Fic: Where Comfort's Found (Fraser/Kowalski) - Part 1
Title: Where Comfort's Found (Part 1)
Author: Garonne
Words: 18,000
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Summary:
"Welsh rounded on me, arms folded.
'Perhaps you could kindly explain to me what the hell Vecchio is doing in Inuvik Regional Hospital?'"
Notes: Many thanks to an amazing beta-reader, Desiree Armfeldt, who made this story so much better than it was to start out with.
"Girl Guider" is Canadian for the adult volunteers who work with Girl Guide troops.
.. .. ..
Lieutenant Welsh ambushed me as soon as I arrived at the 2-7.
"My office, please, Constable."
I complied, not unhappy to have an excuse to put off seeing Ray for another few minutes. I had scarcely closed the office door behind me when Welsh rounded on me, arms folded.
"Perhaps you could kindly explain to me what the hell Vecchio is doing in Inuvik Regional Hospital?"
My jaw dropped.
My Ray Vecchio? I almost said, and caught myself just in time. In any case, come to think of it, the idea of the real Ray Vecchio being in Inuvik was just as incredible.
"I wasn't aware that he was," I said carefully. I had been so surprised by the mention of Inuvik that the word 'hospital' had only just registered. I felt my mouth go dry. "What happened -- is he -- ?"
Welsh was still scowling at me. "You tell me. First I know is, I get this phone call from Payroll and Records, wanting to know if he was there on police business, and should we be paying the hospital bill."
That word again. It made a cold sweat spring up in the palms of my hands. They were folded behind my back, and now I found I was digging my fingernails into my flesh. I forced myself to remain calm.
"Is he badly injured? What happened to him?" I was already imagining Ray with a gunshot wound in the chest, bleeding to death, or stabbed in the stomach, or in a coma after some horrible accident.
Welsh shrugged. I guessed he was worried too, and hiding it with anger.
"I don't know. What I do know is, I better get some explanations here, and fast."
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know anything about this."
"I thought you were in on this." He was squinting at me, his voice loaded with suspicion. "In fact, I was sure you must be up there with him."
I shook my head. "I came here to see him today, in fact." The thought of Ray being in hospital had driven everything else from my mind, but now it all came flooding back: the reason I had been so apprehensive about coming to see him, the disturbed, uncomfortable state of affairs between us. What if he really was seriously injured? When I thought about how we had parted last time we saw each other --
Francesca stuck her head around the door just then. I vaguely registered the smile she trained on me.
"Hi, Fraser."
"Well?" Welsh demanded, before I could respond.
The smile vanished, and Francesca turned to him.
"Same as ten minutes ago. Nobody's picking up the phone."
Welsh groaned. "Nobody's picking up -- What the hell kind of hospital is this, anyway?"
I realized they were talking about Inuvik Regional Hospital, and felt compelled to defend the place I had spent such a significant portion of my childhood. "There certainly isn't a full-time receptionist. There are only a dozen or so beds, you know."
"You know the place?"
"Intimately."
It was surreal to think of Ray in the place I had spent so much time, recovering from broken legs, broken arms, hockey accidents, sledding accidents... It hadn't been dignified by the name hospital then, but was a humble clinic.
"We did get a fax, though," Francesca added. It was only then that I noticed the sheet of paper in her hand. She handed it to Welsh. "Hospital bill. The only thing they're charging for is a bed, a plaster cast and a pair of crutches."
"May I -- ?" I snatched the fax from the Lieutenant before he could answer, ignoring the surprise that flitted across his face. My gaze flew down the page, and relief flooded through me. Only a broken leg. Thank God.
Welsh was looking at me in a rather peculiar fashion, and I realized I had said the last few words aloud.
I cleared my throat. "It appears Ray is not too seriously injured after all. However, as to the reason for his presence there -- "
"Get back on the phone, Ms Vecchio," Welsh said.
Francesca didn't move. She was staring at me. "Didn't you know Ray was in Canada, Fraser?"
I smoothed down an eyebrow, trying to think of an answer. I was extremely reluctant to become involved in a discussion about why Ray and I had not been in contact for the past three days.
"Ms Vecchio!"
Francesca huffed, and flounced out.
"All right, I guess you're innocent in this, Constable," Welsh said. "But Vecchio will have some explaining to do when he deigns to haul his sorry ass back down here."
It seemed I was dismissed, but I was reluctant to leave. Welsh might be willing to wait, but I wanted to know right now what Ray was up to. I wanted to probe Welsh for information without giving away the fact that I had been avoiding Ray for three days.
Welsh noticed I was still standing there.
"You waiting for me to say 'dismissed'?"
"Weren't you surprised not to see Ray this morning or yesterday?" I said cautiously.
"I gave him a coupla days off. You know... the Baring case."
Oh, I knew all about the Baring case and the effect it had had on Ray.
"Didn't expect him to leave the country, though," Welsh added.
Francesca reappeared in the office doorway. "Inyuk... that hospital on the phone, Lieu." Her eyes were wide and shocked, and my heart went cold. "Ray's not there any more -- they say he's vanished. They say he can't walk, but he's vanished without a wheelchair."
Welsh hurried for the telephone.
.. .. ..
Five minutes later, Welsh was back behind his desk, with Dewey, Huey and me lined up in front of him. I found I was twisting the brim of my hat with my hands, and forced myself to relax.
"...signs of a struggle in Vecchio's hospital room," Welsh was saying. "And this guy on the telephone seemed to think it was unlikely Vecchio could get very far by himself."
"Maybe he hopped," said Francesca, who was hovering by the door.
"So now we don't even know whether Vecchio went to Canada under his own steam or not, or what the hell is going on." Welsh drummed his fingers on the legal pad on his desk. "What do we know about his whereabouts since he left the station on Tuesday? Which was... at about eight in the evening, right?"
He looked at me, and I nodded.
"Eight oh five," I said, and in my mind's eye I could see the clock on the wall above Ray's desk, and Ray sitting under it, his t-shirt soaked in blood that wasn't his own. His face had been grey and set in stone, and he hadn't even seemed to notice my approach. I remembered standing there, feeling the blood drain from my own face, and wondering what on earth had happened at the end of the Baring case. What had I been thinking, leaving Ray to work the case alone? Why had I allowed myself to spend the past week tied up at the Consulate discussing gifts for German ambassadors and entertaining delegations of Girl Guiders?
I had put my hand on Ray's shoulder, and he'd looked up lethargically, and then when he saw me, sprung to his feet.
"Fraser," he'd said. "Fraser, let's get out of here."
Which we did, taking Ray's car, and stopping off at the Consulate for Diefenbaker. We had only intended to stay there for a few minutes, but in the event -- one might say events had taken a turn which --
Welsh's voice recalled me to the present.
"We need to figure out what day he flew to Canada, if he did even fly. Let's narrow it down first. When was the last time you saw him, Constable?"
"I -- " I shut my eyes for a moment, picturing my dimly lit office. I saw Ray's flushed, angry face and heard his anguished whisper. I'm sorry, Fraser, I just... I have to get outta here, okay? Fresh air... I'm sorry. "Three days ago, at the Consulate."
"You haven't seen him since Tuesday?" Welsh had -- certainly unconsciously -- adopted the voice of a police officer interviewing a suspect. He even had a pen in his hand.
I nodded.
"At what time?"
In my mind's eye, I could still see Ray's poker-stiff figure walk away down the dark, silent corridor -- run away, more like.
"A little after three o'clock in the morning."
I could practically feel the surprise that filled the room.
"Wednesday morning," I clarified.
Welsh seemed to gather himself. "Did he leave by car?"
"Yes... I don't know," I said helplessly. "The following morning, his car was gone from the place where he'd parked it -- where I'd parked it, I mean."
"But you didn't actually see him out of the building?"
"No," I said, knowing this would seem to them to be out-of-character for me -- as indeed it was.
"Did you guys have an argument or something?" Dewey asked.
I nodded. It wasn't a lie, I told myself. We didn't have an argument, but we did have something, whatever that something had been. I still wasn't sure.
Welsh looked thoughtful. Disturbingly so.
"At three in the morning?" he said, and I suddenly wished he weren't quite so perceptive.
I deliberately schooled my face into its blankest possible expression. "Yes, sir."
"All right," said Welsh. "Huey, Dewey, get on the phone to the airport. And send someone around to break into Vecchio's apartment."
"I have a key," I said without thinking, and then bit my lip, too late to take the words back.
Welsh was looking at me thoughtfully again.
In fact I had had the key for many months now, initially to feed Ray's turtle while was he was away giving evidence in a federal case in Ohio. It was a perfectly innocent fact, and it had nothing to do with what might or might not have happened between Ray and me on Tuesday night. At least, it had meant nothing much at the time, but now, with Welsh's eyes on me and Ray missing, it felt steeped in significance.
"Right," said Welsh. "Get over there then, Constable."
.. .. ..
I stood in the center of Ray's living room, inhaling deeply. I tried to concentrate on the task at hand, which was to attempt to determine who else might have been in Ray's apartment recently and exactly how long ago. But all I could smell was Ray: gel and sweat, coffee and aftershave. I was overcome by a particularly vivid sensation: Ray standing pressed up against me, my hands on his hips and my nose buried in his neck, breathing in his smell. He brought a hand up to my chin, lifting my chin so that our mouths were level and leaning in to --
I shook myself. That was no memory, only my over-active imagination. I had only been that close to him once, only once had I kissed him. We hadn't been on our feet, nor in Ray's apartment. We had been lying on my narrow cot at the Consulate, but --
Stop that. It's not productive. I took another deep breath, and turned around slowly on the spot. I would have to rely on my eyes instead of my sense of smell.
Several of Ray's coats were hanging behind the door, and one of his jackets was slung over the back of a chair, as though he had just thrown it there -- as though he had just stepped through the door with me.
I continued to turn on the spot, more details of the room jumping out at me.
Ray's sofa, two feet away, recalling to mind years of Friday nights sitting with six inches of air between Ray and me.
The door to Ray's bedroom, where in fact I'd been several times, for the most frustratingly innocuous reasons: to fetch a hanger, to continue a conversation with him while he searched for socks and shoes, to look out the window...
Ray's old rug, covering his dancing steps -- how often had I wondered how he would react if I asked him to teach me to dance. Most likely he would correctly assume that I already knew. Ray seemed convinced I knew how to do everything -- except what to do when he stared at me in my darkened office, eyes wide and shocked, and I hadn't the faintest idea what to say or do to make things better.
A car backfired in the street and brought me out of my daze.
Quick march, left right, left right, I repeated under my breath, and crossed the room to the kitchen. The milk in the fridge was four days old, the sports section of the Chicago Tribune on the sideboard was five days old, and the receipts and parking tickets shoved under the mug tree were all over a week old. I nibbled on a piece of moldy bread that was lying on the counter, and judged it to be three or four days old too. The whole constituted a trail of negative evidence: appearances suggested he'd left on Wednesday morning, but there was nothing to disprove the idea that he could have been here as recently as moments before I arrived.
I couldn't tell how long it had been since the turtle last received any attention, but it did seem hungrier than usual when I fed it. Then I headed for the fridge again, intending to empty it of anything too out-of-date for even Ray to eat. It wouldn't be the first time I performed the task. Ray seemed to have a blind spot when it came to stale milk and moldy cheddar. He hadn't voiced any objections the first time I'd decalcified his drying rack or poured white vinegar down his kitchen sink, and some stupid part of me took an inordinate pleasure in doing it. It felt like I was actually living with him, even if I wasn't getting to enjoy the sharing-a-bed side of things.
My hand was closing around a can of out-of-date Cheez Whiz when my brain caught up with my muscles. If Ray had actually been kidnapped, I might be tampering with a crime scene. If Ray were in mortal danger up in the Territories --
I pushed that thought away. It was foolish to extrapolate such an idea from the sketchy facts I had. It wasn't as though Welsh had sent me to Ray's apartment with latex gloves and evidence bags. I should trust the judgement of people who were not as emotionally comprised as I was.
I closed the fridge, and stepped back into the main part of the living room. I continued my tour of the apartment, trying to pretend that a stranger lived here, and that this was a routine investigation.
I was about to abandon the search when something caught my eye: a square of green plastic about the size of a credit card, half-hidden down the side of Ray's sofa. It was one of those loyalty cards for a coffee shop, promising a free cappuccino once one had collected ten stamps. The name Alex Powell was printed on the card, and the coffee shop was on Randolph Street, a location I was ashamed to find I wasn't familiar with.
Who was the mysterious Mr. Powell? A friend of Ray's whom he somehow managed to invite over to his apartment during the few hours a week he wasn't at work or asleep or with me? It seemed unlikely.
I slipped the card into my pocket, and let myself out of the apartment. I stopped on the way to shine a flashlight into Ray's mailbox, and found several days' worth of mail.
At the diner on the corner of Ray's street, I bought myself a falafel sandwich, and walked back to the Consulate to eat it, and to collect Diefenbaker. Constable Turnbull was sitting at his desk in the hallway, carefully and meticulously extracting the staples from a pile of forms, and separating the pages into neat piles.
I stared at him for a moment, and then decided I didn't particularly want to inquire into the matter. I just wanted to barrel past him as quickly as possible and hide away in my office. I had only taken a few steps, however, when he looked up and beamed at me.
"Good afternoon, Constable Fraser. I took a message for you, from Ms Vecchio at the 27th District, Chicago Police Department."
I stopped short. News of Ray!
"I have it here somewhere." He began to move his piles of paper around. "It was at 11:27 precisely that she called. I remember, you see, because it was just before I usually water the begonias, although I do wonder whether you haven't been watering them recently as well, Constable Fraser, because the earth was really surprisingly damp, given the recent dry spell -- "
Fortunately, I could see my name written across the top page of Turnbull's yellow notepad. The man does have excellent, clear handwriting, I'll grant him that. My gaze flew down the page while Turnbull recounted his trials and tribulations with the geraniums on the kitchen windowsill.
F. Vecchio for Const. F.
R. Vecchio on Air Canada flight 521 ORD-YQB Wed 3 July 13:10
I bent closer, certain I must have misread. Ray had left Chicago on a commercial flight? Therefore of his own free will and not under force. And -- my eyes returned to the airport codes -- he'd flown to Quebec?
.. .. ..
"Hey, Fraser."
I was sitting at Ray's desk, bagging and labelling the evidence I had taken from Ray's apartment. I looked up to find Francesca sashaying towards me, clutching a sheet of paper. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on her face, my standard procedure when it came to holding a conversation with her.
"Good afternoon, Francesca."
"I found that chick you were looking for."
She perched on the edge of Ray's desk, directly in front of me, making it extremely difficult to keep my gaze above her neckline. I scooted my chair back half a foot, and tilted my head back.
"Which lady was that?"
"She's a Canadian. You could probably have found her more easily yourself -- though I mean, I was happy to help, of course. Anytime." She gave me what the more innocent and slightly younger version of me might have described as a friendly smile. "Anyway, she applied for a student visa a coupla years back, so we got her on file. I mean, there are tons of people with that name, but only one who flew into and out of Chicago recently. And guess what, Fraser?"
I still hadn't quite managed to figure out who the lady in question was, but Francesca didn't wait for a response on my part in any case.
"She was on the same flight out of Chicago as Ray!"
She slapped a sheet of paper down on the desk in front of me, giving me a safe area to which to lower my gaze and relieve the crick in my neck. I was looking at the file of a woman named Alex Powell, and suddenly what Francesca was saying became a lot clearer, and what might have happened to Ray became a lot murkier.
I was looking down at the photograph of a woman who was vaguely familiar to me. She was thirty-two years old, according to her date of birth, born in Edmonton, Alberta, one meter sixty-three in height -- and really very beautiful indeed. Three years ago, when the photograph was taken, she had had short blond curls, and an attractive scatter of freckles across her nose. When I'd seen her at the Canadian Consulate a week ago, she'd had slightly longer blond curls, and being free from the constraints of visa photograph requirements had allowed her to display a charming smile. What's more, she had been wearing the uniform of a Canadian Girl Guide leader. I remembered quite clearly seeing her in the midst of the delegation of Girl Guiders in Chicago for the annual North American Scouting and Guiding conference. I had even exchanged a few polite remarks with her about the weather forecast.
And this was someone with whom Ray had flown to Quebec. Someone he'd been entertaining in his apartment. I stared down at the photograph, imagining Ray smiling into those blue eyes, and running a finger down the delicate line of her jaw.
Francesca was still speaking, something about Alex Powell's loyalty card being for a coffee shop in Calgary, Alberta. I cleared my throat.
"Thank you, Francesca. You've been extremely helpful."
"Anytime, Fraser," she said, giving me that smile again.
She walked away, and I sat there without moving. I could feel Diefenbaker pressed up against my legs. He seemed to sense how hurt I felt.
Unjustifiably hurt, of course. I had no claim on Ray. He had a perfect right to go wherever he wished, and with whomever he wished. But the fact that he had gone to Canada made it all seem terribly personal. Why couldn't he have gone to Mexico, or Puerto Rico, if he had to run off with a beautiful blonde?
Moreover, as though to add insult to injury, this was a beautiful blonde he had met through his association with me. He must have fallen into conversation with her at the Consulate sometime during the previous week.
After a few minutes I climbed to my feet and went to knock on the door of Welsh's office.
Welsh was looking put out.
"You still hanging around here, Constable?"
"Sir, I -- "
"Clear out, go home."
"But Ray -- "
His scowl intensified. "Case closed. Turns out Vecchio took off to Canada with some chick. He'll have more than a broken leg when I get hold of him."
He was voicing thoughts very similar to those which had been running through my head five minutes previously. Now, however, I found myself arguing with him.
"But sir, the signs of a struggle in the hospital room -- "
Welsh shrugged. "Maybe he knocked over a vase of flowers himself when he was trying to hop out."
"Sir, the idea of a -- " I swallowed. " -- a romantic escapade in Quebec is hardly consistent with a hospitalisation two thousand miles away in Inuvik. Something has happened to Ray."
"I'll admit the possibility, Constable. But I got nothing to justify anything more than a missing persons report. Come back to me with something solid, okay?"
He gave me a stern look, and I realized suddenly that I wasn't the only person concerned about Ray. But Welsh was only worried that Ray had gone and done something reckless, blowing off steam after what he'd been through at the end of the Baring case. Welsh didn't know the half of it. He didn't know what an idiot I'd been, and the extra troubles I'd heaped on Ray's head.
.. .. ..
My desk was covered with the piles of paperwork I had been trying to drown myself in over the past few days, while I'd been trying to force Ray from my mind by sheer volume of apostilles and passport renewal forms. I'd spent most of the time staring blankly at my work, and resisting the temptation to pick up the telephone and call the 2-7. Now, of course, I knew that Ray hadn't been at the station at all, but somewhere in Canada.
What had happened between the time he took a flight for Quebec of his own free will, and the time he turned up injured in Inuvik three days later -- only to disappear immediately from his hospital room? Had he been kidnapped, or had he been running away from someone?
It gave me a horrible tight feeling in my chest to imagine Ray in trouble somewhere in the Northwest Territories, without me there to help him. Part of me longed to fly straight to Inuvik, part of me thought I should start by following the trail to Quebec. I could do neither: I was trapped here in Chicago, with the infuriating task of investigating at a distance.
At least now I had a lead to work on. I pulled Alexandra Powell's file towards me. What exactly was her involvement? Was it entirely unrelated to Ray's subsequent troubles, or had she somehow tricked him into following her to Quebec, and beyond? I could already hear Ray's voice.
But she's a Girl Scout, Fraser! Of course I believed her!
After all, he also seemed to believe the old chestnut that Mounties never lie.
I ran my eye down the list of Girl Guiders Turnbull had furnished me with, wondering whether any of the others could possibly be involved in Ray's disappearance. I found it difficult to countenance a nationwide criminal conspiracy within the Girl Guiding movement. Perhaps it was just Powell and persons unknown?
I imagined Ray's voice again, and it made me smile in spite of myself.
I just can't shake them off, Fraser. They're Girl Scouts, for Chrissake! You got nothing on them when it comes to tracking, believe you me.
I pushed the files away and pinched the bridge of my nose, my growing headache now threatening to overcome me. I was unable to prevent my mind from reliving the events of the past few days, trying to work out what I could have done differently, how I could have made events take a different course.
On the Tuesday when I'd last seen Ray, I had spent the afternoon listening to Inspector Thatcher and Constable Turnbull speculating on the German ambassador's taste in cufflinks. That was followed by a discussion of the most suitable color for the new reception room carpet. I had sat there playing house while Ray -- Ray was in the middle of a bloodbath.
When I'd finally escaped from Inspector Thatcher's office, I had called the 2-7 to see if Ray had made any progress in his case. When we'd spoken the previous evening, he had been on the brink of finally tracking down a key suspect.
Francesca had answered Ray's phone.
"Yeah, he's here... No, he's with the Lieutenant. Listen, Fraser -- it might be a good idea if you dropped over here. Maybe drive him home or something?"
The idea of Ray needing to be driven home was so unexpected and disturbing that I rushed straight to the station. I found Ray sitting at his desk in a t-shirt soaked with someone else's blood.
I put my hand on his shoulder, and he looked up lethargically, and then when he saw me, sprang to his feet.
"Fraser," he said. "Fraser, let's get out of here."
And we did.
Ray was strangely silent in the car on the way to the Consulate -- and under normal circumstances Ray was never, ever, able to keep his mouth shut when I was driving. I manoeuvred carefully into a space half a block a way from the Consulate, instead of double-parking outside the front door, and Ray still said nothing.
Instead of saying, "I'll only be a minute," I found myself suggesting he come in with me, not wanting to leave him alone in the car.
He followed me through the deserted hallway to my office, and stood leaning in the doorway, watching me. Dief seemed to sense that something was amiss, and went to snuffle at Ray's feet instead of jumping up at him.
I pulled a clean Henley from the freshly ironed pile in my closet, and turned to offer it silently to Ray.
His stony expression softened, and for a split second I feared he was on the verge of tears. The fear was instantly followed by guilt, because surely a medical professional would assure me that crying was probably the best thing he could do just now. It was incredibly selfish of me to want him not to merely because I wouldn't know how to deal with it.
After a moment, though, he summoned a grin.
"Thanks, Frase."
He took the Henley, and quickly stripped off his own bloody t-shirt. I took it out of his hands, some grim part of me wondering why it took a massacre to have Ray half-naked in my room.
I ran my gaze over him in the most clinical way I could.
"You're not injured?"
"Why? You looking to slather me in moose placenta again?" He jammed the shirt on over his head. It hung loosely on him. "Sorry to disappoint you."
I was still holding his own shirt. He noticed my indecision.
"Dump it, Fraser. I never want to see it again." He looked down at himself. "I'm gonna have to throw these pants out too."
He was speaking in the most matter-of-fact voice possible. I couldn't help but stare at him, studying his face anxiously. My throat felt tight with concern.
He looked up and caught my eye, and suddenly his hands were balling up, and he was yelling at me.
"What the fuck, Fraser? Why the fuck do you have to go looking at me like that, just when I got everything under control. Why the hell -- ?"
I thought he was going to hit me, but instead he sat down suddenly on my cot. He was shaking.
I stood there, frozen.
After a long, horrible minute, he began to speak without looking up. His voice was calm.
"They were just kids, you know. Baring started them young -- lookout at eight or nine, courier at twelve, full-blown drug dealer at sixteen. Usual set-up, you know?"
I knew very well indeed. I had spent more than enough time with the Chicago PD for that.
Ray was still talking. "There must have been, I don't know, ten or twelve kids at the warehouse this afternoon. Welsh says four bodies, and five more hospitalized, but it felt like about forty at the time. Says it wasn't actually anything to do with us -- me and Smith and Riordan, I mean. Supposedly the guys were all on edge in the place already anyway, but I dunno. I can think of one pretty good reason for people to start shooting already -- wondering about who ratted them out to the cops that just showed up."
"Spark to a tinderbox," I murmured.
"Yeah." He looked up at me. "Thank God you weren't there, Fraser."
I dropped to my knees beside him. "I'm sorry, Ray, I'm sorry, I should have -- "
"You kidding me? I have nightmares about you getting shot in some stupid, pointless scenario." He reached out and grabbed a fistful of my tunic. It felt like an attack and a caress at the same time. "You drive me crazy, Fraser, you know that?"
He was looming over me, his face intense, his eyes fixed on mine, so very close to me. My heart was pounding. My mouth was dry.
Then he let go of me, and made an odd, ineffectual sort of gesture, as though trying to smooth down my tunic. He turned his head away.
I got to my feet, and stepped away, tugging my tunic back into place. I looked down at Ray, and rubbed the back of my neck.
My original plan had been to drive Ray home, and then to stay there for a little while, make sure he was all right, perhaps get a takeout. I'd thought we would watch ESPN, and eat chow mein, and I'd pretend not to see him slipping spring rolls to Diefenbaker. It would be like a hundred other evenings we'd spent together, and the familiarity would be comforting to Ray.
Suddenly, I decided something quite different was in order.
"How about spaghetti and meatballs for dinner?" I suggested. "I'm afraid the tomatoes and the meatballs will be from a can, but -- "
He looked up at me, temporarily distracted by his surprise.
"You mean here? You want to eat dinner here?"
I nodded.
His face broke into a smile, and that was enough to make my own heart lift.
"Sure," he said, springing to his feet. "I can eat meatballs out of a can anytime, Fraser."
Ray and I tended to spend very little time at the Consulate. It was only subsidiarily where I lived, and primarily where I worked. Ray's apartment had a comfortable couch and cable television, and professional paperwork only spilled over into it when he chose to let it.
Tonight, though, the consulate was empty. Everyone had gone home, and we had the place to ourselves. I thought that to Ray it might feel like being away on vacation, somewhat like the feeling of camping out. When I saw Ray begin to dance around the kitchen, I decided I'd been right.
The consulate kitchen was a lot bigger than Ray's. Sometimes it was occupied by teams of caterers called in for some consular event or other, but mostly it was very much underused. It contained every sort of utensil the Sears catalogue contained, and many I'd never even heard of. Ray seemed to have been transported to some sort of culinary heaven, and I was content to follow his orders, watching him out of the corner of my eye and hiding my smile.
I'd been surprised when I first discovered how well Ray could cook. It seemed a dreadful waste for him to be living on a diet of fast food and microwave meals, but he'd just shrugged when I said as much.
"Not worth the effort for one."
I suspected that he had ended up being the cook in his and Stella's relationship, but never asked.
Myself, I have never been very picky about what I eat. When one is used to nothing being fresh but the meat, food becomes more of a necessity than a pleasure.
That evening, dinner took a little longer and was a little fancier with Ray at the helm than it would have been had I been alone, but finally we sat down to plates of steaming hot spaghetti and meatballs drenched in a sauce of Ray's devising.
"Smells good, don't it?" said Ray, sliding into the chair opposite me and attacking with gusto. "God, I'm starved."
"I salute your culinary skills, Ray."
"Hey, you haven't tasted it yet."
We ate slowly, keeping up a lively conversation at the same time. It made a pleasant change to be sitting at the table with only each other for entertainment, instead of in front of the television. We talked about all kinds of things, from my grandmother's collection of fish flies to Ray's recent visits to the movie theater. Ray even seemed to be paying attention to some of my choicer anecdotes.
There was no clock in the kitchen, and when I looked at my watch once we'd finished eating I found it was past eleven. The disadvantage of being at the Consulate suddenly, belatedly occurred to me. I had slept on Ray's couch on many occasions, but my waking up there was quite a different matter from Ray being woken on the Consulate sitting room couch if Constable Turnbull came in early.
In any case, I really did not want to leave Ray alone tonight.
We washed the dishes together. Ray didn't even attempt to suggest leaving the plates for the morning, and I told him that spending three hours in Canada must have been a good influence on him, earning me the pointed end of a soup ladle in the ribs.
Finally everything was restored to its usual pristine state. I turned to Ray, and found him already looking at me. An awkward silence fell between us. The shadow had returned to his eyes.
"I -- left my keys in your office," he said, and hurried out.
When I reached the office myself, Ray's keys were still lying on my desk, and he was sitting on my cot, his shoulders hunched up and his head down.
The room was filled with warm, stale July air. It felt uncomfortably close. Ray had turned on the lamp by my desk, but its light only reached a portion of the room, and his face was in shadow.
After a moment's hesitation, I sat down beside him. I wished I could just sling my arm casually around his shoulders, the way he so often did to me.
He turned to me, and the next thing I knew he was in my arms, and I was somehow in his at the same time. His face was buried in my shoulder, but he wasn't making any noise. He was just holding me, his warm torso pressed up against mine.
We sat like that for a long time. Finally I felt him grow heavy on my shoulder, and his head began to slip down my arm as he drifted off to sleep.
I manoeuvred us carefully so that we were lying on my narrow cot, Ray still pressed up against me. I managed to sit up and pull off my boots and his shoes without disturbing him. He didn't stir even when I lay back down beside him.
I hadn't intended to fall asleep, but I must have done so nonetheless. When I woke up, Ray was wrapped around me. He had somehow turned so that he was facing me. The desk-lamp was still on, and I could see his face up close to mine, the lines that ran across his forehead, the stubble that was thickest along the line of his jaw, a freckle on his eyelid. I could have lain there for hours, just looking at him.
Then his eyes flickered open. He looked puzzled for a moment, until he figured out where he was. I was waiting for him to tense up and draw away, but he only smiled.
"Hey, Fraser."
I opened my mouth, but nothing seemed to want to come out. Ray was still grinning at me, looking as relaxed and drowsy as I felt.
Our legs were tangled together and my hand was on his shoulder. It began to move slowly, almost of its own accord. Then my hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him towards me, and I was leaning forward, till our mouths met. His whole body made a small, startling jerking motion, but he didn't pull away. Instead his mouth opened, and I felt him sigh against my lips.
My entire body was infused with electricity. I was humming with it, intoxicated with the idea of finally touching Ray, of feeling his lips against mine, hard and gentle at the same time.
I let my tongue dart out into his open mouth, and the hand resting on my upper arm tightened convulsively. I only had one arm free -- the other was trapped underneath us -- and my free hand was restless, running over his shoulders, stroking his hair, caressing the strands at the nape of his neck.
He was still wearing my Henley, but it had become rucked up during the night. When I moved my hand down his body, the tips of my fingers came into direct contact with the skin of his waist, just above his left hip. I heard his breath catch in his throat.
My own breath was coming so fast I was almost panting, and my heart was racing. I forced myself to take a long deep breath, and allowed my hands to roam over his lower back. His skin was hot to the touch.
We were kissing in earnest now, sloppily and fervently, and my whole body was crying out for more.
I drew back, reluctantly, temporarily, and opened my eyes.
"Ray," I whispered, the first words either of us had uttered in minutes. "Ray -- "
His eyes were wide and almost shocked looking, staring at me in the dim light.
I ached for his touch.
"May I -- "
I didn't know how to say it, so I let my hand fall to the waistband of his pants, inches from the erection I could feel pressing against my hip.
He tensed and jerked away, and my own body tensed too, in shock and dismay.
He wasn't meeting my gaze. I could see his throat move as he swallowed.
"Frase, I -- "
Then he was scrambling past me, and rolling off the cot onto his feet.
I followed him, and stood there as he turned to face me. My stomach burned as though I'd just been kicked in the gut.
Ray's faced was flushed. I couldn't tell whether he was angry or embarrassed or something else entirely.
"I'm sorry, Frase, I just... I have to get outta here, okay? Fresh air... I'm sorry, okay?"
He stumbled to the door, then came to a stop and turned back.
"Shoes," he mumbled, peering around the room.
I had lined them up neatly under the bed with my boots. He spotted them, and shoved them on without doing up the laces.
"Night, Fraser," he said with his back to me, fumbling for the door handle.
I couldn't seem to make my vocal cords work.
I stood in the doorway of my office, and watched him leave. My eyes were fixed on his poker-stiff back as he hurried away from me, until finally he disappeared around the corner.
.. .. ..
I had spent the following three days burying myself in paperwork at the Consulate, deliberately not looking at the telephone, wanting to call the 2-7 and not doing so -- and all the while Ray was in Canada, without me and in danger.
Now I had one lead, Alexandra Powell, and no official help from the 2-7.
The following morning, however, Constable Turnbull surprised me by coming up trumps.
When I returned with Dief from our early morning walk, Turnbull was already at his desk, sharpening his pencils. He sprang to his feet when I entered.
"I have something here that may interest you, Constable Fraser."
I eyed him warily.
"As you requested, I ran some background checks on our recent visitors from the Girl Guiding movement."
I relaxed. Ray Kowalski's disappearance was the only topic of conversation I was willing to entertain at the moment.
Turnbull went on, "They are all fine, upstanding citizens, of course, as must surely go without saying."
I wondered whether Turnbull had been a Boy Scout.
"I did go into a little more depth in the case of Ms Alexandra Powell, as she seemed to be the individual who interested you the most. We have nothing on her, of course, but her brother has quite a record. Armed robbery, breaking and entering, robbery aggravated by violence..."
I felt myself relax ever so slightly. I knew it! I knew there was some sort of criminal connection. I knew Ray wasn't simply -- I could let myself think it now -- running away from me.
"Of course Ms Powell herself is surely above suspicion," Turnbull added.
"Indeed?"
In answer, he gave me a three-fingered salute. "On my honour, I promise that I will do my best -- "
"You were a Boy Scout, I take it, Constable?" I said, thinking to myself that Ms Powell wouldn't be the first person to break an oath. Sadly, I am reminded on a daily basis how often human beings fail to live up to their potential for good.
"87th Toronto Troop, deputy patrol leader." He beamed at me. "I expect you were a patrol leader, Constable Fraser?"
"Oh, we had a very small troop," I said evasively. I looked down at the neat piles of paper on his desk. "Do we have a last known whereabouts for Mr. Powell?"
"Let me see."
I was ahead of him. I had already found the pile of print-outs and was flicking through them. It seemed Ritchie Powell had been on parole in Calgary up until the end of April. For the past two months, then, he'd been a free man as regarded his movements.
Turnbull explained as much to me from memory, while I listened with one ear, and noted down a list of file references to follow up on.
"Thank you, Constable. I very much appreciate your assistance."
He beamed at me. "Oh, and you received a telephone call from the Northwest Territories while you were out." He held up a slip of yellow paper.
Detective Vecchio? I almost said, but managed to bite back my words. I didn't want to sound as though I were obsessed by the man, even if it were true, and even if Turnbull's good opinion of me seemed unshakeable.
"Thank you, Constable," I said, forcing myself to take the slip of paper instead of snatching it.
It wasn't Ray, but a Mr. Walt MacGyver with a telephone number in the Yukon -- Dawson City, if my memory served correctly. Was that where Ray had gone or been taken after vanishing from Inuvik Hospital? It was over a day's drive south of Inuvik at this time of year, but if he'd flown...
I scarcely took the time to say "May I?" before grabbing the receiver of Turnbull's telephone. I hadn't even finished entering the international dialling code, however, when the door behind me opened. Turnbull sprang to his feet.
"Good morning, sir."
I turned, and echoed Turnbull's words as soon as I saw Inspector Thatcher in the doorway.
She ignored this.
"Fraser, I need you today, so the 27th District will have to do without you." She ran a disapproving eye over the brown uniform I had donned when I had been planning to spend the morning at the airport, searching Ray's car. "I expect to see you at the front door in dress uniform in ten minutes."
"Yes, sir."
She disappeared.
Turnbull's eyes widened when I reached for the telephone again, instead of rushing away to change. He said nothing, though.
I dialled quickly. A chipper female voice answered: early twenties, Yukon native. "Hi, Fred's Diner." She was chewing gum.
"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, calling from the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. Would it be possible to speak to Mr. Walt MacGyver, please?"
"Uh... Hang on a minute." I could hear the noise of the telephone receiver being laid down on a table. After that came a few minutes of indistinct noises of cutlery clinking on ceramic, and men's voices rumbling.
I hung on, praying that Mr. Walt MacGyver hadn't finished his breakfast yet, and was still on the premises.
Finally, I heard the receiver being picked up again, and then a male voice, mid-forties, heavy smoker, originally from British Colombia or Alberta. "Uh, hi, someone looking for me?"
"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, calling from the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. I believe you tried to contact me this morning, Mr. MacGyver."
"You're B. Fraser, then?"
"That's correct, sir."
"You're in Chicago again already? That was pretty damn quick!"
I blinked. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't follow."
The man on the other end of the phone line now sounded as puzzled as I felt. "You're not the guy I had in my truck couple of days back?"
"I don't believe so."
"Uh huh." The man appeared to stop and think for a moment. I could hear him breathing. "Yeah, I thought you might not be. That would have been R. Fraser, wouldn't it?"
For a brief but confused moment I thought he was referring to my father. Then the explanation occurred to me. "You gave a lift some days back to a man who introduced himself as Ray?"
"That's right." He sounded pleased we were finally figuring things out. "He left a bag in the back of my truck. I open it up and there's a shirt on top with B. Fraser, Canadian Consulate Chicago stitched inside."
I suppressed the urge to punch the air, à la Ray. The wisdom of labelling all one's personal belongings had never been more evident, despite the derisory remarks certain persons might have made as to our no longer being in elementary school.
"It's exceedingly kind of you to go to such trouble to return the bag to its owner, Mr. MacGyver. I'm sure Ray will appreciate it very much."
"No trouble. So uh, about the bag. What should I do with it?"
I hesitated. "My colleague is in... intermittent contact with us here at the Consulate at the moment, and I'm not quite sure... Between which two points did you drive him exactly, Mr. MacGyver?"
"Dawson to Fort McPherson. He was making for Inuvik, but I had to stop and make a delivery in Fort McPherson, so your friend went on ahead."
These were familiar names, familiar places. It was so very strange and unsettling to think of Ray being there without me.
"Was he on official business?" The man sounded curious now. "I kind of got the feeling he was an American."
"Ray works in liaison with the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago," I said. I hesitated, but the temptation to probe further was too strong. "As a matter of fact, we've had some trouble recently keeping in touch with him. Any information you could give us on his condition would be much appreciated."
"Well, the guy seemed fine. Nice fellow. Not very talkative. When I asked him what he was doing all the way up here, he said he was on the run. But joking, like. At least I thought he was." He sounded doubtful now.
"He wasn't -- injured?"
"I don't think so."
I sat there for a moment, desperately jealous of this stranger, who had had the good fortune to spend -- I calculated rapidly -- twelve hours in a truck with my Ray, while I was stuck in Chicago.
Mr. MacGyver cleared his throat. "And the bag?"
"Perhaps you could be so kind as to leave it with the RCMP in Dawson City?"
"Sure, no problem."
"Thank you kindly, sir."
I hung up, deep in thought. It made sense that Ray would make for Inuvik, if lost and on the run in the North, even though it might have been more practical for him to have headed south. In my head, I could already imagine the conversation we would have when I finally found him. Ray would shrug, and say, "I asked him to take me to Inuvik. It was the only town I could remember the name of in this Godforsaken place. Well, except Yellowhorse, but he didn't seem to know that one."
And I would say patiently, "It's Yellowknife, Ray. And Whitehorse."
And Ray would make a face at me, and I would smile and take his hands and --
"Fraser!"
I leapt to my feet.
The Ice -- that is to say, Inspector Thatcher was standing in the doorway, glaring at me.
"Yes, sir, on my way, sir!"
My task for the morning turned out to consist of standing at Inspector Thatcher's shoulder and looking impressive while she gave a dressing down to the director of a painting and decorating firm responsible for the unfortunate shade of green the Consulate front door now sported.
I took advantage of the taxi-ride to the company's office to fill her in on the Powell case, and the danger a Chicago police officer had fallen into due to his association with the Consulate. A lack of official backing had never been a hindrance to me in the past, but I thought it would probably be advisable to keep the inspector abreast of matters all the same.
"I will need to put out an APB on Powell in the Yukon and the Northwest Territories, and get access to flight records across the northwest." I still didn't know how or why Ray had ended up in Dawson City, but at the moment I was more interested in what had happened after he disappeared from the hospital in Inuvik.
Inspector Thatcher was frowning. "Surely it's a matter for Chicago PD?"
"They don't believe -- " I cleared my throat. "They haven't yet had an opportunity to see the most recent, compelling evidence, and the case is urgent."
"All right, whatever," she said as we arrived at our destination. "Hand me the paint swatches, Fraser."
.. .. ..
As soon as we returned to the consulate I went straight into the main office to use the computer. I ignored Turnbull, who was making faces in the mirror while he polished it.
I sat down at the desk, powered up the computer, and was confronted with a police report that had triggered one of the alerts I'd asked Turnbull to set up. A warrant had been issued that morning by Yellowknife Municipal Police for the arrest of Ritchie Powell. He was wanted for attempted murder.
I stared at the screen, my heart beginning to thump uncomfortably fast. The victim was described as 1m80, 73 kg, white male, blond hair, blue eyes. No name or ID. The other details in the report were frustratingly sketchy.
I could feel a sort of panic rising up inside me. Could Ray have flown from Inuvik to Yellowknife at some point yesterday, just in time to suffer a murder attempt by Powell last night? My first impulse was to telephone Yellowknife Municipal Police and give them an impassioned lecture on the importance of fully filled out police reports and the value of comprehensive databases in inter-force judicial cooperation.
I took a deep breath, focussing on the word 'attempted'. Ray was still alive.
Welsh and Thatcher would have to put their full resources on the case now. I would start by flying to Yellowknife, and joining Ray there.
I was reaching for the telephone to contact Yellowknife when it rang. I was already on edge, and I was so startled by the sound that I froze. Turnbull swooped in.
"Good afternoon, Canadian Consulate in Chicago, Constable Renfield Turnbull speaking. Bonjour, Consulat du Canada -- oh hello! How nice to hear from you."
Turnbull grinned and nodded for a while, while I sat there boiling with frustration. Ray was in danger, he had already been attacked twice, Powell was on the loose, and some idiot was tying up the phone line. Then something Turnbull said jerked me out of my daze.
"So you're not on the run from known bank robber and violent criminal Ritchie Powell?"
I sprang to my feet.
"Constable Fraser and I thought you were... well of course, I have to give him credit for the deduction. I've only been doing the leg work on this one." He gave a sort of giggle.
I was desperately trying not to tear the receiver from his hands.
"Constable Turnbull," I said through gritted teeth. "If I may -- "
"So who did kidnap you, then, if you don't mind my asking?" His eyes widened. "Oh, I see."
"Turnbull," I said more loudly. "Turnbull. Turnbull!"
Turnbull appeared to notice me for the first time. "One moment please, Detective Vecchio." He covered the receiver with his hand. "Yes, Constable?"
I held out my hand.
"I wonder if I might speak to Detective Vecchio, please, Constable?"
"Why, of course."
I snatched the receiver.
"Ray? You're not in Yellowknife?"
I heard his voice, distant and crackling. "I'm in Inuvik, Fraser. Why the hell would I be in Yellowknife?" I suddenly understood the meaning of the phrase 'to feel weak at the knees'.
"You're in Inuvik," I repeated, sinking down into the chair.
"Yeah, I been here since Friday. Listen Fraser, what's all this stuff about me being kidnapped by a violent criminal?"
"I -- nothing." My mind was whirling. My whole theory seemed to be falling down like a house of cards. I swallowed, and said carefully, "Ray, why are you in Inuvik?"
There was a pause so long I wondered whether we'd been cut off.
"Good question, Fraser," he said, and paused again. "Why am I even in Canada, you might ask."
I cleared my throat. "I -- I've managed to follow your trail to a certain extent, Ray. Quebec, then a gap, then Dawson, Fort McPherson..."
"Quebec, huh? Guess you know about Alex, then."
I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me.
"Yes."
He sighed. "Yeah, that didn't work out too well. Guess I was unfair on her."
"Unfair on her, Ray?"
"Yeah, I mean taking off with her like that when I actually -- "
Actually what, I thought, but Ray had broken off.
"This Ritchie Powell guy her brother or something, then?"
"That's correct," I said, wishing I could have said 'husband'.
"Yeah, she said something about that. Spent most of the time moaning about her life, to be honest. Guess it can't be easy with a brother like that."
Our conversation fell into another crevasse-like awkward pause.
"Fraser? You got the Lieu and everyone thinking I'm tracking down a dangerous bank robber across Canada or something?"
"Er... not exactly."
"Turnbull seems to think I'm on the run, or escaping from kidnappers or something."
"Ah... I believe there may have been a slight misunderstanding."
"Yeah?"
There was another pause, and I wished desperately that I could see Ray. I needed very much to be able to read his body language.
He broke the silence first. "Fraser? You asked me what I was doing in Canada."
"I -- I have been wondering, Ray."
"Yeah, well..." He let out his breath in one big rush. "Well, you know, that's what I phoned to tell you. I been thinking, and -- " He stopped short, and when he started to speak again I got the feeling he wasn't saying what he'd originally intended to. "You know, I had a little time off work, Alex seemed like a nice kid -- " He broke off again. "Screw it, who am I kidding? I was running away, that's all."
Running away from you.
"Ah," I said.
I knew that, of course. Some part of me had known that all along. I'd been clutching at straws, concentrating on Powell's record, on the supposed signs of a struggle in Ray's room, on his injury. It hurt to hear it confirmed aloud, though. And yet -- and yet --
I had never before realized how much I relied on non-verbal cues when it came to understanding what Ray was saying to me. I said, hesitantly, "You ran -- to Inuvik?"
"Crazy, huh?" He gave a peculiar sort of laugh. "Guess some part of me wants to run towards you."
I was not equipped to deal with this sort of conversation, even without Turnbull hanging onto my every word.
"Are you -- still running?"
"I'm on crutches."
I felt my heart drop. If he was going to be deliberately obtuse about this, then I already knew how it was going to end.
But then he said, "Fraser?"
"Yes?"
"I'm not."
A strange mixture of relief and panic seemed to bubble up inside me, closing my throat. I gripped the telephone, thankful I was already sitting.
"Ray, I -- " I was very much aware of Constable Turnbull, hovering a few feet away. "Ray, we -- "
"You trying to say we should talk?"
"Yes."
He sounded serious now. "I don't wanna do that on the phone, Fraser, but it's gonna be a while before I get back to Chicago. I got this little matter of a broken leg. Little accident with a snow-mobile."
I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that.
"Ray, it's summer."
"Hey, I know that! And let me tell you something, I'm damned disappointed there's no snow up here, Fraser. I'm feeling pretty let down here, in fact."
"Stay where you are. I can be there -- " I was already reaching for the yellow pages. " -- the day after tomorrow."
"That's a hell of a lot quicker than it took me."
"I won't be hitch-hiking," I said absently, leafing through the book to Airlines.
"I'm staying at -- "
I finished his sentence. " -- the Great Northern Hotel."
"That's right." He sounded like he was smiling. "Only hotel in town, huh? I guess you know this place pretty well."
"Yes, I do. Ray -- " I hesitated. "Reserve me a room please, would you?"
"Okay." He sounded odd, but I noticed that he wasn't rushing to say we'd only need one room.
"I should go and face Inspector Thatcher now, Ray. I'm not sure how she'll react to a sudden request for immediate leave."
I could imagine his grimace. "Good luck with that."
"Yes." I had my finger on Air Canada's telephone number now. "Do you need anything from Chicago, or -- ?"
"Nah, that's okay."
I found I was biting at my tongue, and forced myself to stop. "All right." I cleared my throat. "See you in a few days."
"Adios, Fraser."
I hung up, and turned to Turnbull. To my horror, he was looking at me as though I'd just stepped straight from the pages of one of those paperback novels he traded with Francesca Vecchio.
"I am so very pleased to see things are working out between you and Detective Vecchio."
I stared, and pondered the wisdom of trying a little speech about Ray's and my professional relationship. I decided it was much too late for that kind of misdirection.
"Thank you, Constable Turnbull."
.. .. ..
Part 2 is here.
Author: Garonne
Words: 18,000
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Summary:
"Welsh rounded on me, arms folded.
'Perhaps you could kindly explain to me what the hell Vecchio is doing in Inuvik Regional Hospital?'"
Notes: Many thanks to an amazing beta-reader, Desiree Armfeldt, who made this story so much better than it was to start out with.
"Girl Guider" is Canadian for the adult volunteers who work with Girl Guide troops.
.. .. ..
Lieutenant Welsh ambushed me as soon as I arrived at the 2-7.
"My office, please, Constable."
I complied, not unhappy to have an excuse to put off seeing Ray for another few minutes. I had scarcely closed the office door behind me when Welsh rounded on me, arms folded.
"Perhaps you could kindly explain to me what the hell Vecchio is doing in Inuvik Regional Hospital?"
My jaw dropped.
My Ray Vecchio? I almost said, and caught myself just in time. In any case, come to think of it, the idea of the real Ray Vecchio being in Inuvik was just as incredible.
"I wasn't aware that he was," I said carefully. I had been so surprised by the mention of Inuvik that the word 'hospital' had only just registered. I felt my mouth go dry. "What happened -- is he -- ?"
Welsh was still scowling at me. "You tell me. First I know is, I get this phone call from Payroll and Records, wanting to know if he was there on police business, and should we be paying the hospital bill."
That word again. It made a cold sweat spring up in the palms of my hands. They were folded behind my back, and now I found I was digging my fingernails into my flesh. I forced myself to remain calm.
"Is he badly injured? What happened to him?" I was already imagining Ray with a gunshot wound in the chest, bleeding to death, or stabbed in the stomach, or in a coma after some horrible accident.
Welsh shrugged. I guessed he was worried too, and hiding it with anger.
"I don't know. What I do know is, I better get some explanations here, and fast."
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know anything about this."
"I thought you were in on this." He was squinting at me, his voice loaded with suspicion. "In fact, I was sure you must be up there with him."
I shook my head. "I came here to see him today, in fact." The thought of Ray being in hospital had driven everything else from my mind, but now it all came flooding back: the reason I had been so apprehensive about coming to see him, the disturbed, uncomfortable state of affairs between us. What if he really was seriously injured? When I thought about how we had parted last time we saw each other --
Francesca stuck her head around the door just then. I vaguely registered the smile she trained on me.
"Hi, Fraser."
"Well?" Welsh demanded, before I could respond.
The smile vanished, and Francesca turned to him.
"Same as ten minutes ago. Nobody's picking up the phone."
Welsh groaned. "Nobody's picking up -- What the hell kind of hospital is this, anyway?"
I realized they were talking about Inuvik Regional Hospital, and felt compelled to defend the place I had spent such a significant portion of my childhood. "There certainly isn't a full-time receptionist. There are only a dozen or so beds, you know."
"You know the place?"
"Intimately."
It was surreal to think of Ray in the place I had spent so much time, recovering from broken legs, broken arms, hockey accidents, sledding accidents... It hadn't been dignified by the name hospital then, but was a humble clinic.
"We did get a fax, though," Francesca added. It was only then that I noticed the sheet of paper in her hand. She handed it to Welsh. "Hospital bill. The only thing they're charging for is a bed, a plaster cast and a pair of crutches."
"May I -- ?" I snatched the fax from the Lieutenant before he could answer, ignoring the surprise that flitted across his face. My gaze flew down the page, and relief flooded through me. Only a broken leg. Thank God.
Welsh was looking at me in a rather peculiar fashion, and I realized I had said the last few words aloud.
I cleared my throat. "It appears Ray is not too seriously injured after all. However, as to the reason for his presence there -- "
"Get back on the phone, Ms Vecchio," Welsh said.
Francesca didn't move. She was staring at me. "Didn't you know Ray was in Canada, Fraser?"
I smoothed down an eyebrow, trying to think of an answer. I was extremely reluctant to become involved in a discussion about why Ray and I had not been in contact for the past three days.
"Ms Vecchio!"
Francesca huffed, and flounced out.
"All right, I guess you're innocent in this, Constable," Welsh said. "But Vecchio will have some explaining to do when he deigns to haul his sorry ass back down here."
It seemed I was dismissed, but I was reluctant to leave. Welsh might be willing to wait, but I wanted to know right now what Ray was up to. I wanted to probe Welsh for information without giving away the fact that I had been avoiding Ray for three days.
Welsh noticed I was still standing there.
"You waiting for me to say 'dismissed'?"
"Weren't you surprised not to see Ray this morning or yesterday?" I said cautiously.
"I gave him a coupla days off. You know... the Baring case."
Oh, I knew all about the Baring case and the effect it had had on Ray.
"Didn't expect him to leave the country, though," Welsh added.
Francesca reappeared in the office doorway. "Inyuk... that hospital on the phone, Lieu." Her eyes were wide and shocked, and my heart went cold. "Ray's not there any more -- they say he's vanished. They say he can't walk, but he's vanished without a wheelchair."
Welsh hurried for the telephone.
.. .. ..
Five minutes later, Welsh was back behind his desk, with Dewey, Huey and me lined up in front of him. I found I was twisting the brim of my hat with my hands, and forced myself to relax.
"...signs of a struggle in Vecchio's hospital room," Welsh was saying. "And this guy on the telephone seemed to think it was unlikely Vecchio could get very far by himself."
"Maybe he hopped," said Francesca, who was hovering by the door.
"So now we don't even know whether Vecchio went to Canada under his own steam or not, or what the hell is going on." Welsh drummed his fingers on the legal pad on his desk. "What do we know about his whereabouts since he left the station on Tuesday? Which was... at about eight in the evening, right?"
He looked at me, and I nodded.
"Eight oh five," I said, and in my mind's eye I could see the clock on the wall above Ray's desk, and Ray sitting under it, his t-shirt soaked in blood that wasn't his own. His face had been grey and set in stone, and he hadn't even seemed to notice my approach. I remembered standing there, feeling the blood drain from my own face, and wondering what on earth had happened at the end of the Baring case. What had I been thinking, leaving Ray to work the case alone? Why had I allowed myself to spend the past week tied up at the Consulate discussing gifts for German ambassadors and entertaining delegations of Girl Guiders?
I had put my hand on Ray's shoulder, and he'd looked up lethargically, and then when he saw me, sprung to his feet.
"Fraser," he'd said. "Fraser, let's get out of here."
Which we did, taking Ray's car, and stopping off at the Consulate for Diefenbaker. We had only intended to stay there for a few minutes, but in the event -- one might say events had taken a turn which --
Welsh's voice recalled me to the present.
"We need to figure out what day he flew to Canada, if he did even fly. Let's narrow it down first. When was the last time you saw him, Constable?"
"I -- " I shut my eyes for a moment, picturing my dimly lit office. I saw Ray's flushed, angry face and heard his anguished whisper. I'm sorry, Fraser, I just... I have to get outta here, okay? Fresh air... I'm sorry. "Three days ago, at the Consulate."
"You haven't seen him since Tuesday?" Welsh had -- certainly unconsciously -- adopted the voice of a police officer interviewing a suspect. He even had a pen in his hand.
I nodded.
"At what time?"
In my mind's eye, I could still see Ray's poker-stiff figure walk away down the dark, silent corridor -- run away, more like.
"A little after three o'clock in the morning."
I could practically feel the surprise that filled the room.
"Wednesday morning," I clarified.
Welsh seemed to gather himself. "Did he leave by car?"
"Yes... I don't know," I said helplessly. "The following morning, his car was gone from the place where he'd parked it -- where I'd parked it, I mean."
"But you didn't actually see him out of the building?"
"No," I said, knowing this would seem to them to be out-of-character for me -- as indeed it was.
"Did you guys have an argument or something?" Dewey asked.
I nodded. It wasn't a lie, I told myself. We didn't have an argument, but we did have something, whatever that something had been. I still wasn't sure.
Welsh looked thoughtful. Disturbingly so.
"At three in the morning?" he said, and I suddenly wished he weren't quite so perceptive.
I deliberately schooled my face into its blankest possible expression. "Yes, sir."
"All right," said Welsh. "Huey, Dewey, get on the phone to the airport. And send someone around to break into Vecchio's apartment."
"I have a key," I said without thinking, and then bit my lip, too late to take the words back.
Welsh was looking at me thoughtfully again.
In fact I had had the key for many months now, initially to feed Ray's turtle while was he was away giving evidence in a federal case in Ohio. It was a perfectly innocent fact, and it had nothing to do with what might or might not have happened between Ray and me on Tuesday night. At least, it had meant nothing much at the time, but now, with Welsh's eyes on me and Ray missing, it felt steeped in significance.
"Right," said Welsh. "Get over there then, Constable."
.. .. ..
I stood in the center of Ray's living room, inhaling deeply. I tried to concentrate on the task at hand, which was to attempt to determine who else might have been in Ray's apartment recently and exactly how long ago. But all I could smell was Ray: gel and sweat, coffee and aftershave. I was overcome by a particularly vivid sensation: Ray standing pressed up against me, my hands on his hips and my nose buried in his neck, breathing in his smell. He brought a hand up to my chin, lifting my chin so that our mouths were level and leaning in to --
I shook myself. That was no memory, only my over-active imagination. I had only been that close to him once, only once had I kissed him. We hadn't been on our feet, nor in Ray's apartment. We had been lying on my narrow cot at the Consulate, but --
Stop that. It's not productive. I took another deep breath, and turned around slowly on the spot. I would have to rely on my eyes instead of my sense of smell.
Several of Ray's coats were hanging behind the door, and one of his jackets was slung over the back of a chair, as though he had just thrown it there -- as though he had just stepped through the door with me.
I continued to turn on the spot, more details of the room jumping out at me.
Ray's sofa, two feet away, recalling to mind years of Friday nights sitting with six inches of air between Ray and me.
The door to Ray's bedroom, where in fact I'd been several times, for the most frustratingly innocuous reasons: to fetch a hanger, to continue a conversation with him while he searched for socks and shoes, to look out the window...
Ray's old rug, covering his dancing steps -- how often had I wondered how he would react if I asked him to teach me to dance. Most likely he would correctly assume that I already knew. Ray seemed convinced I knew how to do everything -- except what to do when he stared at me in my darkened office, eyes wide and shocked, and I hadn't the faintest idea what to say or do to make things better.
A car backfired in the street and brought me out of my daze.
Quick march, left right, left right, I repeated under my breath, and crossed the room to the kitchen. The milk in the fridge was four days old, the sports section of the Chicago Tribune on the sideboard was five days old, and the receipts and parking tickets shoved under the mug tree were all over a week old. I nibbled on a piece of moldy bread that was lying on the counter, and judged it to be three or four days old too. The whole constituted a trail of negative evidence: appearances suggested he'd left on Wednesday morning, but there was nothing to disprove the idea that he could have been here as recently as moments before I arrived.
I couldn't tell how long it had been since the turtle last received any attention, but it did seem hungrier than usual when I fed it. Then I headed for the fridge again, intending to empty it of anything too out-of-date for even Ray to eat. It wouldn't be the first time I performed the task. Ray seemed to have a blind spot when it came to stale milk and moldy cheddar. He hadn't voiced any objections the first time I'd decalcified his drying rack or poured white vinegar down his kitchen sink, and some stupid part of me took an inordinate pleasure in doing it. It felt like I was actually living with him, even if I wasn't getting to enjoy the sharing-a-bed side of things.
My hand was closing around a can of out-of-date Cheez Whiz when my brain caught up with my muscles. If Ray had actually been kidnapped, I might be tampering with a crime scene. If Ray were in mortal danger up in the Territories --
I pushed that thought away. It was foolish to extrapolate such an idea from the sketchy facts I had. It wasn't as though Welsh had sent me to Ray's apartment with latex gloves and evidence bags. I should trust the judgement of people who were not as emotionally comprised as I was.
I closed the fridge, and stepped back into the main part of the living room. I continued my tour of the apartment, trying to pretend that a stranger lived here, and that this was a routine investigation.
I was about to abandon the search when something caught my eye: a square of green plastic about the size of a credit card, half-hidden down the side of Ray's sofa. It was one of those loyalty cards for a coffee shop, promising a free cappuccino once one had collected ten stamps. The name Alex Powell was printed on the card, and the coffee shop was on Randolph Street, a location I was ashamed to find I wasn't familiar with.
Who was the mysterious Mr. Powell? A friend of Ray's whom he somehow managed to invite over to his apartment during the few hours a week he wasn't at work or asleep or with me? It seemed unlikely.
I slipped the card into my pocket, and let myself out of the apartment. I stopped on the way to shine a flashlight into Ray's mailbox, and found several days' worth of mail.
At the diner on the corner of Ray's street, I bought myself a falafel sandwich, and walked back to the Consulate to eat it, and to collect Diefenbaker. Constable Turnbull was sitting at his desk in the hallway, carefully and meticulously extracting the staples from a pile of forms, and separating the pages into neat piles.
I stared at him for a moment, and then decided I didn't particularly want to inquire into the matter. I just wanted to barrel past him as quickly as possible and hide away in my office. I had only taken a few steps, however, when he looked up and beamed at me.
"Good afternoon, Constable Fraser. I took a message for you, from Ms Vecchio at the 27th District, Chicago Police Department."
I stopped short. News of Ray!
"I have it here somewhere." He began to move his piles of paper around. "It was at 11:27 precisely that she called. I remember, you see, because it was just before I usually water the begonias, although I do wonder whether you haven't been watering them recently as well, Constable Fraser, because the earth was really surprisingly damp, given the recent dry spell -- "
Fortunately, I could see my name written across the top page of Turnbull's yellow notepad. The man does have excellent, clear handwriting, I'll grant him that. My gaze flew down the page while Turnbull recounted his trials and tribulations with the geraniums on the kitchen windowsill.
F. Vecchio for Const. F.
R. Vecchio on Air Canada flight 521 ORD-YQB Wed 3 July 13:10
I bent closer, certain I must have misread. Ray had left Chicago on a commercial flight? Therefore of his own free will and not under force. And -- my eyes returned to the airport codes -- he'd flown to Quebec?
.. .. ..
"Hey, Fraser."
I was sitting at Ray's desk, bagging and labelling the evidence I had taken from Ray's apartment. I looked up to find Francesca sashaying towards me, clutching a sheet of paper. I kept my eyes firmly fixed on her face, my standard procedure when it came to holding a conversation with her.
"Good afternoon, Francesca."
"I found that chick you were looking for."
She perched on the edge of Ray's desk, directly in front of me, making it extremely difficult to keep my gaze above her neckline. I scooted my chair back half a foot, and tilted my head back.
"Which lady was that?"
"She's a Canadian. You could probably have found her more easily yourself -- though I mean, I was happy to help, of course. Anytime." She gave me what the more innocent and slightly younger version of me might have described as a friendly smile. "Anyway, she applied for a student visa a coupla years back, so we got her on file. I mean, there are tons of people with that name, but only one who flew into and out of Chicago recently. And guess what, Fraser?"
I still hadn't quite managed to figure out who the lady in question was, but Francesca didn't wait for a response on my part in any case.
"She was on the same flight out of Chicago as Ray!"
She slapped a sheet of paper down on the desk in front of me, giving me a safe area to which to lower my gaze and relieve the crick in my neck. I was looking at the file of a woman named Alex Powell, and suddenly what Francesca was saying became a lot clearer, and what might have happened to Ray became a lot murkier.
I was looking down at the photograph of a woman who was vaguely familiar to me. She was thirty-two years old, according to her date of birth, born in Edmonton, Alberta, one meter sixty-three in height -- and really very beautiful indeed. Three years ago, when the photograph was taken, she had had short blond curls, and an attractive scatter of freckles across her nose. When I'd seen her at the Canadian Consulate a week ago, she'd had slightly longer blond curls, and being free from the constraints of visa photograph requirements had allowed her to display a charming smile. What's more, she had been wearing the uniform of a Canadian Girl Guide leader. I remembered quite clearly seeing her in the midst of the delegation of Girl Guiders in Chicago for the annual North American Scouting and Guiding conference. I had even exchanged a few polite remarks with her about the weather forecast.
And this was someone with whom Ray had flown to Quebec. Someone he'd been entertaining in his apartment. I stared down at the photograph, imagining Ray smiling into those blue eyes, and running a finger down the delicate line of her jaw.
Francesca was still speaking, something about Alex Powell's loyalty card being for a coffee shop in Calgary, Alberta. I cleared my throat.
"Thank you, Francesca. You've been extremely helpful."
"Anytime, Fraser," she said, giving me that smile again.
She walked away, and I sat there without moving. I could feel Diefenbaker pressed up against my legs. He seemed to sense how hurt I felt.
Unjustifiably hurt, of course. I had no claim on Ray. He had a perfect right to go wherever he wished, and with whomever he wished. But the fact that he had gone to Canada made it all seem terribly personal. Why couldn't he have gone to Mexico, or Puerto Rico, if he had to run off with a beautiful blonde?
Moreover, as though to add insult to injury, this was a beautiful blonde he had met through his association with me. He must have fallen into conversation with her at the Consulate sometime during the previous week.
After a few minutes I climbed to my feet and went to knock on the door of Welsh's office.
Welsh was looking put out.
"You still hanging around here, Constable?"
"Sir, I -- "
"Clear out, go home."
"But Ray -- "
His scowl intensified. "Case closed. Turns out Vecchio took off to Canada with some chick. He'll have more than a broken leg when I get hold of him."
He was voicing thoughts very similar to those which had been running through my head five minutes previously. Now, however, I found myself arguing with him.
"But sir, the signs of a struggle in the hospital room -- "
Welsh shrugged. "Maybe he knocked over a vase of flowers himself when he was trying to hop out."
"Sir, the idea of a -- " I swallowed. " -- a romantic escapade in Quebec is hardly consistent with a hospitalisation two thousand miles away in Inuvik. Something has happened to Ray."
"I'll admit the possibility, Constable. But I got nothing to justify anything more than a missing persons report. Come back to me with something solid, okay?"
He gave me a stern look, and I realized suddenly that I wasn't the only person concerned about Ray. But Welsh was only worried that Ray had gone and done something reckless, blowing off steam after what he'd been through at the end of the Baring case. Welsh didn't know the half of it. He didn't know what an idiot I'd been, and the extra troubles I'd heaped on Ray's head.
.. .. ..
My desk was covered with the piles of paperwork I had been trying to drown myself in over the past few days, while I'd been trying to force Ray from my mind by sheer volume of apostilles and passport renewal forms. I'd spent most of the time staring blankly at my work, and resisting the temptation to pick up the telephone and call the 2-7. Now, of course, I knew that Ray hadn't been at the station at all, but somewhere in Canada.
What had happened between the time he took a flight for Quebec of his own free will, and the time he turned up injured in Inuvik three days later -- only to disappear immediately from his hospital room? Had he been kidnapped, or had he been running away from someone?
It gave me a horrible tight feeling in my chest to imagine Ray in trouble somewhere in the Northwest Territories, without me there to help him. Part of me longed to fly straight to Inuvik, part of me thought I should start by following the trail to Quebec. I could do neither: I was trapped here in Chicago, with the infuriating task of investigating at a distance.
At least now I had a lead to work on. I pulled Alexandra Powell's file towards me. What exactly was her involvement? Was it entirely unrelated to Ray's subsequent troubles, or had she somehow tricked him into following her to Quebec, and beyond? I could already hear Ray's voice.
But she's a Girl Scout, Fraser! Of course I believed her!
After all, he also seemed to believe the old chestnut that Mounties never lie.
I ran my eye down the list of Girl Guiders Turnbull had furnished me with, wondering whether any of the others could possibly be involved in Ray's disappearance. I found it difficult to countenance a nationwide criminal conspiracy within the Girl Guiding movement. Perhaps it was just Powell and persons unknown?
I imagined Ray's voice again, and it made me smile in spite of myself.
I just can't shake them off, Fraser. They're Girl Scouts, for Chrissake! You got nothing on them when it comes to tracking, believe you me.
I pushed the files away and pinched the bridge of my nose, my growing headache now threatening to overcome me. I was unable to prevent my mind from reliving the events of the past few days, trying to work out what I could have done differently, how I could have made events take a different course.
On the Tuesday when I'd last seen Ray, I had spent the afternoon listening to Inspector Thatcher and Constable Turnbull speculating on the German ambassador's taste in cufflinks. That was followed by a discussion of the most suitable color for the new reception room carpet. I had sat there playing house while Ray -- Ray was in the middle of a bloodbath.
When I'd finally escaped from Inspector Thatcher's office, I had called the 2-7 to see if Ray had made any progress in his case. When we'd spoken the previous evening, he had been on the brink of finally tracking down a key suspect.
Francesca had answered Ray's phone.
"Yeah, he's here... No, he's with the Lieutenant. Listen, Fraser -- it might be a good idea if you dropped over here. Maybe drive him home or something?"
The idea of Ray needing to be driven home was so unexpected and disturbing that I rushed straight to the station. I found Ray sitting at his desk in a t-shirt soaked with someone else's blood.
I put my hand on his shoulder, and he looked up lethargically, and then when he saw me, sprang to his feet.
"Fraser," he said. "Fraser, let's get out of here."
And we did.
Ray was strangely silent in the car on the way to the Consulate -- and under normal circumstances Ray was never, ever, able to keep his mouth shut when I was driving. I manoeuvred carefully into a space half a block a way from the Consulate, instead of double-parking outside the front door, and Ray still said nothing.
Instead of saying, "I'll only be a minute," I found myself suggesting he come in with me, not wanting to leave him alone in the car.
He followed me through the deserted hallway to my office, and stood leaning in the doorway, watching me. Dief seemed to sense that something was amiss, and went to snuffle at Ray's feet instead of jumping up at him.
I pulled a clean Henley from the freshly ironed pile in my closet, and turned to offer it silently to Ray.
His stony expression softened, and for a split second I feared he was on the verge of tears. The fear was instantly followed by guilt, because surely a medical professional would assure me that crying was probably the best thing he could do just now. It was incredibly selfish of me to want him not to merely because I wouldn't know how to deal with it.
After a moment, though, he summoned a grin.
"Thanks, Frase."
He took the Henley, and quickly stripped off his own bloody t-shirt. I took it out of his hands, some grim part of me wondering why it took a massacre to have Ray half-naked in my room.
I ran my gaze over him in the most clinical way I could.
"You're not injured?"
"Why? You looking to slather me in moose placenta again?" He jammed the shirt on over his head. It hung loosely on him. "Sorry to disappoint you."
I was still holding his own shirt. He noticed my indecision.
"Dump it, Fraser. I never want to see it again." He looked down at himself. "I'm gonna have to throw these pants out too."
He was speaking in the most matter-of-fact voice possible. I couldn't help but stare at him, studying his face anxiously. My throat felt tight with concern.
He looked up and caught my eye, and suddenly his hands were balling up, and he was yelling at me.
"What the fuck, Fraser? Why the fuck do you have to go looking at me like that, just when I got everything under control. Why the hell -- ?"
I thought he was going to hit me, but instead he sat down suddenly on my cot. He was shaking.
I stood there, frozen.
After a long, horrible minute, he began to speak without looking up. His voice was calm.
"They were just kids, you know. Baring started them young -- lookout at eight or nine, courier at twelve, full-blown drug dealer at sixteen. Usual set-up, you know?"
I knew very well indeed. I had spent more than enough time with the Chicago PD for that.
Ray was still talking. "There must have been, I don't know, ten or twelve kids at the warehouse this afternoon. Welsh says four bodies, and five more hospitalized, but it felt like about forty at the time. Says it wasn't actually anything to do with us -- me and Smith and Riordan, I mean. Supposedly the guys were all on edge in the place already anyway, but I dunno. I can think of one pretty good reason for people to start shooting already -- wondering about who ratted them out to the cops that just showed up."
"Spark to a tinderbox," I murmured.
"Yeah." He looked up at me. "Thank God you weren't there, Fraser."
I dropped to my knees beside him. "I'm sorry, Ray, I'm sorry, I should have -- "
"You kidding me? I have nightmares about you getting shot in some stupid, pointless scenario." He reached out and grabbed a fistful of my tunic. It felt like an attack and a caress at the same time. "You drive me crazy, Fraser, you know that?"
He was looming over me, his face intense, his eyes fixed on mine, so very close to me. My heart was pounding. My mouth was dry.
Then he let go of me, and made an odd, ineffectual sort of gesture, as though trying to smooth down my tunic. He turned his head away.
I got to my feet, and stepped away, tugging my tunic back into place. I looked down at Ray, and rubbed the back of my neck.
My original plan had been to drive Ray home, and then to stay there for a little while, make sure he was all right, perhaps get a takeout. I'd thought we would watch ESPN, and eat chow mein, and I'd pretend not to see him slipping spring rolls to Diefenbaker. It would be like a hundred other evenings we'd spent together, and the familiarity would be comforting to Ray.
Suddenly, I decided something quite different was in order.
"How about spaghetti and meatballs for dinner?" I suggested. "I'm afraid the tomatoes and the meatballs will be from a can, but -- "
He looked up at me, temporarily distracted by his surprise.
"You mean here? You want to eat dinner here?"
I nodded.
His face broke into a smile, and that was enough to make my own heart lift.
"Sure," he said, springing to his feet. "I can eat meatballs out of a can anytime, Fraser."
Ray and I tended to spend very little time at the Consulate. It was only subsidiarily where I lived, and primarily where I worked. Ray's apartment had a comfortable couch and cable television, and professional paperwork only spilled over into it when he chose to let it.
Tonight, though, the consulate was empty. Everyone had gone home, and we had the place to ourselves. I thought that to Ray it might feel like being away on vacation, somewhat like the feeling of camping out. When I saw Ray begin to dance around the kitchen, I decided I'd been right.
The consulate kitchen was a lot bigger than Ray's. Sometimes it was occupied by teams of caterers called in for some consular event or other, but mostly it was very much underused. It contained every sort of utensil the Sears catalogue contained, and many I'd never even heard of. Ray seemed to have been transported to some sort of culinary heaven, and I was content to follow his orders, watching him out of the corner of my eye and hiding my smile.
I'd been surprised when I first discovered how well Ray could cook. It seemed a dreadful waste for him to be living on a diet of fast food and microwave meals, but he'd just shrugged when I said as much.
"Not worth the effort for one."
I suspected that he had ended up being the cook in his and Stella's relationship, but never asked.
Myself, I have never been very picky about what I eat. When one is used to nothing being fresh but the meat, food becomes more of a necessity than a pleasure.
That evening, dinner took a little longer and was a little fancier with Ray at the helm than it would have been had I been alone, but finally we sat down to plates of steaming hot spaghetti and meatballs drenched in a sauce of Ray's devising.
"Smells good, don't it?" said Ray, sliding into the chair opposite me and attacking with gusto. "God, I'm starved."
"I salute your culinary skills, Ray."
"Hey, you haven't tasted it yet."
We ate slowly, keeping up a lively conversation at the same time. It made a pleasant change to be sitting at the table with only each other for entertainment, instead of in front of the television. We talked about all kinds of things, from my grandmother's collection of fish flies to Ray's recent visits to the movie theater. Ray even seemed to be paying attention to some of my choicer anecdotes.
There was no clock in the kitchen, and when I looked at my watch once we'd finished eating I found it was past eleven. The disadvantage of being at the Consulate suddenly, belatedly occurred to me. I had slept on Ray's couch on many occasions, but my waking up there was quite a different matter from Ray being woken on the Consulate sitting room couch if Constable Turnbull came in early.
In any case, I really did not want to leave Ray alone tonight.
We washed the dishes together. Ray didn't even attempt to suggest leaving the plates for the morning, and I told him that spending three hours in Canada must have been a good influence on him, earning me the pointed end of a soup ladle in the ribs.
Finally everything was restored to its usual pristine state. I turned to Ray, and found him already looking at me. An awkward silence fell between us. The shadow had returned to his eyes.
"I -- left my keys in your office," he said, and hurried out.
When I reached the office myself, Ray's keys were still lying on my desk, and he was sitting on my cot, his shoulders hunched up and his head down.
The room was filled with warm, stale July air. It felt uncomfortably close. Ray had turned on the lamp by my desk, but its light only reached a portion of the room, and his face was in shadow.
After a moment's hesitation, I sat down beside him. I wished I could just sling my arm casually around his shoulders, the way he so often did to me.
He turned to me, and the next thing I knew he was in my arms, and I was somehow in his at the same time. His face was buried in my shoulder, but he wasn't making any noise. He was just holding me, his warm torso pressed up against mine.
We sat like that for a long time. Finally I felt him grow heavy on my shoulder, and his head began to slip down my arm as he drifted off to sleep.
I manoeuvred us carefully so that we were lying on my narrow cot, Ray still pressed up against me. I managed to sit up and pull off my boots and his shoes without disturbing him. He didn't stir even when I lay back down beside him.
I hadn't intended to fall asleep, but I must have done so nonetheless. When I woke up, Ray was wrapped around me. He had somehow turned so that he was facing me. The desk-lamp was still on, and I could see his face up close to mine, the lines that ran across his forehead, the stubble that was thickest along the line of his jaw, a freckle on his eyelid. I could have lain there for hours, just looking at him.
Then his eyes flickered open. He looked puzzled for a moment, until he figured out where he was. I was waiting for him to tense up and draw away, but he only smiled.
"Hey, Fraser."
I opened my mouth, but nothing seemed to want to come out. Ray was still grinning at me, looking as relaxed and drowsy as I felt.
Our legs were tangled together and my hand was on his shoulder. It began to move slowly, almost of its own accord. Then my hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him towards me, and I was leaning forward, till our mouths met. His whole body made a small, startling jerking motion, but he didn't pull away. Instead his mouth opened, and I felt him sigh against my lips.
My entire body was infused with electricity. I was humming with it, intoxicated with the idea of finally touching Ray, of feeling his lips against mine, hard and gentle at the same time.
I let my tongue dart out into his open mouth, and the hand resting on my upper arm tightened convulsively. I only had one arm free -- the other was trapped underneath us -- and my free hand was restless, running over his shoulders, stroking his hair, caressing the strands at the nape of his neck.
He was still wearing my Henley, but it had become rucked up during the night. When I moved my hand down his body, the tips of my fingers came into direct contact with the skin of his waist, just above his left hip. I heard his breath catch in his throat.
My own breath was coming so fast I was almost panting, and my heart was racing. I forced myself to take a long deep breath, and allowed my hands to roam over his lower back. His skin was hot to the touch.
We were kissing in earnest now, sloppily and fervently, and my whole body was crying out for more.
I drew back, reluctantly, temporarily, and opened my eyes.
"Ray," I whispered, the first words either of us had uttered in minutes. "Ray -- "
His eyes were wide and almost shocked looking, staring at me in the dim light.
I ached for his touch.
"May I -- "
I didn't know how to say it, so I let my hand fall to the waistband of his pants, inches from the erection I could feel pressing against my hip.
He tensed and jerked away, and my own body tensed too, in shock and dismay.
He wasn't meeting my gaze. I could see his throat move as he swallowed.
"Frase, I -- "
Then he was scrambling past me, and rolling off the cot onto his feet.
I followed him, and stood there as he turned to face me. My stomach burned as though I'd just been kicked in the gut.
Ray's faced was flushed. I couldn't tell whether he was angry or embarrassed or something else entirely.
"I'm sorry, Frase, I just... I have to get outta here, okay? Fresh air... I'm sorry, okay?"
He stumbled to the door, then came to a stop and turned back.
"Shoes," he mumbled, peering around the room.
I had lined them up neatly under the bed with my boots. He spotted them, and shoved them on without doing up the laces.
"Night, Fraser," he said with his back to me, fumbling for the door handle.
I couldn't seem to make my vocal cords work.
I stood in the doorway of my office, and watched him leave. My eyes were fixed on his poker-stiff back as he hurried away from me, until finally he disappeared around the corner.
.. .. ..
I had spent the following three days burying myself in paperwork at the Consulate, deliberately not looking at the telephone, wanting to call the 2-7 and not doing so -- and all the while Ray was in Canada, without me and in danger.
Now I had one lead, Alexandra Powell, and no official help from the 2-7.
The following morning, however, Constable Turnbull surprised me by coming up trumps.
When I returned with Dief from our early morning walk, Turnbull was already at his desk, sharpening his pencils. He sprang to his feet when I entered.
"I have something here that may interest you, Constable Fraser."
I eyed him warily.
"As you requested, I ran some background checks on our recent visitors from the Girl Guiding movement."
I relaxed. Ray Kowalski's disappearance was the only topic of conversation I was willing to entertain at the moment.
Turnbull went on, "They are all fine, upstanding citizens, of course, as must surely go without saying."
I wondered whether Turnbull had been a Boy Scout.
"I did go into a little more depth in the case of Ms Alexandra Powell, as she seemed to be the individual who interested you the most. We have nothing on her, of course, but her brother has quite a record. Armed robbery, breaking and entering, robbery aggravated by violence..."
I felt myself relax ever so slightly. I knew it! I knew there was some sort of criminal connection. I knew Ray wasn't simply -- I could let myself think it now -- running away from me.
"Of course Ms Powell herself is surely above suspicion," Turnbull added.
"Indeed?"
In answer, he gave me a three-fingered salute. "On my honour, I promise that I will do my best -- "
"You were a Boy Scout, I take it, Constable?" I said, thinking to myself that Ms Powell wouldn't be the first person to break an oath. Sadly, I am reminded on a daily basis how often human beings fail to live up to their potential for good.
"87th Toronto Troop, deputy patrol leader." He beamed at me. "I expect you were a patrol leader, Constable Fraser?"
"Oh, we had a very small troop," I said evasively. I looked down at the neat piles of paper on his desk. "Do we have a last known whereabouts for Mr. Powell?"
"Let me see."
I was ahead of him. I had already found the pile of print-outs and was flicking through them. It seemed Ritchie Powell had been on parole in Calgary up until the end of April. For the past two months, then, he'd been a free man as regarded his movements.
Turnbull explained as much to me from memory, while I listened with one ear, and noted down a list of file references to follow up on.
"Thank you, Constable. I very much appreciate your assistance."
He beamed at me. "Oh, and you received a telephone call from the Northwest Territories while you were out." He held up a slip of yellow paper.
Detective Vecchio? I almost said, but managed to bite back my words. I didn't want to sound as though I were obsessed by the man, even if it were true, and even if Turnbull's good opinion of me seemed unshakeable.
"Thank you, Constable," I said, forcing myself to take the slip of paper instead of snatching it.
It wasn't Ray, but a Mr. Walt MacGyver with a telephone number in the Yukon -- Dawson City, if my memory served correctly. Was that where Ray had gone or been taken after vanishing from Inuvik Hospital? It was over a day's drive south of Inuvik at this time of year, but if he'd flown...
I scarcely took the time to say "May I?" before grabbing the receiver of Turnbull's telephone. I hadn't even finished entering the international dialling code, however, when the door behind me opened. Turnbull sprang to his feet.
"Good morning, sir."
I turned, and echoed Turnbull's words as soon as I saw Inspector Thatcher in the doorway.
She ignored this.
"Fraser, I need you today, so the 27th District will have to do without you." She ran a disapproving eye over the brown uniform I had donned when I had been planning to spend the morning at the airport, searching Ray's car. "I expect to see you at the front door in dress uniform in ten minutes."
"Yes, sir."
She disappeared.
Turnbull's eyes widened when I reached for the telephone again, instead of rushing away to change. He said nothing, though.
I dialled quickly. A chipper female voice answered: early twenties, Yukon native. "Hi, Fred's Diner." She was chewing gum.
"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, calling from the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. Would it be possible to speak to Mr. Walt MacGyver, please?"
"Uh... Hang on a minute." I could hear the noise of the telephone receiver being laid down on a table. After that came a few minutes of indistinct noises of cutlery clinking on ceramic, and men's voices rumbling.
I hung on, praying that Mr. Walt MacGyver hadn't finished his breakfast yet, and was still on the premises.
Finally, I heard the receiver being picked up again, and then a male voice, mid-forties, heavy smoker, originally from British Colombia or Alberta. "Uh, hi, someone looking for me?"
"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, calling from the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. I believe you tried to contact me this morning, Mr. MacGyver."
"You're B. Fraser, then?"
"That's correct, sir."
"You're in Chicago again already? That was pretty damn quick!"
I blinked. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't follow."
The man on the other end of the phone line now sounded as puzzled as I felt. "You're not the guy I had in my truck couple of days back?"
"I don't believe so."
"Uh huh." The man appeared to stop and think for a moment. I could hear him breathing. "Yeah, I thought you might not be. That would have been R. Fraser, wouldn't it?"
For a brief but confused moment I thought he was referring to my father. Then the explanation occurred to me. "You gave a lift some days back to a man who introduced himself as Ray?"
"That's right." He sounded pleased we were finally figuring things out. "He left a bag in the back of my truck. I open it up and there's a shirt on top with B. Fraser, Canadian Consulate Chicago stitched inside."
I suppressed the urge to punch the air, à la Ray. The wisdom of labelling all one's personal belongings had never been more evident, despite the derisory remarks certain persons might have made as to our no longer being in elementary school.
"It's exceedingly kind of you to go to such trouble to return the bag to its owner, Mr. MacGyver. I'm sure Ray will appreciate it very much."
"No trouble. So uh, about the bag. What should I do with it?"
I hesitated. "My colleague is in... intermittent contact with us here at the Consulate at the moment, and I'm not quite sure... Between which two points did you drive him exactly, Mr. MacGyver?"
"Dawson to Fort McPherson. He was making for Inuvik, but I had to stop and make a delivery in Fort McPherson, so your friend went on ahead."
These were familiar names, familiar places. It was so very strange and unsettling to think of Ray being there without me.
"Was he on official business?" The man sounded curious now. "I kind of got the feeling he was an American."
"Ray works in liaison with the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago," I said. I hesitated, but the temptation to probe further was too strong. "As a matter of fact, we've had some trouble recently keeping in touch with him. Any information you could give us on his condition would be much appreciated."
"Well, the guy seemed fine. Nice fellow. Not very talkative. When I asked him what he was doing all the way up here, he said he was on the run. But joking, like. At least I thought he was." He sounded doubtful now.
"He wasn't -- injured?"
"I don't think so."
I sat there for a moment, desperately jealous of this stranger, who had had the good fortune to spend -- I calculated rapidly -- twelve hours in a truck with my Ray, while I was stuck in Chicago.
Mr. MacGyver cleared his throat. "And the bag?"
"Perhaps you could be so kind as to leave it with the RCMP in Dawson City?"
"Sure, no problem."
"Thank you kindly, sir."
I hung up, deep in thought. It made sense that Ray would make for Inuvik, if lost and on the run in the North, even though it might have been more practical for him to have headed south. In my head, I could already imagine the conversation we would have when I finally found him. Ray would shrug, and say, "I asked him to take me to Inuvik. It was the only town I could remember the name of in this Godforsaken place. Well, except Yellowhorse, but he didn't seem to know that one."
And I would say patiently, "It's Yellowknife, Ray. And Whitehorse."
And Ray would make a face at me, and I would smile and take his hands and --
"Fraser!"
I leapt to my feet.
The Ice -- that is to say, Inspector Thatcher was standing in the doorway, glaring at me.
"Yes, sir, on my way, sir!"
My task for the morning turned out to consist of standing at Inspector Thatcher's shoulder and looking impressive while she gave a dressing down to the director of a painting and decorating firm responsible for the unfortunate shade of green the Consulate front door now sported.
I took advantage of the taxi-ride to the company's office to fill her in on the Powell case, and the danger a Chicago police officer had fallen into due to his association with the Consulate. A lack of official backing had never been a hindrance to me in the past, but I thought it would probably be advisable to keep the inspector abreast of matters all the same.
"I will need to put out an APB on Powell in the Yukon and the Northwest Territories, and get access to flight records across the northwest." I still didn't know how or why Ray had ended up in Dawson City, but at the moment I was more interested in what had happened after he disappeared from the hospital in Inuvik.
Inspector Thatcher was frowning. "Surely it's a matter for Chicago PD?"
"They don't believe -- " I cleared my throat. "They haven't yet had an opportunity to see the most recent, compelling evidence, and the case is urgent."
"All right, whatever," she said as we arrived at our destination. "Hand me the paint swatches, Fraser."
.. .. ..
As soon as we returned to the consulate I went straight into the main office to use the computer. I ignored Turnbull, who was making faces in the mirror while he polished it.
I sat down at the desk, powered up the computer, and was confronted with a police report that had triggered one of the alerts I'd asked Turnbull to set up. A warrant had been issued that morning by Yellowknife Municipal Police for the arrest of Ritchie Powell. He was wanted for attempted murder.
I stared at the screen, my heart beginning to thump uncomfortably fast. The victim was described as 1m80, 73 kg, white male, blond hair, blue eyes. No name or ID. The other details in the report were frustratingly sketchy.
I could feel a sort of panic rising up inside me. Could Ray have flown from Inuvik to Yellowknife at some point yesterday, just in time to suffer a murder attempt by Powell last night? My first impulse was to telephone Yellowknife Municipal Police and give them an impassioned lecture on the importance of fully filled out police reports and the value of comprehensive databases in inter-force judicial cooperation.
I took a deep breath, focussing on the word 'attempted'. Ray was still alive.
Welsh and Thatcher would have to put their full resources on the case now. I would start by flying to Yellowknife, and joining Ray there.
I was reaching for the telephone to contact Yellowknife when it rang. I was already on edge, and I was so startled by the sound that I froze. Turnbull swooped in.
"Good afternoon, Canadian Consulate in Chicago, Constable Renfield Turnbull speaking. Bonjour, Consulat du Canada -- oh hello! How nice to hear from you."
Turnbull grinned and nodded for a while, while I sat there boiling with frustration. Ray was in danger, he had already been attacked twice, Powell was on the loose, and some idiot was tying up the phone line. Then something Turnbull said jerked me out of my daze.
"So you're not on the run from known bank robber and violent criminal Ritchie Powell?"
I sprang to my feet.
"Constable Fraser and I thought you were... well of course, I have to give him credit for the deduction. I've only been doing the leg work on this one." He gave a sort of giggle.
I was desperately trying not to tear the receiver from his hands.
"Constable Turnbull," I said through gritted teeth. "If I may -- "
"So who did kidnap you, then, if you don't mind my asking?" His eyes widened. "Oh, I see."
"Turnbull," I said more loudly. "Turnbull. Turnbull!"
Turnbull appeared to notice me for the first time. "One moment please, Detective Vecchio." He covered the receiver with his hand. "Yes, Constable?"
I held out my hand.
"I wonder if I might speak to Detective Vecchio, please, Constable?"
"Why, of course."
I snatched the receiver.
"Ray? You're not in Yellowknife?"
I heard his voice, distant and crackling. "I'm in Inuvik, Fraser. Why the hell would I be in Yellowknife?" I suddenly understood the meaning of the phrase 'to feel weak at the knees'.
"You're in Inuvik," I repeated, sinking down into the chair.
"Yeah, I been here since Friday. Listen Fraser, what's all this stuff about me being kidnapped by a violent criminal?"
"I -- nothing." My mind was whirling. My whole theory seemed to be falling down like a house of cards. I swallowed, and said carefully, "Ray, why are you in Inuvik?"
There was a pause so long I wondered whether we'd been cut off.
"Good question, Fraser," he said, and paused again. "Why am I even in Canada, you might ask."
I cleared my throat. "I -- I've managed to follow your trail to a certain extent, Ray. Quebec, then a gap, then Dawson, Fort McPherson..."
"Quebec, huh? Guess you know about Alex, then."
I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me.
"Yes."
He sighed. "Yeah, that didn't work out too well. Guess I was unfair on her."
"Unfair on her, Ray?"
"Yeah, I mean taking off with her like that when I actually -- "
Actually what, I thought, but Ray had broken off.
"This Ritchie Powell guy her brother or something, then?"
"That's correct," I said, wishing I could have said 'husband'.
"Yeah, she said something about that. Spent most of the time moaning about her life, to be honest. Guess it can't be easy with a brother like that."
Our conversation fell into another crevasse-like awkward pause.
"Fraser? You got the Lieu and everyone thinking I'm tracking down a dangerous bank robber across Canada or something?"
"Er... not exactly."
"Turnbull seems to think I'm on the run, or escaping from kidnappers or something."
"Ah... I believe there may have been a slight misunderstanding."
"Yeah?"
There was another pause, and I wished desperately that I could see Ray. I needed very much to be able to read his body language.
He broke the silence first. "Fraser? You asked me what I was doing in Canada."
"I -- I have been wondering, Ray."
"Yeah, well..." He let out his breath in one big rush. "Well, you know, that's what I phoned to tell you. I been thinking, and -- " He stopped short, and when he started to speak again I got the feeling he wasn't saying what he'd originally intended to. "You know, I had a little time off work, Alex seemed like a nice kid -- " He broke off again. "Screw it, who am I kidding? I was running away, that's all."
Running away from you.
"Ah," I said.
I knew that, of course. Some part of me had known that all along. I'd been clutching at straws, concentrating on Powell's record, on the supposed signs of a struggle in Ray's room, on his injury. It hurt to hear it confirmed aloud, though. And yet -- and yet --
I had never before realized how much I relied on non-verbal cues when it came to understanding what Ray was saying to me. I said, hesitantly, "You ran -- to Inuvik?"
"Crazy, huh?" He gave a peculiar sort of laugh. "Guess some part of me wants to run towards you."
I was not equipped to deal with this sort of conversation, even without Turnbull hanging onto my every word.
"Are you -- still running?"
"I'm on crutches."
I felt my heart drop. If he was going to be deliberately obtuse about this, then I already knew how it was going to end.
But then he said, "Fraser?"
"Yes?"
"I'm not."
A strange mixture of relief and panic seemed to bubble up inside me, closing my throat. I gripped the telephone, thankful I was already sitting.
"Ray, I -- " I was very much aware of Constable Turnbull, hovering a few feet away. "Ray, we -- "
"You trying to say we should talk?"
"Yes."
He sounded serious now. "I don't wanna do that on the phone, Fraser, but it's gonna be a while before I get back to Chicago. I got this little matter of a broken leg. Little accident with a snow-mobile."
I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that.
"Ray, it's summer."
"Hey, I know that! And let me tell you something, I'm damned disappointed there's no snow up here, Fraser. I'm feeling pretty let down here, in fact."
"Stay where you are. I can be there -- " I was already reaching for the yellow pages. " -- the day after tomorrow."
"That's a hell of a lot quicker than it took me."
"I won't be hitch-hiking," I said absently, leafing through the book to Airlines.
"I'm staying at -- "
I finished his sentence. " -- the Great Northern Hotel."
"That's right." He sounded like he was smiling. "Only hotel in town, huh? I guess you know this place pretty well."
"Yes, I do. Ray -- " I hesitated. "Reserve me a room please, would you?"
"Okay." He sounded odd, but I noticed that he wasn't rushing to say we'd only need one room.
"I should go and face Inspector Thatcher now, Ray. I'm not sure how she'll react to a sudden request for immediate leave."
I could imagine his grimace. "Good luck with that."
"Yes." I had my finger on Air Canada's telephone number now. "Do you need anything from Chicago, or -- ?"
"Nah, that's okay."
I found I was biting at my tongue, and forced myself to stop. "All right." I cleared my throat. "See you in a few days."
"Adios, Fraser."
I hung up, and turned to Turnbull. To my horror, he was looking at me as though I'd just stepped straight from the pages of one of those paperback novels he traded with Francesca Vecchio.
"I am so very pleased to see things are working out between you and Detective Vecchio."
I stared, and pondered the wisdom of trying a little speech about Ray's and my professional relationship. I decided it was much too late for that kind of misdirection.
"Thank you, Constable Turnbull."
.. .. ..
Part 2 is here.