Heaven and Hell

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Author's Notes:

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Heaven and Hell
by Dilanne Tomas

Author notes: THANKS: To Marilea for the beta read. Remaining mistakes are mine. I changed the little things so many, many times. This is a hard one to let go of. NOTES: This is somewhat darker than my other fic, be warned. It scared me to write, so I wrote it. I tried to keep it feeling real and in the moment, but not too graphic. People die, some you know, some you don't, but this is not a deathfic. Also, I have seen episodes of Profiler since I wrote this and found they had used the name "Jack" for their long-running serial killer/stalker. I made the choice to keep mine anyway.

"Any place shall be hell
that is not heaven."
-- Christopher Marlowe,
Dr. Faustus
"No!" He snapped awake, sweat-drenched even though the chilling wind howled outside, and in his refrigerator box. "No. Not this. Not now." It must be the jacket. It was the only thing he'd come into contact with today and he was wearing it. There was no escaping its touch. He wanted to tear it off, even though that might ensure his quick departure from Earth in this cold. The thought was far more tempting than it should be. But he couldn't give in. Not yet. He had things to do. He had two people to find.

He'd do his best to help this time. He wouldn't run away. He owed them that.

He scrambled, shivering, from the box. He'd have to find a shelter for the night. The temperature had dropped too low to stay outside any longer. In the morning he still had things to do, but the afternoon would be soon enough. He would go to them then. He knew where to find them. That would be the easy part.

The 27th precinct had its usual quota of cops, criminals and nut cases. *Now if only all the nut cases were on the criminal side of things,* mused Ray Vecchio while watching the scene unfolding before him. There was Louis Gardino trying, with absolutely no success, to get the six foot seven inch cross-dressed prostitute into Interrogation Room One. The she-male, not only towered over Gardino, but somehow had gotten his/her handcuffed arms around Louis' neck and pushed him up against the wall. While not really threatening violence, s/he seemed bent -- literally and figuratively -- on intimacy not intimidation, the suspect had effectively barred Louis from movement in any direction at all. The hapless detective found his face pressed up against the ample, if unnaturally bestowed, bosom of the hooker. This effectively muffled his cries for his partner's (or anyone else's) help. Worse, the sight of his predicament and the sound effects he was producing drew nothing but laughter from the rest of the cops in the station. They knew they should come to his rescue, but they couldn't stop laughing long enough to do anything. It was at that point that the Mountie entered the bullpen. He took in the situation, noted the lack of response of Gardino's fellow detectives and acted immediately. In a matter of seconds he had lifted the transvestite's arms over Louis' head and had extricated the red-faced cop. It was only when Fraser caught the nearly unconscious man that the others realized he'd been close to suffocation. "Shit," Vecchio muttered as he slid off the edge of the desk on which he'd been perched. Who's the jackass now? he reproached himself as he moved in to help Fraser. As it slowly dawned on the cops that Gardino had been in some danger after all, and right in front of all of them, the laughter died a quick death. Ray pulled the gloating prostitute away, practically tossing him/her into the arms of two other slowly mobilizing officers. They dragged the perp into the interrogation room. Huey was at Ray's side by the time he knelt beside Fraser who had lowered Louis gently to the floor. The nearly limp detective was dragging and gulping in the biggest ragged breaths he could manage while Fraser moved one hand on his back in calming circles. "Sorry, Louis. I'm so sorry, man, "his partner repeated every few seconds. "Yeah, Louis. We shoulda seen you were in trouble there, "added Ray. As the desperate breathing slowed and began to even out, Gardino managed a word or two at a time. "Yeah. Where's... a cop... when... you... need one." "Yeah." Jack smiled lamely. "I'm so sorry. If it hadn't been for Fraser..." Looking up at Fraser, Gardino said, "Thanks." His color was beginning to fade towards normal. "It was nothing. You would have done the same for me." "Absolutely. If you're ever being suffocated... in the bosom of a transvestite hooker... I'm... I'm your man, Fraser." "I take it you're feeling better?"
"Yeah," Louis agreed, allowing himself to be helped up to his feet. "I'll remember your offer if I ever find myself in a similar... predicament." "Anytime. Any place, Fraser, "Louis confirmed. Huey slapped the Mountie on the back. "Thanks, Fraser. I don't know how you knew he was in trouble under there, but thanks." Jack led his partner off toward the canteen for a sit-down and some coffee. Fraser straightened his tunic, his face splotching pink from the praise. He watched the two friends walk away and found himself facing Garret, the man who had helped them find the kidnapped Madison girl nearly a year ago. Their eyes locked at a distance of maybe twelve feet as the homeless man steadily approached. Something in the moment -- a memory or a premonition -- made the Mountie shiver. Ray noticed his friend's sudden shift of focus -- and the shiver -- and turned to face whatever had caught the Canadian's awareness. Garret. He recognized him immediately and wondered if his sudden appearance after all this time meant there was something psychic in the air. Or maybe the guy just wants a handout. He actually found himself hoping it was the latter. "Mr. Garret." Fraser reached out a hand to the man as soon as he was near enough. Garret studied Fraser's hand, then his face for long seconds before reaching out and returning the offered gesture. All three men knew that a handshake was more than a simple greeting for the psychic. There was always the risk of his getting a mental image -- usually traumatic, sometimes terrifying. A risk on both sides -- that something unwanted by both parties would come through. But still there was a need to make the gesture, complete the signature of trust. Fraser couldn't help but scrutinize the other man's face for a sign that would tell of any impression regarding him. It had been the taking of his hands in the interrogation room that other time that had finally reassured Garret that Fraser was not implicated in the disappearance of the coed, despite the visions he had seen. Ben saw something deep and troubled in the dark eyes. There was a fear -- of something or for someone -- but he couldn't tell what it was or whether it had anything to do with him. They let the handshake go and then it was Ray's turn. Again Fraser looked for a sign, any indication that his friend might be in danger, something that worried him far more than his own safety. He could glean no specific clue, except that something had driven Garret to reemerge from his chosen life of anonymity. Something seemed to weigh heavily on him. Both Ray and Ben thought that the intervening months had taken a sad toll on the man. While still possessed of a fierce inner light and energy it was as though the forces driving him -- haunting him -- were eating him alive. Ray's hand came away from the intense man's grip. "You want to talk." He didn't quite ask. Garret nodded. "Need to tell you some things." "Here or someplace else?"
"Wherever you want."
"Lunch okay?"
Garret shrugged and muttered a "Hah. It'd have to be on you." "Goes without saying. Least we could do for you. I don't forget we owe you. Come on, Fraser, let's get our coats." He headed for his desk. Giving Garret one more look, Fraser followed after Ray. Garret saw something glinting on the floor. He knelt and studied it. A Saint Christopher's medal. If he picked it up he might see... He decided he couldn't live in fear for the rest of his life. He pinched it between his thumb and index finger and lifted, but before he could straighten to stand, it hit him -- the image. He dropped the medal, but too late. The man who had been wearing this would soon be dead.

Flo's was always Ray's first choice and one with which Fraser had to agree. It was a cut above most Chicago diners. Garret didn't wait for the food to arrive before getting to the point. "I need you to help me find some place." "You mean like the last time with that abandoned warehouse?" Ray asked. "Yes."
"Someplace you saw in a vision," added Fraser. The man sighed, long and slow. "Yes." "And?" Ray encouraged.
"And... nothing. That's all."
Ray and Ben exchanged a look.
"May we ask why?" the Mountie supplied for both officers. "I can't tell you why."
"Why?" blurted Ray, recognizing the absurdity of it the moment it was out of his mouth. "I mean, why should we help you if you won't tell us why?" he salvaged. "Because someone's life... can? might? could? will... depend on it." "Whose life would that be, Mr. Garret?" asked Fraser. "Just Garret. Forget the mister. I haven't been a mister in years." "Garret." Ben didn't want to drop the proper form of address. He had intended to restore some of the respect and dignity to the man that had been stripped from him by his circumstances. It was a small thing, but the gesture had been deliberate and sincere. It felt so bare and impersonal now to continue to call the man Garret and yet, he realized, it never felt so when his friends called him Fraser. Now that he would have to ponder when he had the time. "You didn't answer my question." "I can't tell you who."
"Can't or won't?" Ray couldn't keep the annoyed tone from his voice. "You haven't seen who's in danger, or you don't want us to know?" "You want absolutes? Go to'Madame Arcadi' down the street. Pay her your money, get your absolutes. I don't know much, not anything but what I see. I don't ask for it. It just comes, uninvited, unedited. As is." "So, you really don't know," Ray speculated. The man merely grunted in reply. "So far I haven't seen faces. Will you help me?" Once again the Mountie and the cop shared a look across the table. Each had a niggling feeling that there was more to this, but neither could point to a specific. They silently agreed on their decision, exchanging mere flickers of their eyes instead of words. "We have no choice, Mr... ah, Garret, a life is in danger." "So, what're we lookin' for this time? We already found God." "A construction site."
"Oh, piece'a' cake. Only about three hundred of those on any given day in Chicago. Is it even in Chicago?" "I don't know."
Ray looked at Benny with a reassuring nod. "That'll make it easier."

Three days later they had an accurate total of the number of construction sites of large buildings in the greater Chicago area -- and not much more. After their first meeting with him, Garret had been able to supply several further details. It was a large building, possibly a high-rise, therefore likely to be in the metropolitan area. It had sidewalk barriers that were mostly faded blue on the inside. He didn't know what color the walls were on the sidewalk side; the image had been too dark in the single flash he had seen from that vantage point. There was a looming yellow-painted crane just inside the barrier wall. Its heavy, wide treads were only a few feet away from the sidewalk. Most of what he saw was typical of any building site. And he'd seen no identification marks, no convenient signs, glowing with the word God. Every night of the three, he'd slept wearing the jacket. As much as he wanted to be free of it, he needed to do this thing. Needed to try to help. So he wore it again this night and he dreamed another ugly dream. Almost the same, but with more detail. When he awoke he was sure of several things. He just didn't know how much to tell the Mountie and the cop.

It was the following morning that the first body was found. Two hours later they had two more.

The media had gone wild at the discovery of three bodies in a day, all found at the same site, all probable victims of the same killer or killers. Every grisly detail was snapped up, lapped up, made up -- depending on the nature of the "news" organization involved. The first reports were of three teenage girls all killed at the same time in some orgiastic ritual of sex and/or devil worship -- depending, once again, on who was doing the reporting. Later, stories were amended to something closer to the truth -- although a few of the tabloids continued to beat the "satanic ritual" drums long past all the rest. Ray Vecchio knew the facts of the case that had been uncovered so far. He might wish that he hadn't been privy to this particular data, but it "sorta went with the job." Three women of varying ages, killed weeks apart, bodies found in various stages of decomposition were discovered in a wooded area behind a small church graveyard not far from where Ray had gone to grade school. The most recent, and therefore most intact, body showed signs of torture, some clearly sexual in nature. A single retrievable fingerprint drew a match in the file. A prostitute. Melody Klayre, 32, missing, though not reported, for the last three weeks. The Medical Examiner, it wasn't Pearson this time out, put the approximate date of death at three to five days before the body was discovered. All three women had been poorly buried, waiting for the first heavy rain or determined dog to expose their remains. That was the first day. It would get worse. Much worse, and quickly, too.

"It's a sidewalk detour, totally closed in. Wooden planks underneath, like a boardwalk, and wooden rails on both sides. Pedestrian sidewalk bridge overhead; the metal supports are backed by plywood walls all along on both sides, so it's like a tunnel. There are little mesh-covered openings on one side so you can stop and look in at the construction. There's a chute going down to a dumpster -- blue or green -- the big kind. I can't see inside, so I don't know if it's empty or full. "There's no one on the street or the sidewalk until she comes. She's alone. She walks into the detour tunnel.
"She's tall. I can't see her face. And then something's wrong. She's not alone. She disappears. I see her. On the other side where the walls are blue. He has her. He's going to kill her. She can't move. He already hurt her somehow. I think she's tied up. Something covers her mouth -- his hand, maybe. She's afraid. I see her eyes. They're familiar, but I don't know why." He took a deep breath, trying to let go of the images that haunted him with its slow release. "And that's all." Garret swallowed dryly. The man looked used up. "That's all I can give you." "Can I get you some coffee?" Ray offered. He shook his head no.
"Water?" Ben suggested.
He nodded.
"I'll get it." Ray ran off to get the drink. Garret breathed heavily. He was sweating heavily, too. "You're perspiring. Are you sure you're all right?" Ben reached out a hand to touch the other man's forehead, but it was swiped away. "Happens all the time, after these..." He made a disparaging sound. "...visions." He infused the final word with all the resentment of a lifetime derailed by the unwanted intrusion of such a "gift." He coughed a few times before Ray reappeared with the welcome water. The hand that took the glass was trembling. Still, he raised it to his lips without mishap. He sipped slowly at first, then drained the glass. Ray and Fraser's eyes met across the desk. They let the man regain his composure; l et him have some measure of pride and control. At last Garret spoke again.
"You've got to find this place, figure this all out or that woman dies." "You're sure she dies?"
"I'm sure he's going to kill her."
"You saw it?"
"He told her. I heard him say it." Garret's hands covered his entire face. "I see a knife. I see his madness. I see the pain and fear in her eyes. She knows she's going to die." His hands slid up to his forehead and his haggard face emerged. Ben felt for the man, for the obvious toll taken on his health, on his life, by the forces that ran through him. "But this time, for once, there's some mercy and I wake up. I don't have to watch her die. I escape, but I know she won't. There's death there. I can feel it." He sat back, away from the desk. "I can't give you anymore."
He got up out of the chair, looking many years older than his fifty-five. He looked, and was, extremely tired. Fraser stood when Garret did. Ray remained seated. "The visions are over now. At least these visions." "How do you know..." Fraser and Ray both began asking at once. Garret's response was a question. "How do you know the sun's going to set tonight or rise tomorrow?" Fraser answered, "Expectation based on experience, backed by scientific study." "Just leave off the scientific study part and you've answered your question." He shifted from foot to foot, fidgeting. "I gotta get going." "Sure we can't take you for some dinner, Garret?" Ray now stood with the other two. "You look like you could use it -- if you don't mind my saying." "Thanks, no thanks."
"Take care of yourself, Garret." Fraser extended his hand again. Garret considered not taking it this time. He was so tired. He couldn't bring himself to slight the Mountie, though he was sure he would be forgiven. He took the outstretched hand wearily.
Ben registered the other man's hesitation, the uncertainty and the fatigue. "Are you unwell?"
"Just tired. Godawful tired. That's all. But tonight I'll sleep." Garret felt the tumble of images around this man: Past. Present. Future? Hard, harsh images. A bullet. A woman on a train. A blast from an explosion on a street. A handful of bloody snow. He'd seen these all before. A good man. A good soul. But a hard life. He withdrew his hand from the firm, though not restraining grip, stopping the flow of painful glimpses. He still did not know what the connection was to the woman who would be killed. He couldn't make himself tell the man that it might be someone he knew, maybe someone he loved. He'd given them more warning than we usually get in this world. He hoped it would be enough. He took the detective's hand briefly and hoped that the vision of his devastation was from the past. But he feared it was something that hadn't happened yet. He had to leave, wanted to put it behind him. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye." Fraser and Ray answered.
"Thank you, kindly," one of them added to the retreating figure.

The next day brought another body, found by three teens in a small cemetery in their neighborhood. The media coverage surrounding the unearthing of the first three bodies had prompted many people to go on a sort of scavenger hunt throughout the city's graveyards, in some cases desecrating graves and getting themselves arrested. One "lucky" group of kids found exactly what they were looking for. They decided the idea was a lot more fun than the reality.

Though the surrounding area was thoroughly combed this location yielded only the one body, nothing more. The body turned out to belong to another streetwalker. This one had been reported missing nearly two months earlier. She was identified by a dental record match. Chicago was now in the throes of the kind of giddy panic that only a newly uncovered serial killer can engender. Every local news program had its lead story, the newspapers their cover story. On the national news scene it moved up from a line or two of copy to a paragraph or two. It would only get bigger. With the revelation that at least one more victim was a prostitute came the inevitable comparisons to Jack the Ripper. One publication came up with the label, KillerJack. That was the one that stuck.

The cemetery searches were now being conducted by the authorities and the KillerJack phenomenon was underway. Additional bodies were found on the outskirts of three more cemeteries. Within a week the total number of bodies was up to nine, four of whom had been identified as prostitutes. The rest remained unknown. The M.E.'s office believed the earliest victim, still unidentified, to have been murdered three to three and half months earlier; the most recent death was still the first body discovered, Melody Klayre. The earlier bodies had been buried deeper and would not have been found unless sought. The experts concluded that the murderer had tired of waiting to be noticed and had wanted to call attention to his activities. They believed that was why he had buried the last few bodies in such shallow graves. These were meant to be found. Now the nation watched as Chicago waited for KillerJack's next move. It was like waiting for a shark to resurface.

For a time everyone in the force was focused on the killings, but when no new bodies materialized for nearly two weeks, the tension began to lessen. Other cases needed attention and life in Chicago went on as it always did. For Ray Vecchio the case had been pushed aside in the events that swept him up after his promotion to Detective First Grade. To begin with there had been an ugly altercation with Frank Zuko at Pat's Ristorante and then Ray and Zuko's sister, Irene, had rekindled a love that they had held secret from their families -- from everyone -- for years. The last thing on Ray's mind during the agonizing days that followed these catalytic events was the seemingly dormant serial killer. The Feds were involved. Forensic scientists were studying remains, shrinks were assembling profiles, law enforcement agencies were investigating missing prostitutes like they mattered for the first time, maybe ever. Foot patrols were beefed up, decoys were out on the streets and nothing much actually happened. Theories abounded, but nothing concrete was emerging. And one Chicago detective was having his world shattered around him. When he stood in the ruins, he'd lost a co-worker, a life's love and very nearly his best friend. It was a measure of the depth of that friendship that they'd found a way back to one another. A somewhat rocky way, but the path was true, as true as the hollow pain in Ray's heart.

Garret knew what was happening. It was all right. It was peace, after all, and not a surprise. His shivering wasn't so bad now. His mind had cleared a bit. He kept thinking about the visions, the last ones he'd allowed. He lay in the wooden crate, his latest "home" and wondered once more what those last images had meant. Why had they remained so unclear? Why had he been so confused? Oddly at peace, he now wished he hadn't given the jacket to Markie. Not that he begrudged the man the warmth, he was glad to do a little something for someone. He didn't get to do that often. No, it wasn't that. It was curiosity, after all. He thought he'd lost that years before. But here he was wishing he'd had the courage to touch that jacket at least one more time, maybe long enough to have found out the rest the story, instead of backing away in fear. He laughed. A sort of laugh, really a cough. Everything was a cough now and coughing hurt. Curiosity? Now? It was a laugh. Now, when he couldn't do anything about it. Still, he couldn't stop thinking... Did he still have the other thing he been given by the man? The one thing that he had kept for so many months. Why had he kept something so impractical for so long of all the gifts? Hadn't he finally tossed it onto a fire one night for a few minutes extra warmth? Maybe not.
His numbed, shaking fingers rooted around in the ragbag which held his few possessions. He'd almost left the whole bag behind the last time he had "moved." But it was still here. His very last ties to any sort of life on Earth. He felt -- hardly felt with numbed fingers -- softness, softness, something stiffer, but still cloth. It was all cloth. Then paper, the photo -- the only one left. The last tie to his old world, what was once family. Then to the bottom and -- nothing. He slid his hand along the inner surface from one corner of the onetime pillowcase to the other until it encountered the single hard item in the rags. He wrapped his frozen fingers around it and pulled it out. He squinted at the thing in the half-light of his box. Unmistakably a wolf. Well carved, and with love. So tiny, yet so nearly alive with detail. What had he called the wood when he gave it to him? Aspen? Ash? No, he couldn't remember. Another coughing spell took hold. As soon as it quieted, he removed one glove. He let the feel wash over, into him. So many images. No time. Find the one. Find that night. The woman. Who was she? Why familiar? He could never see her face. She always walked away from him. If he could change the angle. See her from the direction she was facing. He forced himself further into the image. Made himself close in on her. He had so little strength, but he seemed able to move within the vision. Nearer, nearer. He could almost touch her now. Then she whipped around to see the man who would hurt her. And in the instant, Garret saw her face. "I don't know her,"he whispered, his voice a pitiful croak. It had been useless. His felt his strength ebbing, his last thoughts, last feeling on Earth would be disappointment. Then he did -- suddenly he did know her. He recognized those eyes. Now he understood. He got it and it was too late. "Ha..." The laugh, the cough, the sigh -- whatever it was -- ended. The wolf remained in his hand.

He was a do-gooder, all right. Dudley Do-Right to a tee. Guy really thinks he can make a difference. Doesn't he see, that most of the people you try to help turn around and take advantage of the next guy anyway. And that any bit of good you do, gets swallowed up by the bad, quicker than you can spit. He eyed the man sitting next to him in the passenger side of the patrol car, while they waited for the last traffic light to change. The Mountie sat there, calm and steady as could be. A model of perfect control. But Seth had seen it back at the consulate when he told the guy what they'd found in the alley. He'd watched the Canadian coolly collect his hat and ask a coworker to watch his dog till he returned. He acted as if he was going out for a sandwich. But underneath the quiet, Seth could tell that the guy was taking it hard. In his family you learned to see the things underneath, things that were almost never said. It had turned out to be an asset to the young patrolman, to be able to look into a man's eyes and see what he wasn't telling you, what he might be trying to hide. He'd learned to trust his ability to read others. He believed now, that this guy actually cared about people. It mattered to him what happened to these hard luck cases. Well, we'll see where it gets him. "Here it is." He pulled up and parked a few feet from the alley. Both men got out of the car. Fraser followed the uniformed officer. The shorter man stepped aside for him, indicating the crate. "He's in there." "Thank you, Officer Metalkke."
Ben knelt down and stuck his head into the burlap covered opening. He took in the still form, huddled in its rags. He scanned the tiny surface area of the crate, noted the figure of the wolf clutched in the lifeless hand. With a deep, sad breath he leaned back. "Yes, that's him. Thank you for notifying me."

Wounds were healing, but not healed.
It had been more than two weeks. Two weeks and four days since the incident on Mulberry Street. Eighteen days since Irene Zuko had last breathed on this Earth. And more than three weeks since a joke about Louis Gardino had been made around the 27th. Maybe someday they'd be able to joke about the hapless man again. Right now, they just missed him. Huey had refused to partner up again and Welsh hadn't pushed it. Fraser still received some hateful stares when he showed up at the precinct, but Ray was sure that would taper off in time. It was hard to admit that one man could be right while everyone else, himself included, had been wrong. The rest of them would absorb the truth as Ray had done -- after the fact. After Irene was dead and he'd hurt his friend as only a true friend will let you do and still forgive. What was it with the two of them, he wondered. A woman enters the scene and one or the other of them goes insane. And somebody -- make that everybody -- gets hurt. But he and Fraser were okay now. Pretty good. Almost back to normal. The long empty silences were beginning to fill. The awkward dangling thoughts more frequently completed. Time would do it for them. At least they had time. Not like Jack and Louie. Ray was heading back to his desk with his millionth cup of dishwater that day, when he saw the familiar figure in red. No, not Santa. He thought. Just the next best thing. Fraser sat waiting. Ray came up alongside him. "Hey, Benny."
"Ray."
He knew instantly that something was up. Fraser didn't get up, didn't look up, didn't focus on him at all. That, and his posture -- impeccably straight as usual, but showing effort, maybe tension -- tipped the detective that something was wrong. "Fraser, you all right?" Ray went around and sat in his seat. "It's not me. Nothing's happened to me. I'm fine." "Something happened to someone else?"he tried. "Garret..."
"Garret?"
They hadn't seen him in... the last time they'd seen him had been before. Louis and Irene had been alive.
Why hadn't the psychic warned them about all that? Just a little, "don't let Gardino open that door,"or a "don't run into Zuko's house,""don't pull Irene out of that room,"or maybe a simple, "listen to your friend, he's got it right,"any of those, or a dozen others, might have helped. Instead they'd spent too many of their free hours looking for a construction site that didn't exist -- not in the city of Chicago, anyway. And, as of three weeks ago, Fraser had done most of the searching alone. Ray didn't have the heart for it. Now, even Benny was convinced they weren't about to find it. Not now. Maybe Benny was right, maybe it was just a matter of the right time. Maybe it was yet to be built. They might get lucky and find it just in time to save the frightened woman in Garret's dream or vision... whatever it was. If there wasn't a statute of limitations on premonitions. If it was meant to be... "Garret..."

Fraser let the name hang there as though awaiting completion. "...just Garret... Ray, I don't know his first name." "It's in the file. I'll look it up later." He eyed his friend. "What's up?" "He was found dead this morning. In an alley off Fulton Avenue." "Oh." Ray knew his partner would take it to heart, *he always does,* but his own first thought was that the man would finally be at peace. "How?" "Dr. Pearson thinks it was pneumonia, exacerbated by exposure." "I'm sorry, Benny."
Ray watched his friend. He knew when things were churning in the other man's brain. He left a clear field for Fraser to speak. "He shouldn't have been out there alone. I should have done something." There it was. The guilt again. Ray wasn't surprised. He could recite the litany with his friend by now. He should have been there, he should have tried harder, he should have known... "You tried, Benny."
"Not enough."
"More than anyone else." Ben was silent, drawing into himself. Ray had seen the look too many times to miss it. "It didn't have to be like that for him. You tried so many times to get him back into society. A better job, a place to live. He didn't want any of it." Ray sat quietly, sipping the contents of his mug, trying to pretend that it was coffee. He let Fraser think it over before reiterating. "He made his choices."
"I know that, Ray. You are right. He didn't want it. But there was more to it." "What?"
"I believe he shunned society in large part because society had turned its back on him. It had no place for him, no true shelter, because he was different." "His gift -- or curse -- or whatever it was,"Ray added, seeing his friend's point. "Yes, Ray." Ben paused. "People are afraid of what they don't understand. Or they seek to exploit powers beyond their comprehension." Ray grunted agreement, but could think of nothing more to say. Fraser got up from his chair. Ray had come to consider it Fraser's chair. It should have Benny's name engraved on it. He sits in it more than anyone else. "Where're you going?"
"To follow up about funeral arrangements for Garret. Dr. Pearson says that if the the leftenant signs off on the forms, she can release the body to me for burial." "Benny, even a simple funeral's too expensive for you to afford.""I have my savings." "And they don't take Canadian."
Fraser made a stab at a smile for Ray's sake. It wasn't much, but Ray would take what he could get these days. "You go ahead, get your release forms cleared. I gotta make a few calls. I'll catch up to you or you know where I'll be." "Okay, Ray." As soon as Fraser walked away Ray flipped through the Rolodex and looked up Madison.

Lieutenant Welsh wasn't in his office. Fraser scanned the bullpen and saw no sign of the solidly built man. He wasn't an easy person to lose in most situations. Elaine caught his searching gaze and altered her course to intercept him. "Looking for someone?" If only it would ever be me. "The leftenant."
"He should be around. Try the ready room. If he's not there -- try his 'other office.'" "Other off--"
"The men's room, Fraser."
"Ah. Thank you kindly, Elaine."
He went around to the ready room. The door was closed, though the cardboard sign which hung in its center announced that the room was not in use. Ben knocked once. Hearing no response, he decided to check the men's room. When he didn't find Welsh in the lav, he went back towards the bullpen. He passed the ready room again and decided to check inside after all. Perhaps the Lieutenant hadn't heard the knock. He rapped again, but this time he opened the door and looked into the room. What he saw, made him take an unconscious step back, before being drawn inside. Generally an all purpose room, used for briefings, meetings, training programs, even interrogations on especially busy days, the room held a video camera, a monitor and audio equipment to record statements or view video evidence, as well as a conference table and usually at least a dozen chairs. He'd been in here many times before, but he'd never seen it like this. The entire room was devoted to one case. The serial murderer, KillerJack. The long table had been pushed against one wall and was piled high with files and books. Most of the chairs were gone. Three tall metal filing cabinets were lined up next to the table. The assembled pieces of a case might take up a bulletin board. The detectives' notes a chalkboard or two. There were three bulletin boards, two chalkboards and still, almost every wall surface was covered. It was... He was almost dizzy from the assault to his senses. Forensics photos of such... ugliness... and he knew that the worst were never posted. They were kept tucked away in files. There were coroner's reports, missing persons reports and pictures, there were scribbled chalk notes and theories. And of course there was a map marked with every spot the bodies had been found, the streets or corners the prostitutes were known to work and the last places the victims had been seen alive. His focus was drawn to one particular photo and the description that accompanied it. A theory quickly took root as he scanned the other surfaces of the walls for confirmation. Lieutenant Welsh walked in, interrupting his thoughts at what Ben deemed to be a very opportune moment. "Constable, you shouldn't be in here."
"Sorry, sir. This room has never been off limits to me before. I was looking for you. I didn't realize..." "It's not that." Welsh looked weighed down. "I'd kinda hoped you'd never have to see all this." He indicated the materials that had taken over the room. "Not what you're used to in the Yukon, I'm afraid." "Leftenant, I am a law enforcement officer. I've seen my share of violence." Welsh certainly knew that for a fact, at least since the Mountie had been in Chicago -- further back than that, if he figured in his father's murder. Beyond that, he'd take the man's word. Fraser continued. "While I admit these... this material is particularly sad and disturbing, I believe I have made an observation which could prove useful." "You were in here for how long, Constable? Let me guess, about a minute?" "Roughly ninety seven seconds, sir." His eyebrows came together in his own query as he answered the lieutenant's question. "Why does it not surprise me that you have a theory in ninety seven seconds while the rest of us have been staring at these... horrors for five weeks and have nothing but a sick feeling of doom that this guy will strike when and where he pleases and laugh his butt off at our ineffectiveness?" "Is that a rhetorical... Is that a question, sir?" "Not really. Care to come into my office and share your theory with an old fa rt, Constable?" "It's not exactly a theory... Old fart, sir?" "That would be me."
"No, sir. I... I mean... certainly, sir. I'd be happy to... and you're not..." His thumb flew to his brow. "C'mon. I'd rather not spend any more time in here than I have to." "Understood."
He held the door open, forcing Fraser to exit past him. As he pulled it shut behind them, Welsh wished he could shut the door on this case as easily.

"Lucas."
"Thank you, Ray." Fraser spoke into the phone. "Lucas Garret. That's spelled L-U-C-A-S G-A-R-R-E-T." "Born, July 12th, 1940." Ray supplied. Fraser repeated the date into the phone then added, "Died, December 3rd, 1995. Survived by friends and those whose lives he touched. Yes, Mr. Madison wants the best quality in every detail. Thank you kindly." He hung up the phone, suddenly drained. He let his head sink into his hands. Ray put a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, he's got a home now, Benny. First class for eternity." Or, just another box, if you look at it another way. Fraser lifted his head and looked up at his friend. "I guess you're right, Ray. Thank you for contacting Mr. Madison. It was very generous of him to cover all the expenses." "He didn't hesitate a second, Benny. He was just sorry Garret hadn't taken any one of those jobs he offered." "It might have turned his life around." "Maybe."
Ben was silent, thoughtful for a time. "I wish I could've..." "You tried. You did your best, which is better than any three of the rest of us. Now, c'mon. Ma said six thirty. No ifs, ands, or buts."

The weeks slid by with ease, routine smoothing away much of the hurt of these last harsh winter months. So much left behind, so much lost, melting away with the last of the snow. Gone forever. Cases came and went. The Mountie and the cop were again an almost unbeatable team. And KillerJack was becoming a bad memory. People speculated that maybe he'd fallen under the wheels of a subway train or been locked up for some unrelated crime or had relocated to terrorize some other, as yet, unsuspecting city. Some thought he had simply found a new way to dispose of his victims' bodies. Although the materials relating to the case still occupied the ready room of the 27th precinct, most of them had been pushed aside or covered up to make room for more immediate cases and other uses for the space. Welsh was even considering removing them if nothing new surfaced on the case in the next week or so. That is, until Father Francis Hammond discovered what was in the sub-basement of St. Lucia's church. The sixty-two year old priest had been hospitalized for two days afterwards. He was not in the best of health, the shock had nearly killed him. There was little doubt that the two bodies found by the priest were the handiwork of KillerJack. The citywide panic, which had been put on hold, was renewed with greater force. The media circus was on again, whipping up fear and morbid curiosity with gruesome details, quoting "experts,""sources"and "informants,"and, when new information ran low, dredging up every crumb from the past and speculating wildly about what might be next. In the meantime, the police began a quiet, systematic search of all the churches in Chicago. Since the killer had been non-denominational in his choices of cemeteries, the search was massive. Its scope was wide, its yield depressingly productive. Three more bodies were brought to light, bringing the total to fifteen victims. Only one of the five proved to be more recent than Melody Klayre. It took a day and a half to match the remains to a missing prostitute: Judy Jason, nee, Roberta Klabberson, last reported seen two days before the discovery of the first three bodies. One of the newly discovered, and as yet unidentified bodies, had been killed earlier than any of the others, pushing back the onset of the murders another three to five weeks. The death timeframe now stretched across a possible seven months. Ray Vecchio noticed that his lieutenant carried the burden of this case heavily. The slight relief of the last weeks had vanished. It worried Ray. This case was aging Welsh like no other in Ray's memory. Unbidden, came the memory of Garret on those last days they had seen him. He had seemed oppressed by the weight of what he had to carry. Ray didn't like to admit that it was the same impression he was getting from Welsh's recent behavior and appearance. They had to clear this case. And yet Ray knew no shortcuts to catching a serial killer. These murders were the hardest to solve, since they were impersonal. You could discern the killer's patterns, his choices of victims, but you couldn't trace the killer back through those he chose to kill. They were almost always strangers.

"Brandy Wine. The Transvestite. From that day here with Louie." He automatically glanced toward the spot where Louis had been trapped against the wall by the smart-assed hooker. "You saved him from..."He trailed off, momentarily unable to reestablish eye contact with Fraser. "I'm sure Louis would have been... fine." When Ray looked back, Fraser had become so still, so quiet that Ray could have kicked himself for mentioning Gardino. He knew that Fraser still carried guilt for not reacting sooner, for not realizing that something was wrong on the street that night in time to prevent his death. Hell, the rest of us didn't notice a thing. Fraser's the only one who sussed it out. And he almost pulled it off. If only Louis had stopped to listen. If only he hadn't... He didn't want to think about those days, it still hurt more than he thought he could handle. "They found the body -- they found Brandy Wine -- in a city dump. Murdered... mutilated." "Oh."
"They think it was maybe some sicko john or a sicko pimp but..." Fraser waited for Ray to finish his thought for a considerable time. ",But, Ray?"
Ben took note of the faraway look in his partner's eyes, watched as his thu mbnail fitted into the groove between front teeth. "You have a hunch, Ray." "Yeah... I have a..." He gave his head a slight dismissive shake. "It's half-assed, though." In the main Ben was now used to Ray's colorful colloquialisms and sometimes envied his friend, his linguistic freedom, but the term'half-assed' always made him think of Candide. And whenever the image met the show, he couldn't get the lyrics to the song Quiet out of his head. I've suffered a lot and I'm certainly not unaware that this life has its black side. I've been starved in the ditch; I've been burned for a witch and I'm missing the half of my backside. The words would sometimes play in his head for hours after Ray would casually toss off that particular description. Sometimes it would be the single song, at other times he couldn't stop himself from mentally reviewing the entire score. Candide had been one of the few non-classical recordings owned and often played by his grandparents. He was never quite as fond of it as they were. But it had never failed to shock him, holding a scandalous allure for the too quiet, too well-behaved boy. And time had done nothing to diminish the particular song's hold over him, nor did its lack of suitability to his circumstances. In fact, he'd found that the more ill suited to a situation, the more insistent it became. This being a particularly inappropriate time for it, he feared he was in for a long siege. He tried to push it far down into his unconscious. "Your hunches even when... not fully formed... are usually productive, Ray. Do you wish to share your theory with me?" "I think I'll get off my butt and give Pearson a visit first." He got up and headed out. Than to sit in this dump on what's left of my rump and put up with this terrible boredom. Oh, dear. Fraser followed after Ray.

Esther Pearson snapped the gloves off, one/two and tossed them into the covered receptacle. "I haven't completed the autopsy on that one. Cause of death will most likely be shock, blood loss or one of the nineteen or so stab wounds received. It looks as though, at least some of the mutilations occurred while the victim was still alive. The body's a mess. When I finally get to it, it's going to take me awhile." "Anything to tie it in to any other cases?" "For instance?"
"Any other open cases?"
"Ah, you mean the four file drawers full of open cases that I have memorized in every detail? Come on detective, if you want to know if this killing fits in with some theory of yours, you're going to have to share. That is, if you want my opinion." "What about KillerJack?"
Pearson nearly snorted in surprise. She was particularly glad she hadn't, since Fraser was in the room. "You're joking right?" "I don't think Ray would joke about this, Dr. Pearson." "Esther, please." She spared a beaming smile for Fraser before turning back to Ray. "You're serious?" Ray shrugged a sigh. "Yeah."
"It's not his modus operandi and the victim doesn't match his target profile. That doesn't leave much." "I know, but..."
"KillerJack captures women, intricately tortures them across several days before letting them die, then buries them in churches or church graveyards. This was a transvestite male, killed in a brutal attack which would have lasted, at most, a few hours, his body left unburied in a garbage dump. Totally dissimilar killings." "I see. I think you're right, Ray."
Pearson swung her attention back to the Mountie. "What am I missing here?" "The one has direct bearing on the other,"Fraser added. "Right,"Ray jumped in, explaining. "He picked up what he thought was a female prostitute and when he discovered he'd been had, he killed him in a fit of rage." "Thus varying his usual methodology." Fraser went on, after a second's pause, "Leaving the body in a city dump, instead of near consecrated soil illustrated his contempt for the victim." "Yeah, you're with me on this one, Benny. The others were his girls, the focus of his twisted love. Brandy Wine was trash to him." "That's what first peaked your suspicions, wasn't it, Ray." "That was the tip-off. That, and the fact that if you didn't know that Brandy Wine was a transvestite, she would have fit the profile to a tee." "That was very good, Ray."
"Thanks."
Pearson had been observing this interplay with a kind of dizzy amusement at the rapid-fire exchanges. It wasn't going too fast for her to follow, by any means, just a bit too fast-paced to get a word in edgewise. The moment she got her chance, she launched. "Well, I'm not putting this one down as a KillerJack victim." Both men looked at her. "You've got an interesting, even a viable, theory, but it is just a theory. This case doesn't match the profile and it would just stir things up in the press again if I pulled this case under the KillerJack umbrella. It'll happen soon enough without this one. "We get dozens of calls every day, as it is. People believe every missing person has been taken by KillerJack, even boys and elderly men. Every body that turns up, they believe is a victim of his, even if the person died of a heart attack. I can't feed that panic without good and substantial reason." "Dr. Pearson has several good points."
"Why thank you, Constable. I thought you'd never notice." She played the flirtation to the hilt, making it difficult even for Fraser to miss her intention, ending with another beaming smile. Ray had to smile as he watched his friend turn crimson. "I... I meant..."
Give it up, Benny. There's no way out of this without insulting her. "...your... your..."
Ray decided to bail the "lobster man"out. Nobody else blushes that red. "We'll let Welsh know what we think."
Fraser grabbed the conversational lifeline gratefully, edging toward the exit. "That would be wise, Ray." "You report it any way you want,"Ray said to Pearson, as he turned to follow the retreating Canadian. "I won't take any chances with the evidence, Detective. If I find a micron that suggests KillerJack, I'll report it." "Thanks."
"Thank you, kindly."
"Just doing my job."
She watched them leave with a single sigh before returning to her work. One of these days, she might get that man to flirt back. One moment he'd be talking so brilliantly -- on just about any subject -- the next he was a shy, awkward adolescent -- worse. With a teenager you could count on his libido, with Fraser, you just seemed to get the shyness. Although she didn't doubt that the fires would burn bright, if you could just get them ignited. The singular unfairness in life was that the very things that made the best men so attractive, made them so damned elusive, too.

Fraser was standing in front of the Inspector's desk. He had finally found a way to get himself officially assigned to liaise with the Chicago Police Department on the serial killer case. One of the victims was Canadian on her mother's side, sir." "Well, in that case... Do what you have to do, Fraser." "Thank you, sir."
Fraser left her office thinking two things: One, that it paid to do thorough research and, Two, that he was no longer comfortable keeping things from his commanding officer. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so, however necessary it might be. He had never had this problem with Inspector Moffat. Once in his own office he placed a call to the 27th Precinct.

For a time city life went on seemingly uneventfully. On the outside things were as smooth as the surface of a lake. But as always events were unfolding beneath the calm exterior. And Chicago was known for its winds. Things couldn't stay quiet for long.

"So, Ma wants to know when you're coming over. Tonight? Tomorrow?" "Please give her my regrets. It won't be either night, but tell her it will be soon, I'm certain." Ray considered his friend carefully. Was Fraser fidgeting with his Stetson? Was he avoiding eye contact? Or was Ray building the whole thing up out of all proportion? Maybe it was a woman, after all. He'd thought of it and dismissed it several times in the last week and a half. It couldn't be that Victoria bitch. Ray was sure he'd recognize the signs if that one were around again. It could be that if Fraser were seeing someone new he didn't want to remind Ray of Irene. His heart shriveled inside him at the thought of what he'd lost so recently. Too recently. Maybe Benny didn't want to rub his nose in it if he'd found someone. Well, that was all well and good, but... friends should be able to share with friends. "So, when're you gonna tell me what you're up to?" "Up to, Ray?"
"It's Saturday night."
"Yes it is, Ray."
"You begged off last night and the night before and the whole week before that and last weekend, too." "Yes, Ray."
"You usually accept Ma's invites. Now we get'polite regrets.' What gives?" "Nothing'gives,' Ray, whatever that means. I've just been busy in the evenings for awhile and am likely to be so for an unspecified time in the future." "What'd'ya mean? Some kind of work?"
"Well... yes, more or less."
"Not some kind of scut work for the Dragon Lady? She making you iron the Canadian flag or wax the consulate cars at night or something?" "No, Ray, nothing so silly."He smiled that quaintly innocent, almost stupid Mountie smile of his. "Probably got you taking home stacks of boring reports on the migration patterns of the Canadian goose." "Not exactly, no, Ray."
"And you're not gonna tell me, are you, my best friend, Fraser?" "No, Ray. I'm not'gonna' tell you."
"Okay, that's settled,"Ray all but harumphed, "but too many more nights of regrets, you're gonna haveta tell Ma and Frannie yourself, Benny." "Understood, Ray."

The following morning Ray woke up to a message delivered by his mother telling him to get to the precinct right away. He squinted at his clock. Four thirty-two a.m on a Sunday. "Must be pretty big."
When he entered the 27th, at just after five, the place was buzzing. Plainclothes. Uniforms. People sped by him. Mostly faces he didn't know. Way too many for this early on a Sunday. Way too many, period. He caught sight of the bad suits. And Feds, too. He tried to follow snatches of conversation. Sounded like a bungled surveillance or some set-up gone down the tubes. He thought some faces were familiar from the KillerJack task force. It could be something to do with that, but this was... A burly guy brushed past him and someone murmured to the guy, "That's Vecchio." "Oh, shit,"said the big guy under his breath. "Sorry, man." That was said to Ray as the man sped away. "What the..."
But they were gone, both Burly and the murmurer. Ray propelled himself toward the center of the hubbub. "What the hell is going on, here?" "We lost him." It was another stranger who answered him. He turned to face the informant. "Lost him? Lost who?"
"The Canadian."
"Canadian... Fraser?"
"The decoy."
"Decoy? What decoy?" But even as he heard himself saying the words, he felt the cold tingle of knowledge on his skin, the hard knot of certainty in his stomach. "One of the KillerJack decoys. The Canadian." "No! Shit, no!"
He sought out Welsh's face from the chaos all around him. There he was, surrounded by his mobilized forces. Ray knew immediately when he took in the expression. He'd worn it enough himself. The, "How did I let that Mountie talk me into this"and, "Oh, my God, I hope he makes it through this one" look. They'd let him go out in drag as bait for KillerJack. And the last man in drag that had been picked up on the killer's trawling had been... Pearson wouldn't say for certain that Brandy Wine was murdered by the serial killer, but she did report that the wounds and angles of entry were consistent with those of his victims. The last thing Ray needed right now was to have to throw up. He needed to go out and find Fraser before... But he had to run to the john and heave his guts out. He had to do this little thing. Then he could get out there and try to find the man who had put himself in harm's way one more time. Leaning over the toilet in a cold sweat, watching the swirl of liquids disappear he couldn't help blaming Fraser for this. He didn't tell me! He knew I'd never go for it, so he didn't tell me. If we can save his butt, I'm gonna have to... but he couldn't finish the thought. He flushed the toilet again, then went over to the sink and splashed himself with icy cold water. How in hell was he going to find Fraser?

Awake. Asleep. Awake again. Pain. Restraints. Cold. And then memory returning and with it, fear. At any moment he would be discovered and the killer would quickly dispatch him. Well, that was a relative word. Quickly, compared to the days long sufferings of the women, but no one knew how long Brendon Weingarten, who called himself Brandy Wine, had suffered before he died. He'd been seen at six p.m. the night before his body had been discovered. The Medical Examiner had fixed the time of death at between midnight and two a.m. That gave Brendon sometime between six and eight hours to have lived and any amount of time within that to have suffered. Ray would be so angry.
Worse. He would blame himself, never forgive himself for not preventing this. And Ray would never forgive him for taking the risk. And it had, ultimately, been a stupid risk. He would die and nothing would be gained. Just one more in a string of victims. It would be a horrible death and his friends would know... they would all know how he died. Whether they found his body or not. Ray would know. The Vecchios... Ma would know. And Inspector Thatcher... Margaret... Meg would know. He should have told Ray.

"How could you let him?"
"I said, no."
"He did this behind your back, too?"
"Not exactly, no."
"You told him no, and then you told him yes?" "I held him off for weeks, Ray. He noticed how perfectly he'd fit the profile if he were female. I told him he'd never be able to pass himself off as a woman, let alone a prostitute and then he pulled that St. Fortunata's stunt. "I told him he had no official involvement in this case and he managed to get himself attached because one of the victim's held dual citizenship. He was determined. You know how that Mountie is when he's determined. If I didn't send him out with backup, he might have gone out unprotected." "And you wanted this one."
"Huh?"
"You wanted this guy, this "KillerJack,"more than most -- more than any one I've seen in all the years I served under you, Lieu. He was getting to you. I could see that. "You wanted this one enough to put Fraser out there. Fraser. "And neither one of you would tell me because you know I woulda talked some sense into you. And now he's probably... You know what this guy did..." That was it. He couldn't squeeze another word out of his throat. Not one more word. He left the bullpen and then the building. He had to get to the scene. Welsh stood in his squad room, in his precinct and he felt lost. The bustle still moved around him. The press had started arriving, having gotten the scent of a breaking story. It was a maelstrom. He couldn't move a muscle.
What the f** did I do?*

It was nearly four a.m. He had done his tour of decoy duty for the night. He'd covered the entire mapped route and several blocks more, when the black Camry pulled up alongside him and he leaned into the driver's side window. It looked to all the world like a pickup, which was the way it was supposed to look. He had readily agreed that it was time to "call it a night,"as Detective Bandino suggested. He agreed from the ground up: first his feet and then his calves, every part of him shouted that this was a wise decision. Eleven straight nights of decoy duty had taken its toll. He'd climbed into the back seat of the surveillance car and let the detectives drop him off a few blocks from his home. Close enough for him to be inside within five minutes and easier for the other two to continue on their long drives home. This was the arrangement at which they'd arrived four nights before. It was Ben who'd figured out that it took him half as much time to walk the last few blocks as it did for them to drop him off and circle back, due to the number and placement of one way streets and traffic lights in the area. It had seemed safe enough since none of the known prior victims had been associated with the immediate neighborhood. The detectives had agreed as long as he kept the wire on for the last leg home. It had worked for three nights running, but not the fourth. He'd said his good nights to detectives Bandino and Sugarman, all three expecting to see one another the following night. He'd been thinking about the route he had just covered, another desolate section of the city. He'd been thinking that he'd know them all soon, not the way he knew the Territories, but too well, nonetheless. He thought someday he might compare his knowledge with that of his friend. That is if Ray would still be speaking to him. He'd automatically shifted to the next street over as he noticed the barricades on the street he normally traversed. He barely registered to the torn up road and sidewalk surfaces as he altered course. His mind had been on when and how he would tell his friend about his involvement in this case and whether Ray would forgive him after all, when he'd entered the sidewalk detour. He'd recognized it belatedly. It was exactly as Garret had described it. He'd turned to leave the way he'd come only to find himself facing the man he knew had to be the killer. "Richmond." He named the street. "It's him--"he began, trying to alert his retreating backup. And then the lurching, crackling pain of the taser. Shock, confusion, pain. Neural short circuiting. A single incoherent sound repeated with no volition. Utterly demolished control. Immobility. Disorientation. Arms guiding him to the sidewalk. Lying helpless, the man standing over him, smiling, looking down. An outstretched arm above, aiming the device, but not using it. Then the man kneeling beside him, fingers undoing the buttons at his midriff. Fear, rushing, escalating. He would be discovered, here, now. No time for rescue. He would be killed in the man's murderous rage. Killed for being a decoy, killed for being a man. Killed before anyone could reach him. Ripping pain. Inuit words, a prayer to meet death, filtered through his consciousness, but would not come into full focus. It was not a knife. It was the wire. It was being torn from the skin of his abdomen. Now. It would be now. Death would be now. He waited, trying to accept what could not be changed. Waited for the final pain. The man stood up. Something landed on the sidewalk next to Ben's right ear. A booted foot was raised up above his head. Death. It came down hard and fast. His eyes shut involuntarily. He heard the stomping sound as the thick heel landed at a spot beside his head. Something crackled, crunched as it was ground underfoot. The listening device. Next the killer picked up the smashed electronic bug, stepped away and tossed it through a small hole in the plywood. The killer stepped back, knelt down, bringing his face inches from Ben's. Knowing that death was coming, Ben tried to steady himself, prepare himself to meet it. He tried to still the panic, but his mind and body fought him, fought the taser's effects, tried to save him in spite of himself. The man's mouth moved, he was speaking to him. Words separated themselves, piercing through the sparkling gray miasma of his thoughts. "...mine... now... first... sought... knowing." The words began to connect, coalescing into meaningful phrases. "...wanted me so much. Seeking me... many nights... have what you want... I have... want... 'm yours and you... 'r... mine." The man rested the back of his hand against Ben's hair -- the wig -- in a gentle, possessive contact. The ritual had begun. Fraser understood then. The trap had been sprung on the decoy. Then the thought had come that Bandino and Sugarman might arrive in time, after all? There was little likelihood of his own survival, but the killer might yet be caught. If the detectives found them, there was nowhere for the man to run. It would be so easy to catch him here. Why had he chosen this place? The answer had come in swift sure motions. With frightening efficiency, he'd been pulled through open plywood slats, the opening closed again and latched from the inside. From the other side there would be nothing to see but roughly constructed wall. He would simply have disappeared. Before he had regained enough control to resist, the man tasered him again. Ben wavered in and out of painful awareness as the killer knelt beside him, quickly pressing tape across his mouth and binding him. His efforts were smooth, practiced and held neither tenderness nor brutality. Hands simply doing the job the distorted mind required of them. When done he sat on the ground beside Ben and smiled. Satisfied. Complacent. There was now a knife in his hands. "Let's see if they find us here." He never lost the smile. He was in control, playing the game of his invention. A long, quiet minute went by. Ben tried to focus through the effects of the stun gun. Gradually his mind began to clear and his senses recovered. The flaming pain receded. The killer sat in perfect stillness. The perfect stillness of the perfect predator. Ben couldn't help observing. "If they don't find us we can stay here for hours. We'll wait and see together. "I've never been bored by waiting. I like it, don't you, my dear?" He whispered, soft as a breeze. He reacted to a sound that Ben couldn't hear above the rushing in his ears. His hearing was normally quite acute. "Ahh. You must stay quiet now, pretty." The smiled broadened as the knife touched Ben's throat. Adrenaline sped his heart rate. They listened, captor and captive, to the car pull up. The voices, the shouts. The detectives -- Ben's backup, detectives Bandino and Sugarman. He heard their voices as they looked for some sign. He heard bewilderment, consternation, then fear. He heard the call for backup.
Then quiet settled, except for an occasional exchange, until more cars arrived, more voices joining in the search. Then sirens and a full out alarm was sounded. They had found the discarded wire. It became controlled and uncontrolled chaos on one side of the wall. Quiet terror and calm madness on the other. Ben could hear the street barriers being put up, the mutter of radios, the clatters and creaks of feet on the wood of the detour as the entire length of the plywood wall was tested for weaknesses or hidden openings. "Do you think they'll search here? Maybe they'll come through the wall." After a few moments, "I don't think they will." Ben listened with the killer (his killer?) who remained calm throughout. He seemed attentive to it all, even entertained. Did he believe they could not find him or not care if they did? In any case, no opening was found. No one broke through the wall. There was one thing he could do. While the search stayed concentrated nearby, he could try to make enough noise to draw the attention of the searchers. He was certain it would cost his life, but it might end the killings here. There were still voices nearby.
He made a sound deep in his throat.
"No, love. Shh." The knife point pressed against his larynx, while a hand put pressure on his throat. "If they did find us, we'd both die." All things considered, that was acceptable. They waited. Nothing happened. It would seem no one had heard. The sounds beyond grew louder. The hand relaxed and pulled away from his throat, but the knife stayed, poised at his neck. When the sounds quieted he would try again. If he were to die in any case, he could die for a reason. However, the man used the noise for cover and stunned him again. He lost consciousness for a time. Awaking to more pain and confusion. He tried to gain some control over his senses. There was something he had meant to do. If he could focus, if he could move. It was useless. The weapon had scattered all his thoughts and stopped all conscious motion. He was a mass of incoherence and pain. He could not think, could not act. The effects of the taser were impossible to fight. And then the whispering began.

Ray raced the Riv for all it was worth. What was it worth? He wondered. Not the life of his friend. He'd sacrificed it once and had it taken from him a second time, along with one friend. He'd give up this third car in a nanosecond if it could bring Benny back safely. His dreadful fear was that nothing could bring him back, that it was already too late. The barricades were up. Ray had to park a block away. Lights were still flashing. It had been almost an hour and a half and they still had the light show going. Makes it look like something's happening. But he knew that, other than searching the area, then widening the search and getting Benny's description out, nothing much was really being done. Ninety nine percent probability was that the perp had thrown Benny into a van or car trunk and whisked him away in the first two minutes. By the time the area had been secured, KillerJack had probably driven Benny miles away. But you couldn't be sure. Because sometimes killers liked to watch the stir they created. Sometimes they didn't quite make it away in time. Sometimes the victim put up a fight -- and Benny would be able to fight -- and the perp had to hide in some alley or basement. And if you didn't check it all out, you could be sorry the next day or the day after, or the day after that or whenever some unsuspecting super tripped over a body in the boiler room of a building that was only yards away from where you'd been searching. A body that might have been a living person if you'd conducted a better search in the first place. So you didn't take chances. You checked everything. You searched everywhere. You gradually widened the search -- until you found something or you had to give up. He knew when he arrived that nothing new had been found. Before he even got out of the Riv, he could see that the search was still on and that a lot of people -- plainclothes cops, uniforms -- were already at a loss as to what to do next. Some looked busy. Some stood around looking bored. Ray wanted to hit something. He wanted to shout. Don't give up on Benny! Don't you dare give up on him yet! But the truth was that inside, in a part of him that admitted the reality of these situations, he was beginning to let go, too. Even though he wouldn't quit until he found him -- one way or the other -- part of him was sure that Benny was gone. He got out, showed his badge to a uniformed officer who didn't know him, turned the corner and stopped dead, as the saying goes. And death was the presence he felt. A hand of death touched him then. Garret. It was the scene the dead man had described. Ray knew it instantly. He knew it certainly. It scared the crap out of him. But he realized in a rush, that Benny might just be alive -- that he knew where Benny was. Garret had told him months before. Benny was the woman in Garret's dream. The woman with the familiar eyes whom Garret hadn't recognized. His head was buzzing. The street was swirling around him. Someone grabbed him. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." It was a very small voice that he heard. A voice in awe, in terror, in hope. His own voice. "I gotta call Welsh."

The whispering continued, the awful sibilance filling his ears with horror upon horror. Everything that had been done to each of his victims from the start. There were, of course, more than had yet been found and the killings had begun much earlier, though sporadically at first. Years apart, in fact. Ben listened to the formation, growth and refinement of a remorseless killer. The long retelling of the fate of each and every one of his victims. "His beauties,"as he called them. How he found them, stalked them in the night, took them and took his time in "developing their relationship." Then, after another passage of timeless seconds, the whispering would stop and Ben knew the stun would come again. He had no idea of the count of stuns or minutes passed. It was all a single unfolding nightmare. The killer would wait until his eyes had regained some focus and the hideous tales would resume. Psychologically, this confiding was designed to boost a frighteningly damaged ego, as well as to terrorize this newest captive. Ben couldn't guess at its first purpose. He only knew how it felt to him to hear it, how it must have felt to the others who had been compelled to listen to its vileness with no hope of escape. Coupled with the effects of the stuns: the fiery pain, the shredding of his senses and the fragmentation of his thoughts, the result was to break down years of controls. He felt himself slipping into despair. He felt wetness in his ear from the single track that left the outer corner of his eye and traveled downward. Tears without release.

Ray was on the street corner, talking into his cellphone. His hands were shaking, but Welsh couldn't see that. "I know where Fraser is."
"Ray?"
"You got to let me do this my way, Lieu." He misinterpreted Welsh's silence for hesitation. It wasn't. It was guilt. "This wouldn't have happened if you had kept me in the loop." Ray pressed him. Welsh sighed. Ray could hear it over the phone. But what he couldn't know was that Welsh would do anything to make this come out right. "What do you want?" "You'll back me up?"
"A hundred percent. Just tell me what you need."

"That was my Rose. My beautiful Rose. She's waiting for me at the Wings of Angels in Elmhurst." Ben was numb from the ongoing list of horrors, but not enough to evade them. His assaulted mind took these images into its deepest places, its usual safeguards obliterated. "Jack,"as he had called himself more than once, had given each of the women the name of a flower or a gem. He believed that he had made them his for eternity, that he had marked them and that when he died they would all be waiting for him in his hellish version of a heaven. His "beauties,"he called them, his "night beauties." He never cared about their names, their real identities. He made them over into his creations. To him that was all they would ever be. "Garnet I met in the rain."The soft, relentless hiss continued.

Ray put Wikerman on the line with Welsh. He was the senior officer on site. Welsh made sure he was apprised of Vecchio's temporary command of the situation. While the other man was on the phone Ray wrote on a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Wikerman got off the line giving Ray a close scrutiny. "He says you got the lead on this one." He handed Ray back his cellphone. Ray asked, so that both Wikerman and Welsh heard, "Does anyone know when sunrise will be?" Wikerman shook his head in the negative. "Just a sec, let me grab yesterday's paper." Ray could hear the rustlings at the other end of the line as Welsh went off to search. As he waited he couldn't help thinking, Benny would know the answer. Finally, Welsh's voice resumed, "Yesterday's sunrise was... six forty-seven. That would put today at six forty-six." "Lieu, can you get me a pair of those night vision glasses?" "Done."
"And I want an ambulance standing by, but no sirens." "Yeah. Anything else?"
"That's it."
"I'll be there myself in fifteen."
"Make sure the Feds don't follow you."
"With pleasure."
Ray shut off the phone.
Wikerman asked, "What do you need?"
"First off, make sure everyone knows that the decoy is a woman. Anyone who knows otherwise, should cover it and anyone who doesn't know, doesn't need to be told. This guy would probably kill him on the spot if he finds out the truth. And he can still make him suffer first. Benny's only chance is if the guy goes on thinking he's a woman." "You think he's still..."
"We assume he's alive."
"I'll spread the word. Anything else?" "I need an officer who isn't afraid of large dogs." Wikerman looked around, spotted the person he wanted. "Meeney! Over here." The senior detective lowered his voice to a conversational level. "He put in a few years in narcotics with a canine partner."

The detective in question jogged over to them. Ray had thought he'd be sending a uniformed officer, but the lean man with the salt-and-pepper hair radiated easygoing self-assurance. Dief would take to him with no problem. Ray extended his hand. "Ray Vecchio, 27th." "Rick Meeney, 23rd." They shook hands. "I got a wolf needs to be picked up."
"The Mountie's wolf?" Ray nodded. "I saw him once. Beautiful animal." "Here's the address." Ray handed him the scribbled note. "Just another block and a half then left on West Racine." "What about the key?"
"He doesn't keep it locked."
Meeney gave Ray a look, but took him at his word. He looked down at the note in his hand. "Diefenbaker? That's his name?"
"Yeah, but Dief'll do."
"On my way."
"You'll have to find some kind of leash. I don't want him running off after Fraser." Not without me. "You got it."
Meeney took off at a good clip.

It was him. The "beauty"Jack was now describing, was Ben. The whispering went on and on, telling him about the night he'd first seen "her." How beautiful she was. How he'd stalked her, watching for three nights, before figuring out that she wasn't a real prostitute. He knew then that she must be an undercover cop, a decoy. At first Jack was angry, felt deceived. But then he thought it through. He had spotted at least one other decoy, he knew they were out there, but the other one hadn't made him angry. She held no fascination for him. "She wasn't one of my beauties. I was never tempted by her. She was so unimpressive, ordinary in every way. No bigger than me. No statuesque queen of the night. No challenge. No conquest." He moved his face in even closer to Ben's. "And her eyes. They didn't want to let you in, they kept you out. Hard, cold, wary. I like soft eyes, open, trusting, waiting for me. Wanting me. Why would anyone want to spend eternity looking into eyes that refuse to let you in? "But you... your eyes... they're good... they're open... they want me. "You sought me out." He said those words as if they held some special importance. "You were more risk, but more reward. I know the others offered themselves for money at the beginning, before I taught them the meaning of love. But you... you offer only the love. You are untainted by the street. Yours will be the purest offering so far, Sapphire. "You see, I know you. You are Sapphire. "That's who you are -- in your soul.
"It's there in the color of your eyes -- the windows of the soul. They tell me who you are." He let the knife trail down Ben's neck till it reached the throbbing artery. Ben could not control the hammering of his heart. The blade tip pricked the skin just above the beating vessel and drew a tiny bead of blood. Ben's heart stopped, started, becoming more erratic. "First blood." And the first mark.
A fingertip touched the swelling drop, collecting it. Jack brought it up and stared at it long moments before taking the knife and making a tiny jab at the base of his own jaw. He swiped his thumb along his jawline collecting the bead as it formed. He pressed thumb to fingertip, mingling their blood. He touched it first to Ben's cheek and then his own. "A token of our bond." The knife moved to the other side of Ben's neck, pressed down. Ben shuddered. His heart rate speeding impossibly faster, lurching, skipping. He moaned, but held no hope of being heard. The sounds on the street had died down to an occasional distant murmur. They're giving up the search. The last flicker of hope that his death might have some meaning died a tiny wavering death. And then the voice came from the other side of the wall. It cut through the night, illuminating his heart the way a lighthouse beam must cut through the dark to comfort lost and frightened sailors. "Why doesn't Garret just give this thing up?" Ray! Adrenaline shot through him. Again his heart tripped, faltered, sped to an unbelievable rate. Hope and fear and hope again. Ray used the name Garret, he was sending him a message. The voice came close as though the speaker was walking nearer. The knife edge moved up to a spot below his chin. This time he could almost ignore it. Ray continued.
"We're not gonna find anything here. Unless they've got some eyewitness that we don't know about, saw her being snatched. Why don't they let us get back to our lives? Some of us got lives. I got a friend waiting for me. KillerJack isn't the only thing goin', ya know." The killer's smile widened at the use of his media nickname. Ray's voice seemed to have moved, as though he were walking along the street. Another voice responded. "What do you think makes a woman put herself at risk like that?" "You got me there, Madison."
The voices moved away, becoming only a murmuring sound on the street. He didn't recognize the second voice, but the first was definitely Ray. He was out there, telling Ben that he knew where he was, that he remembered Garret's account. He was reminding him that they had rescued the Madison girl when she seemed beyond all hope of being found alive. He knows... and he believes.
Ben very nearly passed out with relief from black despair. He closed his eyes, his lashes glistening, and Jack misinterpreted the sign. "They'll give up soon. It'll be quieting... then we'll be alone." Jack didn't know. He couldn't know that a psychic had given him away more than two months before. The knife moved, rested against his cheek. Ben opened his eyes and looked into the smiling eyes of the killer. So calm, so pleased. He truly holds no fear of being caught. No fear a'tall. Strangely his own fear, which he thought should diminish with the possibility of rescue, flowed even more freely now, propelled with every wild beat of his heart. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted to live.
As terrified as he'd been in the moments when death seemed sure, hope was worse. Hope made him more vulnerable.

Under Ray's direction the cordon was being loosened from the inside and tightened from without. A ring was quietly forming around the construction site. Vehicles and officers were now out of sight at either end of this block and the other three streets surrounding the new structure. Cars that were on Richmond pulled out; they were driven out of earshot, then parked, the drivers working their way back to the new perimeter. Welsh arrived. The foreman of one of the construction crews had been brought in. He was showing Ray, Wikerman and Welsh, all the ways in or out of the site, though he was not at all sure how the killer had whisked the undercover cop away so quickly. Meeney stood nearby with a quiet, but restless Dief. The wolf paced and turned in each direction as far as the lead allowed him. He wanted to get to his human brother. He didn't understand the waiting, but he knew enough to be quiet. He recognized the danger, sensing another predator nearby. The foreman, Shel Lomax was speaking. "He picked the one day there'd be no one on site. Any other day there'd be at least some guys starting in a coupla hours." As he went over the details with the cops Lomax was more than a bit confused at Ray's nearly perfect knowledge of what lay beyond that wall. The detective spoke as if he knew exactly where each piece of equipment was. How could he have seen all that through the window cuts in the dark? He's describing exactly the way things were when I left yesterday. "You haven't been inside?"
"No, I haven't been inside. I got the scoop from someone else who saw, okay? Now can we just get on with this?" Lomax sketched out the most likely places that the killer and captive might be located, based on Ray's details, and assuming they were within sight of the plywood wall, the crane, the dumpster and the chute. Welsh watched his detective, almost certain he knew the source of his information. However, he felt there was no reason to bring it up right now. He was struck by one other thing, watching Ray: the quiet determination of the man. Welsh knew that Fraser was the closest thing to a brother Vecchio had. He knew what must be going through his mind right now. Hell, most of the same thoughts were plaguing him -- plus the guilt of knowing he could, and should, have stopped the Mountie. But Ray was doing what a cop had to do, what they all had to do. He was doing his job. Ray looked up from the sketch and caught Welsh studying him. He removed the cellphone from his pocket and held it out across the papers to Welsh. "You better hold onto this, I don't want it going off at the wrong moment." Welsh knew without asking that Ray intended to go in alone, just him and the wolf. He took the phone and said nothing to dissuade him.

Ben lay under the knife blade of the madman, his heart thundering in his ears, and wondered what would happen next. Jack had resumed his whispering. He told "Sapphire"what he would do to her tonight and tomorrow and every day and night for the next seven days. He always killed on the seventh day. "It's the Godlike thing to do." Ben knew that whatever happened he would never have to go through what those terrified victims of this psychopath had been made to suffer. There were twenty-one women and then there was Brandy Wine whom Jack had never mentioned. Brendon Weingarten didn't count. His death was meaningless to the killer, just an unfortunate accident. Jack had nicked him again with the knife. This time, at the left tip of his collarbone. Just the beginning of the teasing games he had described playing with his captives. He called it foreplay. Ben fought to regain some control. If he could make himself ignore the madman, if he could distract himself, maybe... What did Garret see? What would he have seen, if he had possessed the courage to stay with his vision of this night? He thought I was going to die. Ben pictured Ray making his way toward them through the tangled mess of concrete, steel and blowing plastic tarps that made up the base of the new building. But he said he never actually saw the death -- only knew of the killer's intention. He wondered if Ray would come alone or bring in backup. He never told us, or perhaps he didn't know, that I was the "woman." The blade tip nicked a spot on the right collarbone. It felt like his heart would break through his rib cage. He began to worry about Ray being discovered by Jack. What else did or didn't Garret know?
He worried that, because of his actions, Ray, and perhaps others, would now be placed in danger. Garret felt there would be death, but whose? The knife moved to find another spot for marking -- a thousand spots to be marked before the first deep cut -- it would not be ignored.

Ray stood in front of the old door, salvaged from some other job, layered in old peeling paints, gouged, scratched and padlocked. He opened the lock with the key that Lomax had given him. He slipped the lock out of the metal loop. He'd sprayed the old hinges with graphite grease, but wouldn't know till he tried if it worked. His heart was hammering away, but his hands were steadier now. It was Benny in there, but Ray was a cop, this was what he had trained for and devoted his entire adult life to doing. It was a hostage situation. He'd handled them before. "Okay, Dief." He looked at his only partner in this endeavor. "Quiet is the order of the day. We gotta get Benny out alive and in one piece. Agreed?" The answer he got was a wet nose against his hand, pushing it to open the make shift door. One quick breath. "Okay." He pulled the door open slowly and they entered. Welsh held the others steady a good ten yards back. Ray had ten minutes to find Fraser. Then, signal or no signal, they would follow.

The whispered voice, "Sapphire. My smoky blue-gray Sapphire." The knife was gone, the hands neared his face. His eyes closed as thumbs touched each eyelid, pressing down, first gently then hard enough to hurt, then sliding out to the corners and away, taking fresh wetness with them as they left. "Sapphire's tears." The hands left his face. The knife returned.

Ray slipped the night vision goggles over his eyes. As his eyes adjusted he was glad he had them. Even though it was beginning to turn gray outside, it was almost black in here. He could not have gone a few feet in any direction without stumbling into or over something in this mess without them. It took him nearly a minute to orient himself, drawing the mental image of where he was and where he had to go. Moving cautiously, he drew his gun, releasing the safety. "Come on, Dief,"he whispered to himself.

A nick at the base of his ear, underneath the lobe. One side then the other. "Sapphire eyes and ruby blood,"the whispers said. Ben wondered in silent horror, Can you choke on your own heart? The knife traced its way upward.
Ray will stop this. Once he thought the words, he couldn't stop them from repeating, almost becoming a chant in his mind. Ray will stop this. His fear for himself was overriding his fears for Ray. A mark on either cheek. Ray will stop this. The knife traced a path along his jaw and down again to his neck. It trailed down between the points of his collarbone and dug in, twisting suddenly, digging deeper than before. He winced in spite of himself. The knife point continued down toward the center of his breastbone. Ray...will...stop...this...

Cinder blocks, stacked high over his head, blocked his way. Girders crisscrossed to his left and a small cement mixer stood beside a support pillar on his right. Which way? "Which way, Dief?" Without hesitation the wolf pulled him to the right, around the concrete column and then onward.

The knife slid down, digging into flesh, probing. Soon it would find the sham and pierce his heart. Ray, please.

There was a tarp flapping in the breeze up ahead. The dirty, ragged plastic, once transparent, was cloudy and stiff with work dust and barely served the purpose of keeping anything in or out. As it moved Ray could see outside past it. He closed in on the opening. He could see the crane to his right, the large track clearly visible with the glasses he wore. Again, just as Garret had described. Benny and the killer should be to the left of this opening. Any mistake on his part now would cost his friend his life. Assuming... He could only assume that he was still alive. He held onto Garret's image: tied up, hurt, but alive. And afraid. He said afraid. It would take a lot to make Benny afraid.

Now. When he felt Ray was so close. Now the knife slid to the left under the material of the bra. Now it would find nothing there but the heavy foam material intended to deceive. He thought he could smell Dief, so near did he imagine rescue. But he couldn't trust this; his nostrils were so full of the scent of his own fear, mingled with the scent of his own blood. Never had he let anything or anyone terrify him as this man did so casually. He had tried to find anger, rage at this self-admitted torturer and killer of so many. It was there, but it was submerged, drowned by fear. He tried to find the dedication to duty and justice that had dictated the shape of his life, but it hid in shadows beneath the fear. He tried to find comfort in the friendships he had formed in his new life, but every other feeling was distant, diminished, overwhelmed by fear. He had been at the edge of death before, felt the chasm opening at his feet, but nothing had done to him what this man did -- was doing. How did this one individual hold such power over him?

Ray neared the opening, so inefficiently covered by the heavy plastic. He motioned Dief to stay to one side and slightly back. The wolf complied. He edged forward to stand beside the huge square column to the left of the opening. He slowly scanned across the field of vision now open to him. He didn't want to miss any hiding spot amid the machinery, tools and huge stacks of construction materials. Besides, sudden moves with the glasses were dizzying and easily blurred. It took a smooth flow of motion to use them effectively. He was about to give up on this vantage point when he saw what he thought could be the heel of a shoe. He focused, more through will and need than physical ability, forcing the object to clarify itself. It could be Benny's foot. It moved. He's alive. Ray forced his reactions down. If he wanted it to be true and remain true, he had to keep control. What he saw was the side of a high heeled pump. There seemed to be a second one beside it, immediately beyond *like it's tied to the other,* Ray noted with considerable hatred for the man who'd taken his friend. He couldn't see anything more from where he stood. There were too many obstacles in the way. But it had to be Benny and he had to be alive. He tried taking the goggles off. He could no longer see the shoes and much of the detail surrounding them blended into grayness. It was brighter out, but not enough to make the next move without the visual aid. He could wait for more light, but he was afraid of what the time might cost Benny. He replaced the glasses and slipped outside and to the left. He would use the materials between him and his destination as cover. Quietly he and Dief made their approach.

Dief! It was Dief's scent. Not his imagination. Dief was nearby. Ray must be here, too. His heart was so erratic now. He felt it could stop at any moment. The oscillations from terror to elation, fear to hope, pain to relief seemed about to shake him apart. The knife moved. His heart stopped, then thudded underneath as if trying to jump up to meet the blade. And then the steel slid out from the top edge of the bra, tracing lazy circles upward. Not yet. He wouldn't die just yet.
He knew that he was trembling head to feet. Relief, anticipation, fear? It didn't matter. Jack was pleased with the effect, assuming it was all to do with him.

Ray didn't know then, and would never know, if it was his jacket as he went by or maybe Dief's tail, but something caused the broom to slide. He noticed it out of the corner of his eye and caught it before the handle hit the ground, but it still made far too much noise at this close a distance. Shit.

Jack leaned closer to his ear. "Company." *...no...*
"And we haven't even begun the honeymoon. I wonder who it is. Did you tell your family about the elopement?" For Fraser that stupid joke was the first thing that might have lessened the grip of terror in which this man held him. It would have made him seem, for the first time, something akin to human. Vulnerable. Fallible. Almost. If Ray weren't nearby and in danger. Jack stood and pulled a gun from his pocket, not a stun gun. "Let's see who it might be." He turned and moved away. No! A new wave of protective fear washed over Ben. Ray! He struggled against the bonds and made the loudest muffled sounds he could against the tape. "Quiet, sweet."
No! Not Ray! He squirmed as much as he could. If he couldn't warn Ray, maybe he could cause a distraction. He tossed his head from side to side, trying to work off the wig. "Shh." With a finger to his lips, Jack stepped nearer. He then pulled the taser from his pocket and took aim. No! Ben arched his neck and dragged the back of his head in the dirt; he could feel the wig loosening its hold.

Ray heard the muted sounds. He didn't know if Benny was being hurt, or worse, or whether he might be trying to warn him that he'd been heard, but whatever was happening, he had to do something fast. He did the only thing he could think of to do.

A sound behind him made Jack swing back away from Ben before discharging the taser. "Oh, so you're our intruder. How did you get in here?" What? Ben strained to hear. Ray? There was a deep snarling sound. Dief. He couldn't see the wolf. "Easy, boy. Or is it girl?"
Another low rumble. A warning.
"It wasn't an insult, boy."
Ben recognized the throaty growl. Dief was poised to kill. Jack didn't know that he was now in grave danger, but Ben knew. At this moment they were all i n peril, and, of all of them, he was the one who was powerless, trussed up like a doomed animal, unable to help his friends. "Chicago P.D. Drop it."
Ray! The voice came from behind him, somewhere out of sight. Ray must have circled around while Dief distracted Jack. Ben twisted his head to one side and arched his neck once again, this time trying to see over his head. The wig finally slipped off. As hard as he strained to see, he couldn't find Ray. He let his head tilt back down, searching again for Dief. The only one in his view was the killer. And he now seemed to focus in on Ben with a new and wild look. "Y...you...bastard. You disgusting, filthy..." He aimed his gun at Ben -- not the stun gun. "Trash." His finger moved against the trigger. There was a blast and Dief leapt in that instant. For long, agonizingly slow seconds, Ben didn't know what had happened. He didn't even know if he'd been shot. Ray... Dief... Reality wavered. God, please. No more, please. His face went cold, warmth drained away. Nauseous with fright, he swam against invading darkness. And then Ray was close, kneeling beside him, looking down. Ray's alive. He tumbled dizzily into the gray darkness. "Benny."Ray searched him up and down for signs of serious injury. "Dammit, Benny. Don't do this." He could barely see. Tears were brimming in his eyes. He put his gun away and tore the tape from Fraser's mouth as quickly and as gently as possible. Ben fought his way back against the cold clasping dark. "Don't you ever do anything like this to me again." Each word hard and soft at the same time. Equal amounts anger and caring. The eyes reopened, struggled to find him, to focus. Ray's face wavered as though underwater as Ben's eyes filled and spilled. "Shot?" The sound, the first sound, was pathetic, barely a voice. But far more disturbing to Ray was the look in Benny's eyes. He looked so vulnerable -- worse -- afraid. Garret had been right. Ray had never seen this kind of fear in those particular eyes. "Yeah, Benny."
"Who?"
"Just the creep, Benny. Just him."
"You're okay?"
"I'm okay."
"You got him?" He was trembling again, couldn't stop. Cold? Adrenaline? "We got him." Ray noticed the trembling. He removed his coat and placed it over Ben. His stomach twisted as he took in the many small cuts and the burn marks on Fraser. "You --" "Is he dead?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Dief?"
"He's okay... just..." He glanced in the direction of the fallen killer. "...making sure." Dief was suddenly alongside him, his worried face hovering above Ben, eyes full of concern. There was blood on his mouth, in his fur. "Blood..." Wide eyes, looked up at Ray. "He's okay, it's not his blood."
"Ray... Did he..."
Ray recognized another fear in the slate eyes, already so dark with hurt. Hard to believe those eyes were normally so clear. Ray couldn't help wondering if they would ever again have the openness he remembered. "Dief didn't kill the guy,"he quickly reassured. "I nailed him. Dief went for the gun arm. He saved your life... again." "Oh."
Voices, commotion began to fill the background, getting louder, closer. Ray stood. He didn't hear the small, "No,"that followed him. He shouted out to the approaching backup team. "It's okay. The bastard's dead. Get the EMTs up here." He knelt back down, began untying ropes. He was worried about the shaking and the cuts, there could be deeper ones that he couldn't see. "You okay?" "Yes. No. Not hurt."
"Not much."
"Not much,"Ben echoed.
The voices were closing in now.
"Ray, can you get me out?" Panic.
"Working on it. These knots are pretty tight." "Out..."
Ray stopped what he was doing, registering to the desperate sound of the word. "Out... of this. Out of here. Everything." He paused and the glistening eyes shut. "Please." A part of Ray wanted to rant, wanted to vent the anger that had built up over this stupid, stupid stunt -- wanted to tell Benny what it was like to find out the way he had. To think that it was already too late. Too much for you now, huh? Can't take the heat? Well, you asked for it, Hero! But he shoved that reaction down and tried to let compassion rule. Oh, Benny would find out how angry he'd made Ray about this, just not now, not tonight. Not when he was lying there shaking so hard his teeth might start to rattle at any second.

"Please, Ray. I know I asked for this..." And then all the anger drained out of Ray. His shoulders dropped as tension left. "No. You just wanted to stop him." He got up again. Benny had been through enough. "I'll take care of it." He walked past the body of the killer who had terrorized Chicago for months (and one Mountie for nearly three hours). Ray looked down. The figure on the ground didn't look like much. Looks like a kid. Any young guy. Couldn't be more than twenty-four, twenty-five. Not at all what he'd expected. Cops were coming out of the building, some with guns still drawn. Ray held up his hands in a stop gesture and they slowed up. He saw Welsh and closed in on him. He spoke quietly, privately. "I need to get Benny out of here with a minimum of fuss." "How bad is he?"
Ray couldn't help looking back in the direction he'd left Fraser. "I don't know. I don't think he's hurt so bad physically. Won't know for sure till the EMT's check him out. But emotionally..."he lowered his voice even further without realizing it, "...he's just wrecked." He looked back to Welsh. "I've never seen him like this. I need a favor. Can we keep everybody back till I can get him outta here?" "Everybody, just hold back till I give the word." And that was all it took. The forward movement stopped and people began backing up at Welsh's flicking hand motion.

"Thanks, Lieu."
Ray started back toward the spot where Fraser lay, still bound. Welsh moved with him. Ray was about to say something, but decided against it. He could see that Welsh needed to do this as much as he had needed to go after Fraser alone earlier. From the angle they approached a rosy shaft of morning light hit the killer's body making it look like a morbid work of art. They rounded the corner and Ray was shocked to see Fraser's face turned into the fur of the wolf who had settled beside him. His body was heaving with quiet hurtful sobs. The trembling was even worse.
"Dammit, Benny, I'm sorry I left you. I was just keeping everyone else back. Except the Lieu-y here. He wouldn't take no for an answer." Ben didn't -- couldn't -- answer.
"Let's get you out of those ropes, son." They knelt on either side of Fraser and worked on the knots around his arms, wrists and torso. Ray had seen the knife on the ground and was tempted to use it to cut the ropes off and be done with it. But the knife was part of the scene and should be left where it was for now. Besides, he had a feeling that Benny'd seen (and felt) enough of the thing, he could see the dark glistening color on the tip from several feet away. As they pried and loosened knots one by one, Welsh and Ray couldn't help gla ncing at one another other, both men worried. Ben, at last, turned away from the wolf. "Can't stop shaking,"he offered informatively. This, they had noticed. Welsh got up. "I'll be right back." Ray continued trying to undo the too-efficient knots. In less than a minute Welsh returned.

"The EMTs'll be here in a second and some blankets are coming, too,"the lieutenant announced as he stepped back around the cinder block pile. "I'm all right. I don't need..."
Welsh noticed something at the edge of a stack of bricks. It was the taser. He tapped Ray on the shoulder and pointed him toward the spot. Ray's eyes followed Welsh's lead. It wasn't really a surprise; it all fit. He turned back to Fraser. "Benny, you got burn marks on your neck and chest, did he use a taser on you?" "Yes."
Ray glanced up at Welsh, then back to Fraser. That's how he got you so quickly. "How many times?" Welsh asked.
"Don't know." He hitched a shaky breath. "Repeatedly." Ray looked like he was going to be sick. Welsh shook his head. "Damn."
Both men knew the effects of the "humane"weapon. While it might seem like a blessing when used to bring down a criminal who might otherwise have been killed or maimed, the thought of the weapon being used repeatedly on a helpless captive.... on Fraser... It was Welsh who spoke next. "I'm sorry, Constable. I shouldn't have let you do this." "Sir, we got him."
"Yeah, we got him."
Fraser was alive and KillerJack was dead. So they'd gotten away with it. But it hadn't been worth the risk and the price had very nearly been too high. Now they'd look like heroes, but the lieutenant felt he should never have let this happen and he knew the detective would agree. If anyone asked him. The senior officer couldn't help glancing toward the body of the killer and then back toward the shivering Mountie. He should be feeling some sense of accomplishment... closure. The end of these terrible killings should give him some peace, but right now all he felt was cold... and hollow. He hadn't been the one to pay the price. It hadn't been his life on the line, or even one of his officers. It was the Mountie. Again. Why had he put Fraser out here? How could he let himself be talked into this? Did he really want this one that badly? Or had it been Fraser's determination? "No more victims." The barely whispered words almost seemed in answer to his thoughts. Welsh knelt beside the younger man and put a hand on his forehead. Where're those EMTs?
He caught Ray's attention and shook his head worriedly. He mouthed the words, "Clammy. Shock?" Ray felt helpless. He didn't know what else to do, so he worked harder on loosening the knots that held Fraser's arms, at last freeing them. Only the ankles remained bound. A voice from the other side of the cinder blocks said, "Lieutenant, I have the blankets and the EMTs are coming out." "I don't need medical assistance."
Ray looked back at Ben. "Forget it, Benny. You can't get out of that one." "Constable Fraser?"
"S... sir?"
"I think you may be going into shock."
"My injuries aren't sufficient..."
"Constable, with what you've been through in the last few hours, I'd say you have sufficient cause for any reaction -- physical or otherwise." "P... possibly, sir. I just need..."
"You're getting medical attention. Get used to the idea." One thing Welsh knew was how to command. Ray pinned Welsh with a look. "Just one EMT. He doesn't need more than one." "Just send one of the EMTs for now and have him bring the blankets over," Welsh ordered around the corner. "Thanks, Lieu." Ray kept at the ankle ropes. They were the last of the knots. A woman turned the corner, carrying the blankets. Of course, he's a she. Just because I made a blind assumption. Always happens. Under the circumstances Welsh thought he could get away with ignoring it. "I just need..."Fraser was still protesting feebly. No one really heard. "We're a team, sir." The med-tech wasn't intimidated by Welsh. "Please let us do our job." "One for now. If you do need your partner we won't stop him -- or her. Just get those blankets on him now. I'll explain things to your partner." Welsh stood up. He had some things he wanted done anyway. He circled around to where a uniformed officer and the second EMT were waiting. The woman shook out first one, then the other blanket. She and Ray spread each in turn over the shaking man while Welsh could be heard issuing instructions they couldn't make out to people they couldn't see. Just minutes before the technician had been told what to expect so it didn't throw her to see the cop in drag lying there, although his appearance caused a surge of sympathy to wring her heart. Shaking, pale, with tiny cuts and trails of blood and tears streaking his face, his mouth and chin marked from tape that had been removed, a layer of mostly smeared make-up; it all made him seem so vulnerable. But she had heard the murmers on her way out. He had been the decoy that had drawn out KillerJack. He had faced down the devil that had taken so many. She set about her job -- opening her crash kit, checking vital signs and made herself a silent vow: they weren't going to lose this one on her watch. His responses were a little sluggish, his skin was cold and clammy. Ray asked, "Is he going into shock? Should we prop his feet up?" "Go for it."
Pulse erratic. His heart rate's all over the place. She checked for further injury. He didn't appear to have any major bleeding, only small cuts, bruising and burns. "Sir, are you injured anywhere else?"
"No. I'll be fine. I just need... a little time." "I didn't see any serious knife wounds, just the nicks and cuts that are evident,"Ray threw in. Like he was just toying with you, huh, Benny? Or you'd be dead right now. No signs of internal bleeding. Cardiogenic shock... "Were you given any drugs?"
"No. But I... I was unconscious for a time... Nothing I'm aware of." Ray pulled over a loose cinder block. He lifted Fraser's legs and slid the cinder block under his feet. "He's been hit with a stun gun several times, doesn't know how often." "I'll be fine..."
She checked the swollen hands and chafed wrists. No serious damage there. She listened to his heart rate once more. We've got to get you steadied out. She didn't want to resort to drastic measures yet. This is not life threatening at this point. If she could keep him stable, get him to the ER fast enough, she could let them decide. Better put a line in just in case. Ray finished untying the last of the ropes, slipping them off and tossing them away. "You're free, Benny." He moved up beside Fraser opposite where the woman worked on him. Ben's eyes looked anything but free.
Ray reached a hand out to wipe away some of the wetness from Ben's face. He was surprised when the woman handed him several layers of cotton gauze padding. He mouthed a silent, "Thanks." "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Benny,"the big eyes looked at him waiting for whatever would come, "but your makeup's a mess." Ben tried to smile, he really did. "Can't stop..." "I know, Benny. I know." He gently wiped away the fresh fall with the gauze pad. Ray's heart actually hurt in his chest at what he saw in those eyes. Things he never thought he'd see. Things a dead "kid"had put there. Still, he continued wiping away tears as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

Welsh came back and stood behind Ray. He put a hand on Ray's shoulder. There was a sudden racket. Ray looked over to see a team of cops, once again a mix of plainclothes and uniforms, tearing at a patch of plywood wall. "What's going on, Lieu?"he asked.
"We're going to get the constable out of here and into the ambulance the quick way. "I don't need an ambulance."
"Well, I'm afraid on that, you have no say." The medical technician overlapped Welsh, "I'm afraid you will need to go to the hospital, sir." "Oh." After some seconds he added, "If I could just stop shaking or crying or both..." "You will; you just might need a little help to do it, Benny." Welsh looked away just as the section of plywood came down. As the cops carried and tossed it away he looked over toward the body. "Guy looks like a kid, huh? You just never know." "H... he admitted to killing twenty-one women." Welsh made a sad tsking sound. "Twenty-one. That's six more than we found." "I know where they are."
"He told you?"
"He told me..."
"He didn't tell you his name by any chance?" "Only Jack. He called himself Jack."
With the help of a uniformed officer, the second EMT came through the new opening with the ambulance gurney. Ben's eyes told Ray just how much he didn't want to do this, how much he wished it were all over. "You'll be okay, Benny." And then Ray and Welsh stepped away as the medical technicians moved quickly and efficiently. They had Fraser lifted onto the stretcher and ready to go in what seemed like seconds. In less than three minutes he was in the ambulance and on his way. Ray went with Fraser and Welsh took care of everything else. The senior officer knew that the hospital staff would cooperate. It wasn't often that they needed this kind of cooperation and coverage from one of the local hospitals, but they always got it. He agreed with Ray in their brief conversation while the EMTs were readying Fraser to leave: no one outside of the department needed to know who the undercover decoy cop had been. It was the least he could do for Fraser.

"Your body's just reacting to everything its been through." The doctor could tell the man would simply not accept this. It hadn't actually taken long to stabilize his physical reactions. Once they'd gotten his heart rate steadied the shocky symptoms subsided. The rest was helped by a mild sedative. Nothing too strong at this point, but Mazzeer wasn't sure about the next few days. It would be best to have him follow up with a psychiatrist, but he could tell that wasn't going to go over well with this one. "Independent cuss" was the phrase that came to mind, a phrase usually reserved for someone a lot older and crankier. But stubborn could be packaged any number of ways. This one happened to come wrapped in polite. "You didn't expect to survive, did you?" The doctor waited. He considered himself fairly adept at drawing out his patients, but it looked like there would be no answer. He's reluctant to give me anything.
Then finally, a response came. "No."
"To be that near to death and powerless to stop it and then to abruptly find you have survived, that much alone could send a body spiraling out of control. The added stresses of the torture..." Ben reacted sharply, ready to argue. "N-no, not..." "Yes, it was torture. Make no mistake. This man used pain and the threat of death to terrorize you. That, and the repeated use of the stun gun would have had a drastic effect on anyone." He could tell that he wasn't getting through. His patient was shuttered, battened down against any and all weather. "Anyone," he repeated. "But not you." That got him some genuine attention. "I suspect you don't allow yourself this kind of reaction... under stress." Ben looked away, turning from the doctor to the wall. "Never?
"You're a law officer, yet you consider yourself exempt from the laws of human nature. They are every bit as exacting as the ones we make up. "And the laws of physics. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. "You might think it's a weakness, but it's just a human response to trauma, natural under the circumstances." The man stayed stubbornly mute. "You shouldn't try to ignore what happened. It's therapeutically contraindicated," he said with a gentle humour, seemingly lost on his patient. Mazzeer felt he'd given it his best shot. The rest was beyond his scope. "Try to give yourself time. Time to absorb it and move on." Ben could grant that the doctor's points held some validity -- insofar as his knowledge of the situation allowed. But, as the one who had lived through the experience, he knew there was more to it. Realities -- depths -- the physician couldn't know. The things tearing at him would never let go. To give them free rein... that was not an option. After a long silence he turned back. "Are you going to release me?" "I'd like to keep you tonight for observation." "Is it required?"
"I highly recommend it."
"Then it isn't absolutely necessary."
"No."
A huge burden of tension left him. "Thank you kindly, doctor. I'd like to go home now." He began to slide from the examination table. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from listing or staggering, but his determination was total. The doctor turned toward the door in resignation. "I'll get your friend to help you leave." "Thank you..."he began, but the doctor was gone.

Ray sat and waited. That's what waiting rooms were for. That's what friends of the Mountie did. They waited and worried. And coped with the feelings of helplessness that friends of heroes were handed. Helpless. That's how he must have felt. I never saw him look like that -- even after Victoria was through with him. And I hope to God she is through with him. That was one particular nightmare he didn't want to come true. There wasn't a day that passed that he didn't pray for her to stay out of Benny's life. He found that he wouldn't mind hearing of her death. That was one for the confessional. Benny was flattened after she'd left him lying there. Literally, thanks to the bullet Ray had put in his back, but also in every other way. For a long time Ray had been afraid that Fraser was never going to get up again. Somehow they got through that. They got through Victoria. They got through Irene. But the look in his eyes this time, lying there on the ground and all the way to the hospital in the ambulance. It was... changed... like he's lost himself. Ray tried to shake off the feeling. It was just... whatever he went through. He's probably never... What, Ray? Been in the presence of such malevolence? Or maybe just never been so afraid. The doctor appeared.
"Your friend wants to go home tonight. I can't persuade him to stay the night. Can you talk some sense into him?" "Doctor, if I could do that, we wouldn't be here right now." "I thought so." Accepting the inevitable, the doctor gave Ray the instructions he didn't think the other man would have heeded from him. He hated to let this one go. "If he shows any of the same symptoms, like he might be going into shock, don't hesitate long enough to ask him, just call 911."
"That I can do." He could tell there was more worrying the good doctor. "What else?" "Well, I'm no psychiatrist, but... He's got his emotions so deeply wrapped up..." "You know your man, Doc."
"Not to be alarmist, but keep in mind that symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can manifest at any point in the future -- even months down the road." "Like a UXB -- unexploded bomb -- hidden in the wreckage." The doctor looked at the detective with new appreciation. "Very aptly put. And your friend won't admit there's been a war, let alone a direct hit." *And not the first one,* Ray couldn't help thinking. "I'll keep my eye on him. Thanks, Doc."

Ray had miraculously managed to scare up some clothes. Ben didn't care that they were worn, two sizes too big, or that they smelled of someone else and old, or that the sneakers had a hole in each big toe and his feet slipped around in them. He was more grateful than he could express. As he changed into them in the examination room lav, he couldn't credit how unsteady he was even now. He had to pull himself together or Ray would side with the doctors against him and he didn't think he had the strength to fight one more battle. It would be a new form of hell to be forced to stay here through the night. Every minute was insupportable. And today he had become an expert on levels of hell he hadn't known could exist. Vividly cruel images blistered his thoughts; deliberately put there by the softly whispering voice. The nearly infinite fear-pain of the victims, ended only by a brutal death. In the bathroom mirror the haunted eyes of a stranger stared back at him. Ugly, fearful. Marred from within more than without. He used a wet towel to wipe off as much of the remaining make-up as possible, avoiding the freshly bandaged cuts, then ran a clean corner under cold water, pressing it across his eyes. He had to keep himself together long enough to make it home. He prayed that Ray didn't try to insist he spend the night at the Vecchios. He couldn't do that either. Just let me go home, please.
When he stepped outside Ray smiled immediately. "Well, you look a hundred percent better, Benny. I took care of the paperwork. You're a free Mountie. Now, let's get you home."
"Thanks, Ray."
They left without another word.
Fraser settled into the Riv with exhausted gratitude. "Dief'll be glad to see you. I asked Meeney to take him back to your place." "Meeney?"
"Detective from the 23rd, good with dogs... and wolves." "Thank you, Ray. I'll be glad to see Dief, glad to be home." They rode a good distance in silence. "Welsh will make sure your name doesn't get out in connection with the case." "He... that's... that's... thank him for me, Ray." "Yeah, sure. It's nothing."
Another silence stretched on for several blocks. "It was you. You did that. Asked the leftenant... to spare me."
"It's what you wanted. You wanted out." This time the quiet lasted for long minutes. Ray could sense emotions churning in his friend. Hell, he had some churning of his own going on. When he spoke, Fraser's voice was soft, measured, but Ray could sense the weight behind the words. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Ray. I know you know the reason. But still, I'm sorry." Ray took his time before responding. "Well, you're right. I wouldn't have let you do it." He paused before adding, "Welsh shouldn't have let you go out there like that." "There were others. Women officers. Their lives were in danger. Why am I so different? Because of a technicality of jurisdiction?" *Because you are my best friend. Because you don't belong out there. Because you could have been killed. Because you were this close to being killed. Because...* "Because... it shouldn't have been you... with that monster." When Ben answered, his voice was almost inaudible. "It shouldn't have been anyone. No one should... no one..."he couldn't finish. And they couldn't argue with each other on this. They each knew how wrong and right they both were. They had to move on. After a long while they suddenly spoke at the same moment. "If it hadn't been for Garret."
"I wish I could thank Garret."
After that singularity they rode the rest of the way in silence. When they pulled up to 221 West Racine Ray shut off the ignition. He opened the driver's side door, making clear his intention to get out, but he turned to look at his friend. He wouldn't force it, not after what Benny had been through. "Is it okay if I come up?" Ben wanted to say that he needed to be alone. And he did need that. But of all the people that he knew, Ray was the one he could let in. He just wasn't sure he was ready. "Yes,"he said without thinking it through. There was no thinking it through. He let his mouth make the decision for him. His mind was incapable of doing it. They climbed up the stairs in a more subdued fashion than Ben could ever remember. When he opened the door to his apartment there was Dief, looking perfectly normal. There was no sign of the blood that had spattered his fur hours before. "Detective Meeney must have bathed Dief. That was most considerate." When Dief jumped on him, Fraser nearly toppled. Ray reached out, getting one arm under Ben's elbow and gently swiping Dief away with the other. "Easy, Dief. He's had a rough morning." They both laughed at the understatement in that. Wry, tight laughs and far too short, but it was still a sound neither had expected so soon. Ray led him toward the bed. "No, I can sit at the table, if you want to stay for awhile." "You can lie in the bed and I can pull up a chair and still stay for awhile. How's that?" "That... that would be fine, Ray. But I can walk on my own." "Okay, buddy, let's see it."
He let go and Ben made his way slowly, but successfully to the bed. Ray scooped a chair as Fraser first sat and then lay back on the bed. The sneakers had practically fallen off his feet with no help. He wished he could get out of the clothes and showered and into some clothes of his own, but it seemed a series of impossibly demanding tasks right now. Ray could see the careful effort that went into every move that Fraser made, every word he spoke. "Can you eat? Or you want some tea, Benny?" "Food, no. Tea... would be nice."
As Ray set about heating the water and finding the mugs and the tea bags, Ben let himself marvel at the fact that he was here, in his own apartment, about to have tea with Ray, and he was... alive. It was such a short time ago that he had given himself up for dead. Part of him wouldn't let go of that. Part of him had almost died in the acceptance of death. In truth, it didn't feel like *almost,* it felt as though it had happened. Jack had taken some part of him with him to the grave. Had killed something in him. Ray might think it was innocence. He seemed to want to protect him from the ugliness of what Jack was. Ben didn't think it was his innocence. He believed that had been extinguished when he was six years old. When he learned that a mother could die. Whatever shreds may have survived that devastation he felt had been destroyed, along with so many other things, by his involvement with Victoria. He couldn't put a finger on what Jack had taken -- killed. It eluded him. And he was too tired to engage in its pursuit. His eyes closed and he was asleep within seconds. He awoke with a shock, the knife cutting deeply into his throat, the smiling face above him chanting something... something... sapphire... sapphire... sapphire... And then he was in his bed. Dief was slathering his face with wet tongue. And Ray was there.
His friend sat in the plain wooden chair, a few feet away. Close enough to keep a watchful eye, but not close enough to startle a waking man who had been through... what Ben had been through. "Hey, Benny. It's okay. Bad dream." Ray got up out of the chair, stepped closer but not too near. He looked down at Fraser with an expression of boundless empathy on his face. "Probably not the last." He stepped back. "You ready for that tea now?" He crossed away into the kitchen. "I'll just reheat the water."

Ben would never be able to express his gratitude for Ray's quiet accepting demeanor. He made it seem as if the nightmare horrors were really nothing more than bad dreams. He made things seem almost normal. If only that could be enough. He sat up in the bed and his head swam. He could barely keep himself aligned. He managed to stay upright but did not push further. He had intended to get out of the bed. Maybe in a few more minutes. Ray rounded the corner and stood leaning against the edge of the wall. "So, chamomile or what is this stuff in the pouch?" "Bark tea. That would be nice."
"Very trusting, Benny. How do you know I got the right pouch? Could be caribou dung or some other Eskimo -- I mean Inuit -- type remedy for frostbite." "I don't keep the caribou chips in the kitchen, Ray. And it's only good for frostbite when it's fresh." "You actually have caribou dung?"
"No, Ray."
"You're yanking my chain?"
"Yes, Ray."
"Oh, good. Because I was gonna have to leave, you know." "No, we wouldn't want that, Ray."
"So, bark tea it is."
"Bark tea it is."
Dief had pushed his head up against the outside of Ben's knee. He reached out to stroke the wolf. Though it barely shook now, his hand felt like lead. It must be the sedative they had given him at the hospital. He felt as though gravity had doubled.

He concentrated on Ray's rustlings in the kitchen, trying not to hear the whisperings that spilled over from the nightmares -- both the dream and the reality. When Ray spoke again Ben realized how glad he was that he hadn't pushed his friend away. Ray's voice smothered the whisperings; forced the horrors to recede, scattering the dreadful words. "So, I thought maybe you could eat a little something now that you had a little nap." "I'm not really hungry. How long was I asleep?" "Only about two hours." Ray came out carrying a small plate. "It's just a little peanut butter on toast. There wasn't much in the fridge or the cabinets. You let your stores run a little low." "I was... out a lot."
"Yeah." He held the plate out and Ben took it. "I figure, if you could get even a few bites down it'd be good." He had no desire for this or any food, but he wanted to show Ray that he was doing better. Despite his casual demeanor, Ben knew that his friend was worried. "Try,"Ray encouraged.
"I'll try." He picked up one of the sandwich halves and took a small bite. "Great. I'll go check the water. Got to get you a real kettle with a whistle." "Pot's fine, Ray. It does the job. Don't need an extra utensil merely to boil water." "Oh, Benny. Just can't get you citified." To Ben's way of looking at things he had become too citified by half in the two and a half years he'd been in Chicago. Too citified...and too weak. He shivered. Don't start again. With Ray's voice stilled, the whisperings became insistent. He put the sandwich back on the plate, the plate on the bed beside him. He knew he could never forget the voice and the horrible things it had breathed in his ear, but the question was how to cope. In so many ways Ray was right. He had put himself in the position of being exposed to this... darkness. He had known there were risks, but hadn't truly been prepared for the outcome. Life or death, success or failure -- yes. But not something like this. He hadn't thought of the effect of being under the power of such twisted, casual evil. He hadn't thought anything or anyone could get through his controls so easily. If he had died, it would have been in fear and unreconciled to failure. Now he was alive and had accomplished his primary goal. He knew he should be grateful. His sentence was light compared to those of the victims. A few nicks, some tiny burns and a few bad memories. Bad memories -- a mind filled with horror after horror. Ray came out with the tea. He noticed the sandwich on the bed, barely touched. "Couldn't eat much?" "Sorry. I did try."
"Maybe the tea will help."
"Thank you, Ray."
He handed him the mug, taking quick note of Ben's eyes. He looks bereft. I've got to get him to talk. If I don't he'll put up his usual walls and pretend none of this happened. And all this that I see in his eyes now will be hidden underneath. He sat in the chair. "So, tell me about the perp."
Ben brought the mug up to his lips. *To hide,* was Ray's guess. Eventually he lowered the mug. "There isn't much to tell. You saw him." "I saw him for two seconds while taking aim. Then dead. All I can say about him is he looked like a kid. And he was this close to killing you." He held up two fingers with no discernible space between them. "He was a killer. That's what I know about him." "So, he didn't tell you about himself, all that time, he didn't say anything." "He almost never stopped... saying... things." "What did he say?"
"He told me what he did."
"What he did?"
"What he did. That's what he told me." Ray heard the words, but it took him some time to process -- and then to absorb -- the information. "He told you about the killings?" "Yes."
"He described what he did, how he killed those women?" The voice was low, lower than low. "Yes." Ben held out the mug, it shook and tea sloshed over the edge. "I can't finish this." Ray reached out and took the mug from him. "All of the murders?" He got up and set the tea down on the table. "Ray, I don't..."
"I know you don't." He returned to the chair. "Just tell me what you can." "He told me about each one... from the beginning... and me... what he would do." "In detail."
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"No, Ray."
"Benny, it's better not to keep it in." "No. It's better to keep it under control." "But he had control."
"Ray..."
"He took away your control."
"Yes."
Ray was about to speak, but Fraser continued. His next words sounded so lost, Ray thought his heart would break. He imagined it was how a father felt when his child was suffering. A real father, that is. "I don't know how."
And you're ashamed. Or have you even gotten to shame yet? No, you're still there. Still in pieces. Oh. He sighed aloud. Be very careful, Ray. But don't back out on him now. "You couldn't block him out."
"No. He got past my defenses."
Ray sighed again. The only way out is through. "Benny, he methodically smashed your defenses." And I'm sorry to do this when you haven't reconstructed them, but I think it's necessary. I pray that I'm right. "He stunned you, got you tied up nice and helpless. And then used the taser and the knife to keep you so disoriented and in pain that you had no way to block whatever ugliness he wanted to put into your head." Ray was so afraid of Benny's reaction that he couldn't believe what he heard next. "Maybe next Sunday I should try church." It was such an uncharacteristic thing for Benny to say that it almost succeeded in distracting Ray. No such luck, my friend.

"He made you afraid."
"Ray, please... yes... I was afraid.
"But you were right. You should have been afraid." "But... No... I should have..." He wanted so much to get up from the bed, but he knew he couldn't count on his legs. There was so little about himself that he could count on right now. "I should have... been able to maintain control." "No, Benny."
"Yes, Ray. I was afraid... for me... even more than I was afraid for you, Ray." "And that was right, too."
"No." Fraser shook his head in disagreement. "He was going to kill you. He would have killed you." "We face death everyday. How we face it defines us." "And the death we're facing defines how we face it. Everyone has things that terrify them. Everyone has probably a thousand ways to die that they could live with... so to speak... and a thousand ways that would scare them to death before they died of the... way." There was a strange sound in Fraser's throat, the sound of laughter, mingled with the sound of despair. "That... was almost profound, Ray. You need to work on the ending a bit." "Yeah, well, philosophy was only my minor." "In college?"
"In life."
"Ah."
Ray waited a bit before continuing.
"Benny, you knew this "Jack"was going to kill you. You didn't know when, but you sure knew enough about how to know it was going to be a terrible death. "As soon as he found out that you were a man -- we both know what he would have done -- what he did to Brendon Weingarten. It didn't take a week, but he didn't die fast and he didn't die easy. How could you not be afraid? Especially in the condition he had you. "They say that what makes torture so effective isn't just the pain, it's the knowledge of pain to come and the helplessness to stop it. "This man knew how to wield his weapons." "It doesn't matter."
"What?"
"It doesn't matter. None of it matters. It's over now." "Benny, you can't just ignore it."
"I will. I have to." But he had no idea how. "It's just not going to be that easy, this time." "Easy?"
"I mean, even with Welsh covering your tracks, you are still going to have to make your report." "I'm aware of that."
"On everything that happened. Everything that was said." "Only what they need to know."
"And you'll just keep the rest locked up inside you." "No one needs to hear... the rest..."
"I do."
"No."
"Yes. I need you to tell me."
"No, you don't Ray."
"Yes. I, your best friend, Ray Vecchio, need to hear whatever that sonofabitch said to you." "No."
Ray got up from the chair and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm telling you the truth. I need to hear it." "No."
"Do you know why I need this?"
Ben had slumped, tired beyond belief. "You're trying to help me in some way. But it's a misguided attempt..." "No." He removed his hand and sat back in the chair. "Don't get me wrong. I'd do anything for you, Benny. Fires'a hell and all that. But I want you to do this for me."

"Ray, I can't..."
"I want you to share what is probably the worst thing that's ever happened to you and I pray God will be the worst. I want you to be my friend and trust me. I want you to believe that I can handle it. That I can help you. "That's what I need. Can you give it to me? Or are you going to shut me out again?" Ben was so shaken he couldn't gather strength or formulate words. He tried and failed and tried again. "I... I... No... I don't mean to shut you out... But I can't do this... No one will ever hear that." Ray pulled the chair close. His voice was low and steady and absolutely sure. "Yes, you can, Benny. Just to me. No one else. You'll never have to say it again. You'll never have to hear it again." "It's..." His eyes were brimming again and he couldn't stop the tears from flowing. "...too ugly... can't say it." "Yes, you can."
"Can't be that selfish."
"That's a matter of opinion. I myself see it as the most unselfish thing you might ever do. And I know how unselfish you can be." "I don't understand."
Ray smiled now. "Yes, you do. All you have to do is put yourself in my place. It's me that went through what you did and you have the same chance to help me. Should be simple, my friend." The room was quiet. The silence stretched out long and hard. Ray waited it out. "I need... I need a shower first."
"Sure, Benny."
"Then maybe the tea."
"Good idea. I'll heat it up. Or should I make fresh?" "Bark tea is actually quite good reheated." Ray collected some fresh clothes for his friend. Ben got up on his own and made it down the hall to the community bathroom. When he returned a full half hour later, they took some blankets and pillows and sat on the floor, Ben with his tea, Ray with a mug of coffee. Ray tried to get Ben to finish the sandwich. That didn't work. Soon after that he had no appetite either. In fact he was glad he hadn't had a thing to eat. Ben began speaking in a quiet, flat voice. "He had his own names for each woman. Flowers and gemstones. He called me Sapphire. The first was Amaryllis." He started at the beginning and did not stop until the end. His voice sometimes cracked, but never took on any life. It was a terrible recitation of a catalog of horrors. He could only do it on a sort of autopilot. Trying to protect himself by putting some distance between himself and the words he was speaking. The only betrayal was the wetness on his face for almost the entire time. Gradually even his trembling stopped. Ray sat quietly and listened. He didn't ask how Benny was doing or stop him with a question, he let the whole thing wash over him in all its hideousness. The picture of his friend forced to listen and knowing that the same monster would eventually kill him was almost too much to bear. But he was thankful to have the burden. Thankful to still have his friend He thought they had a chance of getting through this now.

Epilogue
Ray could hardly credit that Fraser had the courage to face the body in the morgue the next day. He had made his report. His part in the case was over. Every report from this point on would refer only to an unnamed undercover officer who was instrumental in the capture of the killer at great personal risk to herself. Her identity would never be revealed. The few reporters who got a whiff of some sort of Canadian involvement received a polite statement: "There is no evidence to support the theory that the serial killer dubbed KillerJack by the media was Canadian or spent any time in Canada." That last statement had been enough to fuel more than one week's worth of speculations about KillerJack's secret Canadian connection and deflect interest from the true Canadian involvement. It did just what it what it had been created to do. Inspector Thatcher knew only that Fraser had been involved in some, presumably incidental, way with the case. Probably supplying, no doubt useful information, she assumed. Although there were many things he wished he could share with her. Much more than their recent cup of coffee or even their egg adventure -- this, Ben planned never to have to tell her. It was one thing that would be easy to keep from her.

Pearson had heard some of the rumors floating around that Fraser and Vecchio had both had some involvement in the apprehension of the killer. Probably rescued the damsel/undercover cop in distress in the nick of time. All they needed were a pair of white chargers. And after all Fraser was a Mountie. And that red serge would look great against the white. When she saw them she dropped the runaway fantasy before it left the station. They both looked exhausted. And Fraser's face looked like he'd been shaving with a rusty hatchet. She decided they must have been involved in this in a very hands on way.
This one was a nasty business from the get-go. She didn't know why they wanted to see the body. Well, a lot of people wanted to see it -- the paparazzi would pay upwards of ten thousand dollars to get a single shot of Jack. And then there were the curious, the sensation seekers, but very few had actually been given permission from upstairs -- and no "photojournalists." However, she didn't expect morbid curiosity to be the reason the cop and the Mountie were here. Their greetings had been subdued. As she led the way toward the drawer, she couldn't help noticing that the detective seemed more focused on Fraser than on anything else. Vecchio watched him as if he half expected him to break. Now she was growing concerned. The Canadian really didn't look well. When she stepped to the side of the door Fraser spoke. "Thank you kindly for this, Dr. Pearson." "No problem, Constable." She wanted to ask if he was all right, but held back, certain the question would not be welcome. "He turns out to be a pretty pathetic serial killer." The effects of those words were rather startling. Fraser visibly stiffened and Ray shifted toward him as if ready to assist him... or maybe catch him if he keeled over. *No,* she was reading too much into everything today. "How so?" It was Fraser who eventually asked. "Well, for starters he was younger than the pattern for most serial killers." She opened the door and swung it wide. "Probably twenty-three to twenty-six." She pulled out the drawer. "Immediately upon examination his body revealed years of abuse -- not self inflicted -- crisscrossing scars almost too numerous to count. Long healed cuts, burns -- many electrical." Ray put a hand on Fraser's back. He could feel the tiny shudder even through the rigid tension in his shoulder. The ME pulled back the sheet and there was the upper torso of the cadaver. The scars she described were evident and easily distinguished from those which were clearly post mortem. The Mountie just stood, head bent to stare at the pathetic remains of the man who had held him in his power and would have snuffed out his life without compunction. The muscles under Ray's hand were like rock. He could see the jaw muscle jumping in his friend's cheek. Fraser was so tightly coiled, Ray didn't know how he was keeping himself from exploding -- or completely collapsing. "He'd had more than a dozen bones broken and healed, sometimes very badly. And he'd been castrated, probably before the age of eleven or twelve, the job done by a butcher. "All the injuries seem to have been preadolescent, most early childhood. It was an abomination." Ray could hardly spare the body a glance, nor the tortured child a moment's passing sympathy. His thoughts were all on Fraser and how he was taking this. "So the monster was made,"Fraser observed at last.

"Oh, yes. This one was made as surely as Frankenstein's." "Just a small tortured boy." Esther thought he sounded sad and profoundly surprised. As though it wasn't simply unexpected, but unimaginable. "Yeah,"she agreed. Then, deciding to share her personal thoughts, she continued, "There'll be a lot of theories about this one, but I already have mine." "Yes, Doctor?"
"I believe that he was recreating the tortures from his own childhood." "Yes, very likely."
"He probably had been abused by a woman, possibly even his own mother. For whatever reason it stopped at adolescence, maybe her death or his escape. He eventually felt the need to act out his own terrors seeking out women who seemed more powerful than him." "Only he would be the one in power,"Fraser finished. "Yes. He would conquer his own demon." "Yes." He took a long, quiet breath, then let it go. "Thank you once again, Doctor Pearson." "You're welcome." As they turned to exit, the hairs at the back of her neck rose, she felt a chill run down her spine. On Fraser's neck, just below the earlobe was another tiny scab. Oh my God. She should have recognized the marks on his face. She knew how they got there. She let them leave without another word. She couldn't even stop to close the drawer. Not just now. Just now she had to sit. And once she sat, she decided the wisest thing would be to place her head below her heart, so she tucked it between her knees and narrowly avoided fainting. Imagine. Fainting. Her.
My God. How could he... How did he... Thank God he's alive.

Outside in the hallway, Fraser leaned against the wall. "You all right?"
"I will be in a moment."
"I didn't expect that."
"Nor did I."
The hall remained empty, so they had no need to move. Ray let Fraser have the time he needed to pull himself together. "Strange."
"Yeah, tell me. Everything about this has been strange and way too scary." "That he could so terrify me." He looked at Ray. "I saw no trace of fear in him." He paused as something came to him. "There was something he said." When Fraser didn't finish, Ray threw in,'Yeah, Benny?" "He said something about what he looked for in the eyes of his victims. Openness, vulnerability. He said, "who would want to go through eternity with eyes that wouldn't let you in." That's where he saw himself -- the boy he had been -- in the eyes of the women he killed." After awhile Ray thought Fraser looked well enough to move on. "Can we leave now, Benny? I need some air." "Air would be nice, Ray."
"Yeah, today just breathing is a good thing." "Oh, yes, Ray. It's a good thing."

FYI
All theories aside, whatever "Jack's"reasons for killing, he had taken them to the grave with him. As he had taken his true identity. Although his fingerprints would be run through every databank available worldwide and his photo was plastered everywhere for months, "Jack"remained unidentified, along with three of his victims. His only name, the sensational headline name given to him. The only living soul who was known to have heard him speak, had said he referred to himself only as "Jack." He would be tagged, J. Doe 8547-1A.
Of course, this anonymity gave some of the tabloids fodder for intermittent stories (whenever there was a slow news day) postulating that the young man caught and killed hadn't been the real KillerJack and that he was out there somewhere ready to strike again. If you were to believe them, it was only a matter of time. The End

End Heaven and Hell by Dilanne Tomas: Dilanne@aol.com

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