Disclaimers: Due South belongs to Alliance.

Rating: PG, I think. Language, implied violence, one--no, two m/m kisses. Everyone else channels hot monkey sex. I get "Fraser and Ray do Newford." Go figure. Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski.

Thanks to Charles de Lint, Hans Christian Anderson, and the Brothers Grimm, and to Kellie, who kept saying "No, really, you're a *good* writer!"

Comments to: msjh@wiu.edu

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O'Leary's Hotel
by J Hardin
c. December 1999


Constable Benton Fraser, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, walked with lagging steps down the nighttime streets of Chicago. He was weary, weary to the bone. It was, he had to admit to himself, more than a weariness of the body; it went right to his soul, where it festered, a kind of sickness. It came from more than being trapped in a dirty American city when he yearned for the cold, empty spaces of his home. More than the frustration of doing pointless busy work in an office with a high-strung superior and a good-hearted but witless co-worker. More, even, than the loneliness that made his soul echo with emptiness; solitude had so long been a part of his life that he hardly noticed it.

No, his weariness came most of all from a sense that he was trying to lift the world on his shoulders. He was right--he *knew* he was right: people were good, if you gave them a chance; and law was glue and the shaper of society; without law, there was anarchy and senseless pain. And things like honor and courtesy and principle mattered, staved off the chaos and the pain. These things seemed so obvious to him, such blindingly plain truths.

At least they had. In two years, he had repeatedly confronted the ubiquitous selfishness and greed of bad people and cynicism of good ones worn down by impersonal, corrupt bureaucracies, the helpless apathy of ordinary citizens. He had been shot, stabbed, beaten, drugged, and worse, until he was heartsick and worn. But he couldn't stop. If he stopped trying, where would that leave the innocent victims who needed a champion?

So here he was on this cold Chicago night, walking down dark streets toward a rendezvous with one more man who seemed to feel his needs and desires were paramount, no matter what damage he inflicted on others weaker than he. And he knew that Rossiter would bring other men, big and strong and without conscience. In his heart, his weak, human heart, he flinched from the prospect of more pain. But still he went on, for there was no one else who could--or would--confront this man.

And he spoke to Rossiter, calmly, logically, despite his weariness and fear. The other man sneered in his face and let loose his goons--"to teach him a lesson." As the fists descended, Fraser thought that the real shock was the transition from painlessness to pain…
***

Had anyone seen her, they would have been hard put to tell whether what they saw was a small and ragged human or perhaps just a small and wild--bush? sapling? But no one saw her as she made her self-absorbed way through empty streets and unlit alleys, for being unseen was one of her talents. Small and thin, all elbows and angles, with triangular face and feral eyes beneath her birds-nest hair, she talked happily to herself as she went, a sound disconcertingly like the clicking together of small stones. Like a hunting terrier, she scratched through dumpsters and piles of refuse, adding small treasures to those strung haphazardly about her person, sometimes putting something in her mouth.

She paused in her digging, sitting back on her haunches and raising her head to catch a scent brought by an errant breeze, sniffing audibly. Almost comically puzzled, she rose to her feet, nose in the air. Muttering to herself in that clicking-stone voice, she seemed to literally follow that small, sharp, upraised nose, around a corner, down an alley, into a brick-walled cul-de-sac. She stopped, nose up, hands dangling loosely in front of her, then turned in place, nose working. When it drew her to the dumpster, she clambered inside, quick and agile as a squirrel, dropping down on her hindquarters beside her quarry. A man, badly beaten, stripped naked, and left for dead.

For long seconds, she merely looked, startled and curious. Then she poked with a twiggy finger, testing, feeling, touching a blood-dabbled finger to her tongue. Again she sat back, considering, idly sifting through the rubbish she squatted in, fishing something shiny from the refuse to add to her trophies, murmuring to herself in that clicking, clinking voice.

Then, as if she had reached a decision, she gathered the body into arms that should have been too frail to support such a weight. Even in the depths of unconsciousness, the pain of broken bones grinding together drew a moan from the man that ended in a soft, sighing cough and a froth of bright blood from his mouth.

It was absurd to see the tiny figure handling the bulk of the man as if he were only an awkward bundle of rags. And yet, despite her seeming carelessness, there was a tenderness about the way she carried him, sparing him as much as possible in her homeward passage, and a note of concern in the soft, chipping voice..

***

The vertical neon sign read "O'Leary's Hotel." Not all the letters worked all the time. A poster taped to the streaked glass of the lobby window gave rates by the day, week, and month.

Upstairs, in Room 403, the soft rattle of the doorknob and a small scratching against the door itself woke Mary O'Connor from a light, restless sleep. She swung long legs over the edge of the bed and padded across to the door, not bothering with a light.

"Du?"

"Broke," came the reply.

Mary unlocked the door and swung it open. The little scarecrow figure pushed past her, effortlessly carrying something larger than she was, making Mary wonder if she was really awake. "Du, what--?"

"Mans." Du deposited her load on the bed, and in the light that filtered in from the street, Mary could see that it was indeed a man.

"What--? Where--?" Mary crossed the room and switched on the lamp at the head of the bed. "Du, who is he? Where did you find him?"

"Throwed away. Broke mans. Mans broke." With a surprisingly gentle touch, Du straightened the man's arms and legs.

It was hard to tell much about him, besides the obvious--he was naked, filthy, unconscious, and terribly injured. Mary scanned him, left hand about an inch above his skin, appalled at the damage she was finding--bruises, broken bones, and that bright blood at his slack, swollen mouth that meant internal bleeding.

"Mary fix," Du demanded.

"Du, I don't know. He--"

"Mary fix." The voice was firm, refusing to acknowledge a negative response.

She looked down into bright, black-pebble eyes. "All right. I'll try. But go get Bridey. Go ask her to come." When the other stared at her with dark, glittering surprise, Mary gave her a little shove. "Right away, Du, tell her right away! Go on."

"You fix?"

She scrubbed her palms on her t-shirt. "I don't know. I'll try. Now go get Bridey."

Du vanished like a thin, dark shadow, and Mary turned back to the man, pushing back her tangle of curling hair in a nervous movement. Du was always bringing her things to "fix"--broken gadgets, torn pictures, injured animals. But never a human, never anything so nearly beyond hope. Again, she extended her left hand over him, palm down, and moved it slowly along the length of him, not quite touching the bruised skin. Even in his unconsciousness, she sensed the pain lurking there. Slowly, she began to let it enter her, trying to sort and identify it all. Cracked bones in the hand--she had the fleeting impression of a booted foot crushing down--a fracture in the left ulna--ribs, three cracked, two broken, one piercing a lung--broken collarbone--broken nose, broken jaw, concussion, both eyes swollen shut, lips split and swollen--deep tissue bruises everywhere-- She became aware that she was whimpering softly, as if his pain were her own. So much damage, more than she could "fix." She couldn't even decide where to start.

"So, child—"

Mary jumped at the sound of another voice, and opened her eyes. "Bridey!"

"What's here?" Mary had never been able to tell how old Bridey was--somewhere between fifty and immortal, she guessed. Beneath her layers of sweaters and skirts were sturdy peasant bones; beneath untidy cloud-colored hair a round, weathered face with a snub nose and piercingly blue eyes.

"Du found him. I--I can't do this by myself, Bridey." The tinge of desperation in her voice surprised her. "Please help me."

Bridey joined her at the bedside, looking down at the battered face. "Calls to you, does he?" Sharp blue eyes pinned her. "What makes this one different?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I just--I just want to help him, and I can’t if you won’t help me.”

Silently, Bridey extended her left hand over the unconscious man in the same way that Mary had. At her peremptory nod, Mary put her own hand over it. Bridey scanned, finding the same physical injuries the younger woman had. Then she pushed on, past the physical, through the merciful black embrace of unconsciousness and beyond. There they found a deeper pain, a soul born to Rigellian brightness constricted by a mould it was never made to fit, marred with the scars of loneliness and betrayal, smudged and fogged with the darknesses of shame, self-hate, denial. Its white light guttered with exhaustion, with despair. Mary felt her heart constrict with pity, and recognition, and the urgent desire to heal the damaged soul, as well as the body.

“Calls to you, all right,” Bridey grunted. “All right, Mary-love, if you want this – "

Without hesitation, Mary put her right hand into Bridey’s left, preparing to put her strength at the service of the older woman’s superior skill. Eyes closed, she followed what Bridey did through that extra sense, the one that was both a gift and a curse. In the dark of the mindscape, Bridey’s healing energy flashed like lightning, clearing the smouldering red pain, rejoining sundered tissue, aligning bone, bridging gaps ..

***

In my dreams I was drowning. The Whaling Yankee, I thought, and I had failed--failed to stop the polluters, failed to save the Robert McKenzie, failed Ray--and we were going down, into the cold lake water that filled my lungs until every labored breath burned like fire. It seemed that in the end I had failed everyone, including myself…

I heard urgent voices. I wanted then to wake. I wanted very much to see what was happening, whose hands tugged at me, but my eyes wouldn’t open.

Then, suddenly, I could see, but as if from high above, a most bewildering sensation. I watched two women flanking the bed below me, their hands on the chest of the man in the bed. It took me some time to understand that the body was mine, and that I was dying.

It astonishes me to remember how calm I felt. I confess that I felt few regrets; my life at that time was so barren. I only wished that I could have seen my home one last time, and that I had let Ray know how much--how very much--he meant to me. That was as deep a pain to my spirit as my liquid-filled lungs were to my body.

I thought then that perhaps I could go to him and somehow tell him. I turned away from the scene below me, intending to seek him out. A touch stopped me.

“Not so fast, son,” came my father’s familiar voice.

“Dad?” I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him floating there beside me near the ceiling, perfectly turned out in his dress reds, but his appearances always take me off guard.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I--I have something I want to tell Ray.”

“Well, you’d better wait for your body.”

“Dad, I’m dying.” I fear my tone was impatient; that I was dying seemed obvious, and I was eager to be gone.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Look.” He pointed at the bed.

Below us, I--or, at any rate, my body--lay on its right side, sheets pulled down to the waist. A young woman knelt behind me, an older woman in front, each with her right hand pressed against my skin. As we watched, the two women nodded, as if giving a signal, and both closed their eyes.

A white light, too bright to bear, exploded through me. I gasped then, and found myself back in my physical body. The left side of my chest felt as if it were on fire, but--I could breathe again. I gulped air, filling my lungs with sweetness, and the pain died away. The older woman drew away, leaving the younger to support me, cradling my head and shoulders in her arms. I felt--safe--in a way I hadn’t felt in far too long. It was easy to let myself drift off into the waiting blackness.

***

“There,” Bridey said briskly. “That’s as much as we can do. You can only bring him so far. We’ve built the bridges and cleared out the lung. The rest is up to him. But he’s strong, he should do well enough. Be sure you feed him well; a body needs plenty of energy to heal like this.”

Mary cupped the man's jaw in an unconsciously protective gesture. “Can he eat? Will it hold?”

“Give him soft food for a few days, give the new growth time to take. Be sure he gets plenty of protein and calcium. Milkshakes.”

“All right.” Gently, she eased her charge down onto the bed, settling him carefully into the pillows and bedding. “Bridey, I--"

“And eat something yourself. Get some rest. You’ve worked hard tonight.” The faintest ruffling of callused fingers through her hair, and then Bridey was gone, before Mary could thank her.

Left alone, Mary realized that Bridey was right: she felt as if she’d spent the night hauling stones up a mountain. But there were a few last tasks to take care of before she could rest. With a sigh, she got up to gather the things she needed.

“Mans fix?” The odd voice, the wiry shadow. Du hovered over the pillow, peering curiously.

Mary sat down on the other side of the bed and made the basin of warm water as secure as she could. “We did our best, Du. Bridey thinks he’ll be ok.”

“Good.” She settled in at the head of the bed, a prickly Puck, tucking small, bare, dirty feet beneath her. “Good mans.”

The memory of the fading soul-light made her shake her head anxiously, but she whispered, “I know.”

Gently, she began to wash the blood and filth from the man’s body. Firm, rounded muscle overlay his big-boned frame in a way that suggested he was fit because he was active, not because he pumped iron. Where it wasn’t bruised or abraded, his skin was smooth and pale as ivory. The bones of his face were fine but strong, his mouth wide and sensitive, his square chin immovably stubborn. She rubbed the blood and sweat from his dark hair with a warm, damp washcloth; it was thick and lively beneath her fingers, and, where it was long enough, inclined to curl.

Mary cradled his broken hand carefully, squeezing warm water over it. His hands were well kept, with closely trimmed nails, but there were traces of old calluses on the voluptuous curves of his palms. Dropping her barrier a little, Mary caught glimpses of those hands wrapped around an axe handle, caressing a dog’s fur, dancing across a computer keyboard. She sponged blood from the deep lines of the palm, then swaddled the hand in a towel to dry it.

At length, she had him reasonably clean, and could change the bed. Putting clean sheets on a bed with a body still in it took skill and muscle, but Du lent her surprising strength to the job, and they soon had him tucked in snugly.

Du ran thin, dark fingers over his pale shoulder as if fascinated by the contrast, then stroked his hair. “Good mans.” Then she touched Mary’s hand, a light brush of fingertips. “Good Mary.”

Mary smiled. “Thank you, Du.”

The bright eyes peered up at her through a tangled forelock. “Sleep? I watch. Sleep.”

She sighed. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night. I think I will.”

A flash of pleasure from the strange little face. Du resumed her spot at the head of the bed. Mary pulled a pillow and afghan from the armchair and curled up on the rug by the bed.

Just another night at the O’Leary Hotel…

***

She was dreaming. Mary knew that, but she was nowhere she’d ever been before, waking or dreaming, and thank the Powers for that.

Around her the terrain lay smothered beneath a layer of glittering snow that rendered it flat and featureless, numbing and disorienting the eye. Above, the hard obsidian bowl of the sky, studded with cold, pitiless stars. A thin, tortured wind whined in agony overhead.

A dream, yes, but not hers. Mary tried to shut out the sound of the wind, to think instead. Not her dream--then a shared dream. But whose? And why? The only person she had ever shared dreams with was Will, and Will was dead. But--could it be his dream? Could he be reaching out to her from, well, wherever he was?

Something like hope lightened her dismay, and Mary began to run.

Mary always ran in her dreams, on all fours, in a glorious coordination of muscle and desire. She never knew whether she was supposed to be feline, canine, equine, or maybe something else altogether, but then she didn’t really care. She just ran, and gloried in her own speed and grace. She knew that most people dreamed of flying; Will had flown, soaring above her in their shared dreams. She still loved to run, but now, when she ran in her dreams, she was always aware that the skies above her were empty.

She was upon him before she knew it. Motionless, he gave no indication that he knew she was there. Will? Mary slowed her gait, approaching the still figure uncertainly. The only thing besides herself to break the horizontal plane of the landscape, he stood like a tower, tall and unmoving. At last she drew close enough to see he was encased in ice. And--it wasn’t Will. It was her patient, naked, and so beautiful he made her ache, like something from a fairy tale.

“I wish I had a child,” said the Queen, “with skin as white as this snow, lips as red as this blood, and hair as black as this ebony.” Had his mother made a wish one frozen winter day?

He stood at parade rest, a position she recognized from the movies, and gazed unblinkingly out over the featureless white dreamscape with eyes bluer than shadows in snow, bluer than jewels. And from those wide, unblinking eyes flowed a silent stream of tears, falling and freezing, encasing him shoulder-high in a glassy mantle of ice. Near his heart four wounds, each made by a different hand, sluggishly stained the crystal prison with scarlet. She touched his face, perfect here, with trembling hands; ice free, but so cold--

“So cold--" His lips moved, echoing her thought. “So cold. Ray--light is gone--"

His pain seeped into her through her palms, so acute she had to cry out. Then, as if the sound had pushed them apart, she found her hands cupping air and stars, with his whisper in her ears--

“So cold--help me--the light--"

***

Small she might be, but she was fierce in her passions. Tears were a mystery to her, but pain she knew, and Mary, her friend, was in pain. Du slipped from the bed to the floor and, with ferocious gentleness, put thin arms around her, holding her head against a bony shoulder. She tasted the salty wetness on her friend’s face with a delicate, curious tongue-tip, and made soft clicking sounds to soothe her. She sensed the tendrils of dream tangling between the man on the bed and her friend, the pain that flowed between them, and worked free the twining strands. Mary whimpered in protest, reaching blindly, but strong, wiry hands restrained her, and she settled restlessly to a song much like the tapping together of pebbles.

***

Ray Kowalski bounced one knee under his desk and pretended to read a case file. The truth was, he hated those days when Thatcher had some stupid thing for Fraser to do. He didn’t care that the Canadian Consulate was the Mountie’s real job. The important thing was that they were partners--a duet--which meant that if Fraser wasn’t around, there was no duet happening. Just a solo, and it was a sad fact that Ray Kowalski on his own sucked so bad that he had to take on another guy’s life to get by. Which meant that not having Fraser around, freak though he was, just didn’t cut it.

He was considering ways of liberating the Mountie from Thatcher’s grasp when the Ice Queen herself stomped up to his desk, leaned over it, and demanded, “All right, detective, where is he?”

There was only one “he” between Ray and the inspector, but that didn’t stop him from tipping his chair back, propping a foot against the desk, and asking with his best wide-eyed half-witted look, “Who?”

He had to struggle not to grin as Thatcher narrowed her eyes, clenched her teeth, and turned a very pretty shade of pink.

“You know very well who, Detective Vecchio.” When she was on the boil like that her voice got a little strident. “I’m talking about Constable Fraser.”

Both eyebrows went up, but he managed to look not only innocent but affronted. “Don’t look at me. He said you had somethin’ for him to do today. Somethin’ important, like pickin’ up the dry cleaning or--"

She slammed one small clenched fist down on his desk top, making him jump to rescue his coffee before it spilled. Not that it was great coffee, but he didn’t want it all over his files… He became aware that the Ice Queen was ranting.

“…it is *urgent* that it be completed today and I demand to know where he is!”

It was fun yanking her chain, but in this particular case he *was* innocent. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

“That’s ridiculous. Where else would he be?”

Ray was about ready to jump up and pop her one when Welsh, with his keen nose for trouble, showed up. “Is there a problem, Detective?”

Ray hated that particular tone of voice because it usually meant he’d been found guilty without a trial, but this time, dammit, he really hadn’t done anything. “Uh, no sir, Inspector Thatcher was inquiring as to the whereabouts of Constable Fraser and, uh, I was endeavoring to convince her that I have no knowledge of them. His whereabouts, that is.”

Welsh cast him a dubious glance. “You were ‘endeavoring,’ Detective?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

He turned to the Inspector. “And were Detective Vecchio’s endeavors convincing, Inspector?” The lieutenant was a long-suffering man.

“He’s lying through his teeth!”

That did it. Ray balled up a fist. Welsh stepped between the two, hands outspread.

“Inspector Thatcher, strange as it may seem, today I can vouch for the fact that Detective Vecchio has been here all morning, and Constable Fraser has not.”

The Ice Queen respected Welsh, knew he was a good officer and a good cop. She stared at him for a moment. “Where is he, then?”

“He’s gotta be at the Consulate,” Ray insisted.

Thatcher rounded on him. “He is not at the Consulate, Detective. Why do you think I’m here looking for him?”

“Wait a minute.” Ray finally realized that this was serious, not just another Fraser-fight between him and the Ice Queen. “If you don’t have him, and I don’t have him, then where the hell is he?” He thought for a moment. “Where’s Dief?”

“The wolf?” Thatcher seemed to finally get it, too. “I believe I saw him in the kitchen with Turnbull.”

“He’d never go off and leave Dief, unless--" He couldn’t say it. The words stuck in his throat on the way out. But Welsh picked up the thought:

“Unless he thought the wolf might get hurt. Could this be connected with a case, detective?”

Ray shook his head. “Don’t think so. Nothin’ I know about.”

“Ok.” Welsh swung around, went into ordering mode. “Put out an APB on the Mountie. Call the hospitals, the shelters, the morgue.”

Ray grabbed his jacket. “I wanna take a look at his room. Maybe there’s something there.” Hadn’t Fraser found him that way once? Might work.

***
        
“So this is the one who’s causing all the uproar.”

Mary nodded. It wasn’t often that Maeve Kelledy came to the hotel she owned, and Mary was a little in awe of her. Even in a place where everyone was a little different in one way or another, Maeve was--well, Mary always had the sense that maybe Maeve came from another world altogether. Even dressed in jeans and sweater, with a plaid shawl flung over it, with her long copper hair in a thick plain braid. It was something about her eyes, Mary thought. They looked about the same age, but Maeve’s cool grey eyes were ageless, wise and deep.

Maeve stood by the bed, looking down at the unconscious man. “Du found him?”

“Yes.”

She looked over at Mary, smiling reassurance, and stretched out a hand to her. “Come, give me your hand.”

Shyly, Mary went to stand beside her, and took her hand. Together they touched his bare chest, resting lightly over his heart. Mary closed her eyes, and saw the unconscious man through Maeve’s eyes. He lay on a bier, like the Four of Swords in a tarot deck. In his hands, a broken sword. On the ground at his feet, a guttering fire. A cup lay on its side near the fire, blood-red wine trickling from its mouth, and in the muddy mix of ashes and wine she saw a tarnished coin.

Whole, they would be symbols of power; broken, marred, they spoke of a soul in despair. And yet, Maeve whispered to her, the sword once fought for justice, in defense of the weak. The cup once held the rich wine of laughter and love. The leaping flames of the fire had provided warmth and inspiration to those without hope. The coin had once gleamed, smooth, heavy, and round, a sensual delight.

“All four,” Maeve said, a note of wonder in her voice. “In one soul. You rarely see it, Mary. Do you know what he is?” Mary shook her head. “A Hero. I didn’t know there were any of his kind left in this world. Du did well to find him.” She put an arm around the other woman in a warm hug. “And you and Bridey did well to save him. Very well indeed. But he’s not out of danger yet.”

Mary looked up into grey eyes like silver stars. “I know.”

***

Fraser woke to a body made of pain. Blood and bone, heartbeat and breath, constructed of layers from ache to agony. It took him several breaths to understand that the moans he heard were his.

Something cool covered his forehead, and the pain receded a little. “Hush,” murmured a voice. “Hush. I know it hurts. Just a moment, just a moment.” Low-pitched and calm, a lullaby spoken instead of sung. Fraser trusted himself to it, that voice, that touch.

The cool hand moved over him, draining away pain in its wake--the burning bones of his hand, the nagging ache of a knee, the red beating in his head. His tortured body began to relax.

“There.” The melody of that tender voice. “There. That’s better, isn’t it. Rest now, rest--"

He opened his eyes as far as swollen lids would allow, and found himself looking into the face of an angel. A mourning angel, from the brush of Giotto or Da Vinci, carven, androgynous, with sorrowing eyes and a wide, tender curve of mouth, haloed in red-gold flame.

“Am I--?” It hurt to speak, but he needed to ask. “Am I dead?”

The angel’s eyes, madonna blue, widened, then warmed. “No.” The cool hand rested over his heart. “No, you’re very much alive, and safe.”

Infant Ben, toddler Ben, had known this utter security; adult Ben retained no conscious memory of it, but gave himself up to the feeling with a grateful sigh.

“Rest now,” the angel murmured, voice like wind in the pines, the call of an owl, the warmth of a fire. “Rest--"

Trustingly, Ben closed his eyes and drifted onto the tide of sleep, a diver in warm seas…

***

The dreamscape again. That frozen, grieving, black and white land, where each step left a trail of blood, each tear turned to ice, and each heartbeat cut like a razor. Overhead the keening wind sobbed like a broken-hearted child. Mary shivered.

The glassy sheath of frozen tears had crept from his collar to his chin, and the blood from his wounded heart had spread beneath it, giving the illusion that he wore a scarlet tunic. And she was pressing up against him, against the ice, naked, using the heat of her body to free him, only it wasn’t her body, it was Will’s, and he shivered and moaned, “Ray?”

Mary held him tighter and felt the ice around his throat and chest melt and crack and fall away, and then the sudden wet heat of blood slick between them. “Not Ray,” she whispered.

“Ray--" There was so much longing in his voice.

“We’ll find him. I promise. I’ll help you.”

“You’ll--help me?” The disbelief in his voice broke her heart.

“I promise.” And she held him against the pitiless stare of the sharp stars in the obsidian sky.

***

I awoke feeling I had slept too long--that drugged, heavy, headachy feeling that comes from sleeping beyond one’s usual hours. It is not a feeling I welcome, associated as it is in my mind with hospitals and unpleasant circumstances.

Still, I was quite sure I was not in a hospital. The sounds I could hear--voices from the street, the sounds of traffic and birdsong--were not the sounds of a hospital, nor were the odors the common hospital odors of antiseptic, ether, and illness. Also--I became aware that I was not wearing hospital attire. Was not, in fact, wearing anything at all. This was, as you might guess, a disturbing discovery. And yet, I knew quite well that I was neither in my office at the Consulate nor in Ray’s apartment.

My effort to recall events prior to my too-long sleep proved futile. I am aware that injury-related amnesia is a frequent result of head trauma, and that the lack of memory can extend to a time period of greater or lesser length before the actual injury. Judging from the sharp pain in my head and the other, lesser pains I was too quickly discovering, this was apparently the explanation of my inability to remember.

Unable to solve the puzzle of where I was, or why, I opened my eyes. I found myself in an old room in an old building--by Chicago standards, that is--furnished with old, mismatched furniture. However, despite the patched plaster walls and the old water stain in one corner of the ceiling, the room was light, airy, and very clean. And when I saw the tall, crowded bookcase, I suddenly felt less threatened. A foolish reaction, of course; malfeasants are quite capable of reading books. It’s an unconscious response, formed in a childhood spent largely in libraries and in the home of librarians: I learned to equate books with safety.

Well. To continue: Although my anxiety was reduced, I was still less than sanguine about my situation. A normal response, I believe. To find oneself naked in a strange place, with no memory of how one arrived there is--unsettling. One might even say frightening. Yes, I confess, I was frightened.

Feeling that having clothes would improve the situation somewhat, I sat up in bed to look around the room for anything I might wear. At least, I endeavored to sit up; as soon as I attempted to move, every bone and muscle in my body cried out in protest. Taken by surprise, I was unable to stifle a groan as I fell back against the mattress.

“You’re awake?”

Still another surprise. I was beginning to think I could happily live out the rest of my life if I never received another surprise. My heart rate soared, and with it came a most painful throbbing in my head.

The speaker came through a door to what I presumed then and learned later was the bathroom. I made an effort to look through the red pain behind my eyes, hoping desperately that now I would at last get some answers. Desperately. Yes, at this point I felt quite desperate, with no clothing, no memory, and no aspirin.

The speaker, a tall young woman in faded jeans, bare feet, and an oversized sweater, crossed the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed beside me.

“Head ache?” she asked.

I closed my eyes against the too-bright light of the room. “Yes.”

“Wait a second.”

She laid a cool hand on my brow and after a short while, the pain receded. I thought nothing of it at the time, being merely relieved that I could now think clearly.

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” She had a husky, melodic alto, very pleasant to the ear, and she smiled at me the way my mother does when I dream of her.
I had to clear my throat to speak. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” I said, once again surprised. “Ravenous.” I felt as if I hadn’t eaten in days. Perhaps I hadn’t; I couldn’t remember.

“You’d better not try anything solid yet--try this.” She helped me sit up, and piled pillows behind me for support, then stretched to reach a plastic glass with a straw in it, sitting on a nearby table.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather ask a few questions.”

“Ok. Ask. But work on this, too.”

I took the glass from her, wincing at the unexpected ghost of pain as I closed my fingers around it. “What is it?”

“Just a milkshake. Hope you like chocolate.”

“I--yes.” I sampled some, and she smiled.

“My name’s Mary.”

“Ah. A pleasure to meet you, Mary.” We shook hands, and that made her smile more.
“Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP.”

“RCMP--" Her eyebrows rose. “A Mountie, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“In Chicago? Visiting?”

“Ah, no. No. I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, and, for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture, I remained as liaison to the Canadian Consulate.”

As I repeated the familiar litany, I studied her. She was, as I have said, tall, only an inch or two less than my own six feet, and in conventional terms, not very attractive. She was lanky rather than slender, with wide shoulders, long legs, and large, long-fingered hands. Not like Ray's sensitive, elegant hands; rather, the practical hands of an artisan or craftsperson. Her face was a long oval, with strong bones, a long aquiline nose, and a wide curving mouth. She wore no make-up, revealing pale, fine-grained skin with a scattering of faint gold freckles. She had a tangle of unruly red-gold curls past her shoulders and thick bronze lashes, and the eyes of a Renaissance madonna.

I beg your pardon. Consider that a metaphor. I only mean that her eyes were gentle and sad and a most brilliant blue. Quite unlike Ray’s changeable blue-gold hazel or my own dark blue-grey, her eyes were a very bright blue, verging almost on turquoise.

Yes. I think that is an adequate description. I swallowed more of the milkshake and asked, “How long have I been--here?”

“Two nights and a day. This is the second day.”

“And how did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I’m afraid my memory is--faulty.”

“Not a surprise.” Despite the madonna eyes, the voice was very worldly. “A--friend of mine found you. You were in pretty bad shape, so my friend brought you here.”

Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice. “Why not to a hospital?”

“My friend doesn’t like hospitals.”

“And--are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“A nurse?”

“No.”

“Ah.” Ray often asks what it means when I say that. It’s surprising how that one little syllable baffles and irritates him.

“Finish that,” Mary told me with a nod at the glass I held, “and I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

People tend to speak without being aware of what words they use, how they can change or bend in relation to other words. “As much as I can.” I wondered if that meant “as much as I know” or “as much as certain restraints will permit me.”

However, she seemed reluctant to start, so I coaxed her along. “You say your friend found me--?”

“Yes. She--this isn’t exactly a high-rent district. She likes to go dumpster diving. People throw out the most amazing things.”

I considered a moment. “Like me?”

Her eyes darkened a little. “Yes. She found you in a dumpster. You’d been--left for dead, I suppose. You were unconscious. So she brought you here and asked me to fix you up.”

It was extremely strange. I felt as if the world had shifted while I’d been asleep. “Which you did.”

“Yes. Well, I had help.”

“How badly was I injured?”

She glanced down at her hands. “Badly enough. We thought you might die.”

I couldn’t seem to stop adding things up, but the answers kept coming out--skewed. “And yet--after little more than 48 hours, I’m sitting up in bed with nothing worse than amnesia and a few assorted aches and pains.”

She took a breath. “Constable.” She stopped, but I was patient, and let her come to it in her own time. “It’s--complicated to explain, and what you need most now is food and rest.”

“But--"

She stood up and took the empty glass from me. “Is there anything I can get you?"

“Yes. Clothing. A telephone.” I know I was curt. I couldn’t quite control the surge of anger I felt at her refusal to tell me what I needed to know.

“Bridey’s the only one in the building who has a phone, but--I could call someone for you.”

“What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s just--" she shrugged--"complicated. You’ll be able to get it better tomorrow.”

Suddenly I was too tired to contest with her further, and slumped against the pillows in defeat. “You said you’d phone someone for me.”

“Yes.”

I gave her Ray’s number.

***

Ray pushed his fork through the mu shu pork, realized he had no intention of eating it, and dumped it on the plate he’d put down for Dief’s food. Dief nosed at it, then sat down beside Ray and put his head in the detective’s lap with a whine.

“Not hungry, huh? Me neither.”

They had hurried back to the Consulate, him and the Ice Queen. Dief had hurled himself bodily at Ray, knocking him down and frantically licking his face and ears, moaning and whining.

“He’s been extremely agitated all morning,” Turnbull explained as he helped Ray extricate himself.

“Any word from Constable Fraser?” Thatcher demanded.

"No sir.” Turnbull had looked from one to the other of them. “Might I inquire whether something is amiss?”

“Dunno,” Ray said, and headed for Fraser’s cubbyhole, trailing Mounties in his wake.

But a thorough search of the tiny space had turned up nothing but the fact that there was a draft in the closet, with air apparently piped in directly from the Arctic. Everything else was shipshape, perfectly tidy. No newspaper with a helpfully circled article, no note saying “Ray, I’ve gone in pursuit of nefarious criminals at State and Maine,” nothing. Just--nothing.

“Now what?”

Ray glanced at Thatcher. Okay, he had to admit she actually sounded--concerned. He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He hated to admit that, especially to the Ice Queen. “Think I’ll check in with Welsh, see if they’ve turned up anything.” Though he hoped like hell they hadn’t. The idea of Fraser turning up in a hospital or--or someplace worse--made him feel physically sick.

“Are you all right, Detective Vecchio?” Turnbull, solicitous.

Ray rubbed his forehead, then waved the Mountie off. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, Dief.” It was automatic; after all, Fraser was his partner. Would want—expect--him to take care of the wolf. Dief seemed to think so, too, and headed for the front door.

“Detective.” The Inspector’s voice stopped him before he got there. “You’ll keep us informed?”

The sharp edge to the voice, the tightness around her eyes and mouth--could just be the Ice Queen, or could be a little humanity breaking through. Ray nodded. “Yeah. Soon as I hear anything.”

Once he and Dief made the GTO, he’d pulled out his cell phone and checked in with the precinct. No news. Maybe no news was good news. He couldn’t decide. So he’d picked up Chinese and come home and tried to eat, and to think, and hadn’t been successful at either one. That growing knot of fear kept the food from going down, kept him from thinking of anything but the worst.

“Dammit, Dief, where the hell is he?”

The wolf’s ears came up and he sat back to bark. An imperious, pushy kind of bark. Ray rubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah, bet he told you. ‘N here I thought him and me was partners.” Anger mixed with his fear. Crazy damn Mountie, wandering off alone to tilt at fuckin' windmills without him. Partners. Right. Ray was pretty sure he was going to have a few things to say about partnership once Fraser turned up. If he--no, don’t even think that.

Dief barked, backed up, barked again. Ran to the door and started digging busily. Ray jumped up.

“Hey! Stop that, you crazy wolf! You’re as unhinged as he is! You trying to get me kicked outta here?’

The crazy wolf jumped up and braced his forepaws against the door above the doorknob, looking back over his shoulder with imploring eyes, whining. Ray took him in skeptically. “What? This some kinda Timmy’s in the well thing?”

Dief barked, dropped to all fours, and began digging at the door again.

Okay. It was a crazy idea and only proved he’d been hanging around the Mountie way too long. But--well, there was the Denny Scarpa thing, when Dief had taken them straight to her apartment. Well, technically, that had been Ante, but hell, Ray was clean out of ideas, and following Dief down a sidewalk beat hell out of sitting in his apartment doing nothing.

“Okay, buddy,” he said. “Let’s go back to the Consulate--that’s where he started from.”

An hour later, he was following the waving white plume of Diefenbaker’s tail. At first he’d really kind of thought that Dief had conned him and was headed for the nearest Pizza Hut or Mr. Donut. But no. The wolf was serious. He’d kept his nose to the sidewalk, even passed right by a bakery with no more than a glance aside. He was covering two or three times the ground Ray was, what with darting ahead, dashing back to be sure Ray was coming, making brief side excursions--

--and God knew Ray was covering plenty of ground. Damn Mountie’d walked half way to Canada. He was starting to feel glad he’d called the Duck Boys in as backup, cause he had a feeling he was going to want a ride home, even if it was in that rattletrap Gremlin Dewey drove…

Dief took two left turns, into an alley, into a cul-de-sac. Dead end. Just a brick wall, a light, a couple of dumpsters by a couple of locked doors. Ray glared at the wolf. “This is *it*?”

Diefenbaker sat in front of one of the dumpsters. Looked back over his shoulder at Ray. Barked, and tried to jump up into the rusted metal container.

Oh God. Ray swallowed hard, trying to keep his stomach down. Felt his heart jumping in his chest. He’d seen bodies in dumpsters. He didn’t want to see another one. Especially not Fraser’s. He breathed deep. Not sure he could do this…

“Ray?” Jack Huey’s deep voice.

“Dead-end, huh?” Dewey, the smart-ass.

Well, Ray wasn’t going to let Dief look bad in front of the Duck Boys. He took one more deep breath, down to his toes, then boosted himself up and into the dumpster.

And found, to his mixed relief and disappointment, that it had been emptied. Nothing in it but a layer of nameless sticky stuff on the bottom, and stuff stuck to the sticky stuff.

“Anything?” Jack called.

Ray turned around slowly. Anything? Anything. Please, God. Something. Dief had brought them here. Don’t let him have just been on the trail of some really good barbecue…

It caught his eye, a bright little glint of--something. Trying not to think about what was sticking to the bottom of his shoes, Ray made it to the other end of the dumpster, gingerly lifted a torn strip of burger wrapper with his fingertips, and there it was. A brass button. The kind of button you found on a Mountie’s uniform, retaining just enough shine to catch the light, and catch his eye.

Ray picked it up, clutched it in his palm, closed his eyes tight. //Fraser!//

***

“Ray. Ray. Ray. RAY.”

Ray jerked awake, and caught himself just before he fell off the couch. “What?” he snapped, and opened his eyes.

It was Frannie, looking a miserable, tired, and little apologetic. “Phone for you.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks, Frannie.” He felt bad for snapping at her. Frannie, with her unrequited love for the Mountie, was taking this harder than anyone, but she was still trying to be professional and do her job. He scrubbed his hands over his face, ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh, hey, any word from the lab boys?”
She shook her head. “Nothing yet.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

A forensics team had descended on the dumpster and gone over it with a microscope. Ray had hovered around the scene, driving everyone nuts. When they turned up traces of blood, he had freaked -- no other way to describe it. He had fully freaked out, even though there was no real certainty at that point that it was Fraser's blood. He had tried to take the dumpster apart with his bare hands, and Welsh had had to drag him off, then haul him, over his vociferous objections, to the hospital for x-rays of two fingers that now stuck out from his hand at new and bizarre angles. After they'd been set and splinted, the Lieu had dragged him back to the station and insisted that he lie down on the couch in the office and get some sleep. To his surprise, he’d dropped into an exhausted, uneasy doze.

Meanwhile, Dewey and Huey were questioning the employees of the businesses that backed onto the alley, and another forensics team had headed out to the landfill to find the contents of that one particular dumpster. Ray hoped fervently that it didn’t include Fraser. Just some clues. Something they could work with…

He made it to his desk, accepted with gratitude the sludgy coffee Frannie brought him, and lifted the receiver. “Vecchio.”

“Detective Vecchio?”

Just what he needed, to talk to a moron. “Yeah, Detective Raymond Vecchio. Who’s this?”

The voice at the other end was husky, hesitant. “I’m calling for Constable Fraser--"

“Fraser!” Ray sat up with a jerk, banging his knee against a drawer of his desk. He barely noticed. “Where is he? Is he all right? Who the hell is this?”

The other person waited for the end of the barrage of questions before speaking.
“He’s been injured, but he’ll be ok. What he’s most worried about right now is you and Diefenbaker. That’s why he asked me to call.”

What hospital?” Impatience and anxiety made him want to climb the nearest wall.

“He’s not in a hospital. He’s at O’Leary’s Hotel. It’s at the corner of Conger and Stephens.”

“Yeah, I know where that is. I’ll be there in twenty. What room?”

“You’d better stop by the desk. Ask Bridey to bring you up. You’ll bring Diefenbaker, won’t you?”

“Yeah, sure.” He felt like a racehorse waiting for the starting gate to open. He didn’t care if they traced the call or not. He just wanted to get to Fraser…

“Oh, yes--he wants you to bring him some clothes.”

“Clothes? What’s wrong with his?”

Pause at the other end. Ray decided he didn’t care. He just wanted to get there, to see with his own eyes that the Mountie was alive and in one piece.

“Never mind, yeah, I’ll bring clothes.”

He hung up, grabbed his jacked, and was surrounded by people before he could take two steps.

“Is he alive?” Frannie’s voice trembled.

“They say so, yeah.” Ray pushed his way through the cops.

“Is he ok?” Welsh demanded.

“Later. I’ll tell you later,” Ray said over his shoulder, and beat it out the door, Dief hot on his heels.

***

Mary and several of the other residents of the O'Leary watched the street from the window at the end of the hall on the third floor. They saw the black 1967 GTO pull up and park, and the occupants get out.

“That’s him,” said one.

“That’s a wolf?” said another. “Looks more like a husky to me.”

“Not Talented, but he’s Sensitive enough to feel Bridey’s barrier. He could find the place if he ever had to.”

“Makes sense--Constable Fraser wouldn’t be likely to be friends with someone that was inSensitive.”

“I think you’re wrong, Lew.”

“What, you think he’s a Talent?”

“Yeah. I do. Wild Talent, maybe.”

“Lotta energy comin’ from this guy, Mary. Lotta energy. Good, though. I mean, it could go either way, but--"

“He’s got a good heart,” someone interrupted.

“Impulsive.”

“Big time.”

“He’s a bit cloudy around the edges, though. Worried. Not scared, but--anxious.”

“Why?”

“Mm. Hard to tell from this distance. He’s afraid this is a set-up, I think.”

“He’s worried about Constable Fraser--how bad he’s hurt. Wow.”

“What wow?”

“Lotta emotion when he thinks about the constable. Really mixed up.” Eyebrows went up. “Lotta love, though. I mean--wow. He’d die for him. Kill for him.” The voice trembled. “I gotta get out. Too intense. Too--too private. I shouldn’t’a--"

“Ok. It’s ok. So he’s no threat?”

“Not unless you get between ‘em. Then look out.”

***

Ray shifted the gym bag to his other hand for the third time in two minutes, and wished the old biddy he was following up the stairs would just make way and let him go find Fraser.

The place was too weird anyway. Something off-kilter about it. Made him shivery, like he was cold, only he wasn’t. Just kinda weirded out. Just going in the front door had felt funny, and then all those folks sitting in the lobby had looked at him at once, like their eyes were on the same string. Like a bus stop in the Twilight Zone or something.

That was on top of wondering who’d called him, and whether this was some kind of set up, and God, worrying about Fraser. Injured. How injured? Couldn’t be too bad, or he wouldn’t be here, right? But bad enough that he couldn’t make it back to the Consulate. What did that mean?

He followed Dief across the lobby. The wolf seemed all right about the place, and that made him feel a little better, in a weird kind of way--Dief’s judgement about people was usually pretty good, and he just trotted right over to the desk, stood up on his back feet, and put his front feet on the ledge, that fluffy tail wagging like a windshield wiper in a hurricane.

The old lady on the other side smiled and said, “You must be Diefenbaker,” and Dief barked. Then she gave Ray a look that made him feel like she could see right through to the back of his brain and said, without the smile, “You must be Detective Vecchio.”

Ray shook off the spook-house feeling and said, “Yeah, and you must be Bridey, now we all know who we are. Where’s Fraser?”

She gave him an unhurried once-over, as if she was considering buying him. “Come with me.”

So he followed her up three flights of stairs, envying Dief, who ran on ahead as if he knew where he was going. Probably did. Probably smelled Fraser. God, how much farther?

Down a long, dim corridor, to the very freakin’ end, where Bridey finally stopped and tapped on the door. Dief scratched at it impatiently, whining. Ray felt like doing the same thing.

The door opened. Dief slipped inside, but before Ray could follow him, someone came out and, dammit, closed the door and stood with their back against it.

"Are you Ray?"

"Yeah, I am. Fraser in there?" This was worse than waiting to see the presents under the tree on Christmas morning, because back then he didn't have to worry about Santa lying mugged and wounded among the presents.

"Yes, he is. He's anxious to see you."

"And I'm anxious to see him." Ray tried to step around.

"Wait. Just a minute. My name's Mary O'Connor. I need to talk to you before you see him."

He looked her up and down. Without knowing her name, he'd have had to guess at her sex, what with her low, husky voice and her either-sex kind of face, not to mention her being so tall and hardly having boobs under her Jenifur t-shirt. "Ok, so talk."

"He'd been badly beaten up when my friend found him," she said. "He's fine, or he will be soon, but I wanted you to know that he looks bad. Worse than he is."

"Ok. Thanks." He reached around her for the doorknob, but she put a hand against his chest.

"Look, he's healing, and that takes a lot of energy. Don't be surprised if he nods off, and don't stay long, ok?"

"Ok. If I ever get in to see him, I promise I won't stay long. Can I go in now?"

Even in the dimly-lit hallway he could see how brightly blue her eyes were, and damn if she wasn't giving him the same kind of look-to-the-back-of-your-brain look the old lady had. Then she smiled at him, which lit up her face in a surprising way, and nodded, and pushed the door behind her open.

Dief was already there, and had already done the tail-wagging and face-licking, and was curled up happy at the foot of the bed. Fraser was propped up all nice and comfy in a nest of pillows, and yeah, he looked like hell, but he was alive, dammit, and the expression on that bruised face when he saw Ray come in did funny things to Ray's heart, and shit, if he didn't have a wolf hair or something in his eye… He didn't know whether he wanted to hit Fraser or kiss him.

So while he was trying to decide, he crossed the room, never taking his eyes off the Mountie so he couldn't disappear, and sat down in the chair at the bedside.

"Hello, Ray." He sounded sleepy, but looked like he was trying to smile. Kissing was starting to seem good…

He put the gym bag up on the bed. "Here's your clothes." That was the safest thing he could think of to say.

"Thank you, Ray. Waking up in a strange room with no clothes on is--distressing."

Mountie understatement. Ray had to duck his head to hide his grin. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Done that, more 'n once. Not like this, though."

"What have you done to your fingers?"

He glanced at his hand. Trust Fraser to notice right away. Not like you could miss 'em, though, taped into their aluminum supports and sticking out like they were. "Nothin'. It's nothin'."

Fraser, of course, wouldn't let it go. "Did you break them?"

"Yeah, a little bit."

"That's just silly, Ray. You can't break something just a little bit. How did it happen?" The smoke-blue eyes twinkled.

Even with all the bruises, kissing the Mountie seemed like a really good option just now. "It's stupid. Got 'em caught in a door." Yeah, it was stupid, all right. No way he was going to admit that he'd gone completely out of his head at the thought that he'd lost his exasperating, infuriating, freakish partner and tried to disassemble a large metal object, as if shedding his own blood and breaking his own bones would somehow make Fraser safe.

"Ray, you really should be more careful--"

He did not want a lecture on safety from a man who looked like a Sherman tank had rolled over him. "Yeah? And would you like to explain what happened to you?"

"Apparently I was beaten up."

Apparently? The Mountie was going to take the calm, rational approach to this, was he? Maybe hitting was a better idea after all. "Apparently, yeah." he said, and didn't try too hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "And they did a damn good job of it. Who did it?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Ray."

"You don't *know*? Fraser, a bunch of guys pound on you 'til you look like a patchwork quilt; how could you not know who did it?"

"Well, I have amnesia, Ray. It's not uncommon after this sort of incident." The oh-so-patient voice of reason. Hitting was beginning to sound better and better.

The door opened, and the O'Connor woman stuck her head in. "Upset him and I'll get Big Jake to toss you out."

Ray held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I'll behave."

The door closed. Ray took another look at Fraser. Like a patchwork quilt, yeah -- patches of clean, pale skin strewn with patches of technicolor bruises and raw-looking scrapes, stitched together with cuts and scabs. It scared him so much he could hardly get his breath, and he had to close his eyes to control the fear and fury. What the hell would it take to get the Mountie to stop doing stuff like this? It was like he was trying to get himself killed.

"Ray--are you all right?"

He took a deep breath, deciding that a sock to the jaw followed by a kiss that lasted, oh, say, three or four days was probably the way to go. "I think that's my line, Frase. You want me to get you anything?"

A really strange expression went across the Mountie's face, but all he said was, "If you would, there's a milkshake in the refrigerator, there under the table."

"Sure." Ray got the drink from the dorm-size fridge and gave it to his partner, then settled himself on the bed near Dief, like he had to be closer to Fraser, to actually touch him, to be assured that he was okay. He watched Fraser give the shake a stir then said hesitantly, "It's just--you know, we were worried about you, okay?"

"We?"

"Yeah, we. The Ice Queen and Turnbull and Welsh. An' Frannie, you got Frannie saying novenas to St. Jude. Even Huey and Dewey."

"And you?"

The funny tone of his voice just about matched that strange expression, and something in Ray tightened up as he answered, "Yeah, and me."

***

Ray had come and gone, and some pain I had hardly been aware of was eased by the knowledge that he would come again. I lay back against the pillows, feeling tired and--good. It came to me that I felt more relaxed than I had felt in a very long time. I was vaguely surprised at how content I was to lie at my ease, with Diefenbaker stretched along my legs and a good but unread book in my hands. Sounds of a piano came through the open windows--somewhere someone was playing Liszt with more passion than accuracy.

Mary came in, and when she saw me she smiled. "Ok?"

"Yes," I murmured. "Thank you."

My answer pleased her. Wordlessly, she went to the rocking chair and sat down, tucking one foot beneath her as seemed to be her habit. From the basket beside her, she picked up her knitting. It was a sweater for one of the children in the building, she had told me, in cheerful child's colors and simple patterns of stripes and checks. In my contented mood I enjoyed watching her work, the long fingers deftly flicking the yarn over the needle and slipping stitches, pausing now and again to switch colors or count up her pattern. The quiet, rhythmic clicking of the needles lulled me further.

Of course, I fell asleep. When I woke, Liszt had become Chopin, the sun had moved around to the west window, and Mary had several inches more of brightly-colored sweater in her lap. Hungry, as I seemed always to be lately, I reached for the string cheese and the bottle of juice that Mary kept by the bed for me. She smiled, said nothing, and kept knitting and rocking. I appreciated her silence as a way of granting me privacy.

"May I ask you a question?"

She looked up then, met my eyes. "Yes."

"Who's Will?"

She started, and lost a coil of stitches off her needles. With a glance and a shake of her head and a whispered curse, she bent her head over the work, threading the dropped stitches onto a stitch holder.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"It's all right. I just didn't expect--" She shrugged, set her knitting aside, and went to the bookcase. She extracted a picture frame that had been standing on end among the oversize books on the bottom shelf, and brought it back to the bed.

It was a frame of the type that displays several photographs. This one contained photos of the same two children, as round-faced infants, laughing toddlers, 6-year-olds mounted bareback, one behind the other, on a bay horse, 9-year-olds in a tree, preadolescents in baseball gear, teenagers in swimming costume and in graduation gowns, studio portraits of each as a young adult. And each so like the other that it was difficult to tell them apart, even after puberty.

"You have a twin?"

"Had. He killed himself." Her eyes were steady but she couldn't quite control the shake in her voice.

"I'm sorry."

Grief overflowed the deep blue eyes before she dropped her gaze to her hands. "I am too."

Diefenbaker has an uncanny ability to sense the feelings of others, when he cares to. Now he whined and righted himself, and shoved his nose into Mary's clasped hands, offering his own brand of comfort.

I offered mine. "Would it help to talk about it?" She had done so much for me over the course of the past few days that I felt it no hardship to offer to act as a sounding board for her to air her feelings, which were clearly still fresh and sharp.

Mary made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "I can't. It's so complicated, it would take forever. And you'd never believe me anyway."

I felt rested after my nap, and the cheese and juice had, at least for the moment, satisfied my hunger. I wanted very much to help my new acquaintance if it was in my power to do so. "I make it a practice to believe three impossible things before breakfast every morning," I assured her solemnly.

As I hoped, a smile broke over the Giotto face and lit the somber eyes. "All right," she said. "After dinner, I'll tell you the whole thing and you can see if your practicing has worked." She ruffled the soft fur at the top of Diefenbaker's head.

After we ate, Mary cleaned up, then helped me get settled in the bed, fluffing and rearranging the pillows to make me comfortable. It was an odd sensation, to be so fussed over. I think it would have vexed me, but she was so quick and matter of fact about it that it was impossible to feel offended. She settled herself at the foot of the bed, near Dief, tucking her bare feet beneath her tailor fashion. We nursed big mugs of hot, sweet tea as Mary sought for a place to begin.

At length, uncertainly, she asked me, "How do you feel here?"

It wasn't at all what I expected, but I answered her honestly. "I feel fine."

"No." She shook her head. "I don't mean like that. I mean--here--" She leaned forward and stretched out an arm to touch my chest with her fingertips, the merest brush of a touch. "Do you feel--uneasy?"

I didn't understand what she meant. "I thought we were going to talk about your brother."

"We are. This is--it's not as much of a non-sequitur as it seems."

I trusted her, so I tried to answer her question. "Well, I'm not very comfortable about using your bed or about your waiting on me."

"No. Inside." She thought a moment, then tried again. "When you woke up this afternoon--you felt relaxed? Peaceful?"

I acknowledged it.

"You don't feel--antsy? Like you absolutely have to get away from here, something's pushing you out, you'll suffocate if you don't get out?"

"No. Not at all. Although I am rather puzzled by your line of questioning."

She smiled at me over the rim of her mug. "Wait until I get started. You'll think I'm the one who's been conked on the head. But, um, suspend your disbelief, ok?"

I have a deaf wolf who reads lips in three languages and a dead father who built an office in my closet and appears at inopportune moments to offer unsolicited advice. I think my disbelief is permanently suspended. I nodded at Mary.

She took a deep breath. "See, O'Leary's is a haven for a lot of people who are--" she hesitated over the word--"different."

"Different," I echoed.

She nodded, and I pursued, "Different in what way?"

Another deep breath. "Most of them, when they get here, are pretty much at the end of their ropes. A lot of them are sure they're insane."

"And what does this have to do with your brother, or whether I feel--I believe your term was 'antsy.'"

"O'Leary's is--a guarded place. You can't find it unless you need it, desperately, and you're a certain kind of person--"

"And that kind of person is--?" I prompted when she seemed likely to stop again.

The look Mary gave me was definitely apprehensive. "We call it being Sensitive. It means, like, being psychic." She stopped, biting her lower lip.

"Like ESP, you mean."

"Not--not exactly. If you're Talented, you're Sensitive, but you can be Sensitive and not be Talented."

She was so certain I was going to laugh at her. "And a Talent would be--"

"Telepathy. Clairvoyance. Being able to find lost things. Fire-starting."

Ray, I knew, would have been skeptical. Ray Vecchio--the real Ray Vecchio--wouldn't have stayed in the room long enough to hear this much. But my dead father spoke to me almost daily, and I had seen a man find a kidnapped girl by touching a piece of paper the kidnapper had handled. I think Mary was very surprised by how calm I sounded when I asked, "And everyone--all the tenants here--are Talented?"

"Almost. Yes."

I felt almost as if I were interrogating a frightened witness. Mary seemed too fearful of my disbelief to volunteer information, so my task was to ask the right questions in the right way and form the puzzle from the pieces she gave me. And, if I could, to reassure her. "You said only desperate people come here." She nodded minutely. "So you were desperate when you came here."

"Yes. I--yes."

"Were you and your brother both Talented?"

Another nod. "I'm not a strong Talent. Just a lot of little ones--some telepathy. Some empathy. A little finding. Some healing--"

"Healing," I interrupted. "Is that what you did to me?"

"Yes."

I wanted to know more about that, but made a mental note to come back to it later. For now I stayed on the trail. "And Will?"

Mary glanced unhappily at the framed photographs. "Will was a strong receiving telepath and a strong empath."

"He was able to read minds," I said, for clarification.

"Not--not exactly."

"You said that Will 'received'--he heard the thoughts of others?"

"Yes."

"And an empath senses feelings?"

"Yes."

"That must make it extremely difficult to be in the presence of other people," I said carefully.

"Most people learn to block it. Will just couldn’t." Mary leaned over and put her empty mug on the floor. "We were so close--I don't know if you can understand how close we were, like two halves of the same person. When one of us got hurt, the other one cried. We even used to share each other's dreams.

"I learned pretty early how to shield against other people's thoughts and feelings--well, except for Will. I never shut him out. I never wanted to.

"Will could never seem to do it. He could put up a shield, but they were never very strong, and they'd come right down under any kind of stress. When we were together I used to shield for both of us, but I couldn't always be with him. And like you said, it was very tough for him to be around a lot of people."

Mary sat running a fingertip over her knitting, a small, unconscious, distraught motion. "But we did ok until we started college." Her voice echoed with resignation and unshed tears. "It was a bigger place, and we couldn't be together all the time, and he just couldn't protect himself. He barely made it through the first semester. " I knew when she looked at me she wasn't seeing me, but I could see the love and wonder and sadness in her eyes. "You know, he never got mad. He just accepted that that was how things were, and kept trying to--overcome it. Like a paralyzed kid trying to walk. We went up into Wisconsin over the Christmas break, up into the woods near the border, just the two of us. It was--special. We were closer than we'd ever been." She stopped, and closed her eyes. Her hands tightened into fists in her lap.

"But I still didn't--I would never have let him come back if I'd known. How could I not have known?" It was a cry of anguish. I didn't know what to do, but Dief went to sit beside her and pushed his nose under her clenched hands. She stared at him, unseeing, for a moment, then her fists became hands and she stroked his fur. At length she took a breath and went on.

"About a month into that next semester, he shot himself in the head. I was in chemistry class, and suddenly I heard him say 'Mary, I'm sorry,' and then--" She raised a hand in a helpless gesture. "The world just blew apart. I was in a coma for three weeks. Of course, the funeral was over by then, and the semester was pretty much shot. And I felt like--" She focused on my face, and forced a tiny, resigned smile. "I can't describe what I felt like. Alone. I'd never really felt alone before. Never *been* alone, not really." I heard the little shiver of panic in her voice and saw her fingers tighten in Diefenbaker's fur.

"I imagine that was very frightening for you." I tried to make my voice as comforting as I could.

"It was--" She stopped again with a little shake of her head, unable to find words. "I got a little crazy and did--crazy things. I was all--out of balance. Two years. I--" She looked down as if unable to meet my eyes. It took several shaky breaths before she could go on. "One day I found myself here. Out front on the doorstep like an unwanted kitten. I couldn't--go any farther. There wasn't--wasn't any road left." Her voice was tight, her body reacting to the memory. "Maeve found me--Maeve owns the O'Leary. She carried me inside. I weighed about a hundred pounds." She glanced up with a wry expression. "Can you imagine? She turned me over to Bridey to get me fixed up."

"And with other Talents here, you felt less alone?"

"Yes." Touching Diefenbaker seemed to calm her. I watched her stir the short, thick fur at the top of his head with a squared fingertip. "I haven't, well, been out of the hotel in--a while. I, uh, can't breathe. Panic attack, I guess." She flushed slightly with embarrassment.

We sat silently for a little. Mary picked up her knitting and began to put the dropped stitches back on her needles. I thought over what she'd told me, and wondered if there were anything material I could do that might help her.

"What will you do?" I asked her.

Her fingers began to work the stitches in their steady rhythm. "Stay here, I guess."

"Have you no other family?"

"No. Not blood kin. The people here, they're my family now."

I hesitated before I spoke again, and then I found myself fumbling for words. "You know, you're very lucky. I think I've always felt alone. I--I don't know if I could--accept the kind of closeness you share."

"It doesn't scare you, to feel alone?"

"No. It seems more frightening to me to--to share, so intimately."

She looked up from her knitting, eyes very bright and blue. "Even with Ray?"

I felt myself blush. At last I said, as calmly as I could manage, "It's a moot point, after all, since neither of us is, as you say, Talented."

The bright blue eyes never wavered, and the Renaissance face took on a hint of mischief. "No?"

I simply stared at her, caught somewhere between panic and fascination. She broke the spell with a smile, standing up and setting aside her knitting.

"You look tired. I promised a couple of people up on Five that I'd drop by, so the place is yours. Go to bed soon, okay? Dief, look after him."

Diefenbaker whined and snuggled against my legs, and Mary left me alone with my none-too-comfortable thoughts.

***

Fourteen cups of lousy coffee, no leads on who had assaulted his partner, and two stale donuts for lunch meant that by the time he knocked on the door of 403, Ray was wired. Hyper. Firing on imaginary cylinders. Nor was his mood improved any by having Bridey watch him as if he was there to burgle the joint, like anybody here would have anything worth taking in the first place.

The O'Connor chick opened the door. Her eyes widened as she took him in, which made Ray wonder just how wild-eyed he was. But she didn't try to keep him out, and Dief bounded over to pin him against the wall, forepaws on his chest, and tongue swiping at his face.

"Ray!"

That was the best part, the thing that toned him down a notch or two, so that he realized just how edgy he was. Fraser, transparently glad to see him.

"Hi, Frase."

"We're just getting ready to eat, Detective," the O'Connor chick said, taking his jacket. "I'll get another plate."

"No, no. That's ok. I'm not really hungry."

"Ray." He knew that tone of voice, that admonishing note, shot through with a smile to take the sting out. "You're always hungry, Ray, and Mary is quite a good cook."

Mary? His super-formal partner was using her first name? Ray scowled. He didn't want to eat, and he especially didn't want to eat with Fraser and some chick, even if she had maybe saved Fraser's life. He just wanted--and the realization exploded over his head like a firebomb--all he really wanted was some alone-time with Fraser and to get the hit-him-or-kiss-him thing settled once and for all.

"--Ray. Ray."

"What?" he snapped, embarrassed to be caught zoning out, embarrassed by the thoughts he was having about his partner.

"Come and sit down." The calm, patient voice, that could sometimes drive him up the nearest wall. This time it didn't. This time, Ray just went and sat down at the foot of the bed.

Fraser was still ensconced in his nest of pillows at the head of the bed, but tonight he was *on* the bed rather than in it, wearing the clothes Ray had brought him. He looked a hell of a lot better, too--less tired. Less--bruised.

Get a grip, Kowalski, or get your glasses. Bruises like that don't disappear overnight.

"Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"You look a lot better."

"Thank you. Now please--eat with us."

It was either take the plate the O'Connor chick was handing him or knock it out of her hand and yell that he didn't feel like eating goddammit. He was tempted to do the tantrum thing, but a look into those blue Mountie eyes and he quelled it. Instead he just sighed and took the plate, and examined his food.

"What is this?"

He knew he sounded like he thought she was trying to poison him. Tough. Let her deal.

"Sloppy Joes," the O'Connor chick said, quiet, unoffended.

Which offended Ray, because he felt like being offensive. He shot Fraser a look, one that said clearly, "I thought you said she was a good cook."

The look Fraser sent back said, "Please, Ray, mind your manners and try to be a gracious guest."

So he did, because that wordless exchange just knocked him out; it was what their partnership was all about. So even if the food was weird, he sat there and ate most of it, and slipped the rest to Dief when Fraser wasn't looking. What kind of diet was this for an invalid anyway? Sloppy Joes and cheese fries, with tomato juice for him and the O'Connor chick and a milkshake for Fraser?

"Hey, Fraser, all these milkshakes, you're gonna lose your girlish figure."

"Actually, Ray, if I understand what Mary has told me correctly, my increased appetite is a result of the method of accelerated healing she used, which draws heavily on the body's reserves and requires a substantial caloric intake. The milkshakes Mary has been making for me contain fat for fuel as well as high levels of protein and calcium to aid in the rebuilding of bone and damaged tissue."

Ray blinked at him. "And what is that in English?"

"Perhaps Mary could explain it. Or perhaps you could demonstrate?" Fraser looked from Ray to the O'Connor chick and back again with that wide-eyed, helpful expression that was always a prelude to trouble.

Ray and the O'Connor chick demurred almost with one voice, but Fraser, being Fraser, was not to be deterred. Once he got an idea in his head, it stayed there.

"Come, Ray," he said persuasively, "at least let her look at your fingers. Those splints must be awkward; you've bumped them accidentally at least three times since you arrived."

"Fraser, I'm fine."

The O'Connor chick got up and collected their plates and Ray's glass, and took them into the bathroom, with Dief at her heels.

"Ray, you are not fine. You have two broken fingers, and as sensitive as your hands are, they must be--"

"Wait a minute. Are you saying I've got sissy hands?"

"No, Ray--"

"Cause if you are--"

"I am not saying you have sissy hands," Fraser cut him off firmly. "I am merely suggesting--"

"I hate doctors, Fraser."

"She's not a doctor."

"Then she's not lookin' at my hand."

They were stuck there, Fraser looking annoyed and Ray feeling triumphantly perverse, when the O'Connor chick came back into the room, sat down on the bed beside Ray, and took his injured hand in hers.

You'd have thought that would be a good thing, and she had a nice touch, gentle and firm, like maybe she actually knew what she was doing, but the only person in that room that Ray wanted to hold hands with was his partner, not some chick that looked like a guy, and he didn't even want to think about what any of that meant, thank you very much. So he snatched his hand away.

"Ray--" Fraser, reproving, embarrassed.

The chick looked at him, bright blue eyes through thick lashes. "Detective. Please let me look at your hand." Damn, she sounded just like Miss Lemon, his third grade teacher.

"No. You are not a doctor, my hand is fine, and you are not going to look at it."

"Why are you being so unreasonable, Ray?"

"I am not being unreasonable, Fraser. You are the one that's unreasonable."

"Ray. You commented on my improved appearance and asked about my appetite. This is the explanation."

"Her lookin' at my hand is gonna explain why your three-day-old bruises look like two-week-old bruises?"

"Yes." Firm, flat, unqualified.

So Ray did what he'd known he'd wind up doing from the start. He gave in. Let Fraser have his way. He stuck his left hand in front of the O'Connor chick's face.

She didn't say anything. She just moved his hand to her knees and curled her left hand loosely over his two injured fingers. Then she glanced at him, and Ray realized how uncomfortable she felt. And maybe the real (more or less) food was settling his caffeine-revved nerves, but it made him feel kind of ashamed of himself. So when she asked hesitantly, "Do you mind if I take the splints off?" he flushed and muttered, "No. No, go ahead. Do whatever you want." And got a warm look of thanks from Fraser as his reward.

The charged atmosphere grew less electric. None of them spoke as the O'Connor chick--okay, Mary--peeled back the tape holding the padded aluminum splints in place and gave the splints to Fraser to hold. Then, again, she curled the fingers of her left hand loosely around his two injured fingers and closed her eyes. It seemed quiet--almost intimate--and Ray felt himself relax a little further.

Of course, Fraser had a question, but he pitched his voice low and quiet, like the voice he'd used to hypnotize the four of them that time in Welsh's office. "Mary, why do you use your left hand for this?"

"Bridey calls it the receptive hand," she answered absently. Then she looked at Ray with those almost-turquoise eyes and asked, still uncertain, "Did you mean--do whatever?"

Ray glanced at Fraser, who nodded encouragingly. "Um--sure."

Mary glanced at Fraser, too, then made up her own mind with a nod. "Okay. It'll burn at first. Hold on."

That pretty much did it for Ray's relaxed mood. He sat bolt upright. "What? Burn? No, wait, you didn't say--'

Too late. She took firm hold of his little finger with her right hand and shit, yes, it hurt as much as when he'd broken the damn thing in the first place, and before he could yank his hand to safety, she had hold of the ring finger, and fuck, that hurt, too.

Then he was off the bed and standing in the middle of the room, clutching his injured hand to his chest with his good hand. "You--you're unhinged! Both of you. Jeez!" It really hurt.

"He seems to be in pain," Fraser observed with a touch of concern.

"No shit." Ray gritted his teeth.

"It'll stop soon."

Not taking his eyes off Ray, Fraser said, "So if the left hand is the receptive hand, the right hand is--"

"--the active hand, that's right. Wiggle your fingers, please, Detective."

He couldn't believe his ears. "You are unhinged. They're broken!" He was so outraged he didn't even noticed the pain had gone away.

"Ray--" The reproving voice. Three times in one night. Well, the Mountie was just going to have to deal because there was no way he was gonna--

"They don't hurt." Ray glared at Mary suspiciously.

"Your fingers?"

Okay, so he was unhinged, too. Ray squeezed his eyes shut and tentatively bent the broken fingers.

They moved. Good as new. Not even a twinge.

He fixed Mary with a stare that was, if possible, more suspicious than before. "How the hell did you do that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Ray--please--come sit down--" Fraser held out a hand in what was half command and half plea.

Ray relented and sat down, but he wasn't ready to quit. "You just--did something to my fingers. How can you not know?"

"Ray."

"I mean, this is great!"

"Ray."

"Every precinct ought to have one!"

"Ray."

"How come you're hiding out here in this fleabag hotel?"

"*Ray.*"

"You oughta be out curing cancer, kids with AIDS--"

"RAY." Persistence pays: Fraser finally broke into Ray's giddy monologue. "I doubt it's so simple, Ray, or there would indeed be someone like Mary in every precinct, not to mention every hospital. I suspect it's an extremely rare--talent, and one that has its limitations."

Ray thought about it. "That true?"

"Yeah. I'm like a freak, okay?." She seemed really upset.

"I get it," he said after a moment's consideration. "Yeah, I guess you'd have scientists wantin' to cut you up to see how you worked, and Billy Graham wantin' you to perform miracles, and how do you decide which of six billion ailing people to fix up? Is that it?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Yeah. Well, um--thanks." He rubbed his fingers. "They itch."

"It's an after-effect. It'll go away."

"Oh. Okay."

"Okay."

They balanced, under Fraser's proud smile, on the awkward line between enmity and friendship. Both stood up at the same time.

"I, uh, I'd better be going," Ray said.

"No. No, no. You haven't had a chance to talk. He's been looking forward to seeing you all day." She put her hands in her pockets and backed a step toward the door. "I, uh, promised Bridey I'd sit in for her at the desk downstairs. You stay here. Don't let him get too tired, okay?"

"Okay," Ray mumbled. "Sure."

Mary felt for the doorknob, pulled the door open. Dief darted out into the hall.

"No, it's all right," Ben assured her. "He likes you."

"Oh. All right--" Mary followed Dief into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

That left the two of them alone, Ray and Fraser. Fraser and Ray. Ray rubbed his itching fingers and looked at his partner. Fraser lifted a brow.

"What is it, Ray?"

"What?" He was still so--stunned? astonished? amazed?--by what had just happened, with so much bickering and so little fanfare.

"You just look as if you have something to say."

Oh yeah. That. The partnership thing. The kiss-or-kill thing. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Look, Fraser--" Ray paused. He really wanted to get this right. They'd talked about it before, but Fraser just didn't seem to get it. He wanted to make sure that this time it went into the Mountie's head and stayed there. "Look, Frase, we're friends, right?"

"Yes."

"And partners, too."

"Indeed."

"And partners share, right?"

"Yes, they do. Ray, forgive me, but I believe we've had this conversation--"

"Yeah, we have, but now we're havin' it again, all right? There a law against that?" He turned to face Fraser squarely, drawing his feet up beneath him.

"Ray, your shoes--"

"Shoes," Ray muttered. "I'm trying to make a point here and you're worried about shoes--" But he pulled them off and threw them to the floor. "There. Happy?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, correct me if I'm wrong--and I know you will--but is it not a mark of partnership that partners share?"

"Of course."

"Good things and bad things?"

"I suppose."

That wasn't so good, but he'd let it pass for the moment. "Okay. And friends. Friends also share, do they not?"

"Yes, they do."

"Then would you mind tellin' me why you won't share with me?"

He looked completely taken aback, which was good. "But Ray, I do share with you--"

"Oh yeah? Oh yeah? What do you share with me, Fraser? Tell me that." He was on a roll now, gesturing emphatically with both hands as his frustration rose. "Did you share with me that you were gonna go out and get yourself beat to a pulp? No. No, you did not, and you wanna know what? That's selfish."

"Selfish?" It was a gasp of disbelief, which was also good.

"Selfish. You know why? 'Cause if you'd shared, I coulda been there backin' you up like partners and friends are supposed to."

"But Ray, you might have been hurt, too."

"That's okay. That's sharing. Good stuff, bad stuff. Happy stuff, hurt stuff. What is not sharing is going off and getting yourself killed and leaving your partner and your friend without a partner or a friend. That's not sharing, Fraser. That's selfish. Am I making myself clear here?"

"Ray, I--" Gasping, startled, very good.

"Cause I do *not* want to have this conversation again, Fraser."

"Ray--" struggling to keep his voice even--"I think you're being rather unreasonable--"

"Unreasonable. I'll show you unreasonable--"

***

It was the constable’s dreamscape again. Mary looked around unhappily. Still the same unforgiving sky and frozen land. And the constable nowhere in sight.

Already in that half-animal state, the one that let her run so tirelessly, she sat back and closed her eyes. Yes, by now she could sense him, the frozen razor of his pain, the silent wail of longing. There. That direction.

She rose to her feet and dropped into an easy trot. She could see him now, the sole vertical in a world of white horizons, the icy casement of tears glittering under the cold light of the stars overhead. Where was it tonight, she wondered. Waist high? Shoulders? Chin? Could she continue to keep it at bay?

“Hey!”

Mary came to a jolting halt at that call, almost a yip, and whirled toward the source. For a moment she wasn’t sure who--or what--she was looking at--a small, compact, manlike form covered with bushy silver sable fur and regarding her with a pair of laughing, silvery-blue eyes.

“It’s me! Don’t you recognize me?” The laughing eyes moved up and down her, and the creature added, “You’d make a pretty good four-foot. Got a good feel for it.”

“Diefenbaker?”

“Sure.” He jerked his head in the constable’s direction. “How’s He?”

“I don’t know. I was on my way to see.” It was a dream; it felt perfectly natural to fall into a comfortable jogtrot beside the half-wolf. “What are you doing here?”

“We dream too, you know.”

A perfectly good answer. They moved on together, toward the man who had brought them together in his dreamworld.

They found him still encased in the glassy sheath of ice. It had climbed, from his chest to his throat. If it reached his face he would die. Mary didn't know how she knew that, but she knew it was true. Not physically, but the man who loved and longed and cared would become immutably ice, unreachable and entombed. And that she couldn't, mustn't allow.

Now Dief looked like Dief again, and she looked like--well, she looked like Will, and together they pressed against the constable, striving to free him from his scarlet-stained prison of tears. It was thicker around his feet, anchoring him in place, but thinned as it rose up his body to a mere sugar-glaze over his neck and shoulders. Heart-to-heart with him, she felt his aching emptiness, saw it in the bottomless blue well of his eyes. She and Dief could only slow the advance of the ice; there was only one soul who could quell it, break Ben free with the heat and energy of his love. And if he didn’t know that, if he didn’t act…

***

"Don't you get it, Fraser? I love you!"

I blinked. If Ray loved me--well, that was a happiness I seldom dared to imagine. But though he had said the words on at least one occasion, he had also made it clear that he didn't mean them, not in the way I dreamed of.

At last I said, as calmly as I could manage, "I appreciate that, Ray."

I saw the frustration flare in his eyes and he snarled, actually snarled, at me. "You moron!" he growled.

And then Ray twisted on the bed, moving to kneel astride my legs. He took my face between his long elegant hands and I had just time to glimpse the gold flame in his eyes before he kissed me.

I gasped, then groped, for anything solid and stable in a world that was reconfiguring itself around me without warning. I found and gripped Ray's upper arms, and pushed him slightly away. "Ray--"

His fingers tightened in my hair. "Shut up, Fraser," he said, and he kissed me again.

***

You could say they came together like magnets, or like oppositely-charged ions, or like any other irresistible force of nature you can think of. The firestorm that was Ray swept over the dreamscape, licking at that merciless sky, and engulfed Fraser, immobilized in his prison of frozen tears. For a moment there was nothing but the pillar of blue-gold flame, roaring in outrage, dancing with joy.

Then came a sound so loud it wasn’t even a sound anymore, just a feeling, a rattling of bones that threw both Mary and the wolf to the ground. Above them, the hard obsidian sky cracked and frozen stars fell like flakes of fire. Mary and Dief clung to each other. It’s a dream, Mary thought, we can’t be hurt here. But it was a hard thing to believe with the ground beneath her heaving and rolling like a giant waking from a long sleep.

At long last silence. Cautiously, Mary raised her head, to find a changed world. Still white, still snow-covered, but no longer that bitter, rigid constraint; rather it lay like a blanket, soft and yielding, following the contours of the land. Tall, snow-decked pines lifted their heads high and filled the air with their clean, pungent scent. In the distance were the black-paper cutouts of mountains silhouetted against the horizon. Above, in the black velvet sky, the stars twinkled and winked like laughing friends.

Freed of his icy prison, Fraser wore mukluks, fur side out to improve traction, and sealskin pants, and an anorak the color of blood, full Mountie scarlet; his hair tumbled free past his shoulders, black as ebony. The radiance she had sensed in him that first night shone from his face, his eyes, casting brilliance on the snow around him. Beside him, around him, enveloping him in its warmth, the blue and gold flame that was Ray, burning away the snow at their feet, where sun-gold blossoms and flowers bluer than jewels bloomed..

Mary woke with tears of joy on her face.

***

Almost two weeks after I left O'Leary's Hotel and Mary's care, I took Diefenbaker to the park near the Consulate to enjoy the autumn evening. Ray was to meet us there at the end of his shift, and we would spend the evening together. To know Ray loved me--I had hardly taken it in. It lent an air of spring to the leafless trees and still-green grass.

Dief's bark called me back from my luminous dreams. He ran toward a woman, and I realized I had been more absorbed in my thoughts than I knew, for she had approached to within a few meters of me without my noticing her.

Although outwardly she looked no different from any other casual visitor to the park, in her boots and jeans and intricately-cabled sweater, her regal carriage and quiet confidence made it instantly clear that she was no ordinary personage. Dief fawned at her feet as she approached, something I had never seen my independent-minded companion do. She stopped to caress him and speak a few words to him before coming up to me.

She greeted me warmly. "Good evening, Constable."

"Good evening." It was only courteous to return her greeting, despite being momentarily at a loss. I was unable to remember meeting her previously, although I rarely forget a face, and it puzzled me that she could recognize me as an officer of the law when I wore civilian clothes. Then, as our eyes met, I knew who she was. "You must be Maeve Kelledy," I said, just to be sure. A smile was her answer, and I extended my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

Some things are difficult to explain. The feeling I had in Maeve Kelledy's presence is one of them. Imagine a mixture of compassion and command, of power and resignation, of calm overlying a tempestuousness beyond any storm you ever saw. She was taller than I, with red hair to her waist, and might have been taken for someone my age if it weren't for her eyes.
We began to stroll toward the pond where I expected to meet Ray. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" I asked.

She smiled at me. "Just following up, Constable. There are too few men like you left in the world."

I wasn't sure of exactly what she meant, but there was no doubt it was a compliment, and I felt the heat of a blush burn my cheeks. I cast about for a change of subject. "And Mary? How is she?"

"Coming along," Ms. Kelledy said judiciously. "Another reason I sought you out, Constable, to thank you. Mary learned a great deal from you."

"I hardly see how," I protested, "considering the condition I was in."

Her sidelong glance was mischievous but her tone was patient. "You underestimate yourself. So does Mary." We stopped on the bridge that crossed the pond and leaned against the railing. "Bridey has helped me at the hotel for a long time. She's growing tired; she'd like to go home. I'll need someone to replace her."

I watched Dief chase along the bank, barking at the flotilla of ducks floating safely out of his reach. "And you think that someone could be Mary?"

"Her many 'little' Talents amount to something quite considerable. But she lacks confidence and experience. You helped give her a taste of both. More importantly, she's begun to deal with the loss of her brother, thanks to you. I'd nearly give up hope."

"You?" I shook my head. "I don't believe that."

Ms. Kelledy studied me openly, a friendly, searching look. "Nevertheless. You're the first person she's spoken to about him. Did you know that?"

I leaned my elbows on the railing, clasped my hands, and watched a school of goldfish shimmer past in the dark water beneath the bridge. "All I did was listen."

"A rare and remarkable talent, as you well know. Just as you are a rare and remarkable man."

I felt her looking at me, willing me to meet her gaze. I knew that, as I surely as I did, my life would change irrevocably, and sudden fear of that change made me tremble. Stubbornly, I kept my gaze on the water. "I'm human," I said. "A man like any other man."

"Constable Fraser--" Her voice was gentle, compassionate, and relentless. It's overly-dramatic and perhaps foolish to say that I felt my doom overtaking me, but as she laid a light hand on my arm, I had that feeling.

Then Ray was there, as he always is when I need him, lean and golden and throwing off an energy that dispersed my fear like dreams at dawn. "Hey, Frase. Dief, you doof, get down! Who's this?" He tucked his chin a bit and stood poised, ready to be friendly but instinctively preparing to defend me.

It was a moment before I could master my voice. I loved him more than I would ever be able to tell him. "Ray, this is Maeve Kelledy. She owns O'Leary's Hotel. My partner, Ray Vecchio."

He shook her hand with a smile that was more a challenge than a greeting. For her part, Ms. Kelledy held his hand a moment longer than necessary, meeting that challenging gleam with a steady, probing gaze. Then she softened and turned to me with a smile.

"I see you're fortunate as well as exceptional," she said. "Constable, you'll always be welcome at O'Leary's. Anything we can do for you, you have only to ask."

"Thank you," I said. "I'll remember that." Though I felt quite sure it was an offer I would never avail myself of. "Please give my greetings to Mary."

"I will." She bent her head, a queen to her subjects. "Detective. Constable."

We watched her walk away, Ray and I, our hands touching on the wooden railing. She was barely out of earshot before Ray demanded, "What was that all about?"

"Nothing, Ray. Let's get something to eat." In putting my hand between his shoulders to urge him into motion, I allowed myself to touch the back of his neck.

I caught a feral glint of eyes and teeth. "You hungry, Fraser?"

"Yes, Ray. Starving."

Ray executed a little dance step that seemed to send sparks flying into the gathering dusk. "Well, let's go then. Let's go feed the animals, Fraser."

As simply as that, I walked away from the destiny Maeve Kelledy would have had me take up, and followed love into the night.

***

Across the empty bier lay a sword, once broken but now made whole, ready to resume its role as a defender. Near the plain, leather-wrapped hilt stood a jeweled cup, full to overflowing with rich, satisfying wine. Against its base lay a coin of pure gold, new-minted, heavy. The three objects flickered and gleamed in the light of the white fire that burned, steady and hot, at the foot of the bier.

*Finis*

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