Disclaimer: World's Shortest Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.

Author's Notes: Please see Part One.

Story Notes: Please see Part One.

This story is a sequel to: Slam Dunk, Part Two

CHAPTER FIVE: BLUE GRAVE

"Well, the first thing we need to do is make a list of what we need," Fraser said, opening the door to Stella's apartment.

He held it open as she and Ray walked in. Fitting through the door was a bit of a challenge for Stella, in her dress, but she made it.

"I agree," she said. "Let me just go change my clothes. You two can start figuring stuff out. I mean, we've got at least a week to get everything set up, right?"

"Right," Ray responded, as she ran to her bedroom. "Hey, 'ya got anything to drink?"

"Yeah! There's some orange juice in the fridge and scotch in the cupboard!" she shouted from behind the closed door.

As Ray got up to paw through Stella's refrigerator, Fraser plopped himself down at the dining room table and looked around, yawning. The all-nighter was beginning to catch up with him. But, even though he was exhausted, he noticed one thing immediately about Stella's apartment. It was a lot bigger and much better furnished than Stan's place. The living room was large, with a full sofa, a small love seat, a glass-topped coffee table, and a very nice home-entertainment system. The kitchen was spacious and well-stocked with all the necessary tools. There appeared to be two full bedrooms and bathrooms, and everything was tastefully decorated in soft colors. All the floors were hardwood.

The Mountie blinked a few times, yawned again, and stared up at the hanging rack of pots and pans, which dangled over the maple-surfaced island in the middle of the kitchen. They all shone in the soft light of the room.

Bleary-eyed, Fraser found a notebook on the table, took out a pen, and began to write:

Step one. Talk to a doctor to find out about out-patient care after procedures.

That was a start. Ray sat down across from him with a mug of instant coffee, and passed Fraser a glass of orange juice. They had a lot to do.

It was one o'clock when Mari woke up. She kept her eyes squinted nearly shut as she stretched her arms and felt around for her glasses. She put them on, and then opened her big, hazel eyes.

"Oh my God! I'm blind! I'm blind!" she panicked, flailing her arms a bit. It took her a minute to calm down. "Wait a minute. Why is my vision completely gray? ... Oh, no. What's that smell?"

She took off her glasses and stared at them.

"Oh, yech! That's disgusting! I can't believe them! Ooh, just wait till I get my hands on those birds! Josie! Lulu! You're in big trouble, you hear me?!"

She marched over to the sink and began to rinse the parakeet poop off her spectacles, muttering to herself and checking her watch. She still had to shower, eat, and study some more before going back to the hospital.

The reception desk in the psych ward was calm and organized, as opposed to the frantic one down in the E.R. A forty-something psychiatrist appeared to be looking for something, though. A young nurse walked up to him.

"Doctor?" she asked. "Do you need anything?"

"Yes," the man said. "I was actually looking for Rosa. Do you know where she is?"

"I'm sorry, doctor. I don't know anyone named Rosa."

"You're new?"

The nurse nodded.

"I see. Well, I'm Dr. Reynolds, and Rosa is Dr. Santos."

"Oh! Nice to meet you, Dr. Reynolds. Yes, Dr. Santos is here. I think she actually went into exam 6 to speak with a patient."

"Thanks."

The nurse nodded and wandered off with some supplies. Dr. Reynolds went looking for his fellow physician, muttering. He had to go over some petitions with her regarding protocol. Not terribly exciting, but necessary, and this psych patient would have to wait.

"Rosa?" he called, as he approached the door to exam 6, which was slightly ajar. "It's Mike."

No response.

"Rosa?" he called again, pushing open the door to the darkened room.

Again, nothing. He turned on the lights.

"ROSA!!!"

The phone rang while Mari was in the shower. Even without her glasses, she could see Lulu flapping all over the bathroom, chirping and having the time of her life. She was just a blur of green, and it was fun to watch her. There was so much steam in the room, the bird must have assumed she was back in the rainforest, or something. Mari sighed, turned off the water, wrapped herself in a towel, and went to answer.

"Hello?" she said, picking up.

"Hi, Mari?" a female voice replied on the other end. "It's Miyako."

"Oh, hey! What's up?" Miyako Ishiguro, a nurse in the E.R., had been a good friend for a long time.

"I've got some bad news. It's about Rosa."

"What happened?" Mari asked, starting to dry her hair.

"~sigh~ She got stabbed by a patient."

"WHAT? Oh, my God. How many times? Where?" She grabbed a bra, tried to put it on, and got it tangled up. "Did they stabilize her? Who took her? If Denise took her, I'm going to do some serious head-busting ---"

"Mari, slow down!"

She finally got her bra on. "I can't slow down!" She grabbed a shirt. "Did someone call her parents?" She pulled it down over her head.

"Earth to Berg! They're still living in Puerto Rico. Besides, we're her two emergency contacts, not them."

"What? I can understand you being her contact, I mean, you were her roommate in college. Hell, you still are. But why me? I was just a friend."

"That's a crock, and you know it."

Mari sighed and began struggling into her underwear and jeans.

"I can't believe this. We had lunch with her three days ago. Is she still alive?"

The girl on the other end sighed. "For the moment. Bartlett took her, and she's in surgery. She got stabbed in the chest."

"Shit. All right, look. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Does anybody know who did it?" she asked, running to her bureau for socks. She clamped the phone between her shoulder and ear and bounced up and down on one foot, then the other, getting them on.

"Yeah, but they can't find him. That's the problem. What's even worse is that he got dragged into the hospital after trying to kill somebody. Rosa didn't know that. Apparently she released his arm restraints, and that's when he stabbed her."

"Sonofabitch. Do they have a name?"

"Yes. Hang on." There was a mad flipping of papers on the other end. "Yeah, here it is! Dummy left his chart behind in the room. 'Wilson Parker.' Ring any bells?"

Mari blanched as she walked back into the bathroom. She started to comb the tangles out of her curly hair.

"'Wilson Parker.' You're sure," she said, finally.

"Sure as my name," Miyako replied. "Do you know him?"

"Sort of. The person he tried to kill was a police officer. We stabilized him, and then Parker got dragged in. This all happened on my shift. He was flailing like a wacko. I tried to tape his head down to the board and he bit me. I slapped him, and then Bartlett made me go home."

"Well, now he's loose."

"Jeez, this sucks. Okay, Miyako? I need a favor. I need the cell phone information for ... oh, brother. I suck with names. Gimme a minute ... Vecchio! Detective Raymond Vecchio, Chicago P.D. Either that, or, ... oh, hell! ... It's right on the tip of my tongue!" She slapped the counter and angrily pulled the brush through her hair. "Rrrrgh! Dammit! The cute Canadian guy! Um... Bentley ... Bent ... Benton! Benton Fraser! Constable, R.C.M.P. Both of these guys are cops, and I need a number where I can reach them. Can you get it?"

"Hang on, I'm looking. God, it's so funny to listen to you trying to remember things."

"Shut up."

There was some snickering and paper shuffling on the other end. Finally ...

"Got it! You have a pencil?"

"Hang on."

She dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a notepad and pen. "Go ahead. ... Uh huh, uh huh, ... yeah. Okay, thanks a lot. See you soon. Anything changes with Rosa, page me. ... All right, Miyako. Bye."

She looked at the number she'd just scribbled down, then at the phone, then at a small, blue, chirping object sitting on the stove. Josie. Mari raised an eyebrow at the parakeet, made a perch with two fingers, and whistled. Josie came flying over, and landed on the spot. Lulu heard the noise as well, and came and landed on her shoulder. She took them back to their cage in the bedroom, put them in, and closed the door. They sat on their perch, and she eyed them both.

"I'll forgive the glasses incident, but I meant what I said. If I find any little 'gifts' on the carpet, you're both grounded. See you gals later."

She picked up a warm jacket, shrugged into it, ran back to the phone, and dialed.

Fraser woke up to find himself inexplicably curled up in a ball on Stella's love seat. Someone had thrown a comforter over him. He started completely awake, blinking wildly at being in such unfamiliar circumstances, and looked at his watch. One forty. The blinds were closed.

One forty. AM? PM? What day is it?

"Benny?"

He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder and turned up to see Ray looking down at him.

"Hey. Glad you got a nap. That was Bergstrom, the gal from the E.R. We have a serious problem."

"What happened?"

"Wilson escaped and attacked a psychiatrist. With intent."

Fraser stared at him. "Is he still in the hospital?"

"No. The security guards have searched everywhere. They can't find him." The Italian sighed. "What the hell are we gonna tell Welsh?"

Fraser didn't know what to tell his friend. The night when Stan was in surgery was slightly fuzzy. He remembered that he, Ray, Meg, Huey and Dewey had filled Welsh in on the basics of what had happened, along with other visitors --- the Kowalskis, Frannie and Ray's mother. He couldn't remember saying much to help with the explanation, but he distinctly remembered a softened edge to the truth. Welsh hadn't seen Wilson brought in. He hadn't seen him bite that poor doctor, nor did he hear his confession of total lunacy and planned violence.

And ... Oh, dear. It was all coming back, now. Ray hadn't mentioned any of it.

"Hey, there. You're up," came a female voice from his left.

He turned and saw Stella, standing there, dressed comfortably in jeans and a baggy sweater.

"Oh, good morning, Stella. Or afternoon. I'm not really sure."

"The second one. Come on, you gotta eat something."

She helped him up and gave him a gentle push to start him walking towards the kitchen. He did, in a daze, and sat down at the table across from Ray. The detective gave a detailed report of the incident while Stella poured coffee, juice, and gave everyone some leftover pasta. When Ray was finished, his two listeners were in shock. Fraser had a fork-full halfway to his mouth, which had been forgotten. Stella's mouth was full, and she'd apparently forgotten how to chew.

"Ray, that's ... that's monstrous. We have to tell Leftenant Welsh. He has to know. This man is a threat, not only to himself, but to society at large!" Fraser said.

"Frrgghrr's rrugh," Stella said, nodding.

"What?" Ray asked.

She swallowed. "I said, 'Fraser's right.' It's only a matter of time before he attacks somebody else. This man is a psychopathic killer. We have to get him off the street. I know you don't want to hurt Welsh, Ray. I know the guy is family to him. But if you ask me, I think he likes you, and Stan, and everyone else who works for him, a hell of a lot better. I think he'd prefer it if Stan's attacker was put behind bars."

"It's not that simple," Ray said. "Welsh has something going on with Wilson's father. We arrest this guy and there could be problems for 'Daddy-o' and big repercussions for the Lieu."

"It doesn't matter," Fraser said. "This has to be done. Call the Leftenant and tell him everything, from beginning to end. Then it's up to him to make the decision, but it's mandatory that he have all the information. In the meantime, I'm going to contact Inspector Thatcher."

"Why?" Ray asked.

"Well, I have to report to her and let her know that I'm working on a case." He got up and crossed to the telephone in the living room.

Ray sighed, took out his cell phone, and started to dial. "Okay. You call her, I'll call him, and Stella? What are you going to do?"

"I'll go to the hospital and see Stan. By the way, he's recovering here," she said as she stood up and grabbed her warm jacket and purse.

"Excuse me?" Ray said, a little taken aback at her statement. "Look, you don't have to play host, Stella. He's your ex. I know what you guys went through with the divorce and everything. Believe me, it's okay if he goes somewhere else. This is hard enough without all the emotional crap and stirred-up memories. I have a big house. He could ---"

"It's non-negotiable, Detective," she said, cutting him off. "He's staying here. And so are his parents. Constable?"

Fraser looked up from the phone. "Yes?"

"There's more pasta in the fridge if you want it."

"Um, thank you, Stella. That's very kind of you."

She nodded and left, closing the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, Ray looked at Fraser.

"What the hell was that about?"

"I have no idea, but it's a very generous offer, Ray. She's got plenty of space, and something tells me we'll need every inch we can get. We should take it."

They both looked at each other as Ray considered Fraser's reasoning. Finally, after a nod of agreement, each dialed.

Lieutenant Harding Welsh sat like a sack of potatoes in his chair, holding the phone to one ear with a limp hand, listening to the crackling and noise on the other end. Finally the noise stopped and the Lieutenant had to pinch between his eyebrows with two fingers for a moment before he replied. He was stunned, angry, and thoroughly depressed all at once.

"I can't believe this. I know Stan should be all right, but if that woman dies ... ~sigh~ God help that crazy bastard --- this'll become a murder investigation."

"I'm so sorry, sir," came Ray's voice through the device. "I know you and his father have something going on. If his son gets in trouble, ... Fraser said to call you and tell you everything so that you could decide what to do."

"Fraser's got a lot of sense, Detective. Good thing you listened to him." He sighed again and ran his fingers through his gray hair. "All right, well, if he's not in the hospital, that settles it. I don't care what his daddy wants. This has to stop. Put out an APB on him. I'll see if Huey and Dewey are busy, too."

"Yes, sir. Thanks."

"Yeah. Take care." He hung up.

This was going to cause a rift --- he knew it. His brother's wife, Joanne, was very attached to her brother, Bruce. He liked Joanne, and didn't want to make her upset, but Bruce, being a powerful investment broker, had blamed Welsh for a significant decrease in his profits. Harding had offered the businessman some casual advice about a particular stock. It wasn't like he'd expected the pinstriper to take it, but he did. The lieutenant sighed when he thought about all the money that Bruce had invested, and how much he'd lost when the company tanked. Of course, this wasn't the big problem. If Bruce talked to Joanne, his anger would become hers. Knowing Joanne, she would probably complain to her husband, who would undoubtedly get into a feud with his brother over upsetting his wife. Not good.

So, for the sake of keeping family unity, the lieutenant apologized to Bruce and allowed Wilson to play on the team. But he wasn't legally responsible for him. Furthermore, any responsibility he had to the guy didn't extend to protecting him after he'd knowingly run down one of his finest officers. It was time to take out the trash.

He stood up slowly and went to find Huey and Dewey.

Inspector Thatcher hung up the phone in her office, shaken by the news she'd received, and put on her coat, scarf, hat and gloves, feeling somehow that her hands and arms were obeying some higher power rather than her own mind. She picked up her purse, dropped the two addresses that she'd scribbled down inside it, and fished her keys out as she was leaving.

"Ma'am? May I ask where you're off to?" came Turnbull's voice from down the hall.

She stopped and turned as the officer approached her.

"I'm off to do a favor for someone. I should be back here in an hour."

"Very good, ma'am."

She nodded curtly at him and hurried out the door into the flurries of snow outside. Her car was dusted with it like a bunt cake with powdered sugar. She got in, cranked up the heat, pulled out, and drove peacefully through the city until she reached a Motel 6 on the outskirts of town, near the suburbs. She checked the paper one more time.

"Room 23. Room 23," she mumbled, and squinted, looking at the door numbers.

Finally, she saw it and pulled into a nearby space. Stella was doing a kind thing, and Fraser had reiterated her request to the inspector, who, for reasons she couldn't explain, was following through with it. It was the right thing to do, and all, but she barely knew the Kowalskis.

Oh, well. A silent car ride never hurt anybody.

She got out, walked quickly to the door, and knocked. There were footsteps inside and a woman's shout to someone to turn off the TV. The latch clicked, the door opened, and there stood Barbara. Her gray hair was shoulder-length and slightly tangled, and her clothes looked very out of place in the city --- jeans, boots, an old sweater, and a colorful poncho over it.

"Mrs. Kowalski?" Meg said, pulling up the lapels of her sleek, gray coat.

"Yes?" the woman answered.

"Hi. I'm Inspector Thatcher. Did Ms. Jackson tell you I was coming?"

"Oh! Yes, she did. Listen, dear, we're not quite packed yet. Would you care to come in? It'll only be a few minutes."

"Sure."

She quickly stepped inside, and Barbara closed the door. Grateful to be in out of the cold, she swept the snow off the shoulders of her coat and looked around the small room. Damien was just starting to move. He'd apparently been napping on the bed with the TV on. Barbara was moving quickly. Her son had inherited her quick step and continuous motion. She began to fold shirts and pack them in one of the four suitcases they'd brought with them. Meg took off her gloves and hat, and went to help. Finally, even Damien pitched in a little and they were packed. The inspector helped them both into their coats and everything else, and after a bit of stumbling in the doorway, they got all their luggage out to her car and into the trunk. Barbara took shotgun while Damien went to pay the bill. She and Meg were alone together in the car.

Silence made Barbara nervous, though.

"So, um, thank you very much for picking us up. I'm actually quite surprised that Stella wants us to come to her apartment."

"Oh, well, you shouldn't be. I think it's lovely that she's having you."

"Me too. Uh, what was your name, again?"

"Meg Thatcher. I'm an inspector with the R.C.M.P."

"Oh, that's right! You're Benton's superior, aren't you?"

Surprised as hell at this woman using Fraser's first name, Meg could only stare for a moment.

"You know Constable Fraser?" she asked.

"Yes, of course. I got to know him through Stanley. Good man. He's always been there for my son." She smiled a little sadly and looked out the window.

"Yes, he has," Meg agreed. "He's also a fine ... employee."

"I see," said Barbara, looking at the woman next to her a little slyly. "And have you gotten to know Benton as well?"

"Sort of," Meg responded, trying to hold down her blush. The memories of going skating with him a few weeks ago were still playing hard on her mind. She stiffened, to drive them away. "His organizational skills are top notch."

Barbara nodded. Her face didn't reveal anything, but she knew what was going on. "Ah. Anyway, when is Stan coming home?"

"In a week, according to Stella. She and Fraser and Detective Vecchio are getting the apartment set up for him. Oh, here comes your husband."

She pressed the button to unlock the back door as Damien hurried to the car in the snow. He opened the door, got in, and slammed it shut against the biting wind outside. Meg revved the motor, turned on the heat, and backed out of the space. After fifteen minutes of driving and talking with Barbara (Damien could have been part of the back seat for all he said), she arrived at the proper address, helped them with their bags, and saw them up to Stella's apartment. Ray answered the door, and knowing about Stella's wish, began to give them a hand in getting settled.

As Damien got the bags inside, Barbara turned to Meg.

"Thanks for the ride, dear."

And she gently hugged her. It was a simple gesture, but it shocked the Mountie, who just managed to return the embrace.

"Take care, Mrs. Kowalski," she said politely.

Barbara smiled and nodded. Meg walked away down the stairs, feeling shamefully pampered from the hug and yet warmer against the wind outside. Her task accomplished, she drove back to work.

Stella entered Room 10 and sat down next to the bed. Very little had changed since that morning. Stan was still asleep, covered by the blankets. The machines were still beeping. The i.v. was still dripping. She began to pick at a nail and sighed. She'd come here with the crazy notion that perhaps he would be awake and talking, even though he couldn't move that much. Of course, this was impossible. But she looked at the patient and considered everything she had left behind to stay with him until he could get out of bed and talk to her properly --- riches, a realtor husband, and a penthouse in New York. Smiling, she looked down at the bandaged face and the stringy neck, and knew with a bizarre certainty that she was better off for staying here with this man. Without thinking, she put a hand on his cheek.

The eye opened, and she gasped, a little ashamed of waking him up, but recalled all of a sudden that he was a very light sleeper. Not having slept next to him in a long time, it was a little thing she was glad to remember.

"It's okay, Stan. It's only me," she said.

A slight bit of worry crossed his face, and she was quick to reassure him.

"Don't worry. I won't go anywhere."

He took her hand and gave her a half-smile. It was just then that she noticed the oxygen mask he was wearing over his mouth and nose. He'd been taken off the ventilator. She smiled and settled down in the chair at his bedside, secure for the first time in a long time.

The police cameras flashed and left little sparkles in front of their eyes as they made their way close to the crime scene. Fraser was obliged to look at the floor half the time to keep from being blinded. Ray wasn't so careful and ended up stumbling around and whacking himself into the wall. Fraser grabbed his friend's shoulder and steadied him.

"All right?"

"Yeah." He blinked a few times, pulled out his badge, and approached. "Chicago P.D.," he said to the photographer from CSI. "Detective Ray Vecchio. I've got this."

"Yes sir," said the man. "I just need a couple of more shots and we'll be gone."

"Fine."

The man continued to click away at the giant puddle of blood on the floor.

"Ray, what exactly are we looking for?"

"Well, nothing in particular, but proof positive that Wilson did this would be nice."

"Ah."

Fraser looked around the room, and found himself staring at the bed. The restraints were all undone, and he could see the depression where a human body had been. His trained eyes continued across the puddle of blood until they hit the doorway he was standing in. He stepped over the police tape, much to the chagrin of Ray and the uniformed cops assembled, who immediately started yelling at him. He ignored them and examined what he'd found --- a hand print.

"Ray?" he asked, never taking his eyes from it.

Ray came over. "What?"

"Proof."

"Huh?"

"Ray, this impression has fingerprints. Let the CSI unit dust for them, and they'll undoubtedly be Wilson's."

A tech in a blue smock wended his way over with the dust and began the process. Both Fraser and Ray looked down at the few, bloody, half footprints the attacker had left, and then looked at each other. Fraser glanced around at the techs and the slightly annoyed uniforms.

"Gentlemen," he said by way of goodbye, and the two of them turned to go. "Ray, I think we should see what's happening with the victim. Surgery is on this floor."

"Right."

They left. Ray walked straight off down the hall, but Fraser suddenly stopped and turned left. As usual, Ray didn't notice. He kept walking alone for a moment, then stopped, sighed, doubled back, and shot off after his friend.

Stan had been lucky. Despite the attack and his present state, which was a bit precarious, he would probably make a complete recovery.

Rosa was not so lucky. When Mari blew into the E.R. like a gust from Lake Michigan, Miyako stood up at the reception desk and came around to meet her. The former was heaving for breath from running, but the latter was eerily calm. A lone tear was tracing its way down her cheek. Finally, when she caught her breath, Mari faced her friend, who was still silent.

"Miyako?"

The nurse paused and licked her lips. She didn't know quite how to put it. "It's all over," she said finally, and looked at her friend as calmly as she could.

She kept her doe eyes almost at half-mast, and another tear fell. Memories of having sundae binges and late night pillow fights with Rosa in their dorm flitted involuntarily through her mind. When Rosa was finishing her last two years, Miyako had been doing her two-year training to become a nurse. Basic student poverty had caused both of them to share a room with each other, and with Mari as their next door neighbor ... it was bound to happen. Sisterhood. Even after they graduated and found another apartment together, all three had stayed close.

"What?"

"It's all over, honey. They did their best, but she'd lost so much blood ... She died on the table."

Mari stared at her, blinking in mute shock as Miyako walked with her to the waiting area and both sat down. Mari looked blankly at the opposite wall, only nodding that she understood when her friend explained, now openly weeping, that it had simply been too much for Rosa's body to take. The stab wounds, compounded by the surgical incisions and the time lapse in between both events had drained her of everything. She didn't have the strength to make it.

"And someone has to make the call to her parents." She sniffed and blew her nose.

Mari put an arm around her, and then finally turned to face her.

"Which 'someone' is this going to be?"

"I'll get someone up in surgery to do it."

"Good. I don't think either of us could."

Miyako nodded in agreement, and the two sat in companionable silence for a bit.

"Listen," Mari said, "I'm on in twenty minutes, and you're off in ten, right?"

"Right."

"So, why don't you sign out a little early, and we can go get a cup of coffee together."

"~sniff~ Yeah."

"All right."

She patted Miyako on the shoulder and the nurse left for the desk. Watching her go was quite a picture. With her pink uniform dirty from her shift, her jet black hair hanging down messily, and her shoulders slumped in defeat and grief and loss, it was the saddest thing the medical student had ever seen.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered, and put her face in her hands.

Wilson ran as fast as his skinny legs would allow, looking over his shoulder as often as he could, crashing into people left and right, but in the end, making an escape. He decided to make his way down the side streets and alleys to get to his destination, but he'd been stopped by a few demons along the way. They weren't that skilled in apprehending him, though. A quick jab to the chest usually knocked the wind out of them, and most others just steered clear as he ran past. They didn't know where he was heading, but he did. Once he was there, everything would be fine. He knew the code to override the security feature on the electronic identification system. The car would be his, once again. Once he had it, all he needed to do was just drive away from the city. The demons would never follow him beyond the boundaries, and then he would be free.

Winded, he slowed down and leaned up against a building for a moment. Just for an instant, another idea entered his mind. A small voice was asking him why he'd try to kill that man, or why he had stabbed that woman. He had no answer for it, and sent it on its way. Two minutes and many gasping breaths later, though, the thought still plagued him. He went back to his old stand-by. Rationalization.

So I've done some violent things. Hasn't everyone? Besides, no one can blame me for trying to purge this world of the demons who populate it. I just need to go somewhere where they don't exist, where humans like me can survive their scourge. I don't know where that place is, but I suppose when I find it, I'll know. And then I won't hurt anyone any more. I promise.

He stood up and ran off, checking over his shoulder once more.

Fraser and Ray walked out of the surgical wing shaken and silent. After hearing the news of what had happened to Wilson's other victim, and garnering the information of who her two emergency contacts were, they solemnly made their way down the elevator and back into the E.R.

The two men looked around at the chaos, the dance of the medical personnel and patients waiting and coming in on gurneys, until their eyes caught an interesting sight in the waiting room --- what looked like the back of an enormous head on top of a huge blob, half white, and half pink. The hair was half dark and curly, half black and straight.

Ray stared at it, confused, but Fraser called out, "Marianne?" and the head split in two.

Mari turned around to look at him, as did Miyako. Both women stood up. Their faces were tear-stained, and each was holding a cup of coffee from the roach coach behind the ambulance bay. Apparently the fact of the event had finally hit them.

"Constable," Mari acknowledged, her voice quiet and hoarse. She motioned to the nurse. "This is my friend, Miyako Ishiguro. She's an R.N. She was Rosa Santos's roommate."

"Miss," Fraser said.

Miyako nodded in reply, but didn't say anything. The two men approached them, and they all sat down to talk for a moment. As it turned out, neither of the women had a precise idea of what had happened to Rosa in room 6, but they both believed that Wilson had done it, were very angry and upset over their friend's death, and wanted to see justice served. At least, that was the way Fraser considered it. Ray would just refer to them as "sad and pissed off, and rightly so."

"Has anyone called her parents?" Fraser asked, finally.

Mari nodded. "We got someone to do it. They're flying in from Puerto Rico to identify the body."

A tear fell down her cheek, and she wiped it away. Ray could see no other outward sign of emotion, but Fraser saw the lost look in her eyes and recognized it as his own. He knew he'd worn that look in the few moments after he'd been told his father was dead.

He stood up. Staying here with two women who were in shock was not going to help catch the man who had murdered their friend. Ray joined him.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Fraser said. "However, I think I have an idea of where Mr. Parker might have gone."

"Good. Catch him," Miyako said.

"And then execute him," Mari finished, her words as hard as her shaking voice would allow.

Fraser nodded, and walked out quickly, followed by a confused Ray. He pushed open the doors and strode out to the Riv in the parking lot.

"Ray? Would you mind if I borrowed your cell phone?"

"G'head. Here."

"Thanks."

He dialed, had a quick conversation with someone on the other end, then hung up and handed it back to the detective.

"Benny?" he asked expectantly, as the two of them hopped into the car.

"I just called the impound lot. They were in a bit of an uproar because within the last five minutes, someone managed to electronically override their code for identification at the entrance."

"Wilson."

"Right on the ear."

"~sigh~ NOSE, Benny. Right on the nose."

"Sorry, sorry. Right on the nose."

Ray roared out of the parking space, hit the siren and the lights, flattened the accelerator, and the car shot off into the street like a bottle rocket.

Stan looked up at the ceiling and blinked. He had counted all the dots for the fiftieth time, now, and was starting to get a little bored. The mask on his face was itchy, but the moist air coming through it felt good in his lungs, and he didn't have the strength to take it off, anyway. Of all the rather nasty details of his situation, most of which he didn't know, the one that displeased him the most was the state of his legs. Not being able to walk was going to be a pain in the ass. A broken arm, he could deal with. A twisted ankle, no problem. But two broken legs? How the hell was he going to be able to function with two broken legs? Panic set in. What would he do? Where would he go after this nightmarish place released him? Who would take him in?

He didn't have a lot of time to brood on the subject, because a squeaking noise and a click, followed by the clicki-tat of ladies' shoes on the marble floor, told him that Stella had come back. He felt a hand take his, and he squeezed it as well as he could. Another hand was soon on his forehead, smoothing it, and suddenly, he felt very tired and stopped worrying. His open eye fluttered shut, and soon he was asleep.

Stella looked down at him and smiled. She'd only left for a moment to get some coffee and run into a nurse who told her that Stan was breathing on his own --- he just needed the mask for extra oxygen and was on intravenous muscle relaxants to keep him from coughing and tearing internal stitches. She'd felt this was more than she needed to know, but when the nurse was done, she said a polite "thanks" and walked away, marveling at her ex's tough constitution.

She was getting ready to enjoy a quiet hour or two sitting with Stan, when another nurse came in, wearing a sparkling white uniform, and carrying a clipboard. She gave Stella a warm smile, handed her the board, opened her mouth, and dropped the biggest bomb of D.A's life.

Jack Huey had always prided himself on being stylish, and his car was no exception. He'd saved up enough money to afford a very nice, champagne-colored Lexus sedan, and was quite happy with it. He was also secretly pleased that Lt. Welsh had favored his car over Dewey's to go looking for Wilson. As all three of them piled into it and Jack started the motor, he looked over at Tom. The other man was looking distinctly embarrassed by the nice condition of the interior, as compared to his, with the pizza and beer stains everywhere from numerous stake-outs. He was oddly quiet, and adjusted his old wool suit jacket before shutting the door.

"You okay?" Huey asked his partner.

Dewey gave him a quick smile and didn't answer.

The two men didn't have time to talk, though. Welsh plopped into the back, closed his own door, extended one arm across over the seat top, and pointed forward with the other. Jack hit the accelerator and peeled out of the parking space.

The Riv screeched to a halt in front of the Police Department's impound lot to find chaos everywhere, bounded by two ambulances with their lights going. A few cars in the lot looked like they'd been in a fight with a Mack truck, and the staff looked no better. A slim security guard, no more than 20, was sitting on the ground, leaning up against one wall of the parking kiosk. A paramedic was tending to his minor injuries while he iced one of his eyes. The guard was shaking his head "no" in response to some question. Two police officers were standing in the parking lot beyond the kiosk, speaking to other detectives, gesticulating wildly and giving exasperated testimony. Their jackets were gone, and their clothes were ripped. They were both scraped up. A third was unhappily being hefted into the back of an ambulance on a gurney. He had a broken leg and a bloody nose.

Also, the arm barrier leading out of the parking lot was no more than splinters on the ground, not to mention that half the kiosk was demolished.

"Jesus Christ," Ray said, taking it all in.

"Indeed," Fraser concurred.

The detective looked at the three cops, two of them shouting like idiots, and the third pouting as he was lifted into the car, and turned to Fraser. "Okay, listen. You try and talk to the security guard. I'll go have a word with Larry and Curly, seeing as how Moe is on his way to the hospital."

Fraser looked at him, confused. "How do you know their names, Ray?"

"Just do it, all right?!"

The startled Mountie blinked as Ray walked away, then shrugged and walked over to the security guard.

The paramedic was helping him stand up. The guard nodded at the paramedic, who smiled and walked away back to the ambulance. Fraser approached him, and the kid looked at him. A glance told the constable that this was a kid who was not planning on being a security guard for the rest of his life. He was probably going to college at night. He had a bookmark sticking out of his shirt pocket, ink on his hands, curiosity in his wide blue eyes, and bags underneath them. Even though it was hopeless, he was trying to arrange his wavy blond hair into some kind of order as the Canadian approached.

"Hi," Fraser said.

"Hi," came the reply.

The Mountie extended a hand. "Constable Fraser, R.C.M.P. You are...?"

"Joseph Samuels," the kid responded, with a thick Boston accent. "Call me Joey."

They shook.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Joey. I'm working with that detective over there..." And here he pointed at Ray, who was currently involved in an argument with Larry and Curly. "And we're trying to find a very dangerous man. Can you tell me what happened here?"

He sighed. "Dude, I'm tellin' ya, it was all crazy. I was getting some wacko reading on the entry board in the kiosk that someone had gotten in without using an i.d. It was saying, 'system override.' So this counts as an emergency, and I put a call through to Leroy and Frank over there ..." He pointed at the officers Ray was arguing with. "And I'm like, 'Hey! Someone got in without an i.d.! Get over here!' So they come running, and we all look around for a little while, but we don't see anybody in the lot. And then Leroy gets this call on his radio, that a set of keys are missing from the office."

"Now, who placed this call?"

"Oh, that was Jared, the guy they were taking away in an ambulance. Anyway, he calls and tells them that, and then he comes running out to join them, and then from like outta nowhere, this car comes zipping out of the lot. Crashes into like, seven parked cars, and then makes straight for Jared, poor bastard. He gets clipped in the leg, goes down on the pavement, and he's like, 'Aaah!' and holding his leg. And Leroy looks at me, and he's like, 'Call an ambulance, Joey!' So, I do, right? But oh my God. Stupid Frank, man. Frickin' moron tries to grab hold of the door handle of the car, to stop it. He gets dragged for like, thirty feet, and he finally has to let go because his pants are fallin' apart, so then Leroy tries it. He manages to get on top of the car and bang on the hood, but the damn thing does a U-ie, knocks him off, and makes straight for the kiosk, to get out. And I'm like, 'Holy shit!' And then the car crashed right through the barrier, blasted half of the kiosk to kingdom come, and took off. Made a left out of the lot. And here we are."

Fraser stood there blinking at Joey, who was breathing hard just from telling the story.

*All right,* the Mountie thought. Community college, certainly. English major, ... no.

"But the good thing is," the young man said a little proudly, "was that I got a good look at the driver."

"Good man. Description?" Fraser asked, pulling out a small notebook. He knew who the boy would describe, but if it would calm him down and make him feel like he'd contributed something, it was worth it.

"Blond, blue eyed, with big wire-rimmed glasses and a skinny face."

Fraser pretended to jot down the notes. "And you say he went left?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you. You've been a big help."

Joey nodded and then crawled into the kiosk, to see if anything could be saved. Fraser went to join Ray, who was thoroughly exasperated. He gave the detective Joey's story, minus the atrocious grammar. Ray whipped out his cell phone to give Lt. Welsh the information. They were closing in --- their target was on the run.

Stella stared at the nurse, who continued to smile at her.

"Next of kin? What do you mean, 'next of kin?' We've been divorced for a long time."

The nurse shrugged.

"A VERY long time!" Stella continued, in a rising panic. "I can't make medical decisions for him! I --- I just can't!"

She continued to babble and mutter, stunned at the news, shocked that Stan had never changed that listing to someone else. Her first thought was egotistical, as she wondered if he'd secretly been waiting for her to come back. Then she wondered if he was just too lazy to have asked Ray, or Fraser, or something.

Heaven forbid this happened to him and he ended up in a coma, and I wasn't here, or worse, just really mad at him --- he'd probably die on a ventilator. Good lord, Stan, what are you? Deliriously in love? Overly hopeful? Incredibly stupid?

She didn't know. Fortunately, the nurse knew how to deal with panicky people. She sighed and knelt before Stella, who was tensely seated in the armchair, coiled like a spring, her eyes wild.

*And they say men are afraid of commitment,* the nurse thought. Jeez.

"Look, ma'am, there's not a whole lot to be done here." She took Stella's hand. "Whatever the reason, you're still listed in that capacity. That means that should something serious happen to him, you'll be responsible for making a decision. But I highly doubt that'll happen, so just calm down and listen to me. I was simply informing you that you're next of kin. The contract that you're holding has nothing to do with that. If you sign, it says that you're going to provide the primary care when he's released --- but your status doesn't legally bind you to anything."

Stella blinked and looked at the nurse and breathed shallowly until her heart slowed down. She finally felt the sensation of the nurse's thumb running across the back of her hand in a small circle, and realized that she would just be signing a contract to do what she'd intended to do in the first place. She picked up the pen.

"Where do I learn what to do?" she asked, and signed.

The Riv tore out of the parking lot and made a left, leaving a cloud of dust and snow to settle on the two remaining cops and Joey. The kid ran out onto the sidewalk to watch them drive away in the direction of the first car. The sun glinted off of the horizon --- they were heading for Lake Michigan.

In the car, Ray was driving, his gaze shifting from left to right to left again, on the lookout for a blue Toyota sedan. Fraser was unsure of what to do next, but he didn't want to rattle his friend any further, so he kept his mouth shut and surveyed the area.

It'll be just dumb luck if we catch him. He hasn't left much of a clue, save 'left out of the lot.' "Ray, should we ask for an APB? A back-up scan of the area?"

"I already called Frannie. She's got other units out looking."

"Good. If we see him, we'll probably need ..."

ZOOM! A blue car shot through the intersection right in front of them.

"Assistance."

"Hit the lights, Benny!"

Fraser did and Ray made a left turn after the car that would have made an Indy 500 racer proud, even though it was done on a busy street and almost tipped the car over. Fraser got on the horn.

"Calling all units within a two click radius of Lake Michigan! We have the bogie, pursuing on Western Avenue! Anyone in the area, come in!"

He clicked off the radio and listened. Nothing, for a few seconds, and then ...

"Constable? Is that you?"

It was Lieutenant Welsh's voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, sir, we've got him in sight. Ray's driving."

"Who else would be? How far are you from the docks?"

"Approximately four and a half klicks, sir."

"Four and half what?"

"I mean, about two and a quarter miles."

"Got it." He yelled off the mike, "Huey, step on it for Western!" and turned back to the horn. "And which way is the car heading?"

"Uh..." Fraser squinted through the windshield. Ray was gaining on Wilson, blasting through light after light; red or green, it didn't really matter. "Toward the lake, sir, over."

"We'll be right behind you. Over and out."

Fraser clicked off the mike and looked at Ray, who was bent over the steering wheel and flattening the accelerator. He looked upset and anxious to get this over with.

"Ray?"

"What?" the cop asked, irritably.

"What are we going to do when we catch him?"

Ray shot him a look. "One thing at a time, Benny."

By the time Wilson saw the sun glinting off the water, he knew he was cornered. He could hear the green car following him closely, and heard several other sirens. Fraser's request for back-up had been heeded. When he braved a look in his rearview mirror, he saw at least four cars following him --- two of them plain, and two squad cars ... no, three. The last one was rounding the corner.

"Great," he muttered. "NOW I get the attention."

Marianne stood alone in the morgue, feeling quite small among the hundreds of high, clean, metallic cabinets, and crossed her arms in front of her for warmth. Miyako was off-duty, sleeping in one of the many rooms on reserve for doctors and interns who ended up being at the hospital practically 24/7. She wouldn't come down here. Also, Mari was taking a ten minute break, so there was no danger of anyone paging her for a moment. Clicking heels alerted her to someone else's presence in the room. Finally, her contact rounded the corner.

The name "Kreiger" was stenciled on his lab coat in red. He stopped, gave her a solemn nod, and motioned her after him. Silence was precious here, and necessary sometimes. She followed him, and together they wound their way through the seemingly endless rows of metal cabinets. She didn't want to dwell on what they contained. Only one mattered to her.

The name on the door simply said "W-6113," but when Kreiger opened it and carefully pulled out the sliding slab, she almost threw up. The top sheet was removed, and there, lying cold and still and quite peaceful, was Rosa.

Interestingly enough, even though she'd worked with cadavers in medical school and had seen many people die in the E.R, it was still hard. There was no dissociating from this. She put a hand over her mouth to contain herself, and Kreiger patted her shoulder and walked away.

She looked down at the pale body and shook her head slightly in disbelief. Two years ago, Rosa had invited her in for the first time, when she'd run out of food in her crappy little dorm room and had gone begging next door. Two weeks ago, Rosa had invited her to come to her apartment for a get-together/catch-up session. Two days ago, Rosa had been alive.

"Thanks."

The words were coming out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"You really did right by me and Miyako. You didn't have to be nice to us. She was a struggling nursing student, and I was just some dumb-ass kid who wanted to wear a lab coat, and you were nice to us. You didn't have to room with her. You didn't have to be my friend. But you were." She took a breath. "But damn, honey, you never could cook." She smiled despite herself, as a tear ran down her face. "I'll never forget the time when you made that casserole, and the fork bent inside it --- remember? --- and Miyako tried to break it into little pieces and put it down the garbage disposal, and it jammed for like, DAYS." She was laughing openly, now. "Oh, God, that was funny. We ordered take-out, Chinese, I think, and no one made you cook ever again. And if that was your plan, I commend you. Of course, that gave you more time to dedicate to your hair, which I always liked. You had good taste in make-up, too. Great lipstick, no matter what. That was you. And some of those fights we had --- I think one of them lasted a week. Can't even remember what any of them were about. And you know, in the end, it doesn't really matter. Oh, and let's not forget the time when we all tried to paint your apartment together ..." She clapped her hands together with a laugh. "And one room ended up blue, and the others ended up this horrible purple color because we didn't mix the paint right! We had to strip and wallpaper the whole damn thing. Talk about the futility of man --- Oh, lord."

She laughed, and wiped her face with the palm of a hand. Without thinking, she laid it on Rosa's cold shoulder.

"Thank you for everything. You were like a big sister to me, and I won't forget it. You were everything I hoped to be as a doctor, as a person ... God, you were so beautiful."

She couldn't stop it anymore. The tears ran down her face like a spring rain, and she smoothed her friend's hair off her bloodless face.

"We've got him!" Ray yelled excitedly, and gunned the Riv even faster.

They were shooting along the docks, now. On their right were the warehouses. On their left were enormous crates of cargo getting ready for loading. Right beyond the boxes was the water. And right in front of them was Wilson, in a car that was rapidly losing the speed battle against the all-mighty Riv. Fraser looked behind him out the back windshield. Dewey waved at him, while Huey drove. Fraser waved back, and turned around. They were coming to a definite fork in the road. One way went right, into the warehouses, and one way went left, directly onto a large, stone pier that jutted out right into the lake.

Fraser watched the car ahead of him, blinked into the dazzling sunlight, and suddenly felt himself seized with a tingling, unsettling feeling that pervaded his entire body and made his left leg go numb. This was the end of the trail.

"Indeed we do," he responded to Ray's yelp, trying to maintain his composure.

The car they were pursuing did exactly what he expected it to.

Wilson had no desire to be led away in handcuffs by demons who didn't play fair in the first place. He had no desire to be in their midst, in their city, in their world. He clenched the steering wheel with his bony fingers and peered out through his glasses at a dark and dismal place, a place where he had spent his entire life, that he was just now truly seeing. He was tired of being abandoned and judged at a glance. He was tired of being stared at, and looking around corners at the world, hoping no one would see him. He was alone. Utterly alone.

At first, this was a scary feeling, but it ebbed away as he bore down on the fork in the road. He realized, suddenly, somehow, that he couldn't possibly be alone if he were somewhere else. Somewhere without demons. A place where he would never have to hide.

"Not here," he mumbled. "Not here."

He rolled down his window and screamed out into the wind as he drove.

"Get away from me!" he yelled. "I want no part of this place! Just leave me the hell ALONE!"

And he turned left.

It all happened so fast that all of the police officers, including Fraser, could do nothing. First, the car was roaring away down the stone pier. Then it was a speck. Then it was simply gone. Whatever splash occurred was camouflaged by the howling wind.

Ray screeched his car to a halt, and everyone else braked and stopped their cars around his, but it was a long time before anyone moved.

Finally, Fraser slowly got out of the passenger side and slipped his Stetson on. Lieutenant Welsh got out of Huey's car. He and the "duck boys" approached Fraser and Ray, who were standing side by side, staring out at the water. Fraser never took his eyes from the lake.

"It's all over," he said.

"Yeah," the Lieutenant agreed, much to the surprise of most of the detectives and officers.

"Sir?" a rookie asked. "Shouldn't we dredge the lake? Bring up a body?"

Welsh just slowly shook his head. He wasn't sorry Wilson was gone, and yet sorry that he didn't feel sorry. But the feeling was there that sadly, no one would miss him. Ray walked forward to look off the edge of the pier, and the other men went with him, but Fraser stayed behind with the Lieutenant. They both looked out, just breathing in the harsh air, and looking around at the docks, once again busy after the car chase interruption.

"What an intensely unhappy man," Fraser finally commented. Welsh turned and stared at him. "He couldn't make peace with the world, and he couldn't make peace with himself. Maybe he's found somewhere better to be."

He turned and looked at Harding, who nodded, baffled at how some Canadian who just volunteered on his force could make so much sense of such a horrible situation.

"I think so," the older man commented.

"You should. And no matter what anyone says, or starts to say, you were in no way responsible for him, or what happened. Nobody blames you --- especially not the team."

"I dunno. The car ride with Huey and Dewey was pretty quiet."

"They're upset. Give them time."

Welsh nodded at the advice and squinted at Fraser. "You're pretty wise for such a young guy."

Fraser cracked a little smile. "I'm not wise, sir. Just experienced. There's a gulf between divining something's nature and being pummeled repeatedly until you learn how to deal with it. Anyway, if you'll excuse me, Leftenant, I have to collect my partner. We have work to do."

"Of course."

Fraser tipped his hat slightly to the Lieu and walked off down the pier to get Ray.

Stan opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling until everything came into focus. He could feel Stella's hand on his, and the drip of the i.v. into his veins, and the medicine rushing through his lungs that was clearing them and allowing him to breathe easier. But there was something else, too. A weight was gone. Really gone. Something had been banished from the world, and he didn't know what, but everything felt lighter, and wonderfully free.

And then, he knew. He knew even before his friends came into the room to pay him a visit and tell him the news. The man who had nearly killed him had been completely dealt with. And even though he could only blink and mumble, he made it clear that he understood, and shed no tears.

Mari heard the story as soon as Fraser and Ray walked in the door, and immediately ran upstairs to one of the private rooms. She pounded on the door of room 135, and stood there anxiously until she heard the click of the lock. Miyako opened the door and peered out. The harsh corridor lighting lit up her red, puffy face, and she sniffed. She hadn't been sleeping.

"Can I come in?" Mari asked.

A nod, and the door opened wider as her friend disappeared into the dark room to turn on the light. She closed the door and turned to face Miyako, who sat down on the still-made bed.

"He's dead," the intern said, simply.

The nurse stared. "What?"

"Ran his damn car off a pier. Nothing the cops could do."

Miyako looked at the floor and nodded. "Good," she said. "I'm glad. I'm glad that bastard's dead, and that he won't hurt anybody else, and I know it's wrong, but ..."

"It's not wrong. It's not wrong to admit what you feel." She got up, sat down next to her friend on the bed, and put an arm around her.

Miyako seemed to be debating something, nibbling one of her lips in a nervous twitch that had been solely hers since Mari had met her.

"I want to tell you that I trust you," she began, "So you ought to know --- her ... passing ... isn't the only thing that's messed up. Rosa was a great girl, but she had a lot of things come easy. Her family was in some industrial business in Puerto Rico, so they're rich beyond your imagination. And her father gave her an incredible allowance. ... She was the one who paid the rent. Not me."

Mari stared.

"She even helped me pay my tuition, slipping me a couple of bucks under the table here and there. She was very generous with her wealth. But when we moved out of the dorm and into that apartment, the owner saw two girls together who were really close, and, well, you figure it out."

"He thought you two were ... ?"

"Yeah. I mean, we weren't, obviously. But that's not the point. I was poor, and if my family knew ... See, my dad is very dedicated to earning money. Only problem is that he's not that good at it. So he's hidden our middle-class lifestyle for a long time, and I'm the only child. He expects me to do what he couldn't --- make a fortune, or marry one. He wasn't terribly pleased when I told him I wanted to be a nurse."

"Shit."

"Yeah. But I got out. I left, went to college, moved into student housing with Rosa, got into heavy debt, and let her help me out of it. And then we moved in together in that apartment, and my family heard about it, and nosed around, and were very impressed with it, and thought that I was contributing to the rent. They kept on questioning me about my 'secret job.' They thought I'd somehow hit it big. And in a way, I had. Rosa was wonderful. I just let the rumors keep going about my income, and kept my mouth shut."

"What happened?"

"Well, the apartment's in her name. And since the landlord didn't like the idea of us living there in the first place, he's going to be pleased as punch when he discovers that I can't pay for her apartment on the salary I make." She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. "So when he finds out, I'll be evicted. And I can't go home again. I can't face my father, or the truth. And I know it's so awful and selfish to be thinking about myself at a time like this, but I loved her, and I really don't know what I'll do without her ..."

She couldn't go on, and blew her nose. The intern regarded her for a long moment.

"I have a couch," Mari said.

Miyako finally gave up trying to control it. She just threw her arms around the smaller girl and held on for dear life.

"Th-th-thank you," she stuttered and stammered, between gasps for breath and hot tears. "You g-g-got Rosa's niceness."

Marianne chuckled. "'Niceness.' That's a new one."

Miyako hiccupped and let herself be rocked a little as Mari mumbled, "Hey. Shh. Calm down, honey. It's okay." She held her friend and wondered if she sounded believable. "It'll all be okay."

The ringing was deafening, all of a sudden. It was the unmistakable, paltry electronic imitation of a Brandenburg concerto that she had as the ring on her cell phone. Stella snapped fully awake. She felt like she'd been sleeping for a while, but couldn't believe it had taken so much noise to rouse her. Hell, the thing was so loud it had woken Stan up. He was squeezing her hand and mumbling, albeit incoherently, for her to answer it.

She clicked it open, wondering how long she'd been asleep.

"Hello?"

"Hello, dear. I was just feeling antsy and wondering if there was something I could do." It was Barbara on the other end.

Stella gave Stan's hand one final squeeze and let go.

"As a matter of fact, I'm going to go find out what needs to be done. As soon as I know, I'll tell you and we'll work it out, okay?"

"Good. Kiss my boy for me."

"Will do."

She hung up and took a last look at Stan before standing up. He'd fallen asleep again. She kissed his cheek gently and watched a hint of a smile appear on his bandaged face. Then she deposited the phone in her purse, made sure he was covered properly, and left the room to find the nurse's station. There were a lot of preparations to make.

The night air was cold and biting. Fraser had collected Diefenbaker from the Vecchios and had Ray drop him off at his apartment building. He waved goodbye to his friend and the Riv drove off, leaving him alone in front of the building with his wolf.

He sniffed to clear his nose, and yawned, releasing a cloud of vapor into the darkness. It shimmered in the lamplight. He looked around at the quiet street, with its barred storefronts and garbage-filled gutters, and realized that he'd forgotten how lonely the night could be.

Over the years of slowly building friendships, this feeling had gone away. He no longer had to turn in quite so early and lie there staring at the ceiling for an hour, or reading from his father's journals until he fell asleep. He could go out for dinner with Ray and Stan, or be on duty at the Consulate, or even watch curling with Turnbull, which was always amusing, if nothing else. Sometimes he would catch a movie, and he'd become almost a regular in the third balcony of the Chicago Opera on Saturday evenings. And of course, there were the occasional, quite nice dinner dates with Inspector Thatcher.

But tonight, there was nothing to do.

Ray had been eerily quiet on the way back after the incident at the dock. Contrary to the Lieutenant's wishes, the lake was being dredged for a body. The family needed something to bury. Ray had expressed neither unhappiness nor elation at the death, but something seemed gone from his eyes. He was very far away as he glided the Riv through the streets like a small barge. It was as though a small piece of himself had been thrown into that lake with Wilson, and he couldn't get it back.

Any attempt to stimulate conversation had been unsuccessful, but Fraser had an idea of what was eating his friend --- guilt. Somehow, in the mele of the suicide, Ray had seen Wilson as a martyr for outsiders everywhere, someone who had been ignored and pushed aside by an exclusive group. And even though he obviously wasn't, it didn't matter. Fraser had fallen for it in the emergency room, and his friend was falling for it here. The major signs were apparent: the hunched shoulders, the silence, the brooding, and the deep breathing. The damage was done, and there was no remedy for it but time. Eventually, the realization would hit and Ray would be all right, just not for a little while. Fraser understood this and there was no conversation from the dock to the house, or from the house to his apartment.

Even when Ray talked to Stella that evening on the telephone about getting the apartment ready, he had sounded dead and drained. However, he took notes on what needed to be bought and maneuvered and learned in a few short days, and didn't comment, except for an occasional "uh huh." This would be a backbreaking amount of work. This would be his penance. Fraser listened and watched his friend's sloppy handwriting and understood this, as well. An injured man would need a lot of help. This would be his burden, too.

And now, here, in the empty street with no moon, the burden had become too great. His temples began to throb with the enormous list of medical supplies he'd read at Ray's. This was going to be hell. With a sigh, he leaned up against the lamp post and looked up at the stars, breathing quietly. Dief sat down on his haunches, looked at his human, and nosed Fraser's leg, impatient to get inside.

~Rrr.~

"I know you're cold. Just --- just give me a minute, okay?"

Dief waited maybe three seconds. ~Rrrf.~

"Oh, all right. Fine. You can go in. I'm going to take a walk."

He pushed off from the lamp post, trotted up the steps to the building and opened the door for Dief, who disappeared through it, his tail a streak of white. Fraser watched him trip-trap through the lobby and then climb a few stairs. The wolf turned and blinked and lolled his tongue in that disarming way of his, before giving a friendly "woof" and clambering up out of sight.

Fraser turned away and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

A walk. To where?

His legs had the answer before his brain or heart could stand up to protest, and he was out the door. He found himself wandering down the street, heading in a definite direction, like a homing pigeon. Curious, but not concerned, as to where his lower appendages were taking him, he pulled a compass out of his pocket and looked at the needle: due south. Who lives south of here? he wondered. And then he had the answer. It scared the hell out of him.

"No. No, no, no," he said aloud, but his legs kept moving.

He crossed streets, wandered down boulevards, and came finally, after fifteen minutes of brisk walking, to a nice, upscale part of town, full of condominiums and other apartment complexes. Then suddenly, his legs stopped and he came to a rather bumpy, ungraceful halt in front of a peach colored building. The brass street number shone from the lighting: 432 Maple Street.

He gulped and his eyes darted in fright, and he tried to keep his legs still. I can't --- I can't do this. I can't panic. I can't bother her. She'll think I'm an idiot. She'll think I can't handle this, and if she thinks that, then where will I be?

Involuntarily, he took a step forward. "She only said to call her!" he hissed.

His legs ignored him, as did his arms. He ended up walking up the steps, quite uncomfortably and rather against his will, and then pressed the button for number 39. The name next to it said simply, "Thatcher." He felt a knot rising in his throat, and realized that he didn't even know what to say.

"Hello?" came the answer over the intercom.

He closed his eyes, took a breath, and pressed the button to reply. "Hello?" he said, his voice strained. He took another breath. "Inspector?" he asked quietly. His voice cracked on the second syllable.

"Fraser? Is that you?"

"Y-yes. ... May I come up?"

There was a pregnant pause on the other end, and Fraser was grateful that she couldn't see him, as he felt ready to hyperventilate. Oh, this is not good. This is really not good. I knew I should have just called her!

"Of- of course," came the reply, finally. She sounded a little scared herself, unable to understand what he needed after only hearing a few words. "I'll buzz you in. I'm on the third floor."

"Thank you," he managed.

"Sure."

BZZZT!

The door latch clicked, and Fraser opened it. He stepped into the spacious, warm lobby, and let the door close behind him before making his way past the sleeping security guard at the desk. He stopped in front of the elevators, pressed the "up" button, and stood there watching the display above the door, a graceful arc of brass numbers in a semi-circle from one to sixteen. The golden hand dipped all the way over to the left and lay there, dead, until there was a ding. The door opened. He stepped inside, slipped comfortably into parade rest, exhaled, and turned his Mountie face to the world as the panel closed and the machine swallowed him up.

Rowena yawned and watched with interest as her human began to, well, for lack of a better term, freak out. Meg was rushing all over the room, picking up junk and scattered pieces of clothing. She had make-up on, but her hair was a mess, and her lithe, strong hands were barely visible under the cuffs of her baggy gray sweatshirt as she hitched up her old jeans and padded around on bare feet, frantically cleaning up.

The cat had no idea who the man on the other end of the intercom had been. But whoever he was, he must have been a real threat, because Meg was frightened and wild-eyed and dashing about like a crazed rabbit, and Meg did not get like this. At least, Rowena couldn't remember another instance. The decision was made. She had to protect her.

Affirmative! Operation Furball is a go! Repeat, go! This is not a drill!

She arched her tail and leapt onto the kitchen counter. From there, it was just a quick jump to the top of the t.v. cabinet in the living room, and from there, one simple leap to the top of the wicker closet that stood next to the door of the apartment.

If Meg had seen her cat's antics, she would have been quite upset (Rowena had never been de-clawed and had a tendency to scratch things up when she landed on them). But as it was, she didn't even look up, and her living room was cleaned with amazing speed. She managed to get her hair into a messy ponytail and take two deep breaths before the knock.

She stared at the knob. From her hiding place on top of the closet, Rowena stared, too. Her gray fur bristled, and her wide green eyes lit up in preparation.

Meg slowly crossed to the door and opened it. Fraser was standing out there in the hall, Stetson in hand, trying to look composed when he obviously was not. She took a good look at him, still a bit frightened and trying to determine what she could give him without giving away her authority.

For a man so good at creating a mask out of skin and calling it a face, (and what a face!) she was starting to see gaps forming in his meticulous work. Worry lines. Tear tracks. This was not good.

Fraser, for his part, was quite taken aback with his superior officer's rather lax appearance. For him, this was only more validation of what an awkward, stupid situation he had created. He wanted to apologize for coming relatively unannounced. He wanted to say "good evening," tip his hat like a good little Mountie, and say it was nothing, that he simply wanted to inquire after her health. But gut instinct said 'run.'

Fortunately, Meg caught the nervous twitch of his hands and realized something that she found both amusing and sad --- Fraser was scared to death of being here. Or was he scared of being here ... with her?

I hope not. After all those lunches? Ice skating? That kiss on the train? At Vecchio's? At the consulate? He's terrified of ... what? Being a pest?

"Would you like to come in?" she asked finally.

"Oh, o-of course," he said, with a bit of a choked laugh.

She smiled as gently as she could, took his hand, and led him in. He closed the door, and they were still holding hands. Rowena watched this, and saw the man reach into his pocket for something.

*~gasp~ Gun! ... BONZAI!*

~Rrrreeeeeoooww!~

Rowena launched herself off the closet, a flying blur of gray, and 100% kamikaze. Sadly, Fraser looked up at the noise. This was a mistake, as Rowena landed on him square in the face, yowled like a hellion, and raised a paw. Fraser yelped as she got two good blows off. He stumbled backward from the impact, banged into Meg's coffee table, and fell over backwards onto it, scattering the Architectural Digest magazines right and left as Rowena kept scratching at him and screeching. Fortunately, he plucked the cat off of him just as her claw came down a third time. The swipe missed his left eye by an inch. He held the angry cat at arms length and, still prostrate on the coffee table, turned his head and stared at Meg, his blue eyes wide with shock.

She was just as shocked as he was. "Fraser!" she said, finally snapping out of it and coming to his rescue.

She grabbed Rowena, cupped her hands around the cat's rib cage and held her at a distance, disgusted and irritated. Rowena hung there like a limp gray sack and hissed at Fraser, baring her little fangs.

"I'll be right back," Meg said, never taking her eyes off her cat.

She marched into her bedroom, dumped Rowena unceremoniously onto the bed, walked out, slammed the door shut, and locked it. She then turned her attention to Fraser, who was finally sitting up on the coffee table. His face was slightly scratched up and his hair was going in all directions. His hat had gone flying somewhere during the mele. He looked a bit dizzy, and some of his scratches were starting to bleed.

"I'll go get the first aid kit."

"O-okay," he said, finally.

"Just, um, just stay there. I'm so sorry about this!" she said, shaking her head, giving a snort of amazement at the absurdity of the whole thing, and walked off to get the kit. "She never acts this way."

"You're sure?" Fraser asked, still a little dazed. He wiped a finger across one cut on his cheek, saw the blood on it, sighed and wiped it on his shirt.

"She must have thought you were a threat," Meg continued, coming back with the metal box.

She sat down next to him on the coffee table and took out the cotton and iodine.

"I guess I just have that dangerous look about me," Fraser said, and gave her a little smile that lit up his eyes.

"I guess," she concurred softly. "This is going to sting. Hold still, now."

He obliged her and winced only a little as she cleaned up the scratches. Only a few on his cheek required band-aids, and she took his mind off the pain with polite chit-chat. Then she smoothed his hair back with her hand.

"Okay, that's it."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The conversation was beginning to die away. Something unspoken buzzed in the air between them, and Meg licked her lip.

"Would you like to sit down on the couch?" she asked. "It's a lot more comfortable than the coffee table."

"Yes. That would be nice."

"Okay."

She helped him up, although he didn't need it, and guided him over to the sofa.

"So, what brings you here?"

Fraser sighed and considered, twisting a pinky in one ear and trying to figure out what to say.

"A weight," he said finally.

"A weight. What sort of weight?"

Fraser stared at the floor for what seemed like an eternity, and couldn't answer.

"Is this about Stan?" Meg asked, and he looked up, startled.

Jackpot. "Fraser, if you need any help in helping him, I'm here. ... You know that."

"No, ma'am. I don't want to ..."

"Inconvenience me?"

He stared at her like she'd shot him.

"First of all, don't call me ma'am. You're in my house, and you're my ... friend. Call me Meg."

"Is- is that all right?"

"I let you in, didn't I?"

"Yes. Yes, you did."

"Fraser, look. I understand. This can be very overwhelming."

He only nodded, and looked at the floor. There was a pause and an uncomfortable silence that she wanted to fill, but he got to it first.

"You should see Ray, Meg. He looks terrible, and he isn't speaking. Stella called him and gave him a list of things that Stan's going to need for his recovery ..." He shook his head in dismay. "You'd think we were bringing an entire hospital home with us. Not even what happened this afternoon helped Ray feel any better."

"What happened?"

"We found Wilson."

"You did?"

"Oh, don't get excited. He's dead. He committed suicide --- drove his car into Lake Michigan."

"Good lord."

"Indeed."

"Well, I'm sorry for Ray, but the fact is that you're the one who's here. ... Fraser, if something's wrong, you can talk to me. In fact, that's an order, Constable. I order you to tell me what's plaguing you."

Fraser laughed weakly and shook his head. "I don't know --- guilt. Terror of making a mistake. Chills. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Take your pick."

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs and cup his face in his hands. Meg stared at him in profile, bent, curved like a nautilus shell, and hiding from her. This was a side of him that she'd never seen. She'd been aware of his strong side, his stubborn side, his intelligent side, his charming side, which he always displayed on their outings together, and his humorous side, but she'd never witnessed this. Utter fear, deep-seated emotional distance, insecurity ... who knew? Honestly, looking at the man, who would suspect it? Not she, of all people.

And then suddenly, her mouth was moving in time with her thoughts --- always a dangerous habit --- and she had an arm around him.

"Well, I can't fix the guilt, or the terror, but I can fix the other three."

He uncurled slightly and looked up at her.

"How?"

She got up and went to the wicker closet, and came back with a warm quilt and comforter. Her hands were shaking as she sat back down next to him, a little closer than she'd been a minute ago, and put the blankets on the coffee table. He watched, head cocked to one side like a curious puppy, as she bent down and untied his shoes. He'd only worn his high-topped hiking boots, and they were easy to get off. She tossed them onto the rug beyond the couch. He wiggled his toes in his white socks and then felt her hand on his chest. They locked eyes as she unbuttoned his jacket and tossed that next to his shoes.

Fraser was already starting to flush and stiffen with fear. Her hand reached for his belt and that did it. He gently took her hand and held it.

"Um, I'll get this off, if you don't mind."

"No," she said, slightly red herself, "Not at all. I just want you to be more comfortable."

He removed his belt and tossed it away. She took him in for a moment, lost in the pleasure of just looking at him, when he apparently saw something else in her gaze and gave her the "deer-in-the-headlights" look that he'd perfected into an art. She gave him a nervous smile, grabbed the quilt off of the coffee table, and draped it over him, taking the opportunity to rub his freezing shoulders.

"Less cold?" she asked, after a few minutes of rubbing him.

Fraser looked at her, and attempted to answer, but was waylaid by something in her face. Even in the dim light of the room, with her hair a mess and her demonic cat yowling beyond the bedroom door, he saw something in her that he'd only witnessed once or twice in other people --- dynamic, deep beauty. Beauty that transcended intelligence, rank, make-up, and tasteful clothes.

"Not yet," he said quietly, and bravely pulled the quilt around both of them. "Now, yes."

She got an exhilarating headrush and the veins in her neck bulged from the pulsing, stormy blood pumping through them. Crushed against him, she inhaled his scent, and her body thrilled at their proximity. He would always be handsome to her, even though his face was covered in cat scratches and band-aids, and she felt herself flush even worse than before. This was grounds for scandal. Superior and junior officers did not cuddle.

She didn't care. Instead, she gave him a gentle push, and his exhausted body did the rest. He plopped over onto his side on the couch, and she followed. They both stretched out to their full length in a brief, graceful dance, and the couch was deep enough to hold them both. She grabbed the other padded blanket and threw it over both of them for good measure, then lay back down beside Fraser.

He started to say something, maybe "thank you," but it became white noise to her ears and before either knew it, they were wrapped in an embrace, a warm tangle of arms and legs, giggling at nothing and enjoying being with each other. There was a blessed comfort here, and they reveled in it. She smoothed his hair back again, although she'd already straightened it up before, and smiled at him.

"Less lonely?" she asked, as her chocolate-brown eyes caught the light and glowed.

"Yes," he whispered, with tears in his own.

And they kissed. He gently cupped her jaw with his hand, she played with his hair, and it was such a blissful exchange of emotion that they couldn't bring themselves to stop for quite a while. They took turns breathing their energy into one another, and stopped a few times to break with a slight pop, only to rejoin again, in a delightful game of give and take.

Finally, they felt satisfied, and broke for the last time. He was wearing most of her lipstick (an observation which made her laugh), and she felt his sweet, musky odor pervading her as she lay there, enveloped in his strong arms and breathing him in. Meg let her head fall against his chest and sighed, hoping he wouldn't notice her tears. Her lips curved into a smile as she cried silently, out of relief and joy. He looked across the room, thankful that she had her head down, so she wouldn't notice that his own face was damp.

Why? she wondered. Why did we wait so long to do something so wonderful?

"We have to do this again sometime, under less unpleasant circumstances," he said, as if in answer to her thoughts.

She brought her hand up the back of his neck and ruffled his hair. "All right," she said, "it's a date."

He laughed a little and held her close, and each looked and saw the other's face. Instinctively, she reached up and wiped his cheeks dry. In return, he dried her face, rubbing the corners of her eyes with a thumb, like an artist purposely smudging a shadow into a charcoal masterpiece. She gave him one final squeeze as he kissed her forehead, and then she wiggled away, turning around so that her back was tight and firm against his chest. The soles of her feet found the tops of his and she began to rub them in a soothing rhythm. He wrapped one arm protectively around her, and she pulled the blankets up to their necks. Within five minutes, both were sound asleep, oblivious to the bitter wind howling outside and Rowena meowing angrily in the bedroom.

ONE WEEK LATER

Wilson was dead, Rosa was buried, and it was moving day.

The week had passed in a blur for Fraser, Ray and Stella. The guys had taken care of gathering all the supplies, including an orthopedic mattress and several supports, and by Friday their backs and arms were sore of carrying it all into Stella's apartment. Ray spent most of the time complaining, but Fraser said nothing, and wore a small, mysterious smile on his face. It had been playing there all week, and was still there as they carried the last box up the stairs of Stella's building.

*In fact,* Ray thought, puzzled, it's been there since I dropped him off at his place that night. I wonder what happened? Eh, maybe he finally gave up the Mr. Perfect routine and started drinking. Went for a nightcap somewhere.

All he said aloud though was, "I just hope Stan appreciates all this."

"I'm sure he will, Ray," Fraser replied, "once he realizes where he is. They've kept him so sedated all week that it'll take him a while to figure it out."

"Mm. When's he coming?"

"Uh, they're bringing him in at six, I think."

"Oh."

They got the last packages into the apartment, where Stella was busy unpacking them and loading them into some wooden cabinets. They had all agreed that most of the supplies should stay out of sight, but the task of getting them there was going to be difficult. Barbara, Damien, and Meg were all on their way.

"Well, Stella, these are it," Fraser said cheerfully. Fortunately, Stella didn't look up, or she would have seen the crows feet forming around his eyes.

"Oh, great. Thanks, guys. Just put them down over there," she said, her voice laden with exhaustion, and weakly pointed across the room.

Ray dropped his box on the couch and immediately went for the refrigerator, hunting for some lemonade. Stella stood up and cracked her back. She turned to Fraser.

"One last thing to do. Will you come with me?"

He nodded slowly, knowing exactly what she needed help with, and they left. As soon as the door closed, Ray wandered back out into the living room. He surveyed the myriad of boxes, full of bandages, medication, and other things he didn't want to think about. Cleaning between his front teeth with a fingernail, he sighed, and then took a large sip of his lemonade, which he'd very sensibly laced with gin.

BOOM

The bang startled Mari, who was in her kitchen, trying to make sense of a cookbook. She listened again, to make sure she wasn't just hearing things.

BOOM

She ran to the front door. She looked ridiculous, as she usually did at home. She was still wearing her scrubs from her shift, and an old, really frilly apron over them. And rain boots. She dried her hands on her apron and yanked open the door. Miyako was standing there, looking as cheerful as she could, bundled up to the eyes against the frigid cold outside, and holding two large suitcases. She had used one of them to knock.

"Hi," she said, from underneath her scarf.

"Hey! Let me get those. Get that scarf off your face before you suffocate," Mari replied.

She took both of Miyako's suitcases, and the ropy tendons in her lower arms bulged as she lugged them into the living room and set them down next to the couch. Miyako got her scarf, jacket, and gloves off, revealing her own pink scrubs. It had taken her a week to get everything squared away with her landlord, and she'd insisted on not moving in with Mari until everything had been resolved.

"Whew!" she said, fanning herself billowing her scrubs to get the excess heat out. "It's cold out there. But at least it's warm in here."

"Always," Mari agreed with a smile.

They both heard cheeping in the bedroom.

"C'mon. Let me introduce you to the girls. After all, you'll be their roommate, too."

The lighting was harsh, and it didn't help to identify the color of whatever was in the hundreds of little jars on the shelves. Fraser and Stella had parked a shopping cart in front of a particular section on aisle six of the grocery store, and were carefully examining their pickings. Fraser held up a bottle and read the label.

"This looks good," he said, and handed it to Stella.

"Prunes? No way. Stan hates 'em. Gets nauseous just looking at the package. Besides, I want it to be Gerber. Not this brand X crap."

"Ah. How about peaches?"

"Sure."

"Spinach?"

"Yeah, what the hell. He won't know what it is, anyway."

"Good. The less he knows, the better."

"Here here."

Fraser continued to pull the little glass bottles from the shelf and put them into the cart. Stella pulled a few, too, and they were just arguing over whether to buy the nectarines or not when a smiling, chubby woman walked over. She wore a simpering look, one typical of gossips who have a tendency to eavesdrop, and her smile was one of a searcher. She wanted to know what was going on.

"Um, ma'am? Sir?"

They turned.

"I couldn't help but noticing what you were buying. You make such a cute couple, by the way. And miss, you have really bounced back. Most pregnant women don't manage to find their old figures again. How old is your baby?"

Fraser and Stella looked at each other. Stella opened her mouth to say something, couldn't figure out a response, and turned to Fraser, who was simply exhausted and not in the mood to deal with someone whose social timing was so bad.

"Mid-thirties. 6'4". Would you like his weight in pounds or kilos?" he responded, quite grumpy.

Stella gasped slightly and elbowed him.

"Oh, my. He can't eat?"

Fraser was amazed that she was still speaking to him.

"No real solids yet," he said, unsure of why he had even given this information to her. "He's been in an accident."

Then he paused. He felt utterly exhausted and quite used. Nothing more would slip out. This was a matter for Stan, Stella, and himself. Not this woman. He valiantly kept the vitriol in his voice to a minimum.

"Now kindly go away."

"Wh-What? Well, I never!"

She turned away with a "hmph!" and walked off down the aisle, muttering. Stella watched her go. Fraser turned to her, and despite his exhaustion felt his inhibitions and conscience snapping back into place, like a rubber band.

"That was very rude of me. I should probably apologize."

"No, you shouldn't. You're tired, and she had no business meddling."

"Yes, but still ..."

"Fraser."

"Sorry. ... Do we have enough?

"Yeah, this should be fine," she said, her fingers playing nervously around the small mountain of glass bottles in the shopping cart. She couldn't meet his eyes anymore, and began to push the cart towards a check-out lane.

"Are you all right?" Fraser asked. "You look jittery."

"I am."

"Why?"

She licked her lips. "Oh, I don't know. Responsibility makes me nervous. I - I always feel like I'll fail, somehow."

Finally, her eyes met his, begging for some kind of understanding.

For there it was. The reason for the divorce. The reason she didn't want children. The reason she was anxious about helping Stan. She looked at Fraser, wondering if he was sharing in her unhappy epiphany. Had Stan told him about the divorce? How much did this man know about her? About her foolish terror?

Oh, God. He's looking at me like ... like he knows! Oh, shit! She gave him a nervous smile to cover her thoughts.

Fraser regarded her calmly. He was actually pleased that Stella had admitted her fear, yet sorry that the admission had come too late to save her marriage. But the way she was gingerly organizing the baby food jars in the cart, and the half smile she flashed him said one thing loud and clear --- that while the marriage had disintegrated, the love was still there. All he had to do was counteract the nervous light in her eyes before it invaded her entire body and made her flee.

"I have something to tell you," he said, and stopped the cart.

"What?" she asked, hoping she sounded remotely casual.

Fraser took a breath. "Stan ... loves you. He would do anything for you. In fact, if you think about it, he really did do that 'anything.' He let you go."

She looked at him, her eyes a little wild.

"You can't run from this just because you think you can't help him. We'll all pitch in, so you won't be alone."

She began to shake her head. "It's not that, I ..."

"You don't have to be afraid."

She stared at him.

"And even if you are, I have to caution you against escaping. You left him once, then again for Mr. Harrington, ... leaving him a third time, especially when he really needs you, would be the cruelest thing you could do."

She bit her lip.

"Please, Stella. It would break his heart --- it would kill him. Stay."

She looked into his light blue eyes and felt a tear dribble down her cheek. The man was right --- she'd come too far to be a coward now. She nodded.

"Okay," she said finally. "Let's get this back to my place. We've got an hour until he comes home."

The hour flew by, and even with Ray, Meg, the Kowalskis and Fraser all working together, they barely managed to put all the supplies away in time. Fraser looked out the window as the white van pulled up outside.

"They're here!" he called to the others.

There was a flurry of activity. Barbara put the last box of bandages away, Damien and Ray got the last bit of packaging into the trash, Meg and Stella jammed the last little bottles into the kitchen cupboard, and Fraser opened the door.

They made a silent procession down the hall to the elevator and stood there for a moment, breathing, coughing, and shuffling their feet. The small panel light lit up, and there was the sudden screech of halting metal. The doors opened slowly, and Stella gulped at the sight of the gurney, but she blinked only twice and stood firm.

EPILOGUE: HONEY IN MY EAR

The first days were an endless, exhausting dance. Bandage changings segued into doses of medication, which intertwined with small feedings throughout the day. Stan was awake most of the time, propped up in bed with both legs elevated and an i.v. going. He did his best to act like a person under all the covers and bandages, and she gave him credit for it. But the dance she performed was a lonely one.

Her "partner" in this waltz was extraordinarily uncooperative, and not even because he was trying to be. His body simply wouldn't obey anything he told it. It wouldn't speak. Nor would it walk, move correctly, or even go to the restroom without assistance. At a few points she confessed to herself that she was exhausted and ready to give up, but a vision of Stan laughing with her on the dock pulled her out of her slumps and she reminded herself what he must be feeling --- the utter frustration and helplessness, the fear. She knew it all too well, but was determined not to show it.

After the first full day, Fraser came by and insisted on relieving her. She snuggled down on the couch, made sure he was out of earshot, (at least to her mind,) and cried. After four hours of "urrgh" "orrgh" and "thpthp," Stan had finally gotten the message from his body: if he continued in the struggle to say anything coherent, he might pull something. So, then, had followed ten hours of almost complete silence. It was the most thunderous, bone-crushing absence of sound she'd ever endured. She cried for Stan, and for everyone affected by Wilson's mayhem. But mostly, *selfishly,* she thought, she cried for herself, and let the world fade away.

Fraser's hand on her shoulder made her jump.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She dried her cheeks and stared up into his bright blue eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

"You're doing fine," he said, answering her unspoken question. "Just get some rest. I'll stay the night."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The dance continued the next day with what she would later laughingly refer to as the "Bathroom Bolero." The patient was able to eat very soft food, but it went right through him. The steps needed to lift Stan up and position the bed pan underneath him --- the hell with Fraser's assistance. They needed a choreographer. However, after a few tries, they finally succeeded, and the pan soon became part of the regular rotation. Her tears had dried, and she pressed on.

A month later, things were considerably happier in Stella's apartment. It had taken Stan two full weeks to get his jaw to work properly, and now it was working nonstop. He was making small-talk, cracking jokes, and asking for more food, which particularly pleased Stella, because she'd been worried about how thin he'd been for so long. Pretty soon everyone had heard the news and were coming by even more often than they'd been since his return from the hospital.

Fraser and Ray stopped by after work to have a chat, as usual. Meg stopped by as well. Barbara and Damien had been forced to get back to Arizona to protect their RV's spot, but when the long-distance call came through and Stan put the receiver to his ear and said quite clearly, "Hello?" Barbara cried on the other end.

Two months later, the casts on his legs and arm had been replaced by braces, and Stan was walking. Stella watched him hobbling rather comically all over the apartment, leaning heavily on a cane, and sat on the couch with a small smile on her face. She remembered Ronnie and knew without a doubt that she had made the right decision.

"Stan, you better cool your heels for a little while. Fraser's coming by, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Fergot."

He gasped for breath and clunked over to the couch, where he landed next to her with a plop. She smiled at him.

"You're doing well," she said.

"I owe yeh," he replied with a grin, cutting to the chase as usual. He opened his mouth to say something else, when there was a knock at the door.

Stella rose and answered it. Fraser was on the other side, in RCMP shorts, a white t-shirt, and old tennis shoes.

"Hi," he said. "Is he ready?"

"Yeah, I'm ready, Fraze. Hang on a minute," Stan replied.

He hefted himself to his feet, feeling the new Nikes give slightly. Sweat pants hid his leg braces. An old t-shirt kept his still-healing chest warm, and let the top of his arm sling rest comfortably in the crook where his neck ended and his shoulder began. But the going was rough. He winced, and Stella immediately moved to his side. She gave him a bit of help to straighten completely and he nodded. She handed him his cane.

"Don't collapse out there. You're not a hundred percent yet."

"Yes, mommy," he said, his face inches from hers.

She arched an eyebrow at him, but then her eyes burst open, for he simply leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. It was such an easy, familiar movement, that it was almost ... almost like being married again. Her cheeks flushed. He smiled at her, pleased at the reaction he'd achieved, and then he walked out with Fraser, leaving her to stand there in the doorway, her mouth hanging open in shock.

In the meantime, Fraser and Stan set off on their daily walk through a nearby park. Fraser was pleased with Stan's progress. His friend was now able to go half a mile at a time without stopping. Soon it would be a full mile. Then two. They were aiming to enter a walk-a-thon in late August as Stan's final test.

They clumped along the pavement, winding past the small lake in the tree-filled park, and Fraser noticed that Stan was not so tired at this point as he had been the day before. He was walking with a limp, but his spine was straight and tall, and he wasn't leaning on the cane as much as yesterday. *Yes,* Fraser thought, his pride in his friend straightening his own spine and puffing out his chest a little. Progress. Definitely progress.

Three weeks later, Stan was back in his own apartment. It was eight at night. Frannie had been kind enough to tidy up and keep his turtle fed, and he was grateful to have a clean place to crash. He wouldn't be allowed back on the job for another three days, and then it would only be desk work. So, as the first order of business, he dumped his duffel bag on the couch, hobbled to the kitchen, and scribbled down a reminder to write her a thank-you note. Then he tapped his fingers on the faux marble counter top, trying to think of something else to do. Aside from actually writing the thank-you note, nothing else came to mind, so he hobbled back to the couch and settled down on the faded brown pillows.

He was too tired for music, so he just closed his eyes. Just a cat nap, he decided.

It was five minutes before he heard the doorbell. His blue eyes finally snapped open and he got up slowly, wondering how long the person on the other side had been ringing.

"Comin'," he called, yawning, and opened the door. "Stella?"

She passed by him like a shadow into the room, holding a large paper bag, and turned around to him as he closed the door.

"Whassup?" he asked.

She nervously tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. "I, um, I brought you some dinner. It just occurred to me that there's probably nothing in your fridge."

"Oh, Stell, you didn't hafta do dat."

"Yeah," she replied. "I did."

She put the bag down on the table next to her, and for an eternity, she and he locked eyes. Suddenly, it was as though an invisible force had taken control of his body. He moved toward her, bad legs and all, wrapped his good arm around her and gave her a long, lingering kiss, which she, amazingly, began to return. And return. She finally broke away with a pop, looked at him with hungry eyes, snagged him by the collar, and led him, as quickly as his legs would allow, into the bedroom. He followed her like a puppydog on a chain.

It was eleven by the time they had finished. They were just talking, holding hands, among other things, under the blankets, and neither could stop smiling.

"And my voice?" she said, continuing the game. It was an old one that they'd played when they were married. It was simple. Each would take turns describing the other in the most sickeningly slurpy way they could. The first to go "Ew!" was the loser. She thought of all the times Stan had won.

"Honey in my ear," he whispered, and wrapped his good arm around her.

She smiled. "I love you."

"I know. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around dat."

"Naturally," she said, squirming against him, warming him with her own body, fusing curve with curve. "I was always the faster thinker. That's why I'm the lawyer."

"Hey!" He distanced himself quickly and poked her tummy in retaliation. "None uh dat!"

She giggled and kissed him in response, and he turned out the light. There was a brief crinkling of sheets and heavy breathing in the pitch black as he brought his arm around her and held her tight. They stayed still for a minute, until Stan's voice pierced the darkness.

"Goodnight, my little chunky monkey oozy crispy butternut wingding!"

"Oh, put a sock in it, you idiot!" she replied, a merry laugh already bubbling to the surface.

Neither of them could sleep. They were too excited by the prospects they'd uncovered. So, they lay there together, safe in Stan's creaky old bed, holding each other under the covers, giggling for quite some time.

The End

End Slam Dunk, Part Three by Kiki Cabou: kcabou@hotmail.com

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