Author's website: http://unhinged.kixxster.org

Disclaimer: I make no claim on anyone or anything mentioned in this story. Fraser and Ray belong to some guys in Canada. The "things" belong to a long tradition of spectral horrors.

Author's Notes: To Andrew and Morgan, for being who they are and convincing me to quit changing things before I ruined it completely, dammit!

Story Notes: This is the final story in the "Slipping Through the Cracks" universe. It's suggested you read "Ray's Glasses," "Daemons of the Air," "InnerVision,"and "Dreamcatcher" or there's a very good likelihood you'll be left wondering what the hell I'm rabbiting on about.

This story is a sequel to: Dreamcatcher

Price to Pay
By MR

It's an hour's round-trip drive from the cabin to Coldwater. Dependent, of course, on ideal weather and nothing unexpected happening once I get there.

I left for town at 8:30 a.m. fully believing I'd be back by 11 at the latest. Unfortunately, the clock on the wall of Charley's garage says it's now 12:30. I could, I suppose, walk across the street and have a quick lunch at Margie's. No real hurry, especially as the mechanic on duty said it could be a while before the jeeps fixed, assuming they have the parts on hand.

Never assume anything, my grandmother used to say, because it makes an ass out of 'u' and 'me'.

I remain where I am (hunched on the uncomfortable bench in what Charley calls his waiting room) and pull the letter out. I don't know why I keep re-reading it: It's not as if the message isn't the same as it was nearly two hours ago, when I picked up the mail at the post office.

Despite this, I unfold it and lay it open on my lap:

Benton,

Probably surprised to hear from me since you sent the letter to Grandfather, but he's away right now and told me to answer his mail till he gets back. Don't know for sure when that will be. He's been gone a month already, and it may be another month before he drops by again. Trouble in some of the villages further east, he says.

Funny thing is he said before he left you'd write. Seemed to know it in that way Grandfather knows about things he hasn't seen or heard yet.

Your letter didn't really make much sense to me, so all I can tell you is what Grandfather said to tell you before he left.

'Do you truly trust your partner as much as you say you do? Give it some thought and then ask yourself: Do I trust Ray to know what he's doing even if I can't understand why?

If the answer is yes, then provide him with what he needs and let him be, because he knows what he's doing even if you don't.

If the answer is no, then tell him. It isn't fair to leave him to bear the burden alone if you no longer have faith in his love for you.

It's as simple as that, Benton. Despite your inborn desire to complicate things past all reason, it truly is as simply as yes or no.'

So there's your answer. As soon as he gets back I'll have him call you. Hopefully by then things will've worked themselves out.

Sincerely,

Brian Goforth

Carefully, I refold the letter, put it back in the envelope, and stuff it in my shirt pocket.

It doesn't surprise me Quinn knew I'd write. Even as a boy I was aware of his ability to know things before they happened, to show up just when I needed him the most, to always make an entrance in the nick of time. Only when I got older did I discover he was a shaman. I was quite upset he hadn't told me, but when I mentioned it he'd shrugged and said it wasn't that simple. He was, he told me, Shaman to more than one tribe, something I'd never heard of before or since. For a Shaman to cross tribal boundaries in times of need isn't unusual, but for one to lend his wisdom to anyone, no matter what people they come from...that's a bit trickier.

Brian's one of his grandsons; Quinn's been living with him and his wife Karrel for several years. He has a place of his own, but seldom spends much time there. Instead he stays with his children and grandchildren for varying lengths of time. All consider it an honor to have him; it gives you quite a bit of prestige in the community to be related to a shaman. Even an unorthodox one like Quinn.

With a sigh, I pick up my cell phone and dial our number, my stomach tightening as it rings. Finally there's a click, but before I can blurt out to Ray how sorry I am I didn't get hold of him earlier, I realize I've gotten the answering machine and can only sit there, heart sinking, and listen to the message Ray first recorded when we came hear nearly six months ago.

'Hey. You've reached the Benton Fraser and Ray Kowalski residence. We're out fighting for truth, justice and the Canadian Way right now, but if you leave a message we'll try and fit you into our busy schedule and give you a call back. Thank you kindly.'

I wait for the beep. "Ray? Ray, if you're there please pick up the phone." Nothing. "Ray, I'm sorry it's taking so long, but some idiot sideswiped me when I was pulling out of the parking lot at Walker's. I'm waiting for the mechanic to fix the problem and I'll be home as soon as I can. Ray? Ray, please don't ignore me. There are things I need to tell you, but I can't say them to you if you won't listen. Ray?"

Nothing but the click of the answering machine disconnecting and a dial tone.

I stare at the buzzing cell phone in my hand and swallow, trying to fight back the rising panic.

Two hours and several increasingly frantic attempts to call Ray later, Carl backs the jeep out of the garage, shifts it into park, and climbs out. "Sorry it took me so long, Benton. Lucky for you McNally's had what I needed or you would've had to have someone run you back out to your place."

"How much do I owe you?"

He waves dismissively. "Eh, don't worry 'bout it. I'll have Charley bill ya. Won't charge you for the extra time either; it's our own fault we didn't have what we needed in stock. Jimmy Fontaine's supposed to be keeping track of..."

No longer listening, aware only that I have to get home NOW (that I should've been home hours ago), I walk around the jeep and climb in. Leaving Carl talking to himself, I finish backing out into the street, straighten her out, and hit the accelerator.

It's a good thing it's summer. If it were snowy the road would be slick and I'd have to take it slowly. Good weather means that if I keep her at 50, I'll be at the cabin in under an hour.

Only gradually do I become aware my whole body is shaking. Fine tremors that remind me of when Ray developed hypothermia on the mountainside. I bring the jeep to a halt at the stop sign and sit there, trying to calm myself by sheer force of will. Most likely Ray's simply gone outside to enjoy the good weather. I resolutely ignore the little voice in my head that whispers what I already know; that Ray hasn't ventured further than the front porch since we moved here, not even after he abandoned the bandages for the wrap-around sunglasses.

A sound pulls me back to the here and now, and I turn my head and find myself face to face with Margie Walker. She's rapping on the window to get my attention, and from the way she's frowning she's been at it for a while. I wonder why she looks so alarmed and roll down the window. "Yes?"

"Are you okay, Benton? You've been sitting there close to three minutes just staring."

Three minutes? "I'm sorry; I was thinking of something else."

"Must've been important from the looks of it. Do you still want the salt?"

"Salt?"

"I found some." She holds up a small box. "When you were in earlier getting supplies, you mentioned you'd run out and there wasn't any on the shelf. Meant to do something about it, but Brenda called in sick and then I had a rush of people wanting lunch. Just got around to checking a few minutes ago and found some boxes in the back. Do you still want it?"

I replay our earlier conversation in my head. When I decided to come into town and check the mail, I also made out a list of supplies we needed. That's when I discovered we were out of salt, which I couldn't understand, because I would've sworn I bought at least two boxes the last time I'd gone shopping. I mentioned it to Ray, and I remember him saying that since I did all the cooking I'd obviously been overdoing it. I remember wishing I could see his eyes, because I would've sworn he wasn't telling me the truth.

"Just put it in the back with the rest of the stuff, could you?"

She nods and opens the back door, wedging the box in between two others. "You laying out a salt lick?"

"What?"

"Thought maybe you were trying to lure the deer closer. If you need block salt, I can order it for you."

"No, I don't need block salt." Something's tugging at the back of my mind, something connected to Quinn's advice and Ray's unwillingness to talk and the missing salt. "Margie, I really need to be getting home. I've been gone far longer than I intended and I'm worried something may've happened to Ray."

"You sure you're okay, Benton? You're white as a sheet."

"I'll be fine once I get home," I tell her, knowing all the while that I very well may not be, and drive away before she can ask me anything else, Quinn's letter and the missing salt and the 'things' Ray's glasses showed me all mixed together in my mind. It's connected somehow. I know it is, just as I know for certain that Ray isn't on the porch.

He's gone outside on his own. I left Dief with him, told him to keep an eye on Ray, and Dief's well aware of his duty. But Ray could've locked him in the bedroom and gone out alone. He'd do it if it meant Dief was safe. Just as Dief would do anything to protect Ray, so Ray would do anything to protect Dief.

And me as well.

Well and truly panicked, I take a hard right onto the road to the cabin and push her for all she's worth.

I'm five miles from the cabin when I hit the fog.

Quite literally hit it. One minute the sun's shining, the next the jeep's cocooned in a thick blanket of gray. Visibility in front shrinks to the end of the hood. Visibility on the sides becomes zero. The only way I know for sure I haven't gone off the road is because I can still feel the gravel under the wheels.

Water starts condensing on the windows almost immediately, forcing me to turn on the wipers, and I slow to a crawl. The road itself is more or less straight, but there are several sppots where erosion's cut deep ditches on the sides. If I were to slip off I'd be well and truly stuck. It once took Charlie the better part of an afternoon to haul out a Land Rover that strayed too close to the edge during a thunderstorm.

Literally boxed in, I can't keep my mind from trying to fit the pieces together. Discovering the 'things' existed. The murders in Chicago. Finding what remained of Stella, and our frantic flight north (Ray insisting we get as far away from civilization as fast as possible). His refusal to wear the glasses at all once we arrived, which eventually let to his adoption of the blindfold, then the wraparound shades. The way he'd sit for hours on the bed or the couch or the porch, never moving a muscle, not saying a word, yet I couldn't shake the feeling he was 'waiting' for something.

The letter from Quinn. The 'accident' outside Walker's this morning. The extended wait at Charlie's. Not being able to get hold of Ray. The missing salt. Fog on a perfectly clear sunny day.

Something(someone)trying to keep me away from the cabin?

I fight the urge to floor the accelerator and rush headlong, knowing that if I slip off the road it's a long hike back to the turn-off. A long hike through fog so thick I won't be able to see my hand in front of my face.

'Assuming they let you get back at all' the voice in my head whispers, and the fear ratchets up another notch.

I used to have nightmares when I was a boy. Dreams in which I'd be running from something I never saw. But I could hear it and smell it, and I knew it wanted me dead, and no matter how fast I ran I couldn't shake it. Endlessly running, too terrified to look back and see what was behind me, even more terrified to go forward, and then suddenly the road before me would disappear, leaving me balanced on the edge of chasm that was black and bottomless. If I went forward, I'd fall into never-ending darkness. If I turned, I'd see what was after me and the knowledge would surely drive me mad.

I always woke up at that point, sweating cold even in the heat of summer; I'd spend the rest of the night lying awake, too scared to risk falling asleep and find myself confronted by yawing horror on one side and death on the other.

A slight shudder from the jeep, and I know I've left the gravel. If the damned fog weren't so thick, I'd be able to see the cabin. Without thinking, I roll down the driver's side window, lean my head out and yell "Ray!"

I'm answered by a wall of noise. The shock of it almost sends me off the road, but I manage to pull back at the last minute. It's coming from the fog. Or perhaps it 'is' the fog?

"Ray!" I scream, as if my voice could make a dent in the cacophony around me. I have no frame of reference for what I'm hearing. It's as if I'm listening to something that descended from the farthest reaches of space or erupted from the depths of the Earth's core. Whatever it is, it shouldn't exist in a sane, rational world.

And then suddenly the fog's gone, vanished as quickly as it appeared, and I realize I am, in fact, less than 10 meters away from the cabin.

The hellish noise hasn't diminished one decibel, but I'm too busy staring at the scene in front of me to care.

The first thing I notice is the ring of white encircling the house and out buildings. For a moment I think it's snow, then realize that's absurd. It's the middle of July. Besides which the texture's wrong. The suns rays make it shimmer like a mirage.

Salt, the voice in my head provides the answer easily. It's the missing salt.

I look away from it and see Ray, and for an instant my heart stops beating. He's standing at the bottom of the steps, sunglasses firmly in place, dressed in a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that only serve to emphasize how much weight he's lost since we moved here. He's holding something in his left hand (a book of some sort) and he's staring up at the sky.

I open my mouth to call him again, then my eyes shift upwards and the words dies stillborn in my throat.

I'm not really surprised to see them. It's as if I knew they'd find us sooner of later no matter how far we ran. It takes me a minute, though, to realize there's a difference between these ones and the ones Ray described seeing in the alleys. These remind me of what I saw in the bullpen the day I so stupidly tried on Ray's glasses. But oddly, I don't feel the same revulsion I did then.

I remember something Ray said one night in our bed, when he told me what he'd seen in the alleys near the dead bodies. His voice had been barely a whisper, as if he were afraid to speak too loudly lest somebody hear him.

"They aren't like the other ones, Ben. They're something that slipped through the cracks."

I shift my gaze back to Ray; despite the noise, I can tell he's talking to them (arguing actually, if the way he's waving his free hand around is any indication). The sheer impossibility of what I'm looking at hits me and for an instant I'm back in my nightmare, standing on the edge of the abyss. Then I remember what Quinn said in his letter. Do I love Ray enough to believe he knows what he's doing? Do I truly have that much faith?

The tightness in my chest loosens a bit as I realize I do. I may not understand it, but I know he'll do whatever he has to do to protect us.

It's what he might be willing to sacrifice personally that frightens me.

Carefully, not wanting to draw his attention away from what he's doing (or draw undue attention to myself) I open the door of the jeep and slide out.

Apparently I'm not as silent as I hoped, because Ray looks at me. Even without being able to see his eyes, I can tell he's annoyed. "Fraser," his voice is hoarse with fatigue, and I suddenly wonder just how long this' been going on, "do me a favor and don't come any closer, okay?"

I nod, not bothering to wonder why I can hear him clearly over the noise, and remain where I am. There's a momentary, almost painful, increase in the unearthly howling, and I'm very much aware that the 'things' have shifted their attention to me. I hear Ray say something that sounds like "He's the one I was tellin' you bout," and they turn back to their business with my lover, dismissing me as if I weren't even there.

With nothing to do but watch, I find myself trying to catalog the differences between them. Like the ones in the bullpen that day, they're of every conceivable shape and color. Some are almost the size of the cabin, while others resemble mere wisps of smoke. If there's any hierarchy among them, I'm unable to distinguish it.

I've become so used to the noise it isn't till the silence starts ringing in my ears that I realize it's stopped. Without me really noticing, the 'things' have been gradually fading out, until only Ray and a fragile-looking trapezoid the same color as his eyes remain. He's closed the book and is nodding his head in response to something I can't hear.

"I'll keep my side of it," his ruined voice makes me ache in sympathy. "You got what you wanted. If I never see any of you again, it'll be too soon." He reaches out a tentative hand to touch it, the small blue object evaporates under his fingertips, and we're alone.

Unsure of what I've just witnessed, I carefully close the door of the jeep and walk across to him, stepping over the salt.

"Didn't want you scuffing it accidentally." He rasps.

I nod, then reach out and gather him into my arms, burying my face in the crook of his neck.

"Shh." And why is he comforting me when he's the one who's been through hell? "It's okay now. They won't bother us again."

For a long time we stand there, him murmuring nonsense in my ear while I let all the fear and panic of the day bleed away.

Eventually I get myself under control and he pulls me over so we can sit down on the steps. "Why salt?"

"Protection. The book was pretty specific about it."

I have a sudden recollection of watching my grandmother take a pinch of salt from a shaker that tipped over while she was cooking and tossing it over her shoulder "for luck." I pick up the book and flip through it. "Where did this come from?"

"Don't know." His mouth quirks when I look at him. "Remember the box mum sent me a couple months ago?" I nod. "It was stuff from when I was a kid. This was buried at the very bottom."

I turn the pages slowly. "It looks vaguely Russian."

"Polish."

"You can read Polish?"

"Learned how to read it before I started school. The old man had a bunch of books great-grandma Kowalski brought from the old country. I think it was hers. Don't remember ever seeing it before, though."

"It told you how to contact the things?"

"Kind've. It made me realize I was right when told you they'd been aware of me since I got the glasses. Remember when I said I got the feeling they were here before us?" I nod. "Was right about that too. What you've gotta understand is that they're not even remotely human. Where they come from there's no such thing as 'good' or 'evil.' They're beyond that. But they've learned a lot about us over the years, so they know there are certain things we believe are wrong. They try to avoid doing those things because they don't want to call attention to themselves."

"And the ones that were committing the murders slipped through the cracks?"

"Well they all slipped through the cracks. There are doorways..." he shakes his head at my blank look. "The other thing is that they don't act as individuals. They think and act as a single entity."

"Are you saying the ones committing the murders were different from the rest of them?"

He nods. "Their society's equivalent of psychopaths. From what they told me it's happened before. Thing is, it's been so long since they had any trouble with renegades the rest of the collective wasn't aware anything was going on till I saw the first body. I attracted the attention of the ones doing the killing, but I also made the other ones aware of what was going on. Didn'tknow that, though; that's why we ran."

"So we were running the ones committing the murders?"

He nods. "Couldn't though. All we could do was thrown'em off the trail for a while. Then mum sent me the book and I started reading it."

"Reading it?"

He flushes, obviously embarrassed. "I used to take the blindfold off at night, after you were asleep. I hated lying to you, but it was my fault. You would've never seen the damn things if you hadn't put on my glasses. They were already familiar with me, so it made sense I'd be the one they came for. Read further in the book and discovered I could contact them if I wanted to. Problem was I didn't know who'd get here first; the ones I already knew or the ones that were doing the killing."

I reach out and touch his face. "And all those times you just sat there not saying anything?"

"I was keeping watch. I figured I'd know when they were coming. If the regular ones got here first, maybe I could cut a deal with them that'd keep us safe."

"What sort of deal?"

He looks away, staring out across the lawn. "I didn't know. The book was clear enough about everything else, but when it started talking about making deals with them, it didn't go into a lot of detail as to what they might want. Just that it'd be something personal."

"They'd want a part of you?"

"Something that was important to me. Like I said, the book was sketchy on the details. I've only got a few things that really mean anything to me anymore. I didn't know what they'd want."

"What did they want, Ray?"

"You and Dief. No way in hell I was gonna give either of you to them, okay? Then they wanted mum and dad."

"And?"

"Jesus, Ben, you think I'd sell my own parents just to save myself? I love you; I love them. That's how it is. It's not negotiable." He runs a hand through his hair.

"You were going to give yourself to them weren't you?"

"If I had to, yeah. I figured it'd be worth it if they'd leave you and Dief and mum and the old man alone."

"And what about my feelings, Ray? Do you think I love you any less than you love me?"

"No. But like I said, it wasn't your problem. They were my glasses. I knew they could be dangerous if the wrong person got hold of them. I should've never left'em lying around where you could try them on."

"And I shouldn't have put them on. Nobody's to blame for this mess. Except maybe them," I wave my hand at the sky. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and pray for patience. "You obviously didn't give yourself to them or we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation. What did you give them, Ray? What did they take in exchange for leaving us alone?"

He swallows and looks down at the ground. "Promise me you're not gonna freak out."

"Ray, if you don't tell me what you've done right now, I'm going freak out in a manner that may well result in the locals calling the Depot and asking for an emergency medical helicopter to take me to the nearest psychiatric facility for an extended rest. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yeah." A moments hesitation, then he carefully removes his sunglasses and turns to me.

I find myself staring into eyes so devoid of color they're almost silver. For an instant what I'm looking at doesn't register. Then I recall the color of the last one to disappear and it hits me like a ton of bricks. "Oh God, Ray!"

"Hey, it's okay." He smiles slightly and touches my face. "I can still see. Matter of fact, I see better than I ever did with the glasses.

"How...why..."

"They're color-blind, Ben. For them everything's black and white and shades of gray. They've always known humans see in color, but they couldn't grasp the concept of what color was. I've given them a chance to see for themselves. And since I don't need the glasses to see anymore..." he shrugs. "Course, I'll have to wear the sunglasses when we go into town. Don't wanna spook the locals."

"You can only see in monochrome?" He nods. "How could you give up something that important, Ray?"

"Because you're more important than being able to tell whether someone's shirt's blue or green. Mum and the old man are more important than knowing what color the jeep is. Anyway, I've got it all stored in here." He taps the side of his head. "I know what your Serge looks like, and what color your hair is, and how your eyes go dark when you're turned on. I've seen the aurora borealis enough times to know how the colors flash and fade. If I ever need to remember what color leaves are in the fall or how the woods looks when it snows, all I hafta do is close my eyes and remember." He leans towards me, resting our foreheads together. "I won't deny it's gonna take some getting used to but consider the alternative, Ben."

I nod, realizing I'm perilously close to tears. I knew Ray would be willing to surrender his own life if it meant saving us, but I never stopped to think of having to live with the consequences of him surrendering something less fatal but just as permanent. "I love you, Ray Kowalski. You've got more courage than anyone I've ever known."

He sniffs slightly. "Not courage, you freak. Was so scared I damn near wet myself again. Just making the best of a bad situation. They get to see in color; we don't have to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulder and jumping at shadows."

"And the ones that were committing the murders?"

"Already taken care of. Soon as they knew what was happening they rounded them up. They're back outside where they belong. Where they all belong, I guess."

"Where's Dief?"

Ray flushes again. "Locked in the bathroom. I drugged his donuts."

"Ray!"

"You think I don't know you left him behind to watch me? Last thing I needed while I'm trying to negotiate with aliens was him charging through the front door doing his 'rabid killer half-wolf' imitation!"

"Why the bathroom?"

He looks at me. "Cause I was afraid he'd wake up and try coming through the window, okay? He's as big a freak as you, Fraser. Even if he could knock the glass outta the bathroom window, there's no way he could get through it."

For some reason this strikes me as hysterically funny, and I give a giggle that's half relief, half long-suppressed panic finally coming to the surface. "If he keeps eating donuts, he won't be able to get out the window at all." One corner of Ray's mouth twitches, then we collapse against each other and laugh till we're in very real pain.

We suddenly sober when a faint but very annoyed whine filters through the open front door.

"Busted." Ray says, and I look at him, thinking that if you didn't know his eyes used to be blue you'd believe they were naturally gray. Providing you don't get to close.

"What now?"

He smiles at me; the first genuine smile I've seen since we left Chicago. "Figured we could go back to the states and tie things up properly. Tell people good-bye, pick up the rest of my stuff, maybe give the Lieu my formal resignation."

"Do you want to stay there?"

"Don't think I could. But I bet the Mounties'll be glad to have you back if you ask'em nice enough."

He's right of course. Buck's already contacted me twice wanting to know when I'd be able to come back to work. "What about you?"

"Apply for citizenship and try to find a job. "

"With the police?"

He shakes his head. "Don't think I could ever do that again. Too many bad memories. You get much call for mechanics up here?"

"That depends on what they can fix. In your case, since you can fix about anything, I don't think you'll have much trouble finding work. Until then," I lean over and kiss him, "what do you say to becoming my kept man?"

He cocks his head to one side, considering. "What's it pay?"

"All you can eat. And sexual favors, of course."

"Of course."

From inside comes the barking of a wide-awake, extremely annoyed Dief.

"Suppose we should spring'im?"

I stand, pulling Ray to his feet. "I'll explain the circumstances. I'm sure he'll forgive you eventually."

"Right." He throws an arm around my shoulders. "Until them, you know we're both of us gonna pay and pay and pay..."

FIN

End Price to Pay by MR: psykaos42@yahoo.com

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