Vigilante
by Giulietta
Disclaimer: This is closer to original fiction! But alas, not quite.
Author's Notes: Didn't actually make the deadline for the ds_flashfiction Mix and Match Challenge, but it fits there perfectly.
Story Notes: If you've got issues with RayK ever having had feelings for Stella, don't read. If you're just bored by them, their relationship isn't exactly the point here.
Part One: Chicago, 1979.
"I can't believe him. I cannot believe him!" Stella fumes as she steps out of the GTO. "He actually told me I should drop out of college. As if I -- he ought to, if anybody -- " She stops sputtering only to draw a breath. "He thinks I can't do law. And he's wrong, Ray, you know he's wrong -- he's just jealous because I'm better than ever was. But he was so -- patronizing! You wouldn't believe how he -- "
Ray tunes her out briefly, out of habit, while he pumps the clutch and frowns at the slight catch. Somethin's up with that -- probably not just something catching on the pedal itself, from the feel of it. He'll have to get in there and check it out when he gets home.
"Son of a bitch," he agrees readily, possibly cutting Stella off mid-sentence, opening his door and rolling the window up. "Do I need to kick some heads?"
Stella sighs. "I'd like to kick some heads."
"Naw, you can't."
She rounds on him. "I'll have you know -- "
"You don't got good head-kicking shoes. I'll get you some, though," he offers. "Sounds like you'll be needing 'em."
She laughs, letting go a little bit. She's always like this right after this class -- personally, Ray thinks she should drop it, but it's not like anybody's asking him. Not even Stella is. But he's good with that -- he thinks she's whacked, but then she always was.
"You cashing your paycheck?" she asks him.
"Yeah."
"You should really put some of it in savings, you know.
Whacked. Totally whacked. You have to love a girl who's that nuts and doesn't even know it. "Hey, since when're you my mom?" he teases, holding the bank door open for her.
"Since your mom recruited me. Really, Ray, it'd do you good."
"Yeah, sure. Look, I got stuff I wanna buy with my money. What's it to you?" They're not arguing, not really, 'cause Stella's grinning at him and bumping her shoulder against his. They're playing. Or at least Ray's pretty sure they are.
"'Cause you're gonna get me a ring next month."
"I got you a ring."
"A special ring."
"...why?"
She just grins at him. Damn, that is an evil grin. "Because."
"Because what?"
"Count, Ray."
Count. Count. Count -- aw, shit. "Oh, I remembered that."
"Mm-hm."
"Really, I did!"
"Right."
"Okay, look, I'll get you dinner. On the night, okay?"
"I might just let you get away with that."
"Yeah?"
"If you put the check in savings."
And why'd he been debating this? "Okay, geez," he mutters, smirking at her, "just -- "
"Down! Get down, all of you! Down!"
Ray hits the ground half a second after he sees the gun waving in the air, pulling Stella down with him. Fuck. What now?
He meets Stella's wide eyes, and squeezes her hand. "It's okay," he mouths at her. "We'll be okay." And they will, too, as long as they stay down and don't move. He hopes so, anyway, 'cause that's the only plan he's got.
"Put it in the bag," the robber says, and Ray can't help but think that the guy needs new lines -- and what the fuck is that? Who the hell is he to criticize the guy's lines? He's lying on the floor, shaking, just like everybody else -- all the guy needs is a gun.
"Sir, I -- "
"I said, put it in the bag!" The robber swings his gun up to cover the clerk, who immediately opens the register and starts scooping out bundles of cash.
Next to him, Stella twitches.
Her movement must have caught the guy's eye, because he whirls around and -- shit -- grabs her by the arm -- tears her up from the floor, twists her arm behind her --
-- and Ray can't move. He can't move. His cheek's pressed up against the tiles and he can only see Stella's legs, can't see her face, can't see what the bastard's doing to her --
"Hurry up! Or I shoot the girl!"
Stella's feet rock back, all her weight on her heels, except for what's against the robber's chest. Ray squeezes his eyes shut -- he can tell what's on her face from her feet. He knows her that well -- he can see her wide eyes, her parted shocked lips, her disgust at his submission -- and he's just as certain the she won't. Be able. To stay. Still.
Stay put, Ray thinks, trying to think it straight into Stella's brain, just stay put, he'll let you go, you'll be fine --
Except Ray's never been telepathic, and so Stella moves -- he's barely done thinking at her when her feet twist, and then they're running, running, except she can't get far, Ray knows she can't get far, not in those goddamn -- fucking -- heels --
And even though he knows it all, the shot turns his stomach inside out.
Blood.
There's blood everywhere.
God, it's too bright -- too red -- too much --
The gun hits the floor, a metallic crash that unlocks Ray's muscles and sends him flying across the lobby -- his hands are on Stella's limp shoulders, pulling her onto his knees -- "Stella -- Stella -- shit, Stella, talk to me -- " but there's so much fucking blood.
And Ray looks up --
-- and that bastard! That son of a fucking bitch! Just standing there, looking like somebody's shot his girlfriend --
Ray's gonna kill him --
-- and the guy's running out the door, and Ray's brain is screaming get him! hold Stella! get him! hold Stella! and then it's just too late, he's gone, there's no way Ray's gonna catch him now -- and Stella's head is wet and heavy in his arms.
Ray doesn't go to Stella's funeral, which makes his mom really pissed -- she shrieks about loyalty and bravery and guilt, and when that doesn't move him she raves about sulking and regret and immaturity. In the end she loses, 'cause Ray's too big for her to pick up and throw into the car now. So his mother and father go, dressed well, in black -- and Ray knows that the people there'll think that's not good enough, and eye his mother's shoes and the lint his father can never keep off his right shoulder. And then they'll probably ask where Ray is, and make appropriate noises about how the young are vulnerable, and secretly decide that he's a jerk.
And that is just fine, except for the part where he remember how Stella used to imitate her rich pompous aunts behind their backs, and then tell him that she's really not as bitchy as he could be.
That's what a funeral's supposed to be about, though, even if it does hurt -- and maybe he's special, but he can do that without putting a suit on, lying right here on his bedroom floor with a comic book propped open over his ribs. He can think about Stella while Peter Parker survives another encounter with Flash; he can think about Stella while Wolverine pines after Jean Grey in his own tough way; he can think about Stella while Daredevil holds his dying girlfriend in his arms, and vows revenge on her murderer.
Ray stops; he traces the girlfriend's light hair -- longer than Stella wore it, but exactly the color Stella's hair woulda been if somebody'd had the sense to put her in a comic book.
So Ray might not wear red leather on a regular basis -- but he's close enough to blind.
The gun's heavy in Ray's hand, and that is why he drops it. Or that's what he tells himself, anyway. It's not that it's too heavy; it's just surprising. That's all.
"Christ -- shit, kid, set the safety if you're gonna -- never mind." Sam is pretty cool, Ray thinks. Maybe he's kinda old, but he's okay, even if he does golf with Ray's dad on the weekends. He's got this giant iguana in a glass cage, which could -- or so Sam says anyway -- slice your guts out with his tail if he wanted to, which mainly he doesn't. And Sam's house smells kinda sweet, like the wood he burns in his fireplace during the winter. Sam lets Ray call him Sam instead of Mr. Flannigan, hasn't tried to talk to Ray about Stella, isn't treating Ray like he might just snap and have a nervous breakdown -- and right this minute, he's handing the gun back to Ray, which Ray is pathetically grateful for.
"Don't drop it this time."
"I won't." Ray tightens his grip on the gun, 'cause his fingers are shaking and want to drop it again. Sam eyes Ray's hands until they settle down.
"You got it?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," he says, just taking Ray's word for it, and flicks the safety off for him. He moves Ray's sweaty hands to cock the gun, rests a finger in front of the trigger. "Glasses on, Stan."
"It's Ray," Ray corrects, fumbling his glasses out of his pocket with one hand. It'd be better if he didn't use his glasses at all, but then he hasn't got radioactively-enhanced hearing -- just his own normal myopia.
"Ray." Sam steps back, letting go of Ray's wrists. "Aim. Don't shoot yet. Just aim."
Ray aims, and Sam walks around him in a circle, checking his posture. Sam says it matters -- he had Ray practice it with a water gun for weeks -- though Ray doesn't get why. "You can hold it with both hands if you want," Sam suggests. "You're a little off balance." Ray brings his left hand up to steady his right.
Sam walks behind Ray, so that Ray can't even see his blurry outline out of the corner of his eye, "Aim again."
The target's nothing fancy, just a beer bottle on top of some crates, but Ray's pretty sure he doesn't need anything fancy yet. He aims.
"Okay, shoot." Sam's totally relaxed, like it doesn't mean anything at all.
Ray swallows, and squeezes the trigger.
Shit! that's loud, even though he's got the stupid earmuffs on, and the gun sorta tries to leap right out of his hand but doesn't get away because Ray squeezes hard and hangs on, even though the jolt buzzes his shoulder and makes it go all tingly.
"You missed," Sam remarks calmly, like he hasn't noticed Ray wrestling with the gun, even though Ray knows he has. "You gotta be ready for the kick. Try again."
Okay. Ray adjusts his grip and squeezes off another shot -- and yeah, it's still loud, and yeah it still jumps, but he's got it now, even if he did miss again.
"Too high, It doesn't fall like a dart, it's goin' too fast. Try again."
Ray keeps his elbows loose, so that the kick won't actually hurt, and shoots again.
"Too low -- " and yeah, Ray can see that, he can see how he's hit the crates and moved 'em back three inches. "Try -- " but Ray's already aiming, already shooting, and there! That's it! he's blown the neck right off that bottle! Yes!
"Shit," Sam breathes, "that was fast."
And nobody's ever said "shit" to him like that before, but it's just one of those things that makes Sam cool instead of old.
"You're a little sonofabitch, aren't you," Ed tells Ray, grinning at him around the cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth. No one's ever called Ray a sonofabitch like that before, either, and he's not sure if he likes it, 'cause Ed's definitely more old than cool. The minute Sam and Ray had walked into the shooting range, Ed'd called Ray a pipsqueak; when Sam'd told Ed how Ray could shoot, Ed'd started off with "When I was a boy..."
But now Ray's shot; he's shot better than Ed can, and since it was a compliment he's gonna play along. "Who're you callin' little?"
"Hey, you may be able ter shoot better'n me, but I'm still bigger'n you." Ed peers at Ray, "Things'll probably stay that way, from the look of you."
"He's just jealous," Sam whispers to Ray, smirking, but not so Ed can't hear.
"We'll have another round!" Ed roars, working himself into a fit for Sam's benefit. "Another round, I say! You won't best me again!"
"You're going British," Sam remarks, amused. "I didn't think you could do that anymore."
"Once an Englishman, always an Englishman, I say! Once an Englishman always an Englishman!And once an expert marksman, always an expert marksman!"
"Not that you'd know anything about that," Sam counters.
"A duel," Ed howls, "traitor! I'll have your head for that -- " Ray watches them for a while, feeling weirdly invisible. Ed, he thinks, is really strange, and kind of creepy in a way Sam never was. He can't figure out whether they're fighting or joking or what, and after a while he's completely lost track of what they're talking about. But eventually they have another round, and Ray's cluster is way tighter than Ed's again, and Ed slaps him on the back and tells him to come back next Saturday -- there's going to be a big fat competition, he says, and that'll put Ray in his place.
Ray says sure, if Sam'll let him use the gun, and Sam laughs and says, "Jesus, Ray, keep the damn thing, I don't use it much anymore."
And just like that? Ray has his very own gun.
Ray's walking home from the shooting range, thinking about how good it feels to shoot and know right where the bullet's gonna go. It doesn't happen all the time -- but sometimes, especially when he stays out late at night, it's like he can feel all the gears and hammers moving under his palm, and can tell them just what to do. Maybe it's just that he knows what they're gonna do -- but whatever it is, it is really fucking sweet, like dancing right on the beat, so perfect and good that you can almost taste it, right on the tip of your tongue, and you just gotta close your eyes and try to find that taste.
His legs feel strangely loose and tired, just rolling him along the sidewalk, and he feels like he can see everything, even behind his head, even though his glasses're hanging down under his chin. He can see into the alleys, in the dark mucky corners near the dumpsters, and --
-- and there! There! That's him! That's --
Ray's got his gun out before he can think about what the fuck he's doing -- he's knocked his glasses onto his face, he's aiming, he's firing --
-- except there's something wrong, something jammed, shit -- he squeezes again and again, hard as he can -- and then on the fourth squeeze the guy turns around and goes pale and --
-- and it's not him, at all.
It's not him.
It's just some poor fuck with the same fucking jacket -- and the only reason he's not a dead poor fuck is 'cause Ray's got the safety on, still.
Fuck.
His gun hits the ground; he tries to pick it up, except somehow his back doesn't bend and his knees do, and then he's kneeling and throwing up all over the sidewalk. For a moment it feels like he's done, and then he catches a glint of the streetlight on the gun and it starts all over again.
Is that how he'd been planning to find the guy? Just look for the back of his jacket? And hope he doesn't shoot anybody who's actually important?
Ray's stomach churns again in warning; he picks the gun up without looking at it and jams it into his jacket, gets up, trying to tell his stomach Uh-uh, no go, nothing happening here. He starts walking home again; then suddenly he does a smooth about-face and heads back to the range.
The cops've given him a name to go along with the face -- Marcus Ellery -- which he'd thought was totally useless, at the time, since nobody Ray knows hangs with fat stinking murdering bank robbers. At least, nobody he knows now, nobody he wants to know -- but that's the catch, isn't it? That is the catch -- 'cause there's that one groupa guys, the ones even Sam doesn't talk to. They have motorcycles lined up in their parking spaces and smelly leather jackets on their backs; they're built, huge, exactly what Ray's never gonna be like even if he went to the gym instead of the range. So Sam doesn't talk to them; Ray can, Ray can because Ed told him that winning right'll buy you a drink and a friend for life.
Winning's not a problem, anymore -- and neither's winning right, 'cause Ray knows how now. He got lucky with Ed - you gotta rub your winnings in with him, let him know you've won and that you plan to keep winning. Turns out that's just up Ray's alley, and Ed did buy him a Coke, anyway.
But those other guys...Ray knows just how to win with them, even if he'll have to work for it. He's gotta -- roll over, show 'em his belly, make like the geek he knows he always was. He's gotta let 'em call him names, tell him what to do, maybe rough him up a little. Though he hopes it won't come to that, he'll deal if it does.
He is a man with a plan; he is gonna find Marcus Ellery and find him right, without counting on luck for any damn thing.
Part Two: Chicago, 1981.
"Yo, Stanley, thought you'd wanna come hang at the range tomorrow. You remember Marc? He's visiting. Thought we could have some...fun."
Ray's staring at the answering machine, pretty sure he's dreaming and almost freaking because he knows he's not, he knows that Marc is Marcus is Marcus Ellery is that goddamn! stinking! son of a bitch! and can this really be happening now? Already? After just --
-- and okay, maybe it's not just anything, now that he thinks about it. It's been two years -- not just two years, two whole years, and if he'd ever thought they were gonna be easy, he found out just how he was when he got his first "housewarming," if you wanna call it that. Or maybe it was the twenty-one shots -- well, eight, if you really counted, 'cause after that Ray'd just conked out, and he'd been lucky to only have to deal with that hangover. Or maybe...Ray's fingers brush his right shoulder compulsively, touching the almost twinge of the tattoo -- Champion, his scrawny ass. Har-de-ha-ha, he's not laughing.
Well, maybe it'd been all of them -- the point is, these've been the crappiest two years of his life.
And now they're done.
Ray presses the replay button on his answering machine.
"Yo, Stanley -- "
Stanley. He'd told them to call him Ray. And they hadn't. And now Ray couldn't care what they call him, so long as Marcus Ellery begs with it. Sobs it.
"You remember Marc?"
Ray's gonna make it happen. He's gonna make it work, 'cause he is a people person in the real way -- he can make people love him and hate him with a flick of his wrist, yeah, a snap of his magic fingers, a shot from his magic gun. He may be a geek and underweight and half-blind to boot -- but he has power, baby, the best kind ever.
"Thought we could have some...fun."
Oh yeah. Fun. He can do fun.
Suppressing the wicked grin that wants to spoil his plan, he pulls his safe out of the closet. Balled-up socks and t-shirts rain down on him -- someday, before Mom visits, he'll remember to pick those up. He unlocks the safe, opens it, runs his fingers over the cool heavy metal inside.
He wraps his hand around the phone cord, pulls the phone toward him, and takes a minute to get into character -- heart rate up, palms a little sweaty. eyes a little wet, throat tight enough for his voice to squeak -- just a little.
Then he dials.
"Who -- "
"Shit, Sam, I think someone -- somebody's lifted your gun -- I don't -- "
"Ray? You know what time -- ? Wait -- you what? Shit -- "
It's perfect.
The gun? Not his. Lost. Anybody could have this gun.
Glasses? They've been on since he borrowed Ellery's gun at the range, so the guys could show him off. Nobody told him to take them off, 'cause they make him look even more geeky, and that's the way they like him.
The gloves he's got on? It's October. It's cold enough for wusses like him to need gloves.
The alley? Marcus brought him here all by himself, the fucker. Goddamn overconfident bastard.
It's perfect. Totally flawless.
"You remember me?" Ray growls, liking the way it sounds, liking the way it's making Ellery look worried. "You remember me?"
"I -- no. What the hell -- "
"Two years ago," Ray tells him, trying to jog his memory -- he's gotta remember, or it's no fun. He's gotta remember, and he's gotta be sorry, 'cause that's the point. "You tried to rob a bank." Nothing. "You held a girl at gunpoint." Ray's been practicing saying this; he's been practicing telling it like the cops would. "You shot her; you killed her -- " and there, that's the ticket, that is what he wanted to see -- recognition for half a second -- "you knew you had, so you ran. You left the money, and you left your gun, and you left your fingerprints." Ray lifts the gun a fraction, so that it's perfectly in line with Ellery's head, and cocks it. "So, let's hear it. You remember, or do ya got some selective amnesia? 'Cause I know you were there."
Ellery doesn't say anything. "I can shoot. I'm a good shot," Ray reminds him quietly. "And if you don't say something right fucking now? I'm gonna shoot. Whaddaya think the chances are that your head'll be in one piece when I'm done?"
There's a brief silence; and then Ellery lifts his head and whispers, "I remember." Ray feels himself grinning, feels his skin pounding off his bones at how right this is -- Ellery on the wrong side of Ray's gun, crying -- yes, crying -- over Stella. "I'm sorry, okay? I freaked, I shot -- I didn't want to do it, I just thought -- "
"That she was gonna go to the police?"
"Yeah, yeah. She was gonna -- "
"Well, she would've, you know. You woulda gotten arrested."
"I didn't want to go to prison. You don't know what that's like -- "
Ray savors the desperation in Ellery's voice. "No," he agrees, "you're right, I don't."
"But it wasn't worth it, okay? She should be alive now. She was just a kid -- hell, you're just a kid. I know that, don't you think I know that?"
Ray closes his eyes. "Yeah," he says slowly, "I think you know that."
Ellery takes a quick breath. "God, thanks, kid," he whispers, sounding relieved --
-- and then Ray shoots him in the face.
There's a gurgling sound as Ellery tries to breath through what left of his head; there're a couple of wet-sounding splats when bits of it and blood hit the pavement -- and Ray drops the gun, turns, and opens his eyes just as he comes out of the alley onto the moonlit streets.
"Mr. Kowalski, do you want to explain why your gun was found at the scene of a murder yesterday afternoon?"
"Nothin' to explain -- I filed it as lost three days ago."
"Yeah? Well, that's funny, 'cause Forensics says this guy died two days ago. Pretty fine timing, isn't it? Bet you called it in as soon as you know the guy was in town -- "
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. This's Chicago, okay? You leave a gun lying around in a bad neighborhood, somebody's gonna get shot. You know, this probably wouldn'ta happened if you'd found the gun first. If you'd been doing your job -- "
"You're a hardass, you know that? You think this is my fault? You think you can get away with blaming me?"
"Funny. I was gonna ask you the same thing."
"God, you -- I'd be laughing if I wasn't getting so pissed. Look, word of advice, kid -- don't piss cops off, okay? Not when they're tryin' to throw you in the brig."
"You can't throw me in the brig."
"Why not?"
"'Cause you're gonna need evidence, and you're not gonna find it."
"Yeah? You think you're that smart?"
"No -- I didn't do it."
"Look -- I might not have evidence. But this guy's Marcus Ellery -- "
"What?"
"-- and we all know what he did to your girlfriend. Now, me, I'd say your within your rights to do it, but the law don't cover vigilante work."
"No. No -- look, I'm being framed. Can't you see I'm being framed? I wouldn't do that. I mean -- he shot my girlfriend."
"For Chrissake -- that's your defense? We know he shot her! That's exactly why you wanna kill the guy!"
"No! Not -- not like that. Not with a gun. I hate guns."
"Right. You hate guns. Which is why you carry one."
"I -- I was thinkin' of maybe bein' a cop. I'd have to carry a piece if I were a cop."
"What, you? A cop? Don't make me laugh."
"I know. It's stupid. But everybody's got a stupid dream or two -- you wanna make somethin' of it?"
"Nah, you just keep dreamin', kid. So, what -- you're saying you wouldn't shoot him if you could?"
"No. I wouldn't. 'Sides, it'd be too quick that way. I'd rather let him get fucked up the ass in jail."
"Jesus, kid -- you're fucking morbid."
"No. Just really pissed off."
"Riiight. So, out of curiosity -- you're walking home from your friendly neighborhood shooting range, and you just happen to run into this guy who shot your girlfriend. What do you do?"
"I beat him. With my bare hands. I strangle him to within a quarter-fucking-inch of his life." A pause. "So if you found him with his neck wrung off? Yeah, I did it."
The cop sighs, looking tired. Ray pastes on some indignance, some you'd-better-get-me-my-lawyer-right-fucking-now.
"Oh, for God's sake," the cop says, shoving Ray's bagged gun across the table. "Look, I've got better things to do, okay? Just -- between you and me? You've got balls. Good for you."
"Thanks," Ray says, taking the gun. "I didn't do it. I really didn't."
"Yeah, okay. Hey -- you think about that cop dream of yours, okay?"
"Uh...right."
Ray floats, sort of. Mainly, the point is that he can't see anything past his closed eyelids, and he's relaxed enough that the constant noise doesn't bother him. When he first comes in, he twitches at all the explosions that make their way through his earmuffs, 'cause he's normally all stressed out and uptight -- but now that he's been standing here breathing for a while, he soaks up all the sounds like his ears've got a set of good shocks on 'em.
Now he's ready to shoot.
His gun comes up smooth out of its holster; his arms lock into position automatically. As an afterthought, he opens his eyes and measures off the distance to the target again, for good measure. Probably he'd get his ass fried if the target was shooting back at him, because he's shooting so slow -- but today he's just trying to be as accurate as he can.
"You gonna shoot, or you gonna do that Zen thing all day?"
Ray jumps; the gun discharges with a bang, and he just narrowly avoids dropping it. "What the -- uh." Ray blinks and clears his throat, because there's a girl leaning her chin on his shoulder and smirking at him. Ray's not really sure whether she's flirting or teasing or just being a pain in the ass. "Uh. Hi." Ray leans back so that he can look at her without crossing his eyes, which gives him migraines when he's wearing his glasses.
"You missed." She takes her head off his shoulder and tosses her long, obviously bleached hair over her shoulder.
Ray lifts one of the pads on his earmuffs so that he can hear her. "Yeah, well, that wasn't a shot. That was just, uh -- "
"Right. That was just..." She rolls her hand around on her wrist. "...amateur fumbling. That's it." She beams at him.
Okaaay. Ray grins uncertainly. "Sorry, what did you say your name was?"
"I didn't." Pain in the ass, definitely.
"Uh. Right. Well, I'm Ray." He sticks his hand out for her to shake; after a moment's consideration, she does. "Just, you know, I kinda got a rep around here."
"Meaning...oh, I see. Meaning you're not an amateur."
"Right."
"And I shouldn't be messin' with you."
"That'd be nice, yeah."
"So, what," she says, leaning in again, "what're you gonna do if I do mess with you?"
"...what're you talkin' about?"
"I'm talking about Marcus Ellery."
Jesus.
Ray jerks his head back and squints at her. "Don't, uh, know what you're trying to say." He swallows and turns back to the target, shifting his weight.
"Bull," she says easily, leaning a hip against the wall.
Ray drops his aim, whirls around, and gets up in her face. "Who the hell are you, huh? Who -- "
"My name's Theresa. I'll kick you in the balls if you don't call me Tess."
Ray blinks. "Okay, so -- Tess, what the fuck -- "
"I know, Ray," she interrupts calmly, which just gets Ray more pissed. "I know everything. You can say you didn't do it, but -- "
"I didn't."
"Uh-huh. Sure. You can't fool me like that -- you're totally overeager. Bet you didn't even manage to fool the cops."
Goddamn -- "They don't care. Nobody cares about murderers -- "
"Then you got lucky. Sometimes they do." Tess's mouth twists. "Amateur."
Ray clenches his fists. "So what if I did? I got lucky, maybe, but I got out. I never went in. And you can't tell me he didn't deserve it, so -- "
"No," Tess agrees, "I can't. But if you piss me off, I'll turn you in anyway."
"Yeah? Go ahead. I told you -- they don't give a shit."
"They give a shit about anything that might get them sued. If I yell loud enough -- "
Ray flicks the safety on and slams the gun down. "What the fuck do you know about it? You're not a cop -- "
"I know," she says smoothly, and suddenly -- for no reason at all -- it's like she's poured a bucket of ice-water down the back of Ray's shirt. Goosebumps crawl over his arms. "What do you want?" he whispers.
Tess smiles at him happily, like she's glad Ray's dropped the tough act. "It's simple," she says. "I need a partner. Someone like you -- good shot, kind of noble and righteous but not too obvious about it -- "
"Woah, woah, woah," Ray says, holding his hands up, "whaddaya mean, 'partner'? I don't do sexual hijinks, okay? Just -- get that that through your head -- "
Tess laughs at him. Laughs. Ray feels his ears going red. "I'd meant something more like a business partner, but seeing how your mind works, I wouldn't mind -- "
"Business partner? You offering me a job?" Ray hopes she doesn't think he's an unemployed bum.
"Of a sort, yes."
"What kinda job?"
"People call it lots of different things, but personally, I think most of those names're misleading. Lemme give you an example." She leans against the wall, so that she looks about a foot shorter than Ray, which she really isn't. "There's this guy, okay? He's your regular friendly neighborhood pompous ass. Makes all sorts of donations to the PD -- 'cause he's all concerned with the safety of the city, see, and he's got so he's pretty much immune to investigation. So nobody checks up on what he's been up to in his spare time -- except me." Tess gives him an ironic little smile, and Ray tries to play stupid. He scratches one ear, looks at his feet, and waits for her to tell him what she's found out.
She doesn't.
"Okay, I'll bite. What's he do in his free time -- play golf with a baseball bat?"
"Oh, so close," Tess says, smiling at him so sweetly that he's absolutely certain she's about to kick him in the head. "He plays golf with a baseball bat and hooker's heads." The nervous grin that's been creeping across Ray's face falls off abruptly. She smirks at him -- what the fuck? That's nothing to smirk about -- while he stares at her, then adds, "Sometimes their tits, just for variety."
Ray's stomach churns. "That's not my problem," he hears himself say. "It's not my business."
"Oh? Whose business is it, then?"
"Uh -- the cops, I dunno -- "
Tess lunges toward him so fast that he actually flinches away from her, but not fast enough; a second later she's digging the nails of her right hand into his cheeks, hard. "You know," she says, looking down at him almost curiously, "Stella was a lucky girl."
Stella. Ray swallows hard. The details of Tess's face look a little blurry, even through his glasses; he blinks twice angrily, wishing that he hit girls on a regular basis, because -- no. No. He does not, and he won't, and -- and Stella's gone, and the whole point of killing Marcus Ellery was so he could stop crying in public every time he heard the name or saw the hair or smelled --
"Somebody gave a shit about her -- and I don't mean the cops. The cops can't afford to give a shit about anybody, right? You know that, Ray -- I know you know that, 'cause you -- "
"I didn't," Ray protests, but this time he sounds weak and hoarse -- he did do it, he did, and he's not fucking sorry, even though he should be. He killed somebody. Shouldn't he feel sorry?
"Right." Tess sounds almost gentle, almost friendly, even, which is just wrong. Everything about this is. "But I think you'll agree with me here -- that hooker didn't have you. And maybe she should."
Ray tries to pull free, but moving makes his skin feel like it's tearing, so he stays put. "Look, I'm not what you're looking for, okay?" he mumbles around the places where her fingers are pushing his cheeks between his teeth. "I deal with my shit, I dealt with my shit, and I don't wanna be a -- a gun for hire. I got enough of my -- "
Tess narrows her eyes at him. "You're a selfish bastard."
"No, I'm -- I don't got the authority, I'll get caught -- "
"That's why you need me. That's what 'partners' means -- you need a dictionary?" Tess lets go of his face and glares at him. "You tell me something -- you just saying no 'cause you don't give a shit? 'Cause you've never fucked any of those hookers?"
Ray feels his face burning, which he personally thinks is happening way too often during this conversation. "No, I just -- they should turn him in, if they want -- "
"Turn him in? Turn him in? God, Ray, you're stupider than you look. One, it won't work, and two -- " Tess fishes something out of her pants pocket and shoves it into his face, half an inch away from his nose: a photo. Ray crosses his eyes and tries to see -- and then immediately wishes he hadn't.
"Christ. Christ. She's -- "
"Dead, for one thing," Tess growls. "And if you think she's got buddies to stick up for her, well, you're a fucking ignorant idiot. She's got no one but us, Ray -- don't tell yourself any lies."
Ray swallows hard and chews his lip. "What're you gonna -- "
"You know already," Tess says, and Ray realizes he does -- that he's got a knot in his gut, because he's already guessed. "What you want to know is when and where, right? Except you're not gonna ask. So I'll just say, and save you the trouble. Wednesday at midnight, this address." She hands him an index card; he doesn't look at it right away. "You'll need to be quiet when you get there -- look for me somewhere with good altitude and plenty of cover. I'll be there."
"You don't know I'll show," Ray reminds her, wanting to get some of her swagger back on his side -- he's not gonna just sit here and quiver like his knees're made out of Jell-O. "I could tell the cops."
Tess pauses on her way out. "Yeah, sure," she says cheerfully. "'Course you could." She winks at him. "Just remember Stella when you do, okay?"
Damn her. Just damn her to hell.
"You're crazy," Ray mutters, letting Tess haul him up into the tree. "You're gonna get caught."
"Chill out, wouldya? You won't shoot well if you're jittering. Just do your Zen thing, okay?" She shifts a little next to him, then pushes a cigarette and lighter into his hand. "Have a smoke, take a breather -- we've got a little while to wait."
"I don't smoke," Ray tells her, trying to give it back, but she just snickers.
"Yeah, right. I've seen you sneaking 'em out in the back lot at the range." Ray jumps a little, and she gives him what she probably thinks is a friendly smile. "Hey, it's okay -- I won't tell your mother."
Ray scowls at her. "What, you been stalking me?"
"You were there, Ray. Pretty much all the time -- so yeah, I watched. You're pretty interesting for your age -- hell, you've got a homicide under your belt already. Bet most of the other kids don't got that."
Ray doesn't know whether to feel insulted or flattered, so he just cups his hand over the tip of his cigarette and lights it instead of saying anything. The smoke still make his lungs burn, a little, but that takes his mind off all the other things he really shouldn't be doing right now. "What were you doin' there, then?" he asks suddenly. "I'm a freak, and I know it -- what're you?"
"Oh, I'm supposed to be there. I own it."
Ray gapes. He figures she can't see him doing it in the dark, so there's no reason not to. "You -- "
"Mm-hm. I'll have to sell it eventually, when I leave town, but -- "
"You're leaving town?" Ray hopes the police aren't already on her tail. He's kinda out on a limb, here -- literally, even -- and he's counting on her to keep him outta jail.
The whole situation seems kinda risky, now that he thinks about it like that.
"People like us're always leaving town," Tess explains. "It's a precautionary measure -- mostly. Sometimes not." Ray starts to wonder what the hell he's gotten into. He can't leave Chicago. He's never lived anywhere else. His parents are in Chicago, everybody he knows is in Chicago -- his apartment, his almost brand new apartment, is in Chicago.
The range is in Chicago.
Tess twitches suddenly, leans forward so far that Ray worries she'll fall out of the tree. "There he is -- in the armchair, with the book -- you see him?"
Ray sees him; he puts his cigarette out quickly, so the guy won't see it and get suspicious. Right now he's relaxed and sleepy, just the way Ray wants him -- there's no good reason to fuck that up, 'cause that'll probably fuck the whole operation up, and then Tess'll probably shoot Ray, and that is a road he'd really like to stay off of.
He slides his hand into his jacket pocket, but Tess stops him, hissing "Goddamn idiot amateur -- " and putting another gun in his hand.
Right. Bullet tracing. Ray knows that. "Where's this from?" he whispers.
Tess snorts quietly. "I'll worry about that. That's my job here. You worry about shooting straight -- that's your job."
Ray raises his eyebrows a little -- okay, right, then. That works, if he trusts her -- which he's not sure if he does.
'Course, it's her ass on the line too -- so Ray starts aiming. His elbows lock up to hold the gun in line without wobbling it around, like it usually does when he's under pressure. He has to think hard to loosen his shoulder muscles up, but he's gotta get them loose anyway, 'cause if he doesn't the jolt'll throw his aim off -- so he sits quiet, and still, breathes in and out through his nose 'til they're nice and limber.
"You need a telephoto?" Tess whispers. She sounds worried -- maybe about him, maybe not. Probably not.
"No. Shut up. I'm -- " Something's off. Something's missing, and it's throwing him off, and he doesn't know what it is -- and then, suddenly, he does. "What's his name?" he asks, leaning toward the shadow of Tess's hair. He's gotta know a name, so that it'll feel personal -- he's gotta be able to think Fuck you, Ellery or Go to hell, Jack instead of Die, guy, which might rhyme but doesn't have the kind of ring he's looking for.
She doesn't answer right away. "I'm not gonna say," she says finally.
"C'mon, I need to know something -- "
"You know everything you need to know already. What d'you need his name for, anyway? That part of your Zen thing or -- "
"No, it's just -- I need to know who I'm shooting at."
"You don't," Tess says fervently, but quietly, like she'd be yelling if she wasn't afraid of being heard. "You really, really don't -- believe me, you'll thank me later."
"But -- "
"No."
Ray guesses that now is the time to tell her that he can't take it. He could say, "This ain't how I wanna do this," or "I don't shoot strangers in the head," or even "Fuck this," which'd at least be short and sweet. He hasn't signed a contract, or nothin'. He can leave whenever the hell he feels like it.
But Tess doesn't have her pain-in-the-ass face on, which is the one Ray's gotten to see the most of; instead, she's got an I-know-you-hate-me-but-it's-for-your-own-good face on -- which Ray is really familiar with, from all the times he wanted to ride a brand new mountain bike up the stairs when he was a kid. She thinks she's gotta take care of him -- and that's kinda messed up, isn't it? 'Cause Ray is a big kid now, if he's ever gonna be. He killed Marcus Ellery -- who was definitely a big kid, more, he was a full-fledged man -- all by himself, hadn't he?
But then he'd also just almost used his own gun. Yeah, he might've remembered, and it's just a little thing, but it's the kinda thing that'll get them caught. So maybe Tess knows something about killing people that he doesn't -- which might be a good thing normally, but not when he's trying to make like a sniper.
"Whatever," he concedes, and checks his aim for a last time before carefully squeezing a single shot off.
There's a silencer on his gun, which he only notices when he listens for the bang and hears the windowpane shatter instead. Makes sense, he guesses -- glass breaking doesn't necessarily mean dead people, but gunshots --
Blood.
There's blood on the other side of that window -- and Ray wouldn't actually be able to see the splatters on that wall normally, except by some staggering coincidence he's wearing his glasses --
-- 'cause he needs his glasses to shoot, and he's shot, and now that guy there is dead.
Ray knows what shade of red the guy's blood is -- not that's it's any different from his or even Stella's, God -- but he couldn't say what color the guy's hair is to save his life.
"Shit," he hears himself say, and his voice sounds cracked and wet and not like he's ever heard it before. "Shit."
"Ray -- "
"There's blood -- "
"Cool it, Ray," Tess hisses angrily, and dimly Ray feels her tugging the gun out of his hand.
He doesn't really care. " -- on the fucking wall -- "
"Shut up," Tess says, and pulls hard on his jacket. "Not here. Do not freak out on me here -- "
"Look at it -- "
"Don't -- "
" -- it's probably all over that book he was reading -- "
"Fuck the book -- what the hell are you -- "
" -- and that chair -- "
And then -- Ray's not exactly sure, 'cause he hadn't been looking -- but near as he can figure, Tess loses patience with him, grabs him by the hair, and chucks him out of the tree.
He lies there, trying to figure out where his feet are -- and then Tess is dragging him through the bushes, yanking on his arms and jacket until he gets his feet under him and starts stumbling, not sure where she's dragging him to but pretty sure he doesn't want to break his back getting there. And at the same time he's twisting his head back, trying to see what the house looks like so he can remember it; he feels like he owes it to the guy, or something. Like if he can remember the mos pattern on its north side, this guy maybe won't be a stranger anymore and everything'll somehow be fine.
Then he's in a car that smells like smoke and beer, and Tess is slamming his door closed, coming around the back and climbing behind the wheel.
Ray stares at her.
She glances at him, and then she fishes around in the back seat for something. She comes up with a bottle, and drops it into Ray's lap. "Here," she says. "Now, you freak out."
Ray rolls the window down and throws up onto the sidewalk.
Part Three: Toronto, 1983.
Tess finds Ray leaning up against the boxing ring, watching the fighters with a sort of detached curiosity. She has a funny feeling that he's going to do that a lot -- he might even demand that she spar with him, though he'll only make that mistake once. "Learn anything?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"What?"
"The guy in the red trunks is gonna win."
Tess looks up to confirm this, just as the guy in the red trunks takes several hits to the face and staggers back, looking woozy. "No way."
Ray shrugs; he doesn't want to argue about it, she thinks . "Sure. So -- we taking this place?"
"Yeah." Tess flips through the forms she's got to fill out sometime in the near future -- insurance, mostly, of a hundred and one kinds. "It should be pretty quiet around here for a while, and the gym makes a nice contrast to the range." She eyes Ray critically. "And you could use one. What d'you weigh, one-twenty?"
"125 and a half, and thanks. Why don't you let my mom know you guessed low -- better yet, don't."
Tess snorts. She bets Ray's mom'll send him food, even over the border -- not that Tess can blame her, 'cause Ray's got all the build of a twig. He can hit hard, when he's pissed off, but so much as tap him and he bruises like a peach. "What did you tell your mom?"
Ray shrugs again. "Told her I was movin' up here for a business opportunity. I think she guesses something's up, but...she's not gonna do anything about it. She probably figures it can't be too bad." He sighs and looks around. "This won't be Chicago, you know."
"No," Tess agrees. "No place is like anyplace else. Isn't it exciting?" That's what everyone else says, anyway -- she herself won't use that word, unless she's trying to make Ray laugh. She'll use "interesting," maybe, if she's in a good mood.
"Uh-huh. Sure." Ray turns around and leans his back on the ring. "So, what -- are we retirees, now?"
"No, we're just -- we're taking a vacation."
"In Canada."
"Naturally."
"I'da preferred Miami, but whatever. What about my cut? I gotta pay rent, and stuff -- "
"I've got plenty in savings -- don't worry about it."
Ray's forehead does that -- thing, the one that means she's gotten him upset again, and it looks like he's biting the inside of his cheek. Tess winces, and tries to figure out what she's said wrong this time -- it's always something, these days. He's like a teenager -- hollow-bone syndrome and temper tantrums -- and she tries not to think about how really? He's not all that far from actually being one.
"Right," Ray says tightly. "I'll -- go take a piss."
Tess huffs an exasperated sigh through her nose -- if Ray's getting that worked up about taking a piss, he's gotta have serious blood pressure problems. In fact, he's gotta be dead already.
Somebody hits the mat behind her, and she looks around to see who's down -- and the guy in the red trunks is wobbling, bleeding from his left nostril, and still standing.
Part Four: Toronto, 1994.
"I don't like it," Ray tells Tess, absolutely dead serious even though he's got no solid evidence that anything's hinky. "Really. I don't think we should go here."
"What don't you like?" Tess asks, sounding tired and testy and not willing to swallow any bull about how Ray thinks most effectively with his gut -- which he does; he can't help that.
"I just don't. I mean -- " Ray tries to think about specifics, 'cause he's pretty sure Tess won't listen to anything else. "It could be a trap!" he points out triumphantly. "They could have him working undercover as a -- "
"Oh, yes," Tess snaps, "that's just a brilliant undercover right there. He shows up in dress reds -- "
Details, details. "So maybe not undercover -- but he could still be investigating!"
"Which is why we don't let anything on, as usual. Jesus, Ray -- you've gotten soft, that's -- "
"He's a Mountie," Ray protests, holding out his hands. "Mounties do not hire assassins. It's part of their fucking code."
"Shows how much you know. It's a psychology thing -- if you were nice all the time, you'd eventually get pissed off enough to order a hit on me."
"I might do it anyway," Ray grumbles.
Tess opens her eyes wide and smiles at him happily. "Oh, Ray -- I didn't know you cared."
Ray ignores that, because he knows from experience that it's the best way to get her to shut up. "But I'm not a Mountie, and you're not a Mountie -- "
"There is an absolute absence of Mounties in this operation," Tess agrees solemnly.
" -- and if you were a Mountie, you probably wouldn't do half the things that make me want to kill you anyway."
"Wait," Tess says, "who's saying that he's out to get another Mountie?"
Ray slaps himself in the head. "You telling me he's whacking civilians?"
"...you have a point," Tess admits finally. "So what're you gonna do about it?"
Ray rubs the top of his head, stumped. They could run out the back door, but if they're the subject of an investigation, that's probably not the smartest thing to do. "I'll go talk to him, I guess. Play it cool -- you'll watch my back, won't you?" He's suddenly nervous, more than he was that first and only time in a police station, because that had been expected and this -- this totally hadn't been.
Tess smiles at him reassuringly. "Don't worry about it. I'll cover your ass, just like I always do."
"Okay," Ray clears his throat and wipes his palms on his pants. "Here I go, then. Nice knowing you -- " Tess shoves him into his office, and he just barely manages not to stumble.
The Mountie -- Gerard, Tess'd said his name was -- looks kinda like Ray's grandfather, the one who always said his hairs were lazy and would always settle down around his eyebrows, when their supreme duty in this life was to get to the top of his head. It makes Ray feel better -- 'cause really, this cheerful old sagging Mountie can't really want to kill anybody, can he?
"Hey," Ray says, grinning at Gerard and trying to say Hi! I'm your friendly neighborhood gym-owner with his skinny arms -- which is just a losing battle, right there. Then again, his scrawny ass doesn't exactly scream friendly-neighborhood-assassin-for-hire, so maybe he's good.
"Good afternoon," Gerard says, polite as you please.
"Have a seat," Ray says. His mother did teach him some stuff. Maybe. A little.
"Thank you," Gerard replies, and then starts looking flustered instead of cheerful, which makes Ray even more jittery.
"Ah. Well. This is really rather unpleasant, isn't it."
Ray hears himself laugh nervously, and clamps his lips down on it. "Uh. Didn't think I smelled that bad. I mean, I showered this morning..." God. Somebody, please, make him shut up.
Gerard, thank god, doesn't seem to have heard that. "Well, I have a -- a target for you, I suppose."
Ray tries to look all understanding, even though his heart's pounding to target instead of lub-dub. "Yeah, we can help you achieve your target weight," he hears himself say -- and geez, where the fuck had that come from?
Now Gerard's looking seriously worried. "I suppose it'd be best if I just came out and said it, right? All right, then." He leans in and talks to his hands, which are folded in his lap. "I'd like -- well, no. I wouldn't like. But I need you to -- to kill Sergeant Robert Fraser." There's a silence, in which Ray tries to convince himself that yes, he's just heard the word "kill" -- not target, not unpleasant, not favor -- kill. "He's a corrupt official, I'm afraid."
Ray blinks. Then he gets up and drags Tess in, because she's the one who knows how to handle this part -- he doesn't even know why he'd wanted to come in here in the first place.
Part Five: The Territories, 1994.
"I still don't like it," Ray grumbles, slamming the Jeep's door shut and shivering.
"You're just grumpy 'cause your nose is cold," Tess says, sounding disturbingly like somebody's mother. "Come on -- you'll feel warmer if you keep moving."
"That's not it," Ray protests. "It's just weird. Mounties don't kill corrupt Mounties -- they turn them in. So don't you think it's weird that this guy wants to kill this other guy?" He could be using names now, Ray thinks -- he's got names, he could be using them, but he doesn't want to.
"Okay, it's weird -- your hair's weird too, you know." Tess gets a boot stuck in the snow. "I'm not sure I like it, but I don't not like it." She pulls the boot free and grins at him.
Ray sputters. "What the hell is that supposed to -- my hair's not asking me to kill anything!" He shuffles through a coupla feet of snow, adjusts the rifle across his back -- he'd told Tess the design was gonna fuck his spine up. "You're a bitch," he mutters under his breath, and then suddenly he's got himself a faceful of snow.
"I know," Tess says as Ray starts hacking snow out of his throat, "I try." Ray tries to swear at her some more between hacks, but swearing on no air's never been a talent of his.
When he finally gets all the bits of ice out of his eyelashes -- what? He's never seen anything more co pathetic than his eyelashes and snow -- he finds that Tess's stopped, and is holding a pair of binoculars up to her face. "What -- you found him?"
"Yeah, I think so -- get your gun out."
Ray's breath puffs out in front of him annoyingly. It's difficult enough to undo the buckles with mittens on, without not being able to see the stupid buckles. Eventually he works it loose, kneels down next to Tess, and points the gun in vaguely the same direction as she's looking. "Yeah, okay -- I see him."
"You wanna do it?"
Ray sighs, and lowers the rifle. "I'm tellin' you, somethin's queer. I mean -- they're Mounties."
"Yes, Ray. I know they're Mounties. I can see that."
"We never whack Mounties."
"Well, there's a first time for everything. Look, just shoot already, will ya? I can't feel my toes."
"That's cause your boots aren't feet-shaped," Ray explains quietly, and raises the gun to his eye again. "They're spade-shaped."
Tess kicks him in the side, not gently, with the toe of her boot; Ray yelps, and drops the gun. "Just because your feet're ape-shaped doesn't mean everyone's are," she snaps.
"Yeah, whatever. I've seen your feet -- they're bigger'n mine. Hey -- !" Ray squirms away from Tess's boots. "You want me to shoot, or what?"
"Shoot," Tess mutters sulkily. "And then we'll start the Jeep up, and as soon as my toes come back to life I'm gonna kick to within an inch of your life."
"Lookin' forward to it," Ray murmurs smokily, and grins when she huffs at him irritably. Hey, if she can flirt with him and the pilot that flew them here at the same time, he should be able to flirt with her in the middle of nowhere. And he doesn't care what she says -- that much flirting cannot have been just for the cover-up. At least half of it had to have been just to piss him off.
Ray aims at the back of good ol' Bob Fraser's giant fur hat through the telephoto --
-- and jumps when Bob looks back.
"Uh, Tess?"
"What now?"
"He's looking at me."
Tess blows an exasperated breath out her nose. "Yeah, so?"
"I think he's heard us -- "
"So what? He can't see us -- what's he gonna do?"
"I dunno. Something. I mean -- he don't look afraid -- "
Tess sighs. "Just shoot."
"Easy for you to say -- look, he's talking now. He's talking to me -- "
"Easy for me to do," Tess corrects, and snatches the rifle out of Ray's hands. Before Ray can stop her, she's fired -- and Ray can see, even without the lens, Sergeant Fraser's speck of a body sliding down the vast white slope. There's maybe a trail of blood going after him -- Ray feels a slight twinge of nausea, and that's all.
"C'mon," Tess says, we should get back to the Jeep. And -- you got Gerard's number? We should let him know we're done."
"Yeah," Ray says shakily, noticing his adrenaline rush only now that it's started to fade. "Yeah, I put it on one of our cards, somewhere..." He rummages in his pockets, but finds them empty. "I dunno, I thought I -- "
Tess shrugs. "You probably left it on your desk."
"Yeah probably. Look, let's just -- go home, okay? I'm -- "
" -- exhausted and frozen, I know. Let's go."
Part Six: Toronto, 1994.
"Good afternoon. My name is Constable Benton Fraser -- "
He probably means to say something more, but Ray cuts him off by dropping his fresh cup of coffee on the Mountie's boots as soon as he hears "Fraser."
"Shit. Shit. I, uh -- napkins, here -- " Ray pulls the extras out of his pocket and stuffs them into Benton's hand. "Sorry, I just -- "
"It's quite all right," Benton says, kneeling down and patting his boots dry, "this design guards against heat as effectively as it guards against cold." He dabs for a bit, then looks at something really interesting somewhere near Ray's right boot.
"Uh," Ray says nervously, "that's good. Fraser, did you say?"
"Ah -- yes," Benton confirms, nodding briefly and rising to his feet, "yes. Fraser. Does that disturb you?"
"Uh," Ray says again, stupidly, fidgeting under Benton's mildly polite gaze. He feels weirdly like he's been caught snitching cookies. "You wouldn't be on the trail of the killers of your dead father, would you?"
"Yes, in fact," Benton answers shortly, his eyebrows going up a bit, "I am. How did you -- "
"Read about it. In the, uh, paper. People around here were talking -- " Overeager, totally, totally overeager. Dammit.
"Is that so? I'm afraid I'll need to know precisely who was talking." Benton gives him a curious look, which happens to be the most terrifying expression Ray has seen in -- like, forever. "Theresa, perhaps?"
"Ther -- " Ray blinks, and wonders how to explain nicknames to a guy who's obviously never been called Ben. "Tess. You mean Tess. She'll kick you in the -- " He chokes over the word, and starts again. "I mean, she'll kick you in the -- she'll kick you. If you don't call her Tess," Ray finishes lamely, and reminds himself to kick himself in the head later.
"I see." Benton's eyes wander down to the floor again.
"And not her," Ray adds hurriedly. "I dunno who they were. Just, um, somebody. "Look, I'm gonna bet you've got questions -- why don't we go out to the coffeehouse -- "
"I don't generally drink coffee," Benton says. He's not looking at Ray's face at all now -- geez, what is it? Ray looks down, but doesn't see anything -- and then Benton abruptly gets down on his hands and knees. Ray steps back, confused, opening his mouth to say something, but Benton just says "A moment, if you would," and crawls closer to...sniff?
"Okay, look, I do not like getting my feet sniffed. They are just not the best kinda thing to smell, you know what I'm saying?"
"Mm," Benton says, gets up, and puts his head out of the door into the flurries. "Diefenbaker! Dief -- Dief -- come. Come."
Ray wonders who the hell this guy's talking to -- his partner? A sheriff? Somebody with a really big gun? -- but a second later, he's getting his feet slavered on by a dog that looks way too close to a wolf for Ray's liking. "Hey -- hey! He's eating my shoes! He's -- "
"Stop, Diefenbaker, that's quite enough," Benton says, and puts a hand on the dog's nose. Ray looks at him worriedly, half-afraid that the dog's some sort of intimidation tactic that's gonna make him blurt out a confession without even realizing it. Only it looks like they're still not done; Benton's on his knees next to the dog now, and he's talking to it, saying something about coffee beans and sucrose syrup. Jesus -- and Ray'd thought he was the most impolite guy he knew.
"What -- " Ray starts, but nobody's listening to him; the dog's tail thumps the floor twice, Benton says "Hm," and nobody fills Ray in on anything.
Tess rounds the corner in front of them, looking sweaty and flushed -- she's probably been giving Max hell in the boxing ring again. Ray waves his hands at her frantically, mouthing For God's sake do something!
"Hmm," Benton says again, and the dog whines. "Very interesting. You don't mind, do you?"
"Oh, no, not at all," Ray replies, distracted.
Tess smirks at him and mouths something. Ray squints. Didn't...know...you...swung...that --
Ray slashes his hand down to make her stop. Jesus, that woman's sick. Dogs? Dogs? Just -- somebody needs to explain to her that not everything's allowed to be a kink. Shut the fuck up and --
Tess rolls her eyes. Then she starts unbuttoning her shirt -- two off the top, two off the bottom -- so that Ray's surprised anything can stay in. He frowns at her -- unless the plan is to embarrass the poor guy to death, he doesn't know what she's gonna do.
"Well," Benton says, and stands up, "you're an American, I expect." The dog starts barking madly -- either he don't agree, or he thinks that it don't matter.
"So'm I," Tess murmurs, in her very best smoky voice, which -- well. Looks like Operation Embarrass To Death is gonna work real well, seeing as Benton's head already looks beet red and ready to explode.
"Ah," he says. "I..."
"I'm Theresa Perkins," Tess says smoothly, tilting her head up to show Benton her throat -- and Ray, he's pretty much immune to that shit, has to be, but it looks like it actually still works on all the other guys. "And you are...?"
"Fraser. Ah. Constable Benton Fraser." Benton clears his throat uncomfortably.
Tess's face twitches, but she doesn't drop anything hot on Benton's feet -- go, Tess. Way to not panic. "Why, Benton -- "
"Fraser. I -- most people call me Fraser. Or Constable." Geez, never mind Ben -- even Benton's not formal enough for this guy.
"Fraser, then -- I'm so terribly sorry about your father. We all are. You must -- " Ray looks away, feeling suddenly sick -- Tess is just plastering herself to the poor guy's chest, and he's backing up to the wall as close as he can without actually being up against it, which is a whole 'nother bad place to be -- and while a minute ago Fraser'd been kinda funny in a Spock-ish kind of way, now it's just -- just -- sick. Still, he knows why she's doing it -- they've got to get Constable Fraser out before he figures them out.
"...was wondering if perhaps you're familiar with this phone number," Fraser's saying, holding up a little slip of paper. Ray squints at it, and --
-- shit! That's their business card! And on the back -- in Ray's own handwriting -- is Gerard's number. Ray musta dropped it when -- but how could anybody've found -- fuck. Suddenly this whole thing feels more like danger than a bad sitcom, because this is a Mountie, here, and while Ray knows from experience that not every Mountie gets his man, this one really might. This one is not gonna be real understanding, 'cause this corrupt offical was his dad. And even if Fraser didn't have any relations with the Sergeant, Ray's pretty sure he wouldn't be understanding anyway -- he's a tea-drinker, a law-enforcer, a Justice-seeker with a capital J. He's got the kind of jawline that you can only get from setting it and being stubborn all the time -- Ray knows, 'cause he's got one too, but that's not the point. The point is that if they don't get this guy off their tail? They are toast. Burnt toast. And he's getting real worried that they won't be able to shake him off.
"No," Tess says, pursing her lips into a pout, "I don't know the number."
"Maybe one of your old boyfriends," Ray suggests helpfully, chanting keep it cool, keep it cool, don't freak out here to himself. "There's a lot of those," he confides to Fraser, trying to be all manly and friendly with him. "Drives me nuts."
Fraser gives him a horrified look -- pfffpt, there goes trying to be friendly. "Ah," he says, going slowly and painfully red, "I see."
"We could call it," Tess says brightly. "I've got a phone in my office. We could -- "
"Ah -- no. No, that's quite -- we've already attempted to trace it. It's a disconnected line, I'm afraid."
"Oh. Well, then, Constable Fraser -- is that all?" Ray hopes that's all. They have to -- make a plan, something like that. Get out of Toronto -- get out of Canada, even, that'd be good -- and they can't make no plans while Fraser's here watching 'em.
"Well, I -- er." Constable Fraser coughs. A second later, Ray realizes why -- Tess's slipped a finger behind his belt. Christ, that girl's got nerve. "If you don't mind, I'd like to -- ah -- keep the card, if I may."
"Oh, do," Tess croons, "And feel totally free to call me. Whenever you like. For whatever you want. At night -- I'll be here, Constable."
Fraser backs toward the door fast, obviously trying to keep Tess's hands out of his uniform -- and then he looks straight at Ray. "I'll be contacting you, I'm sure," he says, and there's not even a little bit of innuendo that Ray can comfort himself with there. His knees wobble, and Fraser coaxes Dief out the door and shuts it.
Tess turns around and buttons her shirt back up. She looks tired, now, not even a little slutty -- tired and scared, like she's not quite sure what the fuck to do now. If Ray didn't know her better, he'd try to give her a hug, except he's sure all that'll get him is a broken nose. "That was disgusting," he says shakily, 'cause it's the first thing he can think of that isn't terrifying or reassuring.
"Yeah, well, he was hot." Tess stares at nothing for a little bit, then walks into her office real fast -- like she's got some kind of master plan, which Ray knows for a fact she doesn't.
"You're disgusting to me, too," Ray says, just to say something -- but then he's confused himself some, trying to figure out whether he's talking about flirting or what.
"Sure, you're hot too," Tess says, but she's not teasing him -- and she should, she totally should, because she's a bitch and a pain in the ass and Ray left himself wide open for it -- maybe on purpose -- and it'd be normal, and make him feel better, dammit.
Tess picks the phone up and Ray asks "Who're you calling?" ignoring the thing in his lungs that moves like a piece of paper when he breathes.
"Air Canada."
"Where're we going?"
"Where d'you wanna go?"
Ray tries to think of someplace, anyplace, that's not Toronto. He comes up dry for a coupla seconds -- and then he's got it. "Chicago?"
Tess pinches the bridge of her nose, hard -- Ray hopes she doesn't give herself a nosebleed. "Chicago. Okay, Chicago -- we'll go to Chicago, it's unexpected, it's -- " She breaks off and gnaws her lip. "This -- this wasn't supposed to happen. This was not in the plan -- "
Ray knows exactly what she means. She's not real good at running -- neither of them are. They supposed to not get found -- all that shit about an ounce of prevention and a pound of cure or whatever the fuck it was. They never have gotten found before -- came damn close, but never this close. Never so close that they actually saw any suits. "'M sorry," he says quietly. "It's my fault -- I dropped that stupid card -- "
Tess puts down the phone very carefully -- and then the next thing Ray knows, he's on the floor, the left side of his face tingling and blood from his nose filling his mouth and the inside of his cheek sweet-sour and shredded. Tess throws a hell of a punch when she wants to, he thinks, and coughs some blood out of his throat.
He pretends not to notice how Tess is scratching her nose with her thumb, and wiping her face dry with her palm.
Part Seven: Chicago, 1994.
Tess peers through the window shades of their shabby apartment nervously. "It's police, Ray -- "
Ray lifts his head, but keeps his cool. He is cool, he is cooler than cool, he is cooler than the Beaufort Sea in the winter -- okay, maybe he's a little edgy too. And there's nothing wrong with that, what with their being basically sitting ducks. "Maybe they're not looking for us." He doesn't really believe it. Not really.
"Maybe," Tess echoes threadily, and then...yelps, or something near it, and backs away from the window fast. "They're Mounties," she mutters. "Two Mounties and a cop, I think. I -- "
Now Ray has completely, totally lost his cool -- he is panicking, yes he is, no ands or buts about it now. "Fuck. What do we -- "
"I don't know, I don't -- " Tess runs a hand through her hair; her roots are showing, and for half a second all Ray can think about is how he never knew Tess's hair was black before. "Jump out the window," she says suddenly.
"What're you, crazy?"
"It's only a couple of feet. I tried when we got the place -- "
"I know it's only a coupla feet, I tried too -- but they know we're here now, don't they? They've probably seen the light in the window -- " Actually, they maybe haven't, but it's safer to assume they've got superpowers than it is to assume they don't.
"That's why I stay here, and you go."
That's not right. Tess is a pain in the ass, sure; but she's also saved his ass, every time they went after a target. She's -- well, she's not his friend, exactly, but she's his partner. He's ob -- obligated to make sure she doesn't get put behind bars, or even killed, 'cause she'd do it for him. "No. Nuh-uh. I'm not gonna -- "
There're polite voices down the hallway -- too polite to be any of the neighbors. "Oh, for Christ's sake -- go, get the car, I'll jump out in a minute. I'll distract them, and then I'll -- "
There's a knock at the door -- Tess gives him a shove, and slides her hand into her jacket. Ray knows what she's reaching for without even having to look -- he knows from the way her feet're spread. "No. No," he whispers harshly. "You can't kill him just 'cause -- "
"Ray -- "
"You can't! Look, maybe his dad was a dirty Mountie, but he's not -- he's just doing his job. He's one of the good guys -- "
"Do you have a better idea?"
Ray thinks. Somebody knocks on the door again, this time more insistently. "No," he whispers back. "But -- "
"Then we're just gonna have to can the noble shit today."
"But -- "
"Do you got my back or don't you?"
Dammit. Just -- dammit. Ray grits his teeth. "I've got your back," he growls, looking away.
"Great. Fabulous. Terrific. Go."
Ray goes. He practically cracks his stupid head open on the top of the window, and almost breaks his back on the landing, but he gets down okay in the end, which is the main things. He hears voices in the apartment: somebody who's probably not a Mountie sneering, "I see you've decided to come back to Chicago, Theresa," Tess replying, "It's home," -- and Ray's up, he's running, he's getting into the car, he's in.
Then -- nothing. Ray listens to his own breath, rasping too loud in his ears --
-- and then there's one shot -- two -- three, shit -- and he jams the key in and twists it, maybe harder than he needs to, but the engine starts, the engine starts, and that is all he needs right now.
He stares through the sorta blurry darkness to the sort of blurry window and waits for something more to happen. It's not that he's hoping Tess'll come out of that window -- she's just gonna, see. There's no question about it, 'cause if he starts asking questions he's gonna fucking lose it, and he can't lose it, because if -- when -- Tess comes through that window, he's gonna need to drive fast and not hit anything, which --
Tess is out. He can sorta see a blurry dim patch of yellow coming toward him -- and then he figures out that everything must be blurry 'cause his glasses're off. Shit. Are they -- did he leave them in the -- ?
"Move, move, move," Tess gasps, opening the driver's side door and climbing in, around Ray's legs. Ray tries to cooperate by climbing into the backseat -- out of the corner of his eye, he sees two blobs of red and one shadow moving toward toward them, running toward them, and they've got to get a move on --
Tess slams the accelerator down, and Ray pitches headfirst into the backseat. Something in his jacket crunches, and when he pushes himself up, bits of glass hit the seat -- it takes him a minute to figure out what they are, and when he does his heartrate jacks up another couple hundred pulses per second. Shit -- how's he gonna shoot now? That's the plan, even if he don't like it, and if he doesn't go through with the plan, they're both dead.
"Tess -- "
"Shut up, Ray," Tess shouts, and misses hitting one of the Mounties by an inch.
"What're you -- "
"I said shut up!"
"Okay, okay, fine, shutting up, but -- Christ, look out!" Tess swerves, and the tires screech so loud that Ray actually feels almost bad for them. He's never seen her drive this bad -- sure, she ain't got style, but she's never actually gotten anywhere near crashing into anything before --
There's a thump in the back, and then another on the roof. Ray looks back, and sees a pair of legs dangling down over the glass. "Uh, Tess," Ray says uncertainly, "I think somebody's up top -- "
Ray instantly wishes he hadn't said anything, because Tess seems to hear that as "Shake, shake, shake that bastard off," and this parking lot ain't what he'd call roomy --
-- and whoever's up top's decided to jam a knife through the ceiling. "Fuck!" Ray yells. "Tess, he's got a -- "
"Shut the fuck up!" Tess shrieks frantically, and swerves again. Ray shuts up and keeps his head down, keeps his eye on the knife --
-- and up it goes, out it goes, and then in again, farther up -- shit, he's gonna stab Tess in the head --
"Tess, he's got a knife -- "
And Tess looks up -- she looks up and breathes in quick and all she can do is swerve, keep swerving, try to keep turning --
-- and then the knife explodes through the windshield, and even though Tess'll never let go of the gas, they've stopped, which means they must've hit something --
The door opens, and Tess is gone. She screams, "Goddammit Ray -- " and then somebody's yanked her out, she's gone, they've got her, and Ray --
Ray's done.
He's done with yelling, and done with running, and he absolutely could not move to save his life, which might actually be the situation here, but who gives a shit? This is it. There's someplace where you just gotta -- stop. Where you just gotta lie there, and be the idiot and the geek and figure out that you're not Daredevil, no matter how many suits you buy for Halloween.
Whoever's got Tess -- sounds like that Fraser guy -- has got her slammed up against the car door. Ray can see her outline through the tinted glass, writhing and thrashing and trying to bite, and really, she should stop. It's over. It's just over. She should at least not add "resisted arrest" to the charges against her. "I am making," Fraser says, sounding violently triumphant, "a citizen's arrest." Well, good for him, Ray thinks vaguely. Aren't you a good little Mountie?
Somebody says something that Ray can't hear; Fraser says, "No, I've got it," -- and then there's a shot.
Just the one, like a good sniper'd do -- "
-- and the outline of Tess's body sags down, leaving streaks. Ray chokes a little, but he still can't move. Can't move, just like he couldn't move in that bank fifteen years ago. Those kinda things don't change.
Instantly there's a scuffle: voices saying "What the fuck did you do that for?" and "She was reaching for her gun," and "What gun? There was no gun," and "Why do you even care? She killed your father, Ben -- "
Yeah.
That's -- that's fucked up, that's flipped, but --
Yeah.
Ray's wrong. Tess's wrong; he'd never noticed before, because he'd been thinking partners and noble and do you got my back or don't you? instead of -- instead of doing what he wants. And now there's nothing stopping him.
Fuck that.
When Ray opens the door, a lot of people say a lot of things until he puts his hands up. Fraser steps around Tess to pat Ray down quickly. "You can shoot me," Ray tells his hat quietly. "I'd get that. I mean, I didn't do it, but I coulda. I was gonna. I aimed. And I -- I shot a whole buncha other people, and -- " Fraser's looking totally shocked, but that's okay -- Ray's gotta say this. "I thought I was helping out, you know? And I screwed it up, and -- and the law don't cover this. So -- "
"Shit," says somebody a little ways away -- the shadow, the cop, the sneer, "you're Stanley Kowalski."
Ray looks over to say that yeah, he is, and how the hell had he got famous? and instead he sees -- "Oh God -- Gerard?"
Gerard looks guilty. He looks like somebody Ray should be shooting, not somebody paying him to shoot -- why hadn't he noticed that before? "Do you know him?" Fraser asks softly, like somebody who's trying not to spook a horse.
Ray looks down at Tess. Her hair's all spread out on the pavement, and her eyes are wide open and dull. She'd tell him to keep his mouth shut, if she could, 'cause this is their client, and they're all in this together -- but she ca't say anything, 'cause she's dead. And anyway, he's got no reason to protect this bastard -- putting hits on guys and then playing the good guy. Life don't work that way, buddy. "He hired me," Ray says, and it feels good, real good, better'n anything he's done in a long time. "He hired us," he says again, louder -- and Gerard tries to bolt.
Somebody grabs him -- the Chicago cop, with a big Italian nose and a good punching arm, the kind Ray'd be glad to be on the right side of -- and knocks him down. "Cuff 'em, Fraser -- cuff 'em both and take 'em back to the station. This one's gonna be weird."
Ray hears the rattle of cuffs behind him, so he sticks his wrists out -- he's gonna cooperate with these guys if it kills him, which it really might. Not that it matters any. "I'm sorry," Fraser says, sounding confused. "I -- "
"What're you apologizing for?" Ray says, looking at the ground, 'cause he doesn't think he can stand to look this guy in the eye. "Me, I'm sorry. I am really fucking sorry, okay? I mean it. You can shoot me. I won't -- " Ray stops, because that doesn't make any sense -- but then he says it anyway, because it feels right. "I won't tell."
Then the cuffs click shut -- and Ray is suddenly relieved, he is just relieved -- not worried or scared or anything, just relieved, and kinda giddy.
Fraser holds the door open for him; Ray starts giggling, and doesn't stop for the next three hours.
Epilogue: Through a wormhole and far away...
"You think I got moral issues, Fraser?"
Ben blinks. Ray's cuffed hands are lying disconsolately in his lap, twitching irritably; Ray is not looking at him, and Ben suspects he's doing it deliberately. "Do I think you -- "
"Have moral issues, yeah. Like, you think I'm gonna try and escape from my holding cell?"
"I -- " Ray's looking up now, belligerent and disgruntled and, perhaps, slightly hurt. He smells like musk-ox ointment, blood, sweat -- frightened sweat, Ben realizes. Ray is evidently afraid that Ben is going to turn him in to the police, when they come -- and admittedly, Ben has done little to correct that presumption. The handcuffs were a bit much, perhaps. "No, Ray," he says, "I don't believe you have moral issues."
Ray looks slightly appeased, but no less frustrated. "So then what's the big idea?" he demands, holding his hands up.
"Largely ceremony, I'm afraid."
Ray snorts. "Well then, would you ceremoniously remove them, please."
"Oh, certainly," Ben agrees readily, and fumbles in his desk drawer briefly for the key. "But you do realize you're still under arrest?"
"Yeah, I got that memo," Ray says, seemingly supremely unconcerned about that part. "Just get these off, okay?"
Well, that's curious. "You dislike handcuffs that strongly?"
"No, I just dislike wearing them -- c'mon, Fraser, I don't got all day -- "
"Ah. I'll keep that in mind." Ben unlocks the cuffs and lifts them away from Ray's wrists. Ray rubs at them, obviously glad to have them off -- Ben expects that even handcuffs must significantly impair Ray's natural nervous movement.
"Hey," Ray says suddenly, narrowing his eyes at Ben, "what're you keepin' it in mind for?"
--fin
End Vigilante by Giulietta
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