camper."

"It still seems out of character for him."

Welsh nods unhappily. "Yeah. I figured he'd blow the whole story to the papers. Guess I should've been suspicious when he didn't. But things have been pretty crazy around here lately, and I was busy putting out fires, so I didn't call him on it. I should've known better. Any time Kowalski doesn't rock the boat something's wrong, and he hasn't made waves in quite a while." He gets up suddenly, and paces a bit, then stops and looks out the window as he speaks. "I screwed up, Fraser. My best detective, and I knew something was wrong, but I just let it go because I was busy. I knew better. It wasn't just the scam, either. There's been something else eating at him for a while now, but I let that go too."

I feel a clench in my stomach. "Something else?"

Welsh turns to look at me again. "Yeah. Something else. For months now, really. And I didn't get into it with him because I liked that he was keeping his nose clean and behaving himself. Guess I can't really blame him for wanting out. I haven't been a very good lieutenant for him lately."

"What exactly is the something else?"

He shakes his head and shrugs. "I hoped you'd know, since you're friends and all."

I know he doesn't mean to twist the knife blade but he's doing it nonetheless. I shake my head. "No. Ray never mentioned anything was bothering him."

And he hadn't. When he'd called he had always sounded in good spirits, pleased to find me home. And when I'd called him I . . . the thought short-circuits abruptly as I review the last four or five times we talked. I hadn't called him on any of those occasions. Every time he had called me. The lieutenant isn't the one who's failed Ray. I have. Badly.

It gives me a hollow feeling to realize that Ray had been in distress and I hadn't been there for him, that he hadn't felt he could discuss his problems with me, whatever they were. I can feel the sting of tears in my eyes and I suppress them ruthlessly, clearing my throat. "Do you think I might be able to use departmental resources in attempting to find Ray? It sounds as if he needs to be found, whether he wants to be or not."

Welsh nods. "I was hoping you'd offer. I can't put any of my people on it officially because he's not breaking any laws, but I'm worried about him."

As am I.

* * *

After four days in Chicago I am no closer to finding Ray than I was the day I arrived. I only asked for a week's leave originally, and I had to fax in a request for an indefinite extension to my superior. He granted it, expressing his concern that he hoped the emergency would resolve itself soon, and politely not prying into the nature of said emergency. I'm lucky that we work in an area where there really is very little actual crime or he'd be unable to be so accommodating.

I've interviewed Ray's landlady, who supplied the information that Ray had requested that a local charity which benefits recovering alcoholics come and take away most of the contents of his apartment to be sold or used at their facility. The few remaining items-- four miscellaneous boxes, a trunk, his rolltop desk, couch, television and stereo-- had gone into a rental trailer designed to be towed behind a car. She hadn't actually seen him leave so she couldn't tell me what he'd been driving at that point, which is a shame because with her level of observational skills she probably would have been able to tell me the make, model, license plate, and quite possibly the vehicle's VIN.

The type of charity he chose makes me wonder if Ray's problem could be alcohol. It's a common one, and he'd once told me that he'd had some difficulty with it when Stella first left him, but during our tenure together he'd never had more than a social amount of liquor, and hadn't seemed particularly interested in it. Still, it's been a year now since I saw him, and if he hasn't been talking to me about what's really going on with him the problem could have resurfaced. The stresses that come with being an officer of the law are strong, and all too often drugs and alcohol become the method used to deal with them.

A conversation with Charles, of Chicago Collector's Cars where Ray sold the GTO, yields one more piece of information. While he did not purchase a vehicle from the lot there, he mentioned that he was interested in buying a used pick-up truck. Something 'with traction' he'd said, preferably four-wheel drive. Presumably Ray would need such a vehicle if he were planning a trip to a rugged area, or to a place where the weather is often worse than it is in Chicago. Ray is well able to survive in a wilderness area, I taught him those skills myself, so if that's his plan I know he'll be safe, but I hate the thought of him being alone. He's not a person who does alone well. He needs people, needs connection.

Thinking of connections and people makes me think of the people Ray had here in town. He and Francesca Vecchio and Ray's parents. When I'd first started investigating, Lieutenant Welsh told me he'd spoken with the Kowalskis and they had seemed both unaware and unconcerned. He'd suggested that I not tell them we were worried until we had ascertained whether or not there was something to be worried about, and I'd respected his wishes until now, but I think I'm going to have to speak with them. They may have some clue as to Ray's whereabouts, even if they're not aware they possess it. I can't imagine Ray leaving without giving them at least some indication where he's gone. It will be particularly difficult for me to go to them, though, because they know that Ray and I are friends and I'm certain they will be surprised by my ignorance.

I've tried several times since I arrived to contact Francesca and gotten only her answering machine. After mentioning it to Elaine, I discover that the Vecchios have gone out of town on a family excursion. Her absence has been particularly frustrating for me because she and Ray had a fairly close relationship, one which puzzled me because although Ray once seemed to indicate that he might find her attractive, from all I have observed their relationship more closely echoes the one they feigned while he was undercover-- the exasperated affection of true siblings. I think that if Ray has confided in anyone, it's Francesca. The upset expressed by the absence of a letter with the information she sent makes me suspect that even more strongly.

I confess I have wondered once or twice about the parentage of Francesca's son, Dominic, since I know that at one time Ray wanted children. However, if he were the father I am utterly certain of two things things: Francesca would not be a single parent nor would Ray have just picked up and left as he has. Ray may be many things but he is neither irresponsible nor a cad. In any case, without being able to reach Francesca, I'm left with the option of contacting the Kowalskis. I look up their address in Ray's folder, and go to Lieutenant Welsh's door, tapping lightly until he looks up.

"Sir, I'm afraid I need to go see Ray's parents."

He sighs. "Yeah, I figured you'd have to do that eventually. Try not to scare them, okay?" He makes a face and shakes his head suddenly. "What am I saying? This is you. You'll be on eggshells."

He's more right than he knows. "I'll try to be circumspect. I do have one slight difficulty, that being transportation. Do you think I might borrow a vehicle from the motor pool?"

For answer he digs into his pocket and removes a set of keys with a paper tag attached, which he tosses to me. "Here. Take this one. It's out back, next to my old Cutlass."

I glance at the tag, and see that it's from Chicago Collector's Cars. I lift my eyebrows at Lieutenant Welsh, who is turning a rather pronounced shade of pink. He clears his throat.

"Hey, it's a good car, a classic. Didn't want some punk kid with no sense buying it and wrecking it."

I can feel the smile that's desperate to escape and bite the inside of my cheek to control it as I nod. "Understood."

"Don't you wreck it," he says gruffly.

"I'll take every precaution, and thank you, sir, I appreciate it."

He nods, and our eyes meet, and I know he knows I mean more than I'm saying. I'm glad he bought the car. If my finances could have supported it I would have done so. Apparently neither of us could stomach the idea of a stranger ending up with the GTO. Diefenbaker follows me and when he sees Ray's car he races ahead, clearly excited, until he realizes that Ray isn't actually in the vehicle. He turns and gives me a reproachful look.

"I know," I say softly, opening the door to let him in. "I miss him too. We'll find him, I'm sure of it."

It feels strange to be behind the wheel without Ray grumbling about my driving, which has improved quite a bit since I saw him last. Policing an area as large as the one I have gives one a lot of time behind the wheel. He might not even be embarrassed to ride with me any more. After driving the RCMP's utility vehicle all over hell and gone, I can also appreciate the GTO's handling far more than I did in the past.

The drive out to Ray's parent's place in Skokie takes less than half an hour. This time of day there's very little traffic on the expressway, and since I'd been there once or twice before I left Chicago, locating the Kowalskis' trailer is easy. I pull up in front and park. Diefenbaker wants to come with me but I remember that Ray's mother wasn't wild about having a large canid in the trailer, so I ask him to stay and watch the car, leaving the windows partly down. The trailer's front door opens as I'm walking up the steps to the small porch, and Ray's mother looks out.

She seems puzzled, but it's not until she looks past me to the car that I realize why. She must have been expecting Ray. That immediately tells me that Ray's parents don't know he sold the car. That doesn't bode well for my purposes. I remove my hat and smile at Ray's mother, hoping my concern doesn't show.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Kowalski, I hope you're well."

She looks at me oddly, her round face tense, expressing what appears to be . . . distaste. . . as she looks up at me. "Hello, Mr. Fraser, what are you doing here?" she asks, her voice devoid of its usual pleasant tone.

I'm taken aback by the obvious chill of her greeting, but I forge ahead. "I'm looking for Ray, ma'am. I was hoping you might be able to help me locate him."

Her tension visibly increases. "No, I can't help you. You should go before . . . ." She stops short, then goes on. "You should just go."

"I realize you may not know where he is at the moment," I persist, "but you may have information you don't realize you have that could assist me. I'd just like to find him, it's important."

She stares at me with a look that's at once speculative and slightly concerned. "Why do you need to find him? Have you got it? Does he have it?"

I frown, puzzled. "It?"

She lowers her voice almost to a whisper. "That disease you people get."

I'm still trying to figure that one out, and all I've come up with is the 'blue flu' that Ray once mentioned, when I hear Damian Kowalski's voice.

"Barbara? Who's at the door?"

A resigned expression flashes across her face, and a moment later Ray's father is standing behind her. He looks much as I remember, stockier than Ray, and heavyset, but with oddly similar hair. He scowls when he sees me.

"What the hell do you want?" he snaps "Haven't you done enough damage? You had to come back?"

Now I'm more than taken aback, I'm stunned. I can't imagine what I have done to earn this enmity. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't understand. . . ."

"What's hard to understand? We don't want you around here." He looks past me and his eyes narrow. "That's Ray's car. Is he here?"

"No sir, he's not here, I'm attempting to locate him," I say, desperately trying to get the conversation back on some sort of even keel.

He looks at me again with disdain. "I suppose he gave it to you, since you're so . . . close. What, did you two have a little fight? That's too bad."

The sing-song taunt indicates no such empathy, and while I may sometimes play at naïvete to encourage confidences, after living in Chicago for three years there's very little I haven't seen or heard. I know very well that there's only one thing that leads otherwise rational people to behave this way. I have no idea why they'd think that about Ray, but true or not it makes me angry that his own parents could treat him so shabbily, so my reply is less than tactful.

"No, Ray didn't give me the car, he sold it before he disappeared. Lieutenant Welsh bought it, and he's letting me use it as a favor while I'm trying to find Ray."

That seems to get through to Ray's father as nothing else has. His face goes pale, and for a moment I feel a glimmer of hope that he realizes how serious this is, but his next words extinguish that hope.

"He sold the GTO? To who?"

I can feel my jaw drop at the realization that the loss of the car matters more to him than the loss of his son. I close my mouth with a snap. "To a used car dealer, apparently, but as I said, Lieutenant Welsh purchased it from there when he found it. Now if you'd be so kind as to answer me I'll go. Have you any idea where Ray is?"

He stares at me coldly. "No, and I don't care. I told him to stay away until he remembers how to be a man."

Clearly Damien Kowalski is a lost cause, so I look to Barbara Kowalski. It had seemed earlier as if she at least had some concern for Ray's health. "Ma'am, if you know anything . . . ."

She shakes her head. "Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you. I hope he's trying to straighten himself out, and you're a bad influence. My Stanley was fine until he started hanging around with you."

They're both glaring at me as if sheer willpower can remove me from their doorstep. I can think of many things I would like to say to them, and I feel the muscles in my jaw bunching as I hold onto my temper. "I'm very sorry that you feel that way, Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski. Whatever your son is or is not, he is a good man, and he has given all he has to protect and serve the community, which includes the two of you whether you like it or not. For that he should be commended, not reviled."

"Commended?" Damien Kowalski says incredulously. "He picked a dirty job, and couldn't even stick that. He quit. He's a loser and . . . worse, and he's not my son any more. Now get off my property. "

With those words he slams the door, cutting off any possible response. I stand there for a moment trying to process the information, trying to square these people with the ones who had driven across country to reconcile with Ray, who had regularly invited Ray and me over to dinner, who had ironed his shirts, and worked on his car, and-- I can't. It's as if they are completely different people, just wearing the Kowalskis' bodies. The effects of prejudice have never been more clearly brought home to me. I'd liked these people, they had appeared to like me, and they had loved their son. Why should any of that have changed simply because of who they think he prefers in bed?

This is the first time since I caught Muldoon that I have experienced a nearly overwhelming desire to do actual physical harm to someone. I have to consciously unclench my hands as I turn and walk back to the car. I understand now why Ray sold the GTO. I wouldn't want the reminders either. I'm half tempted to leave the car here and walk back, but that would be wrong, it belongs to Lieutenant Welsh now, and there is a certain feeling of satisfaction in knowing that Ray's father won't get his hands on it. As I get in and start the car it occurs to me that I shouldn't be so surprised. After all, Damien Kowalski chose to estrange himself from his son for over a decade simply over his choice of career. Why should this be any different?

It's not until I'm halfway back to the station that it really begins to sink in. Ray's parents clearly think he's . . . I suppose the word of choice these days is 'gay.' Why do they think that? Ray was a married man for many years, and he never showed any sign of being interested in men. If he had, then . . . well, I'm fairly certain that I would not have gone back to Canada. I'm not particularly surprised they think I'm gay. After all, I've pretty much come to that determination myself. When the only person who appeals to you sexually for well over three years is of the same gender you are, it's rather an inescapable conclusion.

From the seat next to me Diefenbaker makes a low growl. Startled, I look at him. "You could lip read through the screen?"

He makes a confirmatory sound, and I sigh. "I wish I knew why they thought that. It's perfectly ridiculous. I can't believe they've made Ray miserable over a mistaken notion, but if . . . what?"

Dief grumbles again, eyeing me like I'm the slowest dog on the team.

"He is not. He was married, for heaven's sake."

He makes a sound I can only call a snort, and turns to look out the window. He has a point. Even Oscar Wilde was married. We ride in silence for a few minutes, and then I look over at him. "You really think so?"

His response is short and definitive. I think about it some more, and instead of heading back to the 27th, I take us to one of the small public parks along the lakeshore. Pulling into the parking lot near it, I look at Dief. "Come on. We're going for a walk."

He follows me toward the lake. We pass a group of schoolchildren who all want to pet him, and since he's willing we stop for a moment. Their teacher, an attractive young woman with dark hair and eyes regards us suspiciously.

"Does he bite?" she asks me, holding one hand out like a traffic officer to stop her charges from darting forward.

"Never a child," I say reassuringly. "He's worked for the police, and is very well behaved." Dief looks at me in amusement and I amend that. "Well, except with me."

That breaks the ice and the teacher laughs and allows her flock to move forward. "I used to have a dog who was like that." She looks at Dief critically. "He's a good-looking animal. You say he's a police dog?"

It's on my lips to correct her, then I decide that in this case it might be best if I don't mention he's a wolf. "He's worked for the police, yes."

"That's interesting. How did you end up with a police dog?" Her gaze goes to my hat. "Are you a park ranger?"

I've fielded that question a few hundred times, and stifle the sigh it brings. "Actually, I'm with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

That statement garners almost as much attention as Diefenbaker did, and I find myself giving an impromptu lecture on Canada and the RCMP. After a few moments I finish up by suggesting they schedule a visit to the consulate. The young woman asks if I work there and seems disappointed when I tell her no. It's not until we're well past her group on our way to the waterfront that it occurs to me she was flirting. At one time I'd have noticed immediately, and it would have made me uncomfortable. This time I simply hadn't noticed. I'm not certain that's a good thing.

The day is turning cold and there's no one else near the water. The air smells overpoweringly of dead fish and algae; a fitting scent for my mental condition, which has apparently stagnated while I wasn't paying attention. We walk the beach and I stare out at the waves on the lake, feeling cold though the temperature is relatively mild. Without looking at Dief, I speak quietly. "Ray needed me, and I wasn't there. What kind of friend am I? He probably thinks I've abandoned him, just as his parents have. I never meant to, it's just that it's been so. . . difficult."

To my surprise Diefenbaker doesn't make a snide comment, just a sympathetic moan.

"I shouldn't have left the way I did, and I shouldn't have avoided him. Sheer cowardice on my part." I can hear the disgust in my voice. Diefenbaker doesn't sympathize this time. He knows I'm right. I think back on the confrontation with the Kowalskis. What on earth would make them think that Ray is gay? Not that it matters, but it's just one more element of confusion in an already chaotic turn of events. They had seemed very certain of it, as if they had proof positive. Had Ray met someone? Taken him 'home to meet the parents,' as the ritual goes?

I'm stricken suddenly with an overwhelming wave of jealousy at that thought, and have to consciously shake it off. His parents could be completely mistaken in their beliefs. But if they're not . . . I shouldn't speculate, I really shouldn't, but I can't seem to help it. What would have happened if I'd told Ray the truth a year ago, confessed to him my reasons for needing to leave? I'll never know now, and that makes me ache. I could have told him in a generic sort of way, without revealing my attraction to him. Even if he wasn't attracted to me personally, perhaps knowing that we were both struggling with the same sort of issues might have been helpful to him.

I'm not ashamed of my feelings, I've never had much in the way of prejudices, but even so I'd been afraid of Ray's reaction to them, if I had mustered the courage to tell him. Law enforcement officers, especially American ones, are not known for their tolerance, and I had tarred Ray with that brush. I am ashamed of myself for making that assumption. I'd been so sure of his reaction, thinking I knew him better than anyone else. I thought I'd known every secret, every facet of Ray, as if he were a map and all I needed to do was look at it, or him, to know the terrain. I was wrong. Arrogant, in fact, as my father had once pointed out. I have to wonder now if I ever knew him at all. He's become a mystery, one I have to solve. And when I find him, no matter whether his parents are correct or not, I owe him the truth and no less.

One thing I know. Despite Barbara Kowalski's assertion that she hoped Ray was 'straightening himself out' I doubt that he is, at least not in the sense she meant. Ray has a will like iron, or perhaps titanium might be a better metaphor. Once he's set on his path, he won't be turned from it, as he has amply demonstrated time and time again, not the least by his decision to stick with his choice to become a police officer and by so doing estranging himself from his family for well over a decade. He's doing that again. Selling the GTO, moving without leaving a forwarding address: all this says to me that he has accepted the break, even embraced it. I just wish he hadn't felt he had to include me in those he was breaking from.

Diefenbaker nudges my knee, and I look down. "Yes, you're right, we're wasting time. Let's go."

* * *

I arrive back at the 27^th and promptly turn around and leave again, spurred by a message from Elaine that the Vecchios are back from their trip. On many levels it feels strangely nostalgic to drive up to that house on Octavia, and I wonder briefly how Ray and Stella Vecchio are doing down in Florida. I hear from Ray periodically, phone calls full of good-natured grousing about the weather, the bowling alley, and Stella, who apparently is little easier for Ray Vecchio to live with than she was for Ray Kowalski.

That's been happening less frequently as they adapt to one another. There had been some strain in their marriage at first, especially after Stella had proven as adamantly opposed to having children as she had been in her first marriage. Coming from a large Italian family, Ray had expected her to change her mind on that issue and had been shocked when he didn't get his way. I remember quite a few late-night phone conversations with Ray, playing devil's advocate and pointing out that though as 'The Bookman' he'd gotten used to always getting his way, that wasn't how things happened in 'real life.'

Eventually they'd gotten through it, helped, no doubt, by Stella going back into practice part-time, and Ray's decision to start a small security consulting business. They'd both gotten bored with the bowling alley rather quickly, and my suggestion that they hire someone to run it for them had been a good one. Now they still have it to 'play' with when they like, but they're occupied with more interesting tasks most of the time. As I'm getting out of the car and leaning in to retrieve my hat I hear the screen door bang open noisily and a familiar feminine voice calls out loudly.

"Ray! Thank God! I was scared you'd . . . ."

Francesca's voice trails off as I straighten, hat in hand, and Diefenbaker slides past me to bound happily over to her. She looks poleaxed.

"Fraser?" she gasps incredulously.

"Hello, Francesca," I say.

She pales noticeably as her eyes dart from me to the car and back. "What are you doing here? What's wrong? Where's Ray? How come you have his car?"

From the way her chin lifts I know means she's preparing to hear bad news and I realize she probably thinks I've been sent to deliver it to her gently. Clearly it had not been a wise choice to bring Ray's car. "I don't know where Ray is. I was hoping you might be able to help me find him."

She relaxes a little, but not completely. A spark lights in her gaze. "Oh, so you want to find him now that it's too late? Where were you before?" she demands.

I can't meet her eyes. "I was being a coward," I say quietly.

Dief whines. He doesn't like the strain between us. A moment later she's got her arms around me, hugging me. I return her hug a little awkwardly. I'm not good at expressing emotion, physically, or otherwise.

"Frase, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you. You may be stubborn and dense and irritating, but you're not a coward.

Pain threatens to strangle me. "I am," I manage to say hoarsely. "You have every right to be angry with me. I should have been here." I step back. "What can you tell me?"

She sighs and takes my hand a little impatiently. "Come on, inside. The neighbors will talk about me throwing myself at a good-looking guy right out in public. Besides, you haven't met Nicky, and I have some news for you."

We go inside and she fixes tea for both of us and I make the appropriate noises over her sleeping son, noting to myself that he appears to have inherited the Vecchio profile, though his hair is a lighter brown than his mother's and his complexion distinctly fairer. Finally we're seated in the living room, sipping our tea, Diefenbaker enjoying a cookie and getting crumbs on the carpet. I clear my throat.

"You said you had news? Good, I hope."

"I think so, but Ma's not so thrilled." She wrinkles her nose in an expression that's both smile and scowl. "Dominic's going to have a baby brother or sister."

Startled, I can't help but look at her flat midriff, and she laughs.

"It's early days. I'm not showing yet, won't for a while."

"I . . . see. Well, congratulations, that is, if it's what you want."

She laughs. "It is, it definitely is. And I know you're dying to ask so I'll tell you, the father's a med student at the university, and no, I'm not planning to get married. See, I've done the whole marriage thing, and it didn't work out. But I always wanted kids. Thought I was stuck until I finally figured out that you don't have to have one to have the other. So, yeah, I'm happy, and I get beautiful, smart babies, without having to put up with the toilet seat getting left up all the time and dirty socks in the living room."

"An elegant solution," I say, thinking wistfully that I wouldn't mind either of those things, given the right circumstances.

"I thought so. Can I get you to tell Ma that?" she asks with a laugh, then sobers abruptly. "So, you got my letter?"

I nod. "Yes, and one from Ray. I came as soon as I could. Lieutenant Welsh explained about the commendation."

She sighs. "That was just the last straw, I think. Ray hasn't been the same since you left. Even before the whole commendation thing he was having trouble. Told me he was having a hard time 'seeing the good in people' any more. You were always good at helping him, all of us really, to see that good stuff."

Guilt wraps its tendrils more firmly around me as I listen to her, and I find myself staring at my hat where it rests on my knees, afraid to lift my gaze because of what she might see in my eyes.

"I didn't think he meant he was leaving leaving," she continues, almost nonsensically but I understand her meaning. "I thought he was joking. Even when they got to planning that stupid party I kept expecting him to say 'Ha! Fooled you! Not leaving!' But he didn't, he never said it, and he left. I figured he'd last two weeks, tops, and then go back to work once it was out of his system, but I went to his place to take him some cookies a few days later and got the shock of my life when some stranger answered the door."

That makes me look up finally. "He didn't tell you he was moving?"

She shakes her head. "Not a word. Well, not a word that I couldn't take the other way if I wanted to. I should have known, though, when he said good-bye at the party. He gave me a hug and kissed me here," she puts a finger to her forehead, "and told me he'd miss me. That right there shoulda told me he was deranged."

She says it jokingly, but I know what she means. It was out of character for them, and she's right, it should have warned her, just as Ray's silence should have warned me if I'd been listening to it.

"Neither of us saw it coming."

She shivers suddenly. "God, we're talking about him like he's dead!"

"He's not dead," I say fiercely, almost growling.

She reaches over and pats my hand. "I know that, I know he's not. That's why I don't want to talk about him like that. So, you have any clues?"

I shake my head. "No, not really. He sold his car, left no forwarding address at his apartment, closed his bank accounts, and so far as I can ascertain has not updated any of the contact information on his retirement account or insurance policies. There's been no activity on his credit cards, and Social Security has no record of his having registered with a new place of employment. I went to see his parents earlier today but they were . . . not helpful."

She sighs. "Yeah, that figures. Ray said he had some kind of blowup with his dad again. Didn't say what, but . . . I think maybe I know. Fraser, can I ask you something? Something really, really personal?"

I feel a moment of trepidation, but I nod anyway. "You can ask me anything, Francesca, you know that."

She gives me a sour look. "Yeah, I know I can ask, and I know if you don't want to answer you'll tell me a story about a moose or something."

She smiles to take the sting out of her words, and I smile back ruefully, acknowledging the truth of her statement. "Go ahead and ask. I'll try not to give you a moose-related answer."

She nods, and takes a deep breath. "How do you feel about it when a person likes somebody else, and that somebody is, like, the same kind of person as the first guy?"

I stare at her, trying to make sense of that. "Come again?"

She sighs. "I mean like when a guy likes another guy, you know, that way."

"Which wa . . . ah. You mean how do I feel about same-sex partnerships?"

As soon as the word leaves my lips I can almost hear Ray's voice, '. . . no ship like partnership.' I know I can be somewhat oblivious at times, and suddenly I'm wondering if Ray was saying more than I realized. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it the fact that my father was constantly equating partnership with marriage is a more than mind-boggling thought.

Francesca nods. "Yeah, that's what I meant."

I phrase my reply cautiously, trying not to wonder why she's asking me that. "I think that love is so rare a gift that it would be wrong to dismiss any honest expression of it."

She looks relieved. "I'm really glad, Frase, because I've got something you need to see. Hang on, I need to go get something. I'll be right back."

I wait while she goes upstairs. A few moments later she returns with an envelope from which she removes the contents, holding the page out to me.

"I don't want to hear anything about mail-tampering being a federal offense, okay, Fraser? It wasn't sealed, so anybody could look at it. When I went over to Ray's old place with the cookies, the new tenant gave me some mail that came for Ray after he left. That was in it."

I take the letter and start to read. After only a few sentences I start to feel ill. It's from an organization which claims to 'cure' homosexuality. It states that 'concerned friends' asked that Ray be sent information regarding the program. I have little doubt who those concerned friends were.

"You don't think he. . . ." Francesca begins tentatively.

"No," I say firmly. "I don't. Wherever Ray is, it's not there. I'm sure of that." Actually, I'm not at all sure, not with everything I thought I knew about Ray being turned on its head, but I need to believe it so I say it as if I do. "Tell me what you talked about before he left. You said he was having trouble seeing the good in people? Did he say anything else?"

"No, not really. We talked about Dominic some, that he's starting to walk and can say a few words. Ray always got along great with Nicky, he was really good with him. Did you know he babysat for me all the time?"

I shake my head, though it doesn't surprise me. Ray is one of those people who always seems to get along with animals and children. Well, except for Janet Morse's youngsters which always struck me as odd, but then, maybe he just hadn't tried very hard. He hadn't liked Janet much. "He said nothing at all about his plans?"

She shakes her head. "No, that's why I never thought he was really leaving. I mean, he's gotta have a job somewhere, right? I know he used up a lot of his savings going on that hand thing you guys did, so he would need to get one before what he has left runs out, but he never said anything about what he was going to do. He did sometimes say that kids are the only good things left in the world, and how he wished he could do something that helped kids. But that wouldn't make sense, because those kinds of jobs don't usually pay, so I'm afraid I'm not a big help, I'm sorry, Fraser."

"It's all right. If you think of anything else, leave a message with Elaine, she'll make sure I get it."

She nods and stands. "I don't suppose you'd like to stay for supper?"

I shake my head. "No, I need to get back, but thank you kindly."

She smiles. "Wow, it's been a long time. It's nice to hear that again." She looks at me again, bites her lip, then looks determined as she plows ahead. "So, um, did you and Ray have a fight or something? Is that why you left?"

"No, it was just . . . my reasons were personal. I felt I needed to go."

"Oh. I thought maybe . . . well, that maybe the two of you were . . . and you maybe . . . ."

"We were never involved that way," I interrupt gently, saving her from the awkwardness of having to put her hypothesis into words. "I don't believe that Ray has those kind of feelings for me."

"You don't?" She sounds surprised.

I shake my head. "I have no reason to believe he does."

"Hmm," she says, in a way that makes me wonder what she's thinking. "Okay, if you say so." She cocks her head and looks at me speculatively. "But if it turned out he did, how would you feel about it?"

Well, that's quite blunt. There's really no way to misinterpret what she's asking. It's tempting to tell her it's none of her business, but perhaps she deserves to know. It may help her understand my actions a little better. I swallow, trying to get moisture into a suddenly dry mouth, and feel my fingers smooth over my eyebrow, an action I know betrays my nervousness, but that I can't seem to help. "Happy, Francesca. I would feel happy."

She looks at me for a long moment, and I brace myself for an explosion, but none comes. After a moment she sighs. "I had a feeling. And thanks for telling me. I guess on the one hand that makes me feel better, because it means it wasn't just me you didn't want, but it also makes me feel worse."

"Why?"

She looks at me oddly and shakes her head, a small smile curving her mouth. "Fraser, do you know how much a pound of nails weighs on Pluto?"

I stare at her for a moment, puzzled, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as I answer. "Certainly. It's the same as a pound of cheese. Six point four ounces."

Her smile widens. "So how come you don't know what's right under your nose?"

There's a faint echo of Ray's voice in my head as she speaks, and I realize why as I finally remember him asking me those very questions. That realization brings me up short, and I start to think, really think about my relationship with Ray. And I realize that I may indeed have been ignoring what's right under my nose. I can't be certain, not without finding Ray, not without talking to him, but . . . . I feel my face heat a little as Francesca continues to watch me, waiting. I crack my neck and clear my throat. "Understood."

"Boy, it's a gold star day when I get to tell you something you don't know," she says, grinning. "You better tell me if you find out anything, okay?"

I nod and stand to go. "I will. And, Francesca, thank you."

She stands too, and gives me another hug. "Anytime, Frase."

This time returning the embrace feels less awkward to me. It's a relief to have told her, told someone. Strange that it should be, but undeniably so.

* * *

I return to the 27^th to drop off the car and check in with Lieutenant Welsh. I don't, of course, tell him what Ray's parents and Francesca told me. It's all hearsay at this point in any case, and even if it were confirmed I don't think he'd take it well. He's a good man, but this particular prejudice is strongly ingrained in our profession. I just let him know that I had made no real progress.

He asks me to dinner but I'm tired, emotionally raw, very confused, and desperately in need of some time alone. Diefenbaker and I walk back to the inexpensive motel we found, one not too particular about who, or what, inhabits its rooms. Once there I take a long, hot shower, as if I could somehow wash the disgust of Ray's parents off my skin. It doesn't work, of course, but just ridding myself of a day's accumulated city-grime does leave me feeling slightly better.

After drying off I pull on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, and as I'm looking in my duffel for that letter from Ray Dief grumbles about having to subsist all day on a single cookie. Guiltily I realize he's right. Just because I'm obsessed with what I'm doing doesn't mean he should suffer. I feel culpable enough to phone out for a pizza from Ray's old favorite vendor.

As we wait for the delivery I sit down on the bed--the only furniture in the room-- with a notepad and pen to try and lay out what I know in the vague hope of finding some perfectly obvious clue that has somehow eluded me. Unfortunately my mind doesn't want to focus. It continually drifts away from what I'm supposed to be doing to idle speculation about whether Ray's parents, and more importantly Francesca, could possibly be right. In the middle of one of those flights of fancy there's a knock at the door.

I grab my jeans and pull them on, embarrassed that I hadn't done so after ordering the food, and open the door to a stocky man holding an insulated carrier whose face is startlingly familiar. I really hadn't expected that after this long Sandor would still be working for Tony, or that he might be the driver on duty tonight.

"Somebody here order a ham and pineapple . . . hey! Constable Fraser?"

I don't bother to correct him. "Hello, Sandor, it's good to see you."

"Same here," he says, smiling as Diefenbaker ambles over to greet him. "Good to see you too, bud," he says to Dief, waving the flat box in front of his muzzle. "Bet you've missed this."

Dief agrees vocally as I get out the money for the pizza. Sandor chuckles. "Still using that Monopoly money, hunh?"

"I'm afraid so, I'm sorry. I haven't had time to exchange any."

"That's okay. I know a place that doesn't gouge too bad. Man, I haven't seen you guys in ages. What're you doing down here in the Windy City? Ray said you went back up north."

"I did. I came down to find Ray."

Sandor shoots me a strange look as we trade money and pizza.

"If you're here looking for Ray then you're looking in the wrong place."

I almost drop the pizza box, which I'm sure would have delighted Diefenbaker but after a year without junk food he might overdose on it. "What?" I manage to say, juggling the box back to safety.

"Last time I saw him, I joked about him ordering an extra-large double-cheese just for himself, and he said it was okay, 'cause he was moving someplace colder and he'd need the extra calories."

"Think back, please, did he say where, exactly?"

Sandor thinks, then shrugs. "Nah, he didn't, but I figured it must a big city, or whatever passes for one north of here. This is Ray we're talking about. Not much of a country boy."

I refrain from enlightening him on just how capable Ray had proven himself to be in 'the country,' but I suspect he's right. Given his background, Ray would likely search out a city. "North of here? Did he say that?"

"No, actually he didn't, which I thought was kind of strange at the time, 'cause I asked him where he was going and he just grinned and said he was off to see the twins."

"Twins?"

Sandor nods. "Yeah, twins. I thought maybe he had a date with a couple of hot babes or something. I don't know. But he definitely said twins."

I believe him. He has an excellent memory, as he's proven on more than one occasion. "Thank you, you've been a great assistance in helping me refine my search parameters," I say, holding out several extra bills.

He looks at me, at the money, and frowns. "Is Ray in some kind of trouble?"

"I don't know yet, he may or may not be, but in either case this is the first solid lead I've had on his whereabouts in four days."

"Put your money away then."

I nod and put it away. I know he's fond of Ray, and don't want to offend him by offering a second time.

"Look, I gotta get back to work but if I think of anything else I'll leave a note at the desk downstairs, okay?"

"I'd be grateful, thank you kindly. You can also reach me through the 27th."

He nods. "No problem, Ray's the best. Anything I can do for him, I'll do."

"Thank you again," I say, closing the door behind him and absently setting the pizza box down on the bed as I go through my bag looking for my map. Locating it, I spread it out across the mattress and start looking for good-sized cities to the north of Chicago. I feel I can safely rule out anything north of the border, but there are still a great many places to choose from. Boston, New York, Cleveland, Detroit, Minneapolis... after that there's not much of anything sizeable to the north until you get to Fairbanks, and I suspect that would hardly even qualify as a town by Ray's way of thinking. Still, the field just narrowed considerably.

I think about the meager clues I have: Ray's comment to the used car salesman about wanting a vehicle with traction, and his joke about needing the calories for a move to a colder climate, though if he really is moving north it's not all that much of a joke. He has very little body fat and at times on the trail it was difficult for him to eat enough to stay warm. There's definitely a cohesive pattern there, and it narrows the field further in my mind. He wouldn't need good traction in New York City, because it's such a large metropolis that it has both a vast fleet of vehicles to clear the roads in winter and many alternate sources of transportation. The other choices still seem valid, though. The one thing that doesn't seem to fit my hypothesis is 'the twins.'

I know Ray has a niece and nephew, but they're not twins. In fact, I can't remember him ever speaking about twins at all. I have a momentary flash of jealousy once more at the idea that perhaps these twins are romantically involved with Ray as Sandor assumed. Why, if he wanted me, would he . . . no. I must stop doing that. I can't let Francesca's hints lead me to make untoward assumptions. Even if she and his parents are correct in their assertions about his sexuality, there's still no reason to assume that he might find me personally. . . .

Another deja vu takes me back three years, or nearly so. 'Do you find me attractive?' Good God. Even then? Had I missed it so far back? Had I been so busy hiding my own feelings that his didn't register at all? I have to admit it's more than possible, and I rub my forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming.

I look at the map again, and keep finding my eyes drawn back to one particular spot. It makes no sense really, I have nothing logical or concrete on which to base my decision just have a . . . feeling. Instinct. But it seems to fit. The winters in Minneapolis are substantially longer and colder than here in Chicago, thanks primarily to the cold air masses that regularly drop down out of Canada, known colloquially as 'Alberta Clippers.' He would need a vehicle with good traction there, and he might also need a higher caloric intake to offset the cold. It's a relatively large city, so he'd feel at home. It fits.

I close my eyes, sending thanks to the universe at large for gifting me with a pizza-delivery person who has both a working knowledge of my quarry and a good memory for trivia. I have a place to look. I sit back and run a hand through my hair, debating whether or not to go back to the 27^th and start researching. Diefenbaker whines pitifully, and I finally remember the pizza that's cooling under the map.

"Sorry," I tell him, and open the box, putting a couple of slices down on the plastic liner from the trash can. "Enjoy."

He's just settling in to eat when there's a rap at the door. Not having expected anyone else, I'm about to engage the security chain before opening the door when the person on the other side speaks.

"Fraser? It's Sandor."

If he's back, he must've thought of something else. I open the door to find him grinning. "I just remembered, Ray was watching a tape of a baseball game."

I don't see the relevance at first. "Yes, Ray does enjoy baseball, but I don't . . . ."

"Don't you get it? He said he was going to see the twins-- the Minnesota Twins. Minneapolis and St. Paul. That's north."

The last piece of the puzzle snaps neatly into place, confirming my hunch. "Yes. Of course. I should have thought of that."

"Me too," Sandor says. "You go find him, okay? Make sure he's not in trouble. I told Tony about you looking for Ray, and he said to tell you he's got connections in St. Paul, so if you need anything just call and let us know and we'll get you some help."

"I will, thank you. And give Tony my thanks as well." I hope I won't have to avail myself of Tony's connections, since I'm not sure an association with the Russian Mafia is an altogether healthy thing, but on the other hand, Ray never seemed to have any difficulties with having one.

Sandor nods. "You got it. Take care."

He strides off down the hall, and I close the door and latch it. I'm tired, but exhilarated, and I can't wait to get started on a real search. I grab my shirt and pull it on, looking at Dief. "Come on. I'm going back to the 27^th. I have work to do."

He grumbles, eyeing the pizza box covetously. Just to save the argument I pick it up and take it with me, at which point he willingly follows me out.

* * *

By the time Lieutenant Welsh arrives the next morning I'm feeling much less optimistic. I've made no progress. Using an online white-pages first, and then checking with an actual operator I find that there are twenty-two listings for the name Kowalski in Minneapolis-- including, apparently, an upscale supermarket chain-- unfortunately none of the listings are for a Stanley Raymond, or any variation thereon. A check under the alternate spelling, Kowalsky yields no more success. Unfortunately all that tells me is that if he is there, either he has no telephone, or as I have already begun to suspect, he's not using his own name.

Since I previously determined that he's not using his credit cards, and no one has checked his credit references I'm even more convinced that he's using a pseudonym. I know he had undercover jobs prior to his time with me, and he has quite a lot of experience at developing an alternate persona, and at tracking people who have one. He knows how to create a paper trail that will pass the sort of inspection likely for any day-to-day transaction, such as opening a bank account or renting an apartment. That will make locating him more difficult, but not, I hope, impossible. The lieutenant comes over, coffee in hand, frowning a little.

"You been here all night, Fraser?"

"Not all night," I say, and it's marginally true.

"Progress?" He squints at the computer screen.

"Yes sir, I believe so, though I'm not sure it will be helpful in the long run."

"What've you got?" he asks, pulling up a chair beside me.

"I believe that Ray may have gone to Minneapolis. I spoke with Sandor last night, and he told me. . . . "

"Hang on, Sandor the pizza guy?"

"Yes sir."

He nods sagely. He knows about Sandor. "Okay, go on."

"He happened to remember that Ray had mentioned that he was moving somewhere colder, and would be seeing 'the Twins.' When coupled with the fact that he told the gentleman at the car dealership that he needed a vehicle with better traction, it seems likely that his destination was Minneapolis."

"Yeah. He could probably find work there, I can check with the department there, see if he's applied for a job."

"I don't believe he would leave here just to go to work for a police force in another city."

"Hm. Good point. Okay, so what else is he good at?"

We look at each other for a moment, and I can see that we're both thinking the same thing. Like me, Ray has never been anything but an officer of the law. He's never had a chance to become 'good at' anything else. I know he's a competent armchair mechanic, but lacks the training necessary to make a living at it. He's a reasonably good cook, but again, not of the caliber needed to get a job. I shake my head and the lieutenant sighs.

"Nothing," he says.

"Not that I can think of," I agree.

"Well, there's security. Night watch, that kind of thing," Welsh offers.

It's a good thought, or it seems so until I remember. "Except that I have some reason to think he may be using a pseudonym. And if he is, then it would be hard to get a firearms permit. That would take the sort of documentation that he had when he was posing as Ray Vecchio, and had the full cooperation of. . . ." My voice trails off as the lieutenant and I stare at each other. Without a word I turn and start to type a query into the computer as he lifts the phone and dials. As my search returns a single hit, I can hear the Lieutenant asking questions of someone in the records office. A moment later he hangs up and turns to me with a smile on his face.

"Guess who never turned in his old credentials? No one even thought to ask for them. And Sherri down in records says she got a hit on the alternate Vecchio file three weeks ago, someone from a licensing office in St. Paul, Minnesota. She covered, just like the file instructed her, and she logged it. It's not too unusual to get occasional hits on an old file like that, but this is too coincidental, sneaky bastard." His words are harsh, but his tone admiring. It's not an unusual combination where Ray is concerned.

"I agree that it seems coincidental. Especially since I found a new Minneapolis yellow-pages listing for 'Vecchio Investigations and Protective Agent Services, licensed by the state of Minnesota.'"

Welsh's smile turns into a grin. "We got him."

I feel myself smiling back, nearly as broadly. "Yes sir, I believe we do."

"Go get him, Fraser."

His words stir an odd echo of another time, another search. Of the end of one quest, and the beginning of another. How different would my life be right now had I followed my instincts back then, as Ray was always urging me to? Very, I suspect. I can't imagine where the consequences would have taken us, but I'm fairly certain now it wouldn't be here, without Ray, worried that I've permanently damaged something priceless.

I offer to let Diefenbaker stay in Chicago with Francesca or Elaine in order to spare him the indignity of a traveling crate, but he insists on accompanying me. I have a feeling that Ray will be licked within an inch of his life once we find him. Dief has never approved of the separation, and I've endured countless hours of sullen sulks in relation to my decision to return to Canada. I suppose that ought to have told me something, but I can be stubborn too.

There's an eleven-ten a.m. flight to Minneapolis on an aircraft large enough to handle an animal crate. The hour and a half-flight is uneventful, but even though I refrain from mentioning Diefenbaker's ancestry to the taxi-drivers at the airport it still takes several attempts before I find one willing to transport both of us. That driver, a large, good-natured Native man, takes one look at Dief and grins.

"There wolf in that dog?" he asks.

"Well, technically wolves and dogs are the same species," I hedge. "Genetically they are indistinguishable."

He chuckles. "Other cabbies turned you down, didn't they? Come on, get in. I like dogs. Wolves too."

Dief yips his approval as he gets in, and would probably lick the driver's ear if there weren't a plexiglass shield between them.

"Where to?"

I give him the location on Franklin that I garnered from the yellow pages, and he looks a little puzzled. "You sure about that address?"

"Yes, I believe so, why?"

He shrugs. "Just that Elliot Park isn't the best neighborhood. You watch yourself there, okay?"

I nod. "I'm not unused to marginal neighborhoods, but thank you kindly for the warning."

I wonder what would make Ray choose such a place to set up business. He's never been fond of low-rent districts. I wonder even more once we get there. The building is an old and rather shabby three story brick affair. I thank my driver and pay him, tipping more than the requisite percentage for his kindness in letting Diefenbaker share his cab, possibly against regulations. He asks if I want him to come back for me and I demur, since I have no idea how long I'll be here. At that he writes his cellular telephone number on a scrap of paper and insists that I call if I need him. It's quite refreshing to find such behavior in a large American city.

The interior of the building isn't quite as bad as the exterior. The floors are old scarred wood, but they're clean and well polished. All the lights are in working order, as is a drinking fountain, also clean. There's a small directory of businesses. The six offices on the first floor all appear to be occupied by lawyers. There's a bail bondsman on the second floor who has a three-room suite, and in a slightly strange juxtaposition the other three rooms are occupied by a family-planning agency. Ray's office is on the third floor, most of which is apparently vacant. There is only one other tenant, someone named Shoshanna Starchild. According to her listing, she's a therapist of some sort. The elevator reminds me of the one in my old apartment, an open-cage affair that I'm sure must give Ray the shudders. I suspect he uses the stairs.

To my disappointment, when I arrive Ray's office is dark and locked. A note on the door informs me that he is out on a case and asks visitors to call and leave a message which he will return as soon as he can. Apparently he has no receptionist. As I turn to leave, the door across the hallway opens and a tall, strong-looking middle-aged woman looks out. Her dark hair bears a single striking streak of gray through it, and her face is lined with smile-creases.

"Oh," she says, clearly disappointed. "Thought you were someone else."

"That's quite all right. Are you Ms. Starchild?"

"Yes." She frowns a little, puzzled. "You looking for me? I didn't think I had any appointments until two."

"No, ma'am. Actually, I was looking for Ra. . . Mr. Vecchio."

She smiles then, a spontaneous and warm expression. "So was I. I thought you might be him. You a customer?"

I shake my head. "No, we're old friends."

She looks at me more intently then. "Hmm," she says, cryptically.

"Hmm?" I ask.

She studies me for a moment, then shrugs. "Told me he didn't have any."
That hurts, and it must show in my face because she suddenly looks sympathetic. "He probably just meant he didn't have any here in the Twin Cities."

I'm not so sanguine, but I appreciate her effort. "Probably," I say. "So you haven't seen him today?"

She shakes her head. "No. He was already gone when I got here at nine. I was kind of bummed, I made a coffee cake for him. I don't think he eats right."

I can't help but smile at that. "That's often true when he's busy on a case. So you met Ray when he moved into the office here?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, no. In fact, I'm the one who told him this place was available. No, I met Ray when he brought my son home from Chicago about six months ago. Mike was a runaway, Ray caught him shoplifting but didn't bust him. Took him out and fed him dinner, gave him one hell of a talking to, then drove him all the way back here when Mike said he wanted to come home and try to make a go of things."

I smile. "That sounds like Ray. He used to do community work with gang members back in Chicago."

She nods. "That's what he said."

"And how is your son doing?"

The smile she gives me could light the block. "Mike's back in high school, and he's got a part-time job at a coffee-house."

"I'm glad."

"Me too. What's your name?"

"Benton Fraser."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Fraser. What's your friend's name?" she asks, looking at Dief.

"Diefenbaker."

"I've got some time to kill before my next appointment, you and Diefenbaker want some coffee cake?"

Diefenbaker whines pitifully, and after a moment's consideration I nod. "That would be very pleasant, thank you."

Her office is decorated in shades of purple, with suns, moons and stars stenciled up near the ceiling on the lavender walls. The air smells pleasantly of clary sage, which she tells me is stimulating to the mind. Her 'therapy' business is apparently aromatherapy. Over tea and a very good cinnamon-swirl coffee ring I sound her out further about her connection to Ray.

"You said you recommended this location to Ray?"

"Yeah. He'd call every week or so to see how Mike was getting along, and we'd get to talking. About a month ago I could tell something was bothering him, and finally he opened up, told me he was quitting the force and wasn't sure what he should do next. We talked for a long time, and I said he should try to do something where he could help kids, like he did for Mike. Next time he called he said he had an idea that maybe he could become an investigator and try to find runaways, but that he didn't want to stay in Chicago. I mentioned that we seem to get lot of runaways here, probably because for a big city it's pretty nice, and that's when he decided to give it a shot."

I find myself nodding, and feeling a strange, aching sense of relief that he'd found something that he was so ably suited for. Perhaps he didn't need me here, asking questions, stirring up unpleasant associations.

"Hey, you okay?"

I look up into Shoshanna's sympathetic brown eyes, and I can tell I've let my control slip once more. Instantly I slam the barriers back into place. "I. . . I'm fine, thank you. This is excellent coffee cake," I say, and Diefenbaker echoes the sentiment. "So, go on, that's when he decided to move here? How long ago was that?"

She eyes me for a moment longer, but doesn't pry. "Yeah, that's when he decided. That was about six weeks back. Had to go through all the crap to get his P.I. license, scraped up enough money to post the stupid bond and all that. But he did it, and then he was wondering where the hell he was going to set up shop when the escort service that used to have most of this floor got evicted and I told him about it. He went for it. Been here about three weeks. I've been sending some folks his way from the Parents of Runaways group I work with, and business is starting to pick up, but it's been rough. He's working nights somewhere to make ends meet. Not sure where, he hasn't said."

That gets my attention. "If he works nights, do you think he might have gone home to rest?"

She shoots me an odd look, and shakes her head slowly. "No, I don't think so." She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. "Have you talked to Ray lately?"

That ache in my heart grows stronger. "No, I'm afraid not. We'd somewhat lost contact over the past few weeks. My fault," I say quietly. "Time just got away from me."

"That happens to the best of us," she says understandingly. "I'm sure he doesn't blame you. He's not the type to hold a grudge."

I think of Marcus Ellery and smile wanly. "Not in general, no." A quick glance at my watch tells me it's nearly two. "I should go, your appointment will be here shortly."

She glances at her clock and nods. "Yes, I'm sorry. I've enjoyed talking with you. Would you like to leave a note for Ray? I could give it to him when I see him. You could tell him where you're staying, leave a number."

I shake my head. "Thank you, but I haven't found a place to stay yet. It's always a challenge finding a place that will take Diefenbaker."

"Well, if you get desperate you might try the Fair Oaks, over on Third. They're kind of . . . well, I guess the word would be sleazy, but I can't imagine they'd object to a dog."

"Wolf."

She grins. "That either. In fact the only problem you'll have there is trying to keep some of the other customers from propositioning the both of you."

"Both of . . . ." I blink at her as that sinks in. "Good lord!"

She chuckles. "Like I said. Anyway, it's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fraser, and I hope you manage to hook up with Ray."

So do I.

There's a bench in the hallway next to Ray's door and I settle there to wait, for as long as need be. Diefenbaker curls up beneath it. A few minutes later a handsome sixtyish woman steps out of the noisy elevator and eyes me a bit askance until I nod politely. She nods back and scurries past to disappear into Shoshanna's office. I realize that if I sit here all day I might make Shoshanna's clients nervous. I wouldn't want that.

I glance at Ray's door, my eyes drifting down to the lock. It's the same type we had at the consulate back in Chicago. The kind that Ray used to slip with a credit card. I don't have a credit card, but I do have a library card. I debate with myself. It is, technically, illegal. Just because I hope Ray won't mind doesn't mean it's legal. And I'm an officer of the law, even if I'm out of my jurisdiction. And it's wrong. But. . . . I feel Diefenbaker nudge my ankle and look down.

"I shouldn't," I say firmly.

He whines.

"It's not legal."

He looks at me steadily. I sigh, reach into my pocket for my wallet, and take out my library card. "If it doesn't work the first time, it's a sign."

He gets to his feet and eyes the door expectantly. I look around, feeling like the vilest criminal, and slip the card between the tongue of the lock and the door. It slides back smoothly and the handle turns easily under my hand, the door opening with a slight squeak that makes me start guiltily. Dief butts in between me and the door and pushes into the office. With a last anxious glance down the hallway I follow him inside and close and lock the door behind us.

It's a fairly large office, with two big windows giving a view of the building across the alley. There's a coat-tree next to the door which holds a long, striped scarf and nothing else. Ray's desk occupies a good portion of the room, and his television and stereo are set up on a book-case. His couch sits against one wall, an afghan folded neatly over one arm. The steamer trunk he bought after our adventure to keep his arctic gear in is acting as an end table next to it. Those are all the furnishings Ray's former landlady said he took with him. That puzzles me. If they're here, what's he using for furnishings at his residence? Perhaps he's renting a furnished apartment?

An open door to my left reveals a small washroom containing a sink and toilet. Another door is, I assume, a closet. There are a few papers on his desk, but otherwise the office is quite neat. That in itself seems odd to me. I note that a coffee-maker and microwave are tucked into a little recess behind the bathroom door. All the comforts of home, it looks like. Suddenly I remember Shoshanna's face when I asked if Ray might have gone home to rest, and her reply, and something about that prompts me to open the closet door.

Not office supplies. Clothes. Not his entire wardrobe, to be sure, but definitely far more than a simple change of clothing. The top shelf of the closet holds a variety of canned foods, paper plates, plastic flatware and cups. I check his desk and find that the deep lower drawers hold not paperwork, but t-shirts, underwear, and socks. I sit down heavily in the chair at the desk. Good lord. Ray's living here. In his office.

Diefenbaker senses my upset and comes over to put his nose under my palm reassuringly. I stroke him absently, something I rarely do, and look around the room. This is all Ray has left. He let everything else go. That's very . . . wrong. And as I think that, I know we're going to stay here until Ray comes back. At least I'm certain now that he'll come back here eventually. He has to. He has no place else to go.

* * *

If it wasn't so annoying it'd be funny. I came here to start over, clean slate. Trying to get a handle on who I am, what I want, and, even more important, to forget about the lives I've had and the people I can't have. Joke's on me though. My first mistake was getting lazy and using cover documents I already had handy to smooth out the paper trail. Sure, I know no one will be looking for this name, but even if some of the best times of my life were spent being Ray Vecchio it was a stupid move. You'd think I'd've learned by now that you can't go back again. And it sucks that every time I write a check or use my bank card I have to see that name, which automatically conjures up the one face I don't want to think about.

My second mistake was coming here. I think 'hey, it's not that far from home turf, things can't be too different, right?' I figure nobody here will remind me of people I don't want to be thinking about. But you know, the universe has a sick sense of humor and so here I am in a city of 2,872,109 (at last census) Benton Fraser clones. Okay, so knock off a few thou for the criminal lowlifes, every city's got some, and subtract the sixty or so percent who are women, but that's still a hell of a lot of Fraser clones. It's like the whole city belongs a few hundred miles north, across the border. I never knew Americans could act so . . . Canadian. Everyone here is so damn polite, so damn. . . orderly.

Okay, not quite everyone, I think, listening to the fight escalating in the back of the café between a white guy dressed up like a movie Indian, and a real Native guy in jeans and flannel. Seems he objects to his culture being coopted. Jesus, even the fights around here sound like Fraser. I look around for the cops who usually haunt booth number six but they must be out on a call. With a sigh I stand up and grab one brown wrist as the real guy lets fly at the fake guy. I manage to get them separated without too much trouble and shoo the fake guy out to find his way home before I sit back down to my cold, greasy eggs, burned toast, and tepid coffee. Hell, even I'm becoming a Fraser clone. It's enough to make a guy want to kick someone in the head.

The counterman comes over and slides me a fresh cup of fuel-oil. "Thanks, man. Hate cleaning up after fights. They always break stuff."

"Anytime. Hey, can I ask you a question?"

He nods, in a good mood since I've done him a favor.

"You seen this kid?" I ask, sliding a picture out of my pocket and handing it to him.

He takes it, squints at the girl in black with the pierced eyebrow. His eyes must be as bad as mine. After a second he looks at me. "You a cop?"

"Ex," I say. "Gave it up."

"Thought you had that vibe. Working private?"

"Giving it a shot. Not much business yet."

He makes a noncommittal noise. "What do you want with her?"

"Me? Nothing. But her mom's worried. Wants to know if she's okay."

"You gonna make her go home?"

"No. Not if she doesn't want to go. Just hired to deliver a message and see if she's okay."

"Oh." He looks at the picture some more. Finally he shakes his head. "Haven't seen her, but you should try the Hard Times Café, over on the West Bank. Lots of kids hang out there. They got great vegan cranberry-apple scones, too."

Scones? I eye the guy, a burly, biker-type, trying not to look surprised. He does not look like a connoisseur of vegan scones. Just goes to show you can't judge a book by its cover, as . . . someone . . . would say. "Thanks. I'll give it a shot."

He nods and turns away, then looks back at me with that look people get when they're trying to remember where they know you from. I don't recognize him, but then, for only having been here a few weeks I've met an awful lot of people. Suddenly he snaps his fingers and comes back over, leaning down confidentially.

"Haven't I seen you at the Metro?"

I can feel myself turning red, which is stupid. I work there, why shouldn't I be there? But . . . that's not the only reason I'm there, and isn't this why I moved here? So I could be who I am without worrying about it? So instead of scrambling to cover my ass by explaining, like I would back in Chicago, I just duck my head and nod. "Yeah."

He grins. "Thought so. Guess that explains why you're an ex-cop," he says with a sympathetic look.

I smile back weakly. "Well, it's one reason, anyway."

He nods and gives me a thumb's up before heading down to see what the hooker at the other end of the counter wants. I'm still a little boggled. If he goes to the Metro, then odds are good that apples and cranberries aren't the only fruit he's into. I wonder if I'm allowed to think things like that now, or if it's still offensive. I look at my plate and my throat kind of closes up at the idea of gagging down cold eggs, and besides it's my third breakfast today. Counter-help are usually more willing to talk to you if you order something, and eggs are the least expensive thing on any menu. I eat the bacon and mess the eggs up a little so it doesn't look like I didn't touch them, and head off to the West Bank to check out the place he told me about.

It was a good call. There are a lot of kids there, and a lot of them look hungry enough to be homeless, with that slightly unwashed look that I get myself when I haven't had time to hit the Y for a couple of days. I was there last night though, so I'm pretty decent for now. I order a cup of coffee and sit at a table drinking it. It's a lot better than the stuff at the last place. I may have to come here again. Besides, in my new line of work it's a good idea to hang out where my customers do.

I put on my glasses and get my book out of my pocket to cover the fact that I'm occasionally looking up to scan faces. After about forty-five minutes of reading Jack London, sipping a second cup of coffee, and eating a scone that's as good as the guy at the other place said, two kids come into the café, a boy and a girl. I hide a smile. Bingo. Hair's a different color but the rest is pretty much the same. Still all in black, eyebrow still ringed. Looks a little thinner than in the picture, but that comes with the irregular meals part of being on the streets.

I go over her stats in my head. Tara MacLaughlin, seventeen, from Fargo, North Dakota. Compared to there, the weather here must seem like summer. Okay, well, fall at least. Ran away three months ago, no contact since. Not too surprising, all things considered. The boy isn't anyone I know. He looks about the same age as Tara, but I can tell he's been on the street longer. He's brown-skinned, rail-thin and wary, but he's kind of protective and it's sort of sweet. I wait until the kids have found a table not far from mine and put in their order before I get up and go over to them. They look up, hostile. I'm an adult, they don't trust me on sight. I go for charming.

"Hi, I'm Ray."

"We don't want any," the boy snaps.

"Any what?"

"Whatever you're selling."

"Not selling anything."

"We're not interested in going to your church, either."

I grin. "That's good, since I don't have one. People got this strange prejudice against human sacrifice these days."

That shuts them up. They don't know whether to be amused or scared. "Let me start over. I'm Ray. I'm a P.I. And you're Tara MacLaughlin. Settle down," I add as she shoves her chair back and her friend leaps up, fists clenched. "I'm not here to run you in. Just here to deliver a letter from your mom, okay?"

She's half out of her chair, but after I don't make a move toward her she looks at the boy. "Jake?"

He looks at me. "Private? Not a cop?"

I shake my head. "Used to be a cop, gave it up. It was bad for my health."

"You won't report us?"

I shake my head. "Not unless you give me a reason to."

He stares into my eyes and I meet his dark gaze openly. After a moment he seems satisfied. "Okay. You got three minutes. Talk."

I shrug. "Don't need to talk, just to give your friend a letter." I get it out of my pocket. It's a little worse for wear after me carrying it around in there for the better part of two weeks. I hand it over along with one of the business cards that Shanna made up for me on her laser printer. "That's it. Oh, and that's my card if you want to get in touch after you read it. I can take a statement and send it to your mom if that's what you decide to do. I don't have a cell, so if you want me leave a message on my voicemail and I'll meet you somewhere. I check it regularly. Have a nice day."

With that I go back to my table, pick up my book, and settle in again. I pretend not to notice them watching me as I read my book and drink my coffee. I don't want to make them miss their meal. They managed, somewhere, to scrape up money for food and I know if I leave they'll bolt because they'll think I went to call the cops. After they decide I'm not going anywhere they talk, low-voiced for a moment or two, then Tara opens the envelope, pulls out the letter, and starts to read. I hear a startled "Oh my God!" after a few seconds, followed by the unmistakable sound of crying. I glance up over the edge of my book and see that Jake has her in his arms, patting her hair, calming her. She's sniffling and wiping her eyes, still trying to read.

I know what it says. Her mother told me. She was crying too. It's an ugly case, but then a lot of runaway cases are. The mom worked nights and didn't know anything was wrong until Tara ran away, left her a note saying why. Her letter tells Tara she's in the process of divorcing Tara's stepdad, and she wants to press charges for the stuff he did to Tara, but without Tara as a witness she can't really. She can't even confront him about it because she doesn't want to tip him off that she knows because he might run.

I don't want Tara to feel pressured by my being here waiting so I leave enough money to cover my check and a baseline tip, and head out, with a nod to the boy to make sure he knows I'm cool. It's about time to start my shift at the club. I'm a little scrawny for a bouncer, but my cop training makes up for it. Well, that, and the fact that I feel guilty just using my YMCA membership for the showers, so I usually spend a little time working out before I un-grunge. Can't afford a place to work and a place to live so I'm sleeping in my office, and the bathroom facilities are minimal. Hopefully the landlord won't notice before I can make enough money to get an apartment too.

The only problem with the Y is that the cruising can get a little intense. I always thought that was just a seventies joke, but it isn't. In fact it's even worse than the club, and that's saying something. I guess if you're in the market then the showers are a nice display window. So far nothing's interested me, which makes me keep wondering if I flushed my relationship with my folks down the john for no reason at all. Maybe I'm not gay. Maybe I'm just off my rocker. Probably. Thirty-seven years old and ditching my career and what's left of my family because I'm out of my mind. Yeah, that sounds like me.

With that thought in mind I'm kind of morose when I walk into the club. It's about an eight hour shift, five to however long it takes to get everyone out after we close at one, and tonight I'm almost disappointed that no one gives me any trouble. Like anyone ever has, except for a couple of underage kids trying to get in. I think they only hired me because I looked hungry. They need a bouncer like I need a hole in my head.

There's a guy keeps wandering in and out tonight. After the third time I check his hand for the stamp I start watching him, and realize that he's watching me. He's a little taller than me, a lot broader, almost on the verge of plump, with dark hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. Yeah, so I have a type. Except for the discreet diamond stud in one earlobe. In spite of myself I try picturing Fraser with an earring and it makes me chuckle out loud.

So I watch the guy and he watches me as the night crawls on toward morning. The music gets under my skin sometimes and I find myself sort of dancing in place, because I need to stay at the door but I have to move. When I look up and find his eyes on me I stop immediately, but it's clear he's interested. I feel panicked for a second and then I push it down ruthlessly. Okay, you've got to do this sometime, Kowalski. Take the plunge. I look at him, meeting his eyes, and he smiles and nods, then heads back to the dance floor.

He's a pretty good dancer, not as good as me, but not bad. He dances with a few different guys, every one of them skinny and some variety of blond. Guess I'm not the only one with a type. A little before closing he meanders over near where I am, and stops, jerks his head in the direction of the dance floor. "Nice club."

I nod. "Yeah. Too nice."

He laughs at that, getting it. "Kind of a dull night?"

"That's about the size of it."

His eyes slide down to my crotch and I wonder if I just accidentally made a come-on. He looks back up at me and grins. Thank God it's dark in here, because I don't think blushing is a real smooth response.

"So, do you just work here, or do you come here to play, too?" he asks.

He has a kind of raspy voice, with a way of rounding his vowels that pushes my buttons. And he's definitely asking what I think he's asking. I clear my throat. "So far just work."

"Feel like changing that?"

I shake my head. "Can't. On duty."

He looks disappointed for a second and then smiles again. "So how about once you're off duty?"

My mouth is bone dry. "Well, kinda hard to play when the club's closed."

He grins. "Depends on what you want to play."

I can't help but grin back, it's such a line. "I like to play pool."

"How about. . . poker?"

That sounds like something I might say on a bad night. "I like card games," I say carefully.

"Want to play some two-handed stud?" he says, lifting an eyebrow.

That one makes me laugh out loud, and he chuckles too. "I don't know that one," I say, hoping he gets the double meaning.

"I can teach you," he comes back.

Yeah, he got it. Okay, there it is Ray, the bid's down, ante up or fold. Mouth is dry again, and my palms are sweaty, and my heart's racing like the guy's got a gun on me. "I'll try anything."

His smile gets big and he puts out his hand, a big paw. "I'm Frank."

"Ray," I say, wiping my hand covertly on my jeans before we shake.

"Nice to meet you, Ray. So, your place or mine?"

Swallow, swallow again. There. Moisture. "Gotta be yours, sorry."

He nods sympathetically. "Roommates, eh? No problem." He looks at his watch. "So, the place closes in what, twenty minutes? Meet you out front in half an hour or so."

I nod, and he heads back to the dance floor. Now I know I've lost my mind. Completely. Totally. Irreversibly. I spend the next twenty minutes terrified, trying to think of a way to say 'thanks but no thanks' and at the same time wondering why anyone would want to pick up someone who's obviously clueless about the whole deal.

I keep thinking about the fact that he's bigger than me and wondering if I could get away if I needed to. Then I realize that's a pretty stupid thing to think, because I am a cop, or I was, and I could probably stop him in my sleep if I had to. Don't be paranoid, Kowalski, he just wants to have fun. Just like you should. You remember fun. It's that thing that feels good. Been so long I forgot how.

Last call's gone out, and the crowd is already heading home, trickling out nice and orderly. Shit. There it is again. Orderly. I have got to find a new word. About twenty after one, when the club is finally empty, I check in with management, sort of half-hoping they need me for something, but they don't, so I get my coat, take a deep breath, and head out to meet my fate. Or Frank. Same thing.

He's standing outside the club, facing away from me, smoking a cigarette, wearing a Navy peacoat that reminds me way too much of Fraser. Damn it, I can't do this. I open my mouth to tell him that when he turns, sees me, and smiles big.

"Hey there! I have to admit I'm surprised. I kind of figured you'd scram out the back way."

Fuck. The excuses die unspoken. I may be a fag but I'm not a coward. I know I'm leaking attitude all over when I lift my chin and ask, "Where to?"

He doesn't back off. In fact, he looks approving. "I'm staying at the Hyatt downtown. You want to meet me there?"

He's smooth. Giving me another out, and also making me feel comfortable by making sure I'm not dependent on him for a ride. The Hyatt, hunh? Upscale. He's not likely to be an axe-murderer if he's staying there. Yeah, that's a stereotype but when's the last time anyone ever heard of a murder at a Hyatt? And he's an out-of-towner. That makes it easier somehow. I nod. "Yeah, I can do that."

He grins. "Cool. Room nine-fourteen. See you there."

He strides off toward the parking lot. I'm the other direction, around behind the club, so I head that way. Spend about five minutes arguing with myself about whether or not I should go and thinking about the stupid condoms I stupidly bought over a year ago in a moment of stupidly hopeful anticipation that are, stupidly, packed in a box in my office. Duh.

Okay, think. There's a supermarket on the way, they always have stuff. It's a detour, though, more time to change my mind. No. I need to do this. I have to know. I go in the store, get what I need, it takes about five minutes this time of night, and the checker smirks at me. He probably thinks I'm gonna get lucky. Well, I guess in a way he's right. No, he's definitely right. I'm just not used to thinking of 'getting lucky' without a female-type person involved.

No one bats an eye as I walk into the gleaming hotel lobby and across to the elevator. Guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Cashmere has a way of saying 'I belong' in places like this-- if they don't pay attention to the jeans and biker boots underneath. Stella bought the coat for me years ago. My taste runs to leather bomber-jackets and beat-up windbreakers, but I've been wearing the cashmere a lot here-- the wool and the length are just what Minneapolis winters call for, and it hides a multitude of sartorial sins.

The elevator arrives and I get in, the only person riding it at this hour. It's after two now. By the time any. . .anything happens it'll be three a.m. The time that most alien abductions occur. I read that once somewhere, probably the National Enquirer at the supermarket. I feel like I've been abducted by an alien right now. Or maybe possessed by one. And I snicker to myself thinking about all those stories of what aliens do to you, and how appropriate is that right now? I push every button between one and nine so the elevator stops on each floor and tries to let me out. On seven I almost bolt, but then I remember that 'thought you'd scram out the back' comment and don't.

Nine. Deep breath. Out the door, down the hall, quick glance at room numbers to make sure I'm heading the right direction. Yeah. Four, six, eight, ten, twelve . . . fourteen. Target acquired. It takes me two minutes to lift a hand and knock. Door opens just fast enough that I know Frank was waiting impatiently. He grins and steps aside to let me in.

"Hey, glad you came, Ray. Want a drink? I have some scotch."

Drink. Yeah. Good idea. I nod and he picks up a bottle off the desk and peels off the paper tape across the top. "Duty free," he comments as he twists the bottle open and pours some into two glasses. He doesn't ask if I want it neat, rocks, or watered, just pours. He holds one glass out to me and takes the other himself. We drink. The burn of the liquor feels good, makes me shiver.

"Cold?" he asks, concerned. " I can turn up the heat."

I shake my head. "Nah, I'm good. Just the outdoors to the inside, you know."

He nods. "Yeah. Can I take your coat?"

I look at him and grin a little. "I think I can do it," I say, taking the hint. I put down my drink and slide out of my coat and hang it in the little closet-thingy by the bathroom. I finally notice that he's got music on, some sort of euro-techno-dance stuff, not bad. It's got a good beat, you can dance to it. While I'm hanging up my coat Frank moves to stand behind me. His hands come to rest on my hips and I try not to jump in surprise.

"You want to dance?" he asks, close to my ear. "You were moving pretty good tonight."

My hackles go up kind of automatically. Not used to having someone, another guy someone, in my space like this. I almost shiver again, cover it with a nod. "Sure."

He backs off so I can turn around. It's awkward for a few seconds, but dancing is dancing and my body remembers what to do so it gets easier fast. Not much room, we have to be close, and he reaches to pull me even closer. My pulse jumps and I lose the rhythm, slow, stop. His fingers come up to my face, turn me a little, and then his mouth is on mine. He tastes like scotch and tobacco, and I think of that eighth-grade health class poster about how kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray. It was right, but wrong too. Wrong. His mouth moves, trying to get me to respond, his tongue flickers against my lips.

The words 'duty-free' suddenly sink in, and I think about those rounded vowels of his, and . . . shit. Of course. I wrench away, almost panting. "You're Canadian!" I say. It comes out like it's a dirty word.

He looks puzzled and a little annoyed. "Yeah, so?"

I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I can't do this, I can't, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but I can't. I just can't."

He backs off, hands spread. "Hey, it's okay. Settle down, man. You don't want to do anything, that's fine." He picks up my glass from where he put it, holds it out. "Have a drink. You look like you could use it."

I take it kind of automatically, gulp a mouthful of smoky heat while he locates his glass and sips. After a couple of seconds of awkward silence he speaks.

"So. . . you got something against Canadians?"

I almost choke on my drink, and shake my head. "No. No, I l . . . like Canadians."

"Oh. I get it. Ex-boyfriend?"

I snort. "Not hardly. No, just a friend." My voice sounds all wistful and I hate that.

His eyes get knowing all of the sudden. "Oh. That's rough." He pauses, sips, then looks at me speculatively. "You're . . . kind of new at this."

I lean back against the wall and nod. "Yeah. You could say that."

"Kind of a late start," he says, living up to his name.

"You could say that too," I agree.

"Why'd you come? You could've just gone home."

I sigh and finish off my drink. He lifts the bottle and his eyebrows. I nod and he pours me another shot, then tops off his own glass.

"I needed to know," I say, finally. "Or thought I did. I was married, for a long time. To a chick," I clarify at his lifted eyebrows. "It kinda took me by surprise, realizing that I was hot for a guy."

"So you thought you'd test the waters?"

"Yeah," I sigh. "Stupid idea." It dawns on me that he might not find that very complimentary. "I mean, not that you're . . . I mean . . . ."

He gives me an out with a wry grin. "It's okay. I get it."

I feel better. Looking at him, my curiosity gets the better of me. "Why'd you pick me? You knew I was a total tenderfoot, didn't you?"

He grins and shrugs. "Thrill of the chase. Well, that and you're pretty fucking hot."

Damn. I'm blushing like a virgin at that. 'Course, I sort of am one, I guess. At this anyway. He doesn't seem to notice, just goes on.

"I just like first timers. It's kind of a kink for me, I guess. I like the challenge."

"Makes as much sense as anything," I say.

"Yeah. The mind's a strange place. So, this friend of yours, he's Canadian?"

I nod. "Yeah. He's a Mountie," I say, I can't seem to stop myself. Frank whistles.

"You like a challenge too, eh?"

I laugh at that, and nod. "Guess so."

"Straight?"

"As a die. Whatever the hell that means."

"You seem pretty sure."

I sigh. "Yeah. I am now. I wasn't always sure. I mean, for a while I really thought. . . I mean, we were partners for over a year, spent six months after that on a dogsled in the Territories looking for fucking Franklin's hand, and doesn't it just figure it was some English guy who lost it?" I ask, and he grins and nods as I continue. "Anyway, more than once on that trip I was sure we were just working our way up to it, but it never happened."

"Well, the circumstances don't really seem very conducive," Frank says, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and nodding at the chair by the desk.

I pull it out and sit down too as I grin and shake my head. "Hell no. Didn't dare take your clothes off, for one thing."

"No, I'd imagine not. So, what happened?"

I'm not sure why I'm telling him this, but it's kind of nice to tell someone, even if he is a total stranger off the street. "I don't know. We finally get back to civilization, still partners, friends, hell, we do everything but live together. I mean, people were starting to talk about us and we hadn't even done anything. Things got kind of strange toward the end, it was like we got to this point where sometimes when we were hanging out we'd end up just looking at each other, and not talking, and two or three times it was so fucking close. . . like if I turned my head or he leaned forward it would just happen, completely normal. But it didn't and the next thing I know, bam, he takes off, goes home."

Frank looks thoughtful and sips his drink. I sip mine too, throat's a little dry after all that yakking.

"So, what's he like, your friend?"

"Fraser? He's. . . perfect. Well, annoying as hell, but that's mostly because he's perfect, and sometimes that gets kind of old, you know?"

He nods like he understands, even though I know he can't possibly. No one can, unless they've actually met Fraser. "Perfect, you mean looks?"

There, see? I knew he didn't get it. I shake my head. "Nah, though that too. Looks like Superman or something. You would not believe how women act around him, and he's like. . . oblivious. That's howcome I thought maybe I had a shot, but. . . no, just me jumping to conclusions. No, he's perfect all over. Speaks eight languages or something like that, knows all the great books and theories and stuff. Never makes mistakes, always knows just what to say, what to do, once he got us out of a sinking ship with a couple of fire-extinguishers and some fire hose. I swear he must be related to that MacGuyver guy on TV. Only time he ever screwed up that I can remember he got the snot beat out of him and still ended up getting his way in the end. Like I said, perfect."

Frank frowns. "That sounds very stressful."

"It can be, believe me."

"I mean for him. It must be hard to live up to that kind of reputation, those expectations. I would imagine it could become extremely difficult to maintain."

I stare at him for a minute, and my jaw drops. "Jesus. I can't believe I never thought of that. I mean, what kind of friend am I, that I never thought of that?"

Frank looks at me and smiles. "Well, it sounds as if he doesn't make it easy for people to think of him. But I also think it's pretty clear you care about him."

"Yeah. I do. I . . . did. I think he figured things out though." I say, trying not to whine.

"What kind of things?"

"The whole gay thing."

"You're really hung up on that label. Ray, tell me. What exactly makes you think you're gay?"

I blush and stammer, "You know, because of the . . . stuff I wanna do, what I think about doing . . ."

"With the Mountie?"

"Yeah"

"And how many other guys are there that you wanna do . . . stuff with?"

"I never really wanted to . . ."

"Yeah, I thought so. Look, maybe you're gay or maybe you're not. It doesn't really matter."

"Huh?" I ask, still a little stunned from his last punch, wondering why if I'm not gay do I want to Do Things With Fraser? "Why not? Why doesn't it matter?"

He shakes his head. "Because it doesn't matter if you call yourself straight or gay or bi: When you're in love, you're in love. And you are. In love, I mean."

"With a guy," I point out.

"Yes."

"So that means I'm gay."

He shrugs his shoulders. "It means you're in love with someone and their gender is irrelevant. It means you've overcome all the conditioning that tells you that it matters whether the person you love has a dick or a
pussy, and that's not an easy thing. Congratulations."

"But, I want to. . . um. . . . you know. With him."

He chuckles. "But you don't w