Disclaimer: All Due South Characters belong to Alliance. TBAA cast belong to Martha Williamson and CBS. The song Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot is owned by Sting, I am just burrowing it for the moment. Due South/TBAA crossover.
  This is the result of a challenge issued by Mary Ann, on how Kowalski would be effected if he accidentally killed another cop. I decided to go a little further and make the cop a Mountie for the emotional tension needed between him and Fraser. Rated PG for some language and mature content. Death Story/H/C/Angst/some parts are really mushy. Thanks Mary Ann!
 

        Ray Kowalski, undercover as Detective Ray Vecchio, stepped out of the convenience store. It was a mild April evening and he had just stopped to purchase a loaf of bread and a package of snacks, intending to go home and veg out on the sofa in front of the television for the night, since Fraser had consulate duties to perform with Thatcher. He noticed a tall, dark haired man standing suspiciously beside the GTO and frowned as he continued walking toward the car.
         "Hey!" he called in warning and was only mildly surprised when the man started walking away, without even turning around. "Hey, stop!" Ray dropped the bags he had been holding and started after the man, reaching for his gun. "Chicago PD! I said freeze!" This only spurred the suspect to move faster into a quick trot, but he was still not running, as though he wanted Ray to catch him.
         The man ducked into an alleyway and Ray hesitated only a moment before going in after him, thinking briefly that this could be a trap and he had no back up. The man had stopped just a few feet away, his back still to the Detective as Ray leveled his gun at him suspiciously. There was only a small lamp over a side door that led to the restaurant next door, and Ray squinted in an attempt to see better in the dim lighting. He pulled out his badge, but kept his gun leveled.
         "Detective Vecchio, Chicago PD. On yer knees," Ray demanded and became both angry and worried when he wasn't immediately obeyed. "Ya hear me? I said on yer knees now!"
         There was something hauntingly familiar about the suspect, something in the way the man stood posed so rigidly still, yet held himself prominently tall to give the illusion he would not be an easy target. He had dark wavy hair, Kowalski had noticed that when he'd first seen him in the diner, and wore a long dark coat that also looked familiar, yet Ray couldn't make out anything further in the darkened alley. The man's hands were hidden in the folds of his long coat.
         "Hands where I can see 'em," Ray warned, shaking away the feeling that this man could be dangerous, or else why did he run? Besides, Ray had identified himself and the guy had ample opportunity to clear up a misunderstanding. "I ain't playin', I'm a cop! Put yer hands where I can see dem now, or I'll shoot ya dead."
         What happened next evolved so quickly that Ray only had an instant to react. The man suddenly spun around and the light over the door caught on the metal barrel of the revolver being leveled at the Detective. Ray's trigger finger tightened instinctively and he fired. Kill or be killed was what they had taught him at the academy, and apparently his body knew that without needing his brain to confirm it.
         The man was propelled violently backwards as the bullet tore through his chest so quickly that there was hardly any pain, just a kind of shock as the man realized he had been shot and a gentle, warm oozing feeling as the blood started to leave his body.
         Ray stared at the fallen suspect, almost in shock, surprised perhaps that he had managed to hit him without his glasses. Then he carefully moved toward him, keeping his weapon trained on the victim. He pulled out his cell phone and quickly called his dispatch to send an ambulance, briefly explaining the situation, then hanging up. Ray's heart was beating fast in his chest as it would no doubt remain until the adrenaline wore off, and he looked down at his suspect.
         On closer inspection he saw that his shot had been too accurate. He put his gun aside and kneeled beside the man, unfastening the coat. He needed to see the worst of the damage and apply pressure to the wound in the victim's chest, but he was surprised when his hands were pushed away weakly.
         "Why'd ya make me shoot ya," Ray demanded grimly, as he stared down into deep, phantom blue eyes. "I told ya I was a cop. Why'd ya do it?
         "N...no," The man whimpered and pushed Ray's hand away from his chest. "Better now." Ray stared at him baffled. Didn't the guy realize he'd been shot? Maybe he was in shock.
         "Hang on, help's comin'," Ray assured as he once again tried to unfasten the man's coat, only to have his hands pushed away a second time and something cool was pressed into his palm.
         The man grabbed the front of Ray's shirt and pulled him closer with his last ounce of strength, and whispered something into the blonde's ear.
         "What?  Stay wit me, man, don't..."
         "Thank you," The man managed before his body surged upward slightly and he took a final gasping breath.
         Sirens sounded around him and flashing lights scattered off the dark interior of the alleyway. Ray glanced down at the object in his hand and shook his head violently in disbelief, thinking about what the man's last words had been.
         "No," he whispered as he stared at the familiar piece of jewelry, then down at the gun that had fallen from the man's grasp beside him. With shaking hands he reached across to unfasten a few more buttons on the man's coat and froze as the color red caught his eye. "NO!" He started CPR frantically. "Live, Goddamn you! Don't you die! Don't..."
         Suddenly someone was gently pulling him away from the body and a moment later the paramedics set to work trying to revive the man. Ray stood in the background, watching everything as though it was happening on a slow moving picture screen, unable to take his eyes off the man he had just killed.
         At some point Lieutenant Welsh and the Duck Boys arrived and Ray barely remembered relating the fact to them, his mouth worked automatically in quiet mono tones, as he continued to tightly grip the RCMP Special Edition watch in his bloodied fist.
 

         Ray sat solemnly on the sofa of Welsh's office about an hour later, leaned forward with his arms resting on his knees, his head in his hands. He had spent almost fifteen minutes in the precinct's bathroom, washing the blood off his hands and vomiting as he realized what he had done. He had given the watch to one of the Duck boys, who bagged it for evidence, along with the victim's service revolver.
         Lieutenant Welsh was perched on the corner of his desk, flipping through the report that Detective Dewey had given him from the crime scene. He was watching the blond on his sofa carefully. The detective hadn't spoken since they returned to the station. No one was blaming Kowalski of course; he had, for once, gone by the book, and had given the guy plenty of chances to surrender, only firing when a valid threat had been apparent. However, he also knew that Kowalski would not see it that way and that worried Welsh.
         "Constable Samuel Pierce," Welsh read aloud from the file after clearing his throat discreetly. He watched Kowalski flinch inwardly, but not look up from the spot on the floor he had been staring at for the last twenty minutes. "Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Ottawa division, that's according to his identification, anyway."
         Welsh glanced again at Kowalski, who still made no attempt at speech, and watched Ray's jaw tighten and the Detective's hands pull just a little tighter on his already vertical hair.
         "It wasn't yer fault, Ray," he offered gruffly. "There was no way you could have known the Constable's weapon wasn't loaded." Huey had made that distinction at the scene and Welsh had witnessed Kowalski's already pale complexion turn almost transparent.
         "Yah, I know," Ray murmured in a voice that was higher than normal and fraught with the strain of trying to keep himself together emotionally. "Too many legalities."
         His eyes flew upward as if sensing a sudden change and he glanced through the windows of the Lieutenant's office to see Fraser enter the station. Inspector Thatcher was with him and both were in civilian clothes, as it was well after working hours. Welsh watched the panic streak across the Detective's face as he rose unsteadily from the sofa.
         "I had to call them, Detective," Welsh insisted. "This is one of their..."
         "I...I can't deal..." Ray refused and grabbed up his coat from the sofa. "I gotta get outta here..."
         "Vecchio, wait," Welsh demanded, moving entirely too fast for a man his size and catching Ray by the arm just as the Detective threw open the office door. "We aren't finished here. Now just cool it and go sit down."
          For a moment Welsh suspected Rya was going to disobey the direct order, but then the blond moved back toward the sofa and dropped down in defeat as Fraser raised his hand to knock on the door Welsh held.
         "Ahh, good, Constable, Inspector." He greeted them and ushered the Mounties inside. "Please come in."
         "Thank you kindly, Lieutenant." Fraser stepped inside, his gaze automatically moving toward his partner across the way. "Hello, Ray." Kowalski didn't respond, just resumed his previous position with his head down.
         "Sorry to call you both in so late, Constable," Welsh offered, watching both men intently. "But as I explained, there's been a shooting and it seems the victim was a member of the RCMP."
         Both Fraser and Thatcher's gaze widened in horror and Welsh filled them in as quickly as they could, offering Fraser the man's identification.
         "He did what," Thatcher demanded furiously as she turned to stare at the Detective, who had cringed slightly at her shout.
         "Now, Inspector..." Welsh warned quietly, "Before you fly off the handle, let me assure you that Detective Vecchio is not at fault here. He identified himself several times and Constable Pierce did pull a gun on him."
         "He can't tell the difference between one of his usual miscreants and an officer of Canada," Thatcher accused. "He's around Constable Fraser all the bloody time, how could he not..."
         "It was dark and the man was acting suspiciously, Inspector," Welsh reminded firmly. He understood her anger, but he wouldn't allow her to blame Kowalski any more than he was already blaming himself. "He wore a dark coat and Detective Vecchio couldn't make out what he was wearing underneath. He doesn't have x-ray vision."
             "He still..." Thatcher continued to challenge and Welsh interrupted her.
         "The man did not identify himself and he knew Ray was a cop, Inspector. He was fleeing the scene and Detective Vecchio did exactly what he should have done." Thatcher glared at him, but her mouth snapped shut. Welsh waited a moment to see if she was going to argue further, then nodded in satisfaction and continued. "I called you in out of courtesy, Inspector. Please remember that. This is still under our jurisdiction and we don't have to involve you in the case at all."
         "Understood, Leftenant," Thatcher agreed quietly, realizing she had been out of line earlier.
         "Glad to hear it," Welsh returned and turned to address Kowalski. "We know this isn't yer fault, Detective, but procedure says I have to ask fer yer gun and badge, at least until this is all ironed out and the paperwork is filed."
         Ray rose and placed both on his commander's desk without hesitation, keeping his eyes lowered from Fraser's intent gaze. The Mountie had not yet commented on the situation that involved his partner.
         "Take a couple of days off, Vecchio," Welsh ordered kindly. "I'll call you when I know something."
        The Detective nodded and stepped away from the desk to retrieve his jacket once more. He shrugged into it and stopped beside Thatcher, raising his eyes to hers briefly and she was startled by the sorrow they expressed.
         "I'm sorry," he offered so softly that she almost didn't hear him. Her heart went out to him and she immediately regretted her earlier attack. She reached out to touch his arm, but he moved away from her and headed for the door.
         "Ray," Fraser inquired quietly and the Detective paused but did not turn around. "W...would you like me to accompany you home?" Ray shook his head and walked out, aware that the Mounties' eyes followed him.
 

         Ray sat on his couch the following day and bawled like a baby, his legs curled up against his chest as he rocked back and forth. He had left the lights off when he entered the apartment last night. Now the early morning sunshine was filtering in through his window, reminding him that a new day was dawning and he had not even been to bed yet. His mind kept replaying the scene of the shooting over and over in his head, searching for something he might have missed. There had to be another way he could have handled it. No way could he agree that he had to kill another cop.
         Ray knew he came across as rough and belligerent at times, even slightly psychotic, but Fraser had seen through him that first day. Fraser knew it was all a posture. Ray had never killed anyone before and this was scaring the hell out of him. Sure, he knew when he became a cop that he might have to actually have to mortally wound someone in the line of duty. They train you to expect that, but when it actually happens, all that physiology crap just flies out the window.
         Victims and death surround the life of a police officer, but watching the life ooze from another human being because of a bullet fired from your own gun was so much different. Finding a person shot to death by an unknown perpetrator, or even being shot yourself, can somehow be accepted in an officer's mind by the knowledge that you will do everything in your power to bring that criminal to justice. Being the one who carried out the death sentence leaves a body feeling dirty, ashamed and intensely remorseful, especially when it was a fellow officer that had died from your mistake.
         Ray wiped angrily at his face as his phone rang for the fourth time. As with all the other calls, he ignored the ringing and allowed the machine to get it. He knew it was either Welsh or Fraser, because both had left numerous messages already. Ray knew he would erase all of them later without returning the calls. He also knew that Fraser would get tired of talking to Ray's machine and eventually visit him at the apartment, but he would have to deal with that when it happened. He couldn't think beyond the next few minutes right now. He was startled when the soft voice of Stella Kowalski's piped over his machine.
         "Ray," she inquired and he could hear the sympathy in her voice. "Ray I know you are there, pick up, you know I hate talking to these damn things." Ray almost smiled, but did not rise to answer the phone. "Ray, honey, Lieutenant Welsh called me, he's worried about you." Ray stretched out his cramped legs and lay back to stare at his ceiling. "Okay then, I'm giving you until noon to call me back, Ray, then I'm coming over there." She hung up and Ray sighed almost in relief.
         He had been very tempted to rise from his pit of despair and pick up the phone. It wasn't very often his Stella called. Hell, she never called. But he just couldn't do it. He didn't want to talk to anyone, not even the woman he loved so deeply. How could he face anyone again, especially her, after what he had done?
         "I'm a freakin' cop killer," he exclaimed, releasing a small, hysterical laugh. "Way ta go Kowalski! Ya really screwed it up big time."
         He ran tired hands over his face and slowly rose from the sofa. The term 'Death By Cop' filtered into his brain but he shook it away violently. Sure, things like that happened now and then, but Ray never thought it would happen to him. Besides, this was totally different. Constable Pierce hadn't gone out looking to be shot, surely. No, Ray just made a bad judgement call and now he would have to pay for it.
          He knew Stella would be coming by that afternoon and Fraser may already be on his way, knowing how stubborn the Mountie could be. This left Ray only one option; he had to get out of there before either of the people he cared most about arrived.
         He jumped in the shower, more to wake himself up than anything, dressed in blue jeans and a brown polo shirt. He withdrew his black duffel bag from under the mess on the closet floor and dropped it on the bed. He tossed in a few extra clothes and necessities he had collected from the bathroom, then pulled open the drawer to his bedside table. The cop in him worked automatically as he grabbed a couple of extra clips, before realizing he had left his gun with Welsh.
         He dropped the clips back inside the drawer and reached for the Smith & Wesson M640 snub-nosed revolver that was usually tethered to his ankle, but now set in it's holster on the top of his nightstand where he had placed it the previous night. His fingers wavered above it for a few seconds. Ray realized his hand was shaking as he recalled the shooting once again, his body jerking as though he had been shot with the victim. He wet his lips as he felt beads of perspiration suddenly dot his brow and upper lip. He stared at the weapon, knowing it wasn't the one he had fired, yet unable to make himself pick it up.
         Finally, he pulled his hand away and left it lay there as he pulled out his wallet to make sure his license was there and that he had enough money for a hotel or whatever he might need. He tossed his police identification next to the gun and returned his wallet to his back pocket. His eyes caught the dream catcher that Fraser had made for Vecchio and which Ray had hung in his window. He reached up, unhooked it from the tack, and placed it in the bag with his other items. He would need all the help he could possibly get for the nightmares he knew were coming.
         He grabbed the bag and returned to the living room, moving through it quickly toward the kitchen, where he threw in a canister of instant coffee, a couple of packages of Smarties, a mug and some sweets, then closed the bag with a final tug of the zipper. He retrieved his black leather waist coat from the closet and was just shrugging into it when there was a knock at his door and he froze.
         "Ray," Fraser's voice called from the other side as the Mountie knocked once again. "Ray, I know you are home, your car is in the lot. Please open the door."
         Ray quietly grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, then crept silently toward his window. He knew Fraser would probably hear him opening it, but he had to chance it.
         "Ray," Fraser called again, knocking more impatiently this time. "We need to talk, Ray. Please let me in."
         Ray pushed his living room window up, grateful that it didn't squeak. He stepped out onto the fire escape as Fraser's calls became more insistent. Ray slowly lowered the iron stairwell and winced when it released a loud screeching sound. He let it drop, knowing that Fraser would have heard that and know what he was up to. Now it was a race, and Kowalski had to beat his partner down.
         He grabbed the rails and braced his feet against the sides. He didn't have time to use the ladder, so he slid down the three floors with a quickness that surprised even him. He dropped the remaining few feet to the ground and took off running, away from the parking lot, since Fraser would probably assume he would go for the GTO. He could come back for it later. Right now he had to evade the Mountie pursuing him. Ray knew how cowardly he was being, but he just couldn't face Fraser right now.
 

         Fraser knocked on his partner's door and waited a moment before calling out. His friend was inside, Fraser was sure of it and just unwilling to open the door. When he and Inspector Thatcher had first heard of the shooting of a Canadian Constable, naturally they were horrified. But to learn that Ray Kowalski had been the one responsible for the Mounties's death had been a tremendous blow to Fraser's state of mind.
         Naturally he didn't blame Ray for the incident. He believed Leftenant Welsh's version and viewed the reports that followed, so he understood that Kowalski had acted justly. Still, the idea that a Mountie had been shot, even by accident, was a difficult thing to deal with.
         Inspector Thatcher had been furious and for a moment took it out on the obviously remorseful Detective, but was quickly reminded of the facts by the Leftenant. Fraser had been unable to speak or take his eyes off his partner from the moment they stepped into Welsh's office. Ray was visibly shaking and Fraser could see, even without meeting the blonde's gaze, that his friend was incredibly close to falling apart.
         "Ray," he called as he knocked again. "Ray, I know you are home, your car is in the lot. Please open the door."  Please open the door and talk to me, Ray, he added silently.
         It was not lost on him that the Detective had refused to meet his eyes in Welsh's office yesterday and Fraser had seen how difficult it had been for him to even glance at Thatcher when he offered an apology for his actions. Even the Inspector could see that Ray was hurting and had even attempted to reach out to him, but Kowalski pulled away and strode to the door. Fraser had finally found his voice and called his partner by name, offering him company for the trip home, but Ray only shook his head and walked out without looking back.
         "Ray," Fraser called again, knocking more impatiently this time. "We need to talk, Ray, please let me in."
         He paused as he listened closely and was sure he heard a window open inside. He continued knocking and calling out to his friend, hoping he had imagined the sound and that Ray was not trying to flee from him. But then he heard the distinct clang of the fire escape and he knew his partner was indeed avoiding him. He bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time in an effort to catch his friend. He couldn't understand why Ray was behaving this way, but he sensed the Detective was blaming himself for Constable Pierce's death and this was his way of dealing with it, by shutting everyone out and running away.
         He made it outside in record time, but saw that the GTO had not been moved. He silently cursed as he and Dief raced across the lot. Ray had run the other way down the alley, which would bring him out next to the coffee shop on the corner. Fraser was sure he could cut across and beat his partner to the intersection.
         Unfortunately he had underestimated his friend's speed and was just a few seconds too late, catching a glimpse of his partner as he hopped into a taxi and sped away. There was too much traffic that early in the morning to make it across or try to catch the vehicle, so Fraser resigned himself to staring after his partner's departure in despair.
 

         Kowalski entered the motel room and dropped his bag on the bed before flopping on it himself. He was so tempted to get wasted, but even in the dark pit he had fallen into, he knew he couldn't do that. It wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't make that Mountie any less dead. He knew Fraser would be worried about him, maybe even pissed because of the way Ray left, but he just could not face his partner right now, not until he could level things out a bit. He also knew he should call Welsh and let him know he was okay, but he couldn't bring himself to do that either.
         His cell phone rang and he jumped. He'd thought he'd turned the damn thing off. Ray sat up and pulled it out of his coat pocket, flipping it open.
         "Vecchio." He almost sighed in defeat, knowing it was wither Fraser or Welsh. He was surprised when Francesca's soft voice greeted him.
         "Ray? It's Frannie. Are you okay? Where are you? We've been trying to reach you all day..."
         "What do ya want, Frannie," he asked wearily, though he was glad it wasn't one of the people he had been expecting. Still, he just wasn't in the mood for the pretty Italian's incessant prattle just now.
         "Welsh has me calling you ever half hour, trying to get a hold of you," She huffed in aggravation. "Fraser said you took off this morning and we were worried..."
         "I'm fine," Ray dismissed grimly. "Tell 'em all I'm fine. Is dat all?"
         "No, it's not all, ya jerk," Francesca retorted but there was an under tone of affection in her irritated voice. "Ya can't just run off and not tell anybody where yer goin'! People here are worried about ya and it ain't at all mature, so you tell me where da hell you are or..."
         Her voice broke off and a moment later Lieutenant Welsh's gruff voice barked at him.
         "Where da hell are you Detective," he demanded sharply. Ray flopped back on the bed with a low groan and braced his free arm over his eyes.
         "Hey, Lieu," he greeted meekly. "I'm nowhere, just hangin'."
         "Well get yer ass into the station now. We have to talk."
         "Ya told me ta take a few days off..." Ray reminded.
         "I said until I called you," Welsh barked. "Well, I called and I called, and guess what, Detective? You never returned any of those calls. Now have yer skinny butt in my office in thirty minutes, or I'll suspend you fer good."
         "On one condition," Ray returned, not the least bit impressed by his superior's threat. "I don't want Fraser dere." Welsh's tone softened fractionally.
         "Constable Fraser does not blame you, Detective," he assured.
         "If he's dere, I ain't comin' in," Ray defied. "I...I just can't deal wit him now, Lieu. Gimmie a break, okay?"
         "Okay, Ray." Welsh sighed. "I'll make sure the Constable is out of the area, but you get here pronto, you hear me, or Big Red will be the least of yer problems."
         "Yes, Sir," Ray returned and hung up before any more could be said.
 

         Ray entered the station about forty five minutes later. It had taken him some time to get another cab, which he then took to his place and grabbed the GTO. He tried to ignore the stares that his fellow officers gave him, putting on his best devil-may-care posture, and sauntered into Welsh's office. He stopped short when he saw Stella seated on the sofa, but managed to hide his surprise.
         "Glad you could join us, Detective," Welsh growled as Ray closed the office door and turned to meet the older man's gaze.
         "Yah, I'm here, so what now," he retorted, true to form.
         Welsh looked almost pleased for a moment at Kowalski's belligerence, but then his eyes narrowed on the already thin Detective. There were shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep and he would bet the Detective hadn't eaten in awhile, either.
         "You've been cleared of any wrongdoing," Welsh stated quickly and to the point. "It's been ruled as a CAS."
         Ray's jaw clenched and he closed his eyes briefly as he considered the meaning of the Lieutenant's words. Cop Assisted Suicides had been cropping up much more frequently in recent history. It was usually tailored to criminals, or people that were so distressed with their lives that they deliberately provoked a known law enforcement officer into a drastic confrontation.
         Ray, however, did not feel this was the case with Constable Pierce. Pierce was a Mountie. Ray couldn't willingly believe the Canadian had gone out looking to be shot, and it certainly did nothing to absolve the horrendous guilt that the Detective was feeling.
         "Vecchio will be glad ta hear dat when he gets back," Ray finally returned cynically. "Wouldn't wanna tarnish his record and all."
         Welsh frowned but refrained from commenting as he pulled open his desk drawer and drew out Ray's belongings.
         "You can return to duty," he stated. "But ya know the rules; a date with the department's counselor first, den all is well. Here's yer badge and gun. Get back to work."
         Welsh was concerned when Kowalski didn't reach for either item right away. Usually the Detective was eager to retrieve his weapon and shield and get back to being a cop, as most officers were after something like this. However, Ray remained where he stood and didn't even glance at the items offered.
         "Keep 'em," he finally suggested, reaching into his jacket pocket and tossing his Police Identification on the desk, before moving back toward the door. "I'm done."
         "Ray," Stella exclaimed, and he paused with his hand on the door handle. "You're being ridiculous! Don't throw away your career because of one mistake."
         "Leave it, Stella," he warned in a tone he had never before used with her and she faltered, casting him a stunned look. "Ya don't understand. I killed a cop. I can't ever make up fer dat, so just leave it and me alone."
         "Detective," Welsh began boldly, "Take some time off, talk to one of the counselors, you'll feel differently..."
          "I'm done, Lieu," Ray insisted. "I'm real sorry about Vecchio's cover. Ya can say he just took a leave of absence or somthin'. I don't care, but I can't do it anymore."
         "I won't accept yer resignation, Ray," Welsh refused angrily. "This is stupid. There is no reason for you to quit. Yer a good cop, and..."
         "Do what ya want," Ray replied softly. Stella could see he was close to breaking. "It's not my problem anymore."
         Ray threw open the door and almost walked into Fraser. He cast a suspicious glance at Welsh over his shoulder, but the Lieutenant seemed just as startled to find the Mountie there as Ray was.
         "Hello, Ray," Fraser greeted quietly, seeing the way his partner avoided his gaze and stepped around him carefully.
         "Good bye Fraser," he murmured before turning and striding out of the station, ignoring the pleading look that Francesca Vecchio gave him, and the Mounties's call.
         Fraser moved quickly to block his friend's exit from the room, leaping over desks and turning over chairs to catch his partner before he made it to the stairs. Ray had not tried to run this time, so Fraser had managed to catch him before he could go any further.
         "Please, Ray," Fraser requested quietly. "We need to talk."
         "I got nothin' ta say, Fraser," Ray renounced, looking at his feet rather than the blue eyes that he knew would hold a forgiveness and sympathy that he had to refuse.
         "Ray, we have to discuss this," Fraser insisted, but Ray stepped back from him and headed into the station, to use the exit behind his desk. He narrowly avoided running into a woman that had been walking toward them. Fraser followed and managed to get ahead of Ray on the outside stairwell. "Ray, it wasn't your fault."
         Ray reached to catch the door before it closed, for there was no handle on the outside. It was used as an emergency exit only. But he wasn't fast enough, and Ray was left with nowhere to go but through Fraser.
         You don't know," he denied. "You weren't there."
         "I read the report, Ray," Fraser replied. "And I spoke to Leftenant Welsh, who I assume got the facts from you. I doubt either of you would lie about...
        "I shot him, Fraser," Ray screamed, unable to hold in his rage and despair any longer, or care who might hear him. "What is dere ta lie about? He was a cop, foreign country or not, and I fuckin' blew him away!" Fraser flinched at his friend's language but stood fast. He had to get through to Ray. He knew if he let him go now, the Detective would run from him again and he would not get a second chance.
         "You had no choice, Ray," Fraser persisted, his own voice rising in an attempt to get through Ray's turmoil before he destroyed himself.
         "Dere's always a choice, Fraser," Ray growled. "I made da wrong one and I gotta live wit it da rest of my life!"
         "It was self defense, Ray. You said yourself that Constable Pierce was acting in a suspicious and uncooperative manner. He even pulled a gun on you..."
         "It wasn't loaded, goddammit," Ray declared. "He may as well be holdin' a freakin' toy!"
         "You didn't know the gun wasn't loaded, Ray..."
         "Mounties never carry a loaded gun. I know dat," Ray whispered, seeming to lose touch from reality for a moment as he allowed himself to fall deeper into the pit of condemnation that he had created for himself. "Dey use dere wits and dere bodies as human shields, like Superman, and think no one will actually shoot dem, but I did...I did and da bullet didn't bounce off, it went right through, and now he's dead, and I killed him."
         "Ray..." Fraser began again, but his partner returned to reality with a vengeance.
         "I shoulda known, Fraser," Ray insisted. "I shoulda known he was a cop. He...da way he walked da...da way...somethin' about him was familiar, but I couldn't...My gut told me somethin' wasn't right, but I...I ignored it and pursued him anyway."
         "Ray, that is absurd," Fraser decided firmly, reaching out to his distraught friend, only to have Ray slap his hands away and stumble backwards into the rail behind him. Fraser sighed and caressed his brow in agitation as he tried to make Ray see the truth. "You cannot tell what someone is by looking at them. You identified yourself several times. Constable Pierce could have told you who he was. He..."
         "Ya don't understand," Ray accused miserably as he tried once again to move past the Mountie, but Fraser wouldn't budge. "Please, let me go. I...I can't do dis I...I can't be here...wit you...it's too much."
         "What don't I understand, Ray," Fraser prompted. "Explain it to me, please. Help me to understand what has brought you to this terrible place where you can't forgive yourself for something that wasn't your fault."
         "I killed a cop," Ray exclaimed. "No matter how it happened, I took da life of a fellow officer and I...Fraser, I can't ever deal wit dat." His eyes held a desperate sorrow that threatened to take Fraser's breath away and caused tears to sting the Mountie's suddenly moist eyes. "Don't ya get it? I swore ta protect lives, not take them. I...I don't want to be a cop anymore I...I don't deserve ta be a cop anymore."
         "Ray, you are a fine officer," Fraser assured determinedly. "Of course, something like this will effect you. But you have to understand that you did the right thing. The only one blaming you is you. No one else feels your actions were disreputable, and throwing away your career will not change that."
         "No...I..." Ray shook his head and Fraser wished he could find a way to end his friend's torment.
 "Yes, you killed another officer," Fraser acknowledged and watched the Detective flinch as though he had been physically slapped. "But you thought he was a criminal fleeing from you. You gave Constable Pierce ample opportunity to explain himself and he failed to do so, and even pulled a weapon on you. Ray, he knew the procedure. He understood what he was doing and how you would react..."
         "No," Ray denied rigidly. "I must've done somethin' wrong, don't ya get it? He did know, he knew exactly what I would do. Yer right. Which means I screwed up. Somehow I made a mistake and it cost him his life. What part of dat don't you get, Fraser? Are you so thick dat ya can't see how messed up I am? I screw up all the time, with Stell, with Beth Botrelle, even hittin' you."
         Fraser paled at the mention of that fateful day, an action that Fraser had long since forgiven him for.
         "You let me hit you back, Ray," Fraser reminded. "So we are even and I understood your anger. I..."
          "Buddies don't do dat, Fraser," Ray declared, distressed. "Partner's don't hit each other, but I hit you because I let my body react without my mind's consent. Dat's what happened in dat alley, I fired without thinkin'. I went on instinct and someone died fer my stupidity."
         "Ray, of course you reacted on instinct. That is what you are trained to do..." Fraser began gently, reaching out to him, but Ray cut him off.
         "Don't..." he refused painfully. "I...I don't want yer pity or yer fergivness. I don't deserve them, Fraser, and I won't accept 'em."
         "Ray, you did nothing wrong," Fraser stated, exasperated. What was it going to take to get through to him? "I've nothing to forgive you for. Please don't do this to us or to yourself. You are my friend, and I..."
         "Let me go, Fraser," Ray demanded quietly, his head lowered. "Please, just let me walk away. I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you don't move and let me leave right now."
         Fraser regarded him quietly, and though his heart cried out to not let Ray leave this way, he knew it would be wrong to press the matter any further. It would only make things worse at this point.
         "Only if you give me your word that we will talk about this later, Ray," Fraser challenged. "No more running away." Ray shook his head. "Then you will have to hurt me, because I am not letting you leave until you give me your word."
         "My word means nothing, anyway," Ray whispered dejectedly.
         "Your word means everything, Ray," Fraser amended firmly. "I have never seen you break a promise to anyone. You are a man of honor. If you give me your word that you will not run from me again and that we will talk later, I'll accept that as the truth."
         "Fine," Ray muttered. "Just move, will ya?"
         "Say it, Ray," Fraser persisted, though he knew his friend was desperately trying to hold himself together.
         "I...I give you my word we...we'll talk later," Ray finally agreed and Fraser nodded, satisfied.
         He moved aside and Kowalski hesitated only a moment before heading down the steps, just as the door beside him opened and Welsh poked his head out, staring after Kowalski with a worried frown.
         "He's having a hard time on this one, Constable," Welsh muttered as he allowed Fraser back inside.
         "Ray just needs time to deal with his conscience, Sir," Fraser assured quietly. "I am sure he will be fine." I will make sure of that, he added silently. He wasn't about to lose another partner. Welsh smiled at the Mountie's determined expression and patted Fraser's back affectionately.
         "I'm sure you will, Constable," the Lieutenant commented before moving away. Fraser glanced at him, startled that the older man seemed to have read his mind.
 
 

         Ray drove for what seemed like hours until he was well outside the city limits and on a rural stretch of highway. The wind had picked up and it had started to mist, but he was so caught up in his own torment that he never bothered to slow down on the winding road that was getting slicker with each passing moment.
         He stopped to fill up at a small gas station a little over an hour ago and had been unwillingly engaged in a conversation with the old timer that ran the place. The man had seemed friendly enough, asked Ray if he was from Chicago, or if he was visiting family in the area, general small talk, obviously wanting for company. Ray had been polite but not entirely forthcoming, explaining he was mainly passing through and the farmer seemed to accept that, offering him a smile and a wave as Ray paid for the gas and headed out.
          Ray had not seen a single soul on the long stretch of road since, which was odd, considering the usual traffic that the state of Illinois usually contracted. It was starting to get cold and dark, and he suspected a storm might be headed his way. He was not very concerned about that. Maybe he'd get lucky and lightning would hit his car and fry him instantly. That would be less then he deserved, anyway.
         The rain grew heavier, but still only a moderate sprinkle. He switched on his wipers automatically. Ray was startled to see a figure standing on the road ahead of him, perched on an old-fashioned hard canvas suitcase.
         As he neared her, he could see a woman with a angelically, soft face, hidden slightly by a red silk scarf wrapped about her head and shoulders. She wore only a light coat over an ivory colored, ankle length dress with matching flats. Her hair hung loosely well past her shoulders and was the color of fire, almost matching her scarf, and her smile was breathtaking.
         "Hullo," she greeted cheerfully in a thick Irish brogue when he pulled to a stop beside her and leaned across to push open the passenger door.
         Ray knew picking up strangers on the road was a no-no. The cop in him warned him to stay clear, but the woman was obviously stranded and it was raining. The gentleman in him rebelled against the cop and won. She was a damsel in distress and Ray knew he couldn't turn her away. There was something different about her, something pure, and Ray felt himself smiling as he straightened back behind the wheel.
         "Hop in," he encouraged.
          She smiled again and retrieved her bag, placed it in the back seat, climbed in next to him, and closed the door. Ray turned up the heater to get her warm a little faster, though she didn't appear to be very wet.
         "Thank you," she offered as he pulled back onto the road. "I was beginning to wonder if anyone was ever going to come by here." She spoke with a husky Irish brogue that could probably melt the polar ice caps, but Ray shivered in spite of himself.
         "What happened," he inquired, curious, as she folded her scarf in her lap and turned to him with eyes that twinkled like the brightest stars at midnight.
         "My car broke down and I feel like I've been walking forever," she sighed, amused. " I was a little worried about accepting a ride and I had just decided to take a rest when you came along, thank goodness." Ray smiled again.
         "Well, you really shouldn't be taking rides from strangers," he scolded gently, the cop in him showing again. "But if it makes ya feel any better..." he reached inside his pocket and retrieved his license to show her. "I'm not dangerous or anything."
         She smiled and opened the folder, tracing his picture with the tip of her finger thoughtfully, before spying Ray's gun permit card on the opposite side.
         "It's very nice to meet you, Detective Vecchio."
         She smiled and handed him back his wallet. Ray frowned and glanced at the permit, which did indeed have Vecchio's name and rank on it. He'd forgotten to turn that in to Welsh.
         "Call me, Ray," he requested, shoving the wallet back in his pocket. "I ain't a cop anymore."
         "Alright, Ray," she amended softly, extending her hand and smiling when Ray accepted her gesture with his free hand, leaving his right on the wheel. She shook it with a warmth and gentleness that surprised him.     "My name's Monica and I'm not dangerous either, I don't think." Ray chuckled, then caught himself. He didn't have much to be happy about, so he probably shouldn't be laughing.
         "Where are you headed, Monica," he inquired politely, trying not to think of how much she smelled of apple blossoms in the spring time.
         "Down the road a ways," she returned casually. "You?"
         "Same," he replied with a tone of dismissal.
         "So we're both on a quest, then," she acknowledged in delight. "What do you expect to find on yours, Ray?"
         Ray shrugged and concentrated on his driving. The rain was falling heavier and the sky had turned a hateful gray. He eased up on the accelerator. He didn't mind getting himself killed, but Monica was an innocent bystander.
         "I love yer accent," he found himself commenting and she laughed a delightful tinkling sound that reminded Ray of sleigh bells at Christmas.
         "I like yours, too." She smiled and turned her attention back to the road, yet she didn't stop smiling. "Are you travelling all alone, Ray?" He nodded. "Running too or from something, then?"
         "Excuse me," he asked, startled.
         "Well, anyone traveling this lonely stretch of road usually isn't out for just a casual drive," Monica explained easily. "They're usually trying to get to somewhere or someone, or running away from somebody or something."
         "Nah, I just like ta drivem" Ray dismissed with a shrug as he stared out the passenger window. Monica nodded and allowed it to drop.
         The rain was getting worse and Ray was having to squint to make out the lines on the road. Lightning streaked across the sky. Monica didn't seem the least bit apprehensive about the storm, which surprised him, because Ray himself was getting a little anxious.
         "Are you hungry, Ray," she inquired suddenly, pointing to a small café' that Ray had not noticed from his vantage point on the hill. "I'm famished."
         "Sure," he agreed easily. Better to get off the road during this weather anyway.
         He pulled off the highway onto the gravel lot and parked as close to the door as he could. There were only two other cars there that he could see and a semi off to the side. Ray stepped out and dashed with her toward the entrance as the skies really opened up on them. They laughed as they ducked inside and stared at the downpour, grateful to be inside and relatively dry.
         "Just made it," she acknowledged as Ray unfastened his coat and shook the rain from his hair before following her to a corner table.
         The eatery was small, but warm and cozy, with checkered tablecloths and wide booths.  There were only three other customers in the café, an older, man at the counter, perhaps the truck driver and a young woman with a small boy in one of the other booths. Some soft music from the sixties or seventies was playing from the jukebox in the corner.
         A large, robust woman walked over to them and smiled. Her dark chocolate skin was wrinkled only slightly by age and her curly black hair was streaked with silver. Ray thought she was pretty good looking for a woman her age, whatever age that might be. She handed them a single sheet menu and some utensils wrapped in a napkin.
         "My name's Tess, what can I get you," she inquired cheerfully, as Ray pulled one of the napkins from the dispenser on the table to wipe the moisture from his face. "Besides a towel."
 Monica smiled and Ray grinned at her as he glanced at the menu.
         "Um...How are yer burgers," he asked.
         "Well...they're better than our soup and worse than our sandwiches," the woman answered honestly and Ray chuckled.
          "Den I'll have da club with a coffee please," he decided and Monica ordered the same with a small bowl of soup.
          Tess nodded approvingly, retrieved the menus and moved behind the counter, hollering the order to the young blond who stood over the grill in the back. The cook nodded and waved to let her know he heard her, then started to prepare their meal as Tess returned with their coffee.
         "You feeling down, Honey," she inquired softly and Ray shook his head, surprised when she placed a firm hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. "You listen to this young lady here, she'll fix you up."
         Ray stared at her for a moment as she moved off, then reached for the cup and sipped his coffee, surprised at the flavor. He glanced over at Tess who had moved to serve the gentleman at the counter. She met his gaze and winked at him knowingly.
         "I like a little chocolate in my coffee, too," she remarked and Ray's eyes widened. He didn't know anyone drank coffee the way he did. He bowed his head for a moment thoughtfully, then raised just his eyes toward her obligingly, before turning back to Monica.
         "So, are you from Chicago, Ray," Monica inquired in that sweet non-intrusive way she had of speaking.
         "Yah."
         "Do you have family there?"
         "No...I mean, yes...well dey travel...my folks."
         "That's nice." Monica smiled kindly. "Sometimes it's good to just get away from things." Ray nodded and started tracing the squares on the tablecloth aimlessly. "But you can't run forever. Sooner or later you have to go back and face your problems." Ray glanced up and met her gaze, surprised.
         "I don't have any problems," he assured, but Monica saw the pain and despair in his blue green eyes.
         "We all have problems, Ray," she replied as the waitress brought their order. Ray tried to offer the older woman a friendly smile, but it came out looking like more of a grimace.
         "I..." Suddenly Ray wasn't so hungry and he pushed his plate away. "I'm sorry. I have to get going."
         "But it's still raining," Monica protested, rising with him and glancing at Tess as Ray pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Tess placed a hand over his, preventing him from pulling out the bills.
         "You keep your money, baby," she insisted. "And finish your meal. You'll catch your death if you go out in this storm."
         Ray glanced through the small diner windows as lightning streaked across the dark sky and a boom of thunder shook the diner. The rainstorm had indeed turned treacherous. Ray dropped back into his seat, defeated. It wasn't like he knew where he was going anyway. Tess chuckled.
         "You eat up now. Let God finish his housework and you finish your meal."
         "Yes'em," Ray returned obediently. She smiled and patted his shoulder again.
         "I'll not ask you any more questions, Ray," Monica promised. "I never meant to make you uncomfortable."  He shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich.
         They ate quietly for a time as the roar of the storm seemed to dim inside the café itself and the jukebox continued to play softly. Tess was chatting with the woman on the other side of the café as she refilled the lady's coffee. The young boy that had been seated with her came out of the restroom and started past Ray and Monica's table on his way back to his mother.
         "Hi," he greeted suddenly, stopping to stare at the Detective. Ray had paused in mid chew to return the boy's gaze, surprised. The boy was probably about seven or eight, curly dark hair and eyes, and a shy smile with a slight gap between his two front teeth.
         "Hi," Ray returned warily.
         He didn't mind kids. A lot of the time he thought they were pretty cool, well, except for those little monsters that belonged to that bounty hunter chick, but he wasn't used to having one come right up and speak to him for no reason. Most of them were attracted to Fraser, perhaps because of the uniform. Ray knew the real tiny ones, toddlers and babies, thought something was quite fascinating about him, maybe his hair, and they always smiled and waved at him. He'd smile and wave back, but the older kids tended to steer clear of the Detective.
         "Do you like milk," the boy asked. He had a slight accent, but Kowalski couldn't place it. Ray gave the kid a puzzled glance.
         "Sure," he acknowledged.
         "White or chocolate best?"
         "Excuse me," Ray inquired, confused.
         "Do you like white milk or chocolate milk best," the boy explained and Ray felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, though he kept his face serious.
         "Chocolate, of course," he replied, though he hadn't had the beverage since he was a child.
         "Me too," the boy confirmed, then moved closer to whisper in Ray's ear. "But my mother says white milk is better for me, so I have to drink that."
         "Well, she's right," Ray agreed. "It is better fer ya." The youth frowned then grinned again.
         "What's your name," he asked, offering his hand maturely, and Ray shook it.
         "Ray. What's yers?"
         Suddenly the woman called out to her son, speaking what sounded like French, and the child grinned impishly at the Detective.
         "Gotta go, bye." He hurried back to his table as Ray chuckled and watched him.
         The woman smacked him lightly on the rump, but was smiling as she ruffled his hair and settled him opposite her, indicating he finish his meal. The boy met Ray's gaze over his milk glass and winked. Ray winked back then turned around.
         "I think you've made a new friend," Monica purred, smiling. Ray shrugged shyly as he finished his sandwich and coffee.
         "More coffee," Tess suggested. already refilling his cup before he could decline, watching the blond glance again at the storm outside. "Looks like you may be here a little while, baby. The weatherman just reported flash flooding and zero visibility."
         "Great," Ray muttered as he reached for his cup, just as Tess held out a hand full of familiar looking candy. He grinned at her and accepted them, dropping them into his cup and stirring it carefully.
         "Did you have somewhere you needed to be," Monica inquired kindly, sensing Ray's distress. He shook his head.
         "No, not really," he returned quietly as he sipped his coffee and continued to watch the weather, dark, gloomy, unstable and frightening, much like the storm raging inside him.
         "Do you need to call someone and let them know you're okay," Tess suggested. Again, her reassuring hand was on his shoulder. "There's a phone in the back."
         "No, I can't..." Ray wavered. "I don't need to call anyone."
         Tess nodded sadly and moved away toward the counter. Monica sipped her tea, watching him beneath lowered lids. She could feel his torment and her heart ached for him, but she knew better then to push. Some people just had to be shown in a round-about way, and she needed to sit back and let things unfold for themselves. She had gotten Ray this far, that had been her part. He would take care of the rest.
 

         "May I burrow a quarter," Monica inquired a short while later. "I'd like to play some music."
         The storm was still raging outside and the lights of the diner flickered warningly, so Tess had brought out some candles and a kerosene lamp just in case they had a power failure. Ray stretched across his seat, with his back to the window, and was lost in thought. The Trucker had curled up in a far booth trying for a nap, since they couldn't go anywhere for the time being. Tess had brought out a weather radio from the kitchen for them to listen to. The cook, a tall good looking blond named Andrew, wearing a small chef's cap, now sat playing cards with her at the counter. The mother and child remained quietly in their booth on the other side of the diner.
         "Sure," Ray replied, digging in his denim pocket and coming out with a handful of change. He selected four quarters and dropped them into her waiting palm. "Play a few."
         She smiled and walked over to the jukebox to look over the selections. The little boy joined her a minute later and together they discussed which ones to play. Andrew left Tess, when she won the last hand, and wandered over to settle across from the Detective, a friendly smile on his handsome face.
         "He's really working up a fury isn't He," he commented and Ray glanced at him, perplexed.
         "Who," he inquired cautiously, not sure what the younger man was talking about. Andrew grinned and pointed a finger toward the ceiling.
         "The Big Guy upstairs," he explained and Ray shook his head.
         "Yah, I guess," he rebuffed and glanced over toward Monica and the kid, who were still deciding the songs they wanted.
         "Don't you like storms, Ray," Andrew inquired. The Detective failed to notice that, although he had heard Tess call the young man Andrew earlier, Ray had never given his name to the blond.
         "No big deal," Ray shrugged. "Gotta have' em I suppose, or nothing good will grow." Andrew seemed pleased by his answer.
         "So you would agree that such disturbing turmoil is a part of life, then?" Ray shrugged again, wondering where the man was going with this conversation. Did he actually have a point or was he just trying to be annoying?
         "Sure," he replied, hoping that would settle the matter and Andrew would leave him alone. Ray wasn't in the mood to talk. It was bad enough that he was stuck here with a bunch of strangers who seemed intent on getting to know him personally. But to have some Born Again Ya-hoo start yammering at him would really put Ray over the top. He folded his arms across his chest defensively, then lay his head back against the window and closed his eyes, hoping the guy would take the hint and bug off.
         God, he was already missing being a cop and he really missed Fraser. Despite everything else, he still felt lost without his partner and friend. The two had become quite close over the last few months since Ray had taken the assignment as Ray Vecchio. Now, it seemed he might never be able to face the Canadian again, not after what he did.
         He knew Fraser didn't blame him, but that wasn't the point. Ray had to take responsibility for what he had done, and part of his penance would no doubt involve cutting the ties to his best friend. How could he ever face the man he admired so much, after killing one of Fraser's fellow officers? It just wasn't possible.
         If only he hadn't bothered to stop at that store. If he had just gone straight home. He should have called for back up. Even if he was off duty, he should have called it in, but he just reacted on instinct and it resulted in another man's death. Ray had never killed anyone before. He had come close with Beth Botrell, but thankfully that had been rectified.
         "It's never easy, is it, Ray," Andrew offered softly and Ray opened his startled eyes to stare back at him. "But making choices is a part of being human. Sometimes those choices aren't always what you expect them to be."
         "Who ya think you are, dat Kreskin guy, or what," the Detective demanded angrily, his intimidation posture automatically moving into play as he dropped some bills from his wallet on the table with a furious toss. "Ya don't know nuthin' about me or my life, so buzz off before I jump Boghart all over ya!" He slid from the seat with a grace that surprised the others around him, grabbed his jacket and stormed outside.
          He ran for the GTO and climbed inside, shutting out the rain but not the roar of thunder or the feeling of isolation. He was tempted to just start the engine and leave, but suddenly surrounded by the intense noise of the storm, he quickly changed his mind. Sure, he was upset, but he wasn't stupid. He knew better than to risk driving in something like this.
         He leaned his head back against the seat, suddenly realizing how very tired he was. Of course, he hadn't slept in almost forty eight hours, since before the night of the shooting. He sucked, that was all there was to that. He couldn't even run away without getting caught in a storm and stranded in some diner that resembled Mayberry.
         He pulled out his wallet and stared at his picture with Ray Vecchio's name. Ray Vecchio, Detective Extraordinare with his sidekick Mountie. Fighting crime and riding off into the sunset after all the nasties are tucked away in their cells. How did he ever think he could measure up? Vecchio was a good cop. Granted, his record got a hell of a lot more shiny after teaming with the Mountie, but then so had Kowalski's. Only it wasn't going on Kowalski's record, just Vecchio's, and that ticked him off.
         He tossed the wallet onto the dashboard in frustration. What difference did all of that make now? He wasn't a cop anymore and Fraser had no reason to hang around with him if he wasn't, so where did that leave Ray? Alone, as usual, trapped in his own miserable little world. How did he get himself into these things? Everyone would be better off if he...
         He didn't get to finish the thought as he suddenly realized how quiet it had gotten. The wind, rain, everything had stopped momentarily, yet the sky seemed even darker now than it had before. He frowned and stepped out of the car to survey the stillness.  Something wasn't right. He could feel the back of his hair standing up as he strained to see something that would corroborate his instincts. It was so dark, he could hardly see anything. From across the road, way up in the pasture land about a mile and a half north of them, he saw a spark that looked suspiciously like a transformer blowing.
         "Shit," he exclaimed and ran for the diner, hoping he was wrong, but not willing to take the chance. He bolted inside, startling the people by his abrupt entrance, as he ran over to Tess.
         "Do you have a cellar or a basement here," he demanded quietly, trying not to alert the others just yet, especially the young mother and boy. Tess shook her head.
         "Just the cooler in the back where we keep the vegetables and canned goods," she replied as Monica and Andrew approached Ray. "It's a made over cellar."
         "What is it," Monica asked as Ray risked a glance outside, the others looking as well, just as lightning flashed across the field and they saw the outline of a funnel.
         "Okay, we've got to get in to that cooler then," he insisted. Monica and Tess nodded quickly. "Everybody in there now!"
         Andrew went to wake the trucker and explain the situation. Monica and Tess gathered some candles and the lamp, and Ray approached the other woman. He explained the situation to her, hoping she understood English and he watched her eyes grow wide with horror as she stood, before composing herself for her son.
          They all hurried through the kitchen to the cellar, where Tess had pulled up the trap door and was waiting for them. The sound of the storm, like an oncoming freight train, could now be heard as they started to climb quickly down the narrow steps into the small cellar. But Ray could only stare at the dim hole.
         It was so small in there and Ray's claustrophobia was threatening to overtake him, but the wailing of the winds outside were frightening, too. He barely heard the other's encouragements to hurry and get down with them. All he could see was that tiny little space below and he couldn't make himself take that first step to safety.
         "Joseph," the French woman cried as her son broke free of her grasp and ran back into the diner. She started after him, but Ray pushed her toward Andrew.
         "Get in dere," he ordered. "I'll get da kid!" The woman cried out again for her son, but Andrew was already guiding her into the cellar.
          Ray fully comprehended the situation as the sounds of glass breaking in the other area of the diner vibrated around the already trembling room.  He stepped into what felt like a wind tunnel, though the tornado itself was still a few feet from the dinner. He called out for the boy, but couldn't spot him. Then he suddenly saw a small shadow duck into the washroom.
         Ray fought his way toward the restrooms, dodging flying debris and glass and trying to make his legs work against the wind. He push the door open and stepped inside, spying little Joseph hiding in one of the stalls, terrified. He had something curled in his tiny fist, an object he had no doubt returned for.
         Ray knew they would never make it back to the cellar. The crunching of wood and metal in the outer room told him that the storm had landed at the diner. He did the only thing he could think of. He pulled off his belt and tied the boy to the sink pipe leading down into the floor, then wrapped himself around the kid and pipe to anchor them. As a precaution, he pulled out his cuffs which were still in his pocket, and fastened them around his wrists to keep himself there.
         "I'm scared," Joseph cried as he clung to the pipe. Suddenly the door of the washroom was blown inward. The small single outside window shattered under the intense pressure.
         "Just don't let go," Ray cried over the noise. "You can do it! Close yer eyes and hold tight!"
         It was so loud that Ray's ears began to ring painfully and he winced when the change in pressure caused them to pop. He could hardly hear anything at all. The little boy nodded and wrapped his legs around the pipe as Ray had done. Water erupted around them as the wind ripped away a portion of the urinals and stalls opposite them.
         Ray prayed that the pipe they clung to was deep enough in the ground and it wouldn't be pulled out by the incredible force around them. He felt the invisible claws of the twister pull and tear at him, wrenching his thin body with it's force as he struggled to hang on. The metal of his cuffs dug into the tender flesh of his wrists, but they anchored him. He knew the cuffs could break under such pressure. They were only a last resort. His arms and upper torso were desperately strained against the winds around them, and he gasped as he wrenched his shoulder in his effort to hold on. If he allowed himself to be pulled away, Joseph didn't stand a chance.
         He could feel debris hitting his back and arms, and he tried to keep his head bowed and shield the boy beneath him from being injured. His eyes were closed tightly against the horror of the storm but his ears were working overtime, though slightly muffled because of the pressure drop.
         Then, as suddenly as it started it was over, and there was just the gentle sound of the water gushing from the wall where the urinals had been. Ray's body didn't seem able to relax just yet, but he managed to open his eyes and gape at the devastation around them.
         The ceiling was gone. When he raised his eyes, he could see the storm had moved off and a few of the stars were visible against the midnight sky. The wall opposite and behind them was gone, but for the plumbing fixtures which were still gushing water. Ray twisted slightly, grimacing at the pain it caused him, and could see all the way through the jumbled debris to the highway. The wall they were against was still intact, as were the sinks.
         "Is it over," Joseph whispered fearfully.
         "What," Ray asked, his hearing still messed up. The boy repeated his question a little louder.  "Yah, I think so. You okay?" Joseph nodded and Ray suddenly remembered why they had been forced to wait out the storm in the bathroom. "Why'd ya run away like dat? Ya coulda been hurt."
         "I forgot something," the boy defended, though obviously still frightened.
         "What was so important dat ya had ta risk yer life and scare yer Mom like dat," Ray asked. The boy raised watery dark eyes to his, opening his tiny palm and showing the special edition RCMP watch.
         "My daddy left me this," he stated quietly. "He died when he was in Chicago. That is why Mama and I came here. It's all I have of him." Ray stared at the watch and felt his entire body start to shake.
         "Yer dad..." he began huskily. "W...what's yer name?"
         "Joseph Pierce, but my daddy called me Joey," Joey returned. Ray felt fresh tears sting as he shook his head and closed his eyes against the pain that assaulted him.
         "I...I'm sorry a...about...yer Dad," Ray offered, unable to even look at the boy as shame engulfed him.
         "It's okay," Joey assured bravely. "Constable Fraser, he was the one that gave me my Dad's watch, he said it was an accident. Another police officer shot him because of a mis...misun..."
         "Misunderstanding," Ray muttered dejectedly and the boy nodded.
         "Yes, but Mama says it wasn't the police officer's fault, and I wasn't to blame him," Joey insisted boldly, his eyes meeting Ray's in a penetrating stare. "I forgive him, because he never meant to hurt my daddy." Joey lowered his eyes to the treasured watch. "I have a new daddy now. He married my Mama last year. I like him, but I miss my real daddy."
         "Ray! Joseph!" Two voices called out to them and both turned, as much as their restraints would allow. They saw Joey's mother and Andrew climbing over the debris to get to them.
         "Thank God," the woman cried as she reached her son and started to untie him from the pipe, while Ray carefully moved back as much as he could, so she could get him free. She pulled Joseph into her arms, kissing his face all over and crying, though her eyes met the Detective's gratefully. "Merci, Monsieur. Dieu vous Benisse!"
         "Are you okay, Ray," Andrew asked, worried as he knelt next to the trembling Detective. Ray nodded and lowered his eyes once more, as his body started to register the pain he was in.
         "Key's are in my right jacket pocket," He murmured and Andrew dug through to retrieve the small loop of keys.
         He found the smallest one and quickly released the cuffs on Ray's wrists, amazed that the Detective had had the forethought to anchor himself. Once the metal was off, Ray found himself falling backwards as his body cried in relief, only to be caught by Monica crouched behind him. He tried to move his left shoulder and realized he'd probably pulled it out of the socket while fighting the wind. He had minor cuts all up his arms from the flying glass, but his head escaped injury, except for shards of wood and debris that stuck to his hair.
         "Just lay still, Ray," Monica crooned as she settled his head on her lap. "Help will be here soon."
 He nodded. He couldn't move if he wanted to, anyway. Pain and exhaustion from the last few days threatened to overtake him.
         "H...how's da kid," he whispered, closing his eyes as she continued to caress his face and hair tenderly.
         "Not a scratch on him," she assured proudly. "He was just very scared."
         "Yah, me too," Ray admitted. Tess hurried in and handed the first Aid kit to Andrew, who moved to lift Ray's useless left arm and start treating the injuries from the glass. "Wait!" Andrew paused at Ray's cry. "Pulled outta da socket. Gotta...Gotta yank it back in, man."
         Tess shook her head, unable to watch and suggested that Joey and his mother head out, so they wouldn't see it either. Monica offered her hand to Ray, who glanced at her doubtfully, before shaking his head.
         "I'd probably break yer fingers," he muttered, but she just smiled and folded her hand into his regardless.
         "I'm stronger than you think," she whispered, lowering her lips to kiss his forehead, and smiling.
         He gripped her hand gratefully as Andrew got a firm hold on his left arm, waiting for Ray's signal that he was ready. The Detective took a few deep breaths, knowing this was going to hurt. Then he nodded, raising his eyes to Monica's and holding them there, reveling in the warmth he saw behind them. His painful cry echoed around them, despite his attempts to keep quiet, as Andrew twisted his shoulder back into place. Monica continued to sooth him, her free hand caressing his furrowed brow.
         "S...Sweet Heaven," Ray whispered, as his hold body tensed in rebellion before going slack once again, his breathing ragged. "I...I think I'd rather fight da twister."  Monica chuckled as Andrew continued treating his wounds. A wave of darkness threatened to overtake him and he knew he knew he was close to passing out. "M...Monica, would ya sing ta me?"
         "What would you like me to sing," she inquired kindly.
         "D...don't care, anything, j...just keep me awake."
         Monica glanced up at Tess who had returned with a blanket. She covered the Detective with it to keep him from going into shock. Tess started, her deep, practiced voice feeling the room.

When you're down and they're counting
When your secrets all found out
When your troubles take to mounting
When the map you have leads you to doubt
When there's no information
And the compass turns to nowhere that you know well
Let your soul be your pilot
Let your soul guide you
He'll guide you well

 Ray sighed and closed his eyes, allowing the older woman's voice to carry him away from his cares and troubles.

When the doctors failed to heal you
When no medicine chest can make you well
When no counsel leads to comfort
When there are no more lies they can tell
No more useless information
And the compass spins
The compass spins between heaven and hell
Let your soul be your pilot
Let your soul guide you
He'll guide you well

 Monica added her husky lilt to the words and Ray smiled, though he didn't open his eyes. They sounded like angels, singing so clear and true and he hardly felt his pain now. Then it hit him, the feeling that had nagged him ever since he had seen Monica on the road and he sighed almost in relief.

And your eyes turn towards the window pane
To the lights upon the hill
The distance seems so strange to you now
And the dark room seems so still

Let your pain be my sorrow
Let your tears be my tears too
Let your courage be my model
That the north you find will be true
When there's no more useless information
And the compass turns to nowhere that you know well
Let your soul be your pilot
Let your soul guide you
Let your soul guide you
Let your soul guide you upon your way

         Ray awoke in the hospital and tried to think of how he had gotten there. He was alone in a private room, an IV in his arm, and a simple, white hospital gown covered him. Bandages covered a good portion of his left arm, which was in a sling because of his shoulder. There was one on his neck as well. He lifted the sheet slightly and peered at his naked body beneath the gown, to see if he looked as bad as he felt, and he winced.
         Dark, mottled bruises covered sections of his upper torso from the debris that had slapped against him and probably from the strain of the pressure pulling on him at the time. He was sure the injuries on his back were more severe, though he couldn't see them. He felt like he'd been run over by a truck, or tied to one of those medieval torture racks that stretched your body excruciatingly. He dropped the gown and sheets and lay back on the uncomfortable pillow in defeat. God, what a week he was having!
         The last thing he remembered was being at the diner with Monica and Tess. A tornado had hit with such deadly accuracy and so fast they'd hardly had any time to prepare. He supposed it was some kind of miracle that they had survived the deadly twister at all, since tornadoes weren't that common in Illinois, not so close to Chicago, anyway. Ray had never even seen one before in reality, other then in the movies, yet he managed to get everyone to safety in time, reacting on instinct more than anything else.
        Ray didn't know how he had known what was wrong. It certainly wasn't an idea that would normally come to him, but when he saw that transformer blow, he just new it was something bad. He had managed to get inside and warn them of the impending storm and most of them had gotten to the cellar in the back, but the little boy had run away from his mother and Ray had been forced to chase him. They ended up secured to a sink pipe to keep from getting blow away, which was where Ray got hurt from the flying debris.
         In all his thirty-nine years, the Detective had never experienced anything so frightening and brutal as riding out that twister. He hoped he never had to again. Despite all his comments about Fraser risking his life in wildly bizarre ways, even the Mountie's penchant for trouble could not compete with the awesome power of Mother Nature.
         He had been determined to protect the child with him, but he had to admit he'd started praying hard for a miracle at one point, while his body suffered the violent assault of the storm around them. He also had to admit that most of his prayers were in regards to the young boy he was trying to protect, and Fraser, his partner and best friend, whom he hoped would eventually forgive him for the way Ray had treated him, if he didn't survive the twister. He had been having suicidal thoughts before the storm, but once it hit he realized just how strong his will to live was. A brush with death will do that to you, he supposed.
          Then, when the storm finally moved away, he had managed to catch his breath and automatically started to comfort the fearful child with him. Joey, his name was, and Ray knew it was the same boy a dying man had mentioned just a couple of days earlier, as he lay in a pool of his own blood from a bullet that Ray had fired.
         "Chicago PD! I said freeze!"
         "I ain't playin', I'm a cop! Put yer hands where I can see dem now or I'll shoot ya dead."
         Ray closed his eyes as he remembered the threat. He'd made it hundreds of times and never had to carry it out. He winced at the memory, saw himself firing and the man twisting violently before dropping to the ground. Ray had tried to help, to undo what he done, but the man had pushed him away and gave him the watch.
         "For Joey," the man whispered
         "What? Stay wit me, man, don't..."
         "Thank you."
          Fraser must have given the boy the watch that the Detective handed over to Welsh for evidence. Joey had run back to get his father's watch that he left in the washroom, no doubt when he had been washing up earlier. Ray had gone after him, not realizing who's kid it was he was trying to save. Not that it would have mattered. Ray wouldn't have left the kid in that storm for anything, regardless of the fact that he had been the one to kill the boy's father.
         He squeezed his eyes tighter against the memory and wished he could go back and change that night. Give a little boy back his father and rid himself of the awful feeling of betrayal and shame over killing another cop. Maybe it would have been better if the storm had killed him, but if it had, it might have hurt Joey too. Ray refused to think about that.
         Now, Ray was stuck. He couldn't be a cop anymore, and it was all he was ever good at. He couldn't face Fraser after killing another Mountie, and he couldn't give Joey back his Father. His life sucked.
         "Detective Vecchio," a quiet voice greeted and Ray glanced toward the door, surprised and a little appalled to see Mrs. Pierce and her son standing there. "May we come in?"
         He nodded, unable to speak. What would he say to them? How could he tell them he was the one that killed the man they loved?
         "Joey and I wanted to thank you for saving his life...our lives," she offered, her English heavily accented. It was clearly her second language. Ray shook his head, please don't thank me, he pleaded silently, you have no idea who I am or what I've done.
         "I'm sorry for running away, Ray," Joey insisted, moving away from his Mother's arms to climb up on the chair beside the bed and meet Ray's skittish gaze. "Mama told me it was very bad of me and that I could have gotten you hurt too. I'm very sorry."
         "No," Ray managed to croak. "Yer..." he couldn't say the words, he couldn't accept their thanks or the boy's apology. "Don't do it again," he amended and Joey smiled.
         "I won't," he assured and cast his mother a devilish glance. "Mama says I won't be able to sit down for a week if I do." Ray nodded and glanced hesitantly toward the other woman, who was watching her son affectionately.
         "We have to go," she insisted quietly. "But we brought you something that we hope will aid your recovery." Please Lord, don't let her give me a gift, Ray cried silently. I can't handle that. He was surprised and slightly relieved when Joey produced a small pint of chocolate milk and handed it to him, grinning.
         "White milk's better for you, but Mama says just this once it's okay to have the one you like best," he explained and Ray wrapped a shaking hand around the carton.
         "Thank you," he returned softly, trying to give the kid a smile of gratitude.
         "This is for you as well," his mother stated and handed Ray a long white envelope. Ray took the offering, curious. "I'm sure you will find it helpful." He nodded and smiled at Joey, who had reached up to coil tiny arms around him in a quick hug.
         "Bye, Ray," he offered, even kissing Ray's cheek. "Everything is okay now, you don't have to be sad anymore."
         Ray regarded him, puzzled, as Joey dropped down off the chair and went to his mother again. He watched them leave, then placed his milk on the tray table beside the bed and opened the letter. His eyes grew wide as he read the bold script of Constable Samuel Pierce.
          If Ray was reading it correctly, it was basically a goodbye letter to his ex-wife and son. Why would he write this and why would they give it to Ray? He moved to the next sheet, a different color than the first in a different script. He read the note Maria Pierce-Dubois had left for him.
 Dear Detective Vecchio,
         Joseph and I knew who you were the moment that you entered the diner yesterday. We were with Constable Fraser when you fled the office and quit your job, though you did not see us. We had meant to speak with you then, but were not given the chance.
 I received this note from Samuel just a few days before his death. I knew that he was planing something awful and my son and I had flown to Chicago to find him. Samuel has been having many problems and has not dealt well with our divorce, so I feel partially to blame. Please do not misunderstand. He was a good provider and a good Father to Joseph, but he was too involved in his work to be a good husband.
  Being a Mountie was everything to him, but after our separation he began drinking heavily and making serious mistakes on the job. The RCMP had informed him that he had the choice of early retirement or they would have to terminate him as an officer. This devastated him, and I noticed that he had started saving clippings of you and Constable Fraser's escapades here in Chicago. I believe he yearned for the kind of challenge that you both faced with the crime here in the big city. He had come to look upon you both as heroes.
 Knowing this, I firmly believe that my husband knew who you and Constable Fraser were and sought you out deliberately. I believe he wanted you to find him suspicious and was counting on your instinct to fire in a life and death situation. My husband wanted to die, Detective Vecchio, and you provided a way for him to do that in the way he preferred to go, at the hand of someone he respected and admired. Please do not blame yourself. We have forgiven you, so must you forgive yourself. You did what you had to do, just as Joseph and I will do what we have to do to get through this tragedy.

Take care,
Maria Pierce-Dubois

         Ray folded the letters with trembling hands and stuffed them back inside the envelope, his hand tightening on it as he blinked back the sudden moisture in his eyes and he remembered the words of Joseph Pierce.
         "My daddy left me this. He died when he was in Chicago that is why Mama and I came here. It's all I have of him, now."
         "Yer dad...? W...what's yer name?"
         " Joseph Pierce, but my daddy called me Joey."
         "I...I'm sorry a...about...yer Dad."
         "It's okay."
         "Mama says it wasn't the police officer's fault, and I wasn't to blame him. I forgive him, because he never meant to hurt my daddy."
         "Oh God," Ray whispered, closing his eyes against the threat of tears that threatened to overwhelm him.
         The kid had known who he was and didn't hate him, had even seemed to like him and had forgiven him. What a brave and caring son Sam Pierce had! How could he have done something that would leave such a treasured child behind? How could Ray have taken away the father of such a sweet boy?
          "Ray," a soft voice inquired and Ray opened his eyes to find Monica dressed in a shimmering dress of white silk, her feet bare. A golden glow that Ray could not find the source of, caressed the fire in her hair as it surrounded her.
         "M...Monica," he whispered. "I...I thought...how...?"
         "I'm an Angel, Ray," she informed, smiling. Ray stared at her. Somehow he had known that from the day they had met, but he didn't understand why she was here.
          "Yes," he responded quietly, before she could finish her speech. It was Monica's turn to look surprised. "You are aren't you?" She smiled at him. He was full of surprises, and perhaps that was why God felt he needed His help. "I think I knew you were an Angel the minute I saw you on the road," he stated softly. "I just figured you were on your way to someone else."
         She wanted to ask him how he knew, and if he knew about Tess and Andrew as well, but that wasn't what she was here for. She had heard that some people were especially sensitive to their presence, though it usually was children or mental challenged people. The idea that Ray was neither, yet had accepted her existence easily, both delighted and astounded her.
         "Was dat it," Ray continued, curious. "Were ya Joey's Angel? Because of what I did to his Dad, were ya dere fer him?"
         "No, Ray," she denied gently. "I'm your Angel, sent to you by God."
         "Why would God send me an Angel," he asked. "I wasn't in any danger and I didn't ask Him for anything." He blushed as he remembered his prayers during the storm, but that was already after he had met Monica. "Not den, anyway."
         "He wants to give you a message, Ray," Monica replied gently. "He wants you to know that He loves you and that you have done nothing to deserve the punishment you have charged yourself with." Ray shook his head angrily and turned away from her.
         "Yah right! I'm a screw up from the word go. I couldn't handle my life, so I took on someone else's and I still screw it up. Nothing about me is real, I don't even know who I am anymore." Monica shook her head gently.
         "Who you are is not your name or the name of your family, or even who you pretend to be, Ray. Who you are is God's gift to you. Who you become is your gift to God."
 "Well, I hope he has a good return policy den," Ray muttered. "Cause' I ain't no treasure."
         "God sees you exactly as you are, Ray," Monica allowed. "He sees you more perfectly and more truly than people can. And he loves you more than you can ever imagine."
         "I think ya got da wrong cop. You must be talkin' about Fraser."
         "God doesn't play favorites, Ray. He loves everyone equally. He treasures those who choose to serve Him as much as he does those who have faltered in their faith and no longer believe. No church, or book, or coven can contain His love. It is all around us."
         "Ya don't understand," Ray spoke with anguish. "I killed someone. Isn't killing like breaking a commandment or something?"
         "It is in the commandments, Ray," Monica agreed. "But God gave us those laws as a guideline. He also gave us free will to make our own decisions."
         "But it was a Mountie," Ray insisted. "Dere's gotta be somethin' dat says I'm goin' straight ta hell fer dat."
         Monica would have smiled if the Detective's torment were not so profound. She reached her hand forward and touched his shoulder, watching him withdraw from her. She shook her head sadly.
         "It wasn't your Mountie, Ray," she reminded and he gaped at her. How did she know...? "Benton is not the one that you shot and he doesn't blame you for yur action against Constable Pierce."
         "How...?" he began, then almost smiled and shook his head. "Oh yah, yer an Angel." Monica smiled and nodded. "Look, I appreciate dis, really, I mean I always wondered about...well Angels bein' real and stuff, but I don't deserve it, so maybe ya should just try out yer pearls of wisdom on someone who needs it. Unless the Guy upstairs is gonna turn back time and let Joey's dad live, I don't see any reason why yer botherin wit me. Dat's da only thing that would matter now."
         "You have such a big heart, Ray," she sighed frowning. "So full of luv and compassion and kindness. Why won't you allow yourself to feel that which you so readily bestow on others? Benton is outside, waiting to see you. Joey, the wee one, has been telling everyone about the brave man who saved him."
         "I'm not brave," Ray refused as he looked away. "I'm a loser. I've lost everything and everyone I've ever cared about because I screw things up."
         "A loser is someone who is all alone, Ray," Monica reasoned softly. "You aren't alone. God is with you, always. He has always been with you, even when you thought He had deserted you."
         "I want to believe dat," Ray admitted painfully as he met her gaze reluctantly. "I...I'm not a complete heathen. I believe in you, Monica, I believe in miracles, even if I never see dem, but I...I can't believe God would waste his time on me, not when he has people like Fraser and...and Joey and his Mom that are more deserving."
         "God's time is devoted to everyone, Ray," Monica assured. "The old, the young, the strong, the weak, the happy and the desolate. He's extremely busy, and that's why he has Angels, to help Him do his work."
         "Do you like being an Angel, Monica," Ray asked suddenly, startling her for a moment, but then she nodded.
         "It's very hard but rewarding work."
         "I...I'd like to be an Angel," he sighed. "To help people like you do." Monica frowned, concerned about the turn in conversation, and moved closer to settle on the bed next to him.
         "Ray, you already are an Angel. You help people every day..."
         "Not anymore," he muttered.
         "That will change," she assured quickly. "If you let it. You have to let go of your guilt, or it will eat you up inside."
         "I...I don't know what to do," he admitted, his eyes glistening suspiciously. "I don't want to see anyone. I could beg for their forgiveness, but it doesn't change anything. I'm too much of a coward to ask them and I don't deserve it after what I've done."
         "Forgiveness is not a sign of weakness, Ray," she stated softly. "It's a sign of strength. Forgive yourself for what happened. God has forgiven and so have all the others." Ray remained stubbornly silent. "Think about it at least, before deciding against it."
         Ray lifted his gaze toward her and found he was alone in the room. He blinked a couple of times, wondering if he had only imagined her being there at all. Maybe they were giving him seriously heavy doses of medication.
         "Ray," Fraser inquired just inside the hospital room door. He was still in his red serge, so Ray knew he had come straight from work. He looked tired. Fraser rarely appeared fatigued, even when Ray knew the Mountie was ready to drop. "M...May I come in?"
         Ray nodded hesitantly and turned to stare out the window. Fraser stepped further into the room, but remained about a foot from the bed.
          "H...How are you feeling," he inquired politely.
         "Like I was just pulled out of a blender," Ray retorted quietly. "How do you feel?" He had meant it as sarcasm, so he was surprised by Fraser's answer.
         "Frustrated and sequestered."
         "Come again," Ray requested, glancing at him. "I got da first one but..."
         "Sequestered," Fraser repeated. "It means lonesome, Ray." Ray tore his gaze away guiltily. "Don't you wish to know why I feel this way, Ray?" The Detective only shrugged, so the Mountie continued resolutely. "I feel this way because my partner and best friend won't talk to me anymore."
         "Dat's because yer partner and best friend ain't here, Fraser," Ray reminded, and the Mountie scowled.
         "I am referring to you, Ray."
         "I'm talkin' to ya now, ain't I," Ray reasoned defiantly.
         He knew that wasn't what Fraser meant, of course, but he couldn't talk about that. He didn't want to deal with this now. He was still trying to grasp the letter Joey's mother left him and all that Monica had said.
         "No, Ray," Fraser replied. "You are avoiding the subject again." He strode up to the side of the bed, dropping his Stetson in the tray over Ray's bed. "You promised me, Ray. You gave me your word that we would talk and then you disappeared."
         "I needed ta get away, Fraser," Ray insisted, anger finally forcing him to meet his partner's intense gaze. "I had ta think. Ya couldn't wait a few days?"
         "I shudder to think where you would be if I gave you those few days, Ray," Fraser snapped, and Ray realized the Mountie was actually angry, very angry. "Driving off like that without proper preparation, or bothering to check that a severe storm was expected? If you hadn't have pulled into that diner, you might have been killed. Ray, there would have been nothing to protect you..."
         "I didn't expect a damn tornado ta drop out of da sky, Fraser," Ray growled. "As it was, I might have been better off on da road. The thing leveled da place we were in, or didn't anyone tell ya dat?" Fraser paled and the Detective realized that the Mountie hadn't been informed of the destruction, or how very close they had all come to being killed.
         "They...they just told me that you had been in a diner when it hit, Ray." He knees became suspiciously weak as he reached back for the chair behind him before he lost the use of them completely. "They...they said you were hurt by flying glass."
         "No Fraser, dat was only part of it," Ray stated, still slightly angry at his partner for pushing this whole trip down memory lane to begin with. "Half da freakin' ceiling fell on me, and half da walls and furniture hit me on dere way outside. Me and Joey were holdin' on to a sink pipe in da bathroom because we had no time ta get back to da cellar wit da rest of dem. So whether I was on da road or in da diner, I was screwed, Fraser!"
         "Ray I...I'm sorry. I didn't know," Fraser offered profusely, and Ray waved him away with a sigh.
         "Look, ferget about it. Just let it go, will ya?"
         "Ray, the idea that you could have been killed..." Fraser shook his head, distressed. "I...Ray, I only want you to talk to me. We are still partners, aren't we?" When Ray didn't respond, Fraser lowered his eyes, disappointed. "Are we still partners, Ray?"
         "I...I don't know, Fraser," the Detective finally admitted, avoiding the hurt in the Mounties's eyes. "I ain't a cop anymore..."
         "Leftenent Welsh understands your plight, Ray," Fraser assured quickly. "He has agreed to give you time. He hasn't accepted your resignation..."
         "Detective Vecchio," the doctor inquired, entering the room after a quick knock at the door.
         "Yah." Ray greeted. "Can I go?"
         "Yes, you just have to sign some forms," the Doctor agreed as a familiar looking nurse, with salt and pepper hair, walked in and stepped around the Doctor and Mountie to remove the IV in Ray's arm. Ray gaped at her, but she just smiled.
         "Aren't you...?" Ray began, no longer listening to the Doctor as the older woman placed a Band-Aid over the spot where the needle had been.
         "Just relax, Baby," the nurse assured. "You'll feel better in no time." Ray grinned foolishly at her and impulsively caught her hand. She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze before nodding politely at Fraser and heading back out.
          "Take it easy over the next few days," the Doctor continued, obviously unaware that the Detective had not been listening. "You have a few cracked ribs and the bruising to your upper arms and back is quite serious. You'll probably feel like hell tomorrow."
         Ray almost grinned and slid his legs over the side carefully. He already felt like hell, what's another day? He signed the forms the Doctor offered with a less then steady hand, then set his feet on the floor.
         "Where are my clothes," he demanded and the Doctor indicated the locker beside the bed. Ray promptly tried to move toward, but ended up stumbling back toward the bed as a serious wave of vertigo hit him.
         "Careful," the Doctor warned. "The air pressure you were subjected to slightly damaged your ear drums. It won't last, possibly only a few days, but it will mess your equilibrium up a bit."
         "I'll get them, Ray," Fraser offered and Ray had to allow it, settling back on the bed before he fell over and really embarrassed himself. The Doctor left and Fraser handed Ray his clothes, helping him dress and offering Ray his arm for support.
         "I'm okay," Ray pushed away from him, only to have the Mountie's quick reflexes save him from a nasty fall. "Damn! I feel like everything's still spinnin' around. Like I'm in one of those carnival rides where the floor and da ceiling turns beneath ya."
         "Please let me help you, Ray," Fraser implored. "Allow me to take you home at least."
         "My car," Ray suddenly exclaimed in horror. Fraser was quick to calm his friend's fears.
         "It was untouched, Ray," Fraser assured. "They found it three miles down the road, but the paint wasn't even scratched." He watched relief spread across the Detective's face.
         "W...what about da transmission," he worried. "Was she dropped? Does she still run okay?"
         "As near as I can tell, she does," Fraser returned. "I had a mechanic check the car out and he was quite impressed at the lack of damage. There were a few minor things. One of the tires  had blown and I've had it replaced. Otherwise, it seemed to weather the storm quite well."
         Ray lifted his eyes and offered a prayer of thanks to whoever was listening. He knew it was stupid to worry so much about a car, but his father would kill him if anything ever happened to the GTO.
         "Are you ready," Fraser inquired and Ray nodded.
         He retrieved the letter and his carton of milk before allowing Fraser to guide him out. Ray could walk. Fraser's hand on his elbow was more or less just to keep him from moving too quickly or losing his balance as he had before.

         Fraser drove Ray home, after the Detective had carefully checked out every inch of his precious GTO reverently and assured himself that there really was only minor damage from the storm. There was no way, with Ray's injuries and hampered equilibrium, that they would ever make it up the stairs. Instead, they took the elevator and Fraser unlocked Ray's apartment door, ushering him inside. Ray dropped onto the sofa, careful of his ribs and many bruises, stretched out, sighing in relief. He really was incredibly sore everywhere.
         "Okay, ya did yer good deed, Fraser," he murmured, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "Ya can go now."
         "I don't have anywhere else to be at this particular moment, Ray," Fraser protested calmly as he closed the door, set his Stetson and their jackets over the unoccupied chair and settled on the sofa next to his friend. "I think we should talk."
         "Don't wanna talk," Ray groaned and covered face with a pillow.
         "Alright, Ray," Fraser agreed quietly. "We'll save it for later." Ray grunted. "Would you like to take a shower or a nap?"
         "Yah." Ray realized he did feel kind of gritty and slowly, painfully, stood up. He moved unsteadily toward the bedroom, already starting to pull off his shirt, but getting it hitched around his head, because of the shoulder sling he was wearing. A moment later, just when he thought he was going to either suffocate or topple over, his arm was freed and the garment was removed by Fraser's gentle hands.
         "Oh, Ray," Fraser gasped.
          Dark garish bruising covered most of the blonde's torso around his rib cage and upper arms. His back looked like one giant purple and black bruise, making his ribs stand out painfully in comparison. Bandages still covered most of his left arm and there were signs of swelling around his shoulder blades, perhaps from the dislocation. Ray caught sight of himself in his dresser mirror and started to laugh, then immediately stopped as that only made his ribs hurt more, despite the tightness of the bandages around them.
         "Guess dat twister showed me, hey Fraser," he joked, almost sounding like his old self, but Fraser was appalled at his friend's condition.
         "They shouldn't have released you from the hospital, Ray," he insisted, concerned, but Ray dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand as he carefully sat on his bed.
         "It's just cuts and bruises, Frase," he reminded. "It'll all probably be gone in a few days. Other den my ribs and shoulder. They'll just need time ta heal."
         "With all that bruising, a shower is out of the question, Ray," Fraser decided firmly, knowing the harsh pulsating spray that the Detective preferred in his shower would aggravate his sensitive skin. "I'll run you a bath, instead."
         "Fraser, I haven't taken a bath since I was ten," Ray protested, and Fraser cast him an odd look as the Detective realized how bad that sounded, and he grinned. "I mean I've taken showers, instead of baths, not dat I..." He shook his head and ignored the Mountie's amusement. "Whatever ya want, Fraser."
         "With or without bubbles, Ray," Fraser inquired innocently and the Detective growled at him before the Mountie hid his smile and headed into the bathroom.
         Ray lay back carefully on his bed, keeping his feet on the floor to give him a bit of stability, since the room insisted on spinning around him. He flexed his left arm tentatively and immediately regretted it as his still sensitive shoulder cried out in protest, causing him to bite down on his lower lip to keep from vocalizing his pain. Okay, that hurt!
         He thought ironically of a joke his father once told him of a man that visited a Doctor to complain that his arm hurt when ever he lifted it up over his head, to which the Doctor replied, so don't do that. Ray considered that sound advice and cradled his arm across his stomach. His gaze landed on his nightstand, where his back-up gun still lay next to its holster.
         He brought his feet up and braced them against the mattress to push him further across the bed toward the other side, so that he was within reaching distance of the gun. He rolled over carefully, cradling his ribs. He stared at the weapon. He wanted to touch it, to pick it up, but his hands had already started to sweat at the idea and he knew it was no use. He'd never be able to pick up a gun again, which made him useless as a cop.
          If he wasn't a cop, Fraser would have no one to be his unofficial partner and there would be no reason for him to continue as a liaison between the departments. He supposed they'd make up some story as to why Ray Vecchio quit the force, or retired, or whatever. Ray Kowalski would probably fade into the woodwork, never to be heard from again.
         He sighed and turned on his back again, then hissed as he realized the pain medication had started to wear off. This would be fun trying to sleep. If he couldn't lay on his back because of the bruising or his stomach because of his ribs, that left only his right side that he might find remotely tolerable. This was going to be a long night.
 

         "Detective," Welsh greeted when Ray entered his office a few days later. "Feeling better?"
         "I...er...I just wanted ta run through what ya were gonna say about Vecchio," Ray replied, closing Welsh's door so they wouldn't be overheard. So far, he'd still avoided talking to Fraser, but he knew that wouldn't last and the Mountie would corner him again.
         "Why would I say anything about him," The Lieutenant inquired. "What have you done?"
         "Y'know...about...yer gonna have to create a cover story, since I won't be here anymore."
         "Are you still on dat nonsense," Welsh huffed, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his large chest. "I told you I wasn't accepting your resignation, Detective." Ray ran his hand through his hair in aggravation.
         "Ya have to, Lieu," he insisted. "I can't be a cop anymore, don't ya get it? I can't pick up a gun, so I'm sure as hell not gonna be able ta fire one. I'm useless." Welsh leaned forward and leveled his hands on the desk.
         "Ray, every cop goes through this after a shooting, it's natural. You'll be back to your old self in no time. Until then, we'll just put you on light duty."
         "Not every cop shoots and kills another cop, dammit," Ray declared, exasperated, his voice rising. "You don't understand, Fraser doesn't understand, and I don't give a damn anymore about dis freakin' assignment! I'm done. You get me? It's over. I ain't a cop anymore!"
         Welsh rose and rounded the desk with a speed that should have been impossible for a man of his size. Ray instinctively stepped back as his superior moved to the glass partitions separating his office from the bullpen and started closing the blinds. Ray's eyes widened in horror as he realized that he may have crossed the line and the Lieutenant was finally going to let him have it. Welsh turned back toward him. Ray hated that his body took another step back and seemed braced for a fight. He was still recovering from his earlier injuries and probably wouldn't be much of an opponent, but he would try.
         "You think I'm gonna start a fight with you, Detective," the older man smirked, folding his arms across his chest arrogantly and Ray shrugged. Why else would he close the blinds?
         "Are you," he challenged with more bravado then he felt. He did not want to get into it with Welsh. He respected the older man too much. Besides, Welsh could probably wipe the floor with Ray in his current condition, and the Lieutenant did once say he'd shoot Ray if given the chance.
         "As much as knocking some sense into dat thick skull of yers is appealing, I won't be the one to do it," Welsh informed and moved to sit on his sofa, then patting the vacancy beside him. "Sit down, Ray."
 Ray hesitated for only a moment before obeying, still wary of the larger man.
         "Don't mess wit me, Lieu," he warned gravely. "I'm not in da mood fer one of yer lectures and it won't change my mind."
         "I'm not going to give you one, Detective," Welsh assured. "I am going to tell you a story."
        Ray smirked. "Do I get milk and cookies, too?"
         "Shut up and listen fer once," Welsh growled and Ray lowered his eyes contritely. "You seem to think dat yer the only cop ever to make a mistake." Ray started to protest but Welsh held up his hand and warned him to stay quiet. "None of us are perfect, Detective. We all have flaws. Dere are good cops and bad cops, just like dere are criminals and victims. None of us can claim full responsibility fer everything dat happens."
         "I know dat," Ray murmured. "But dis was different..." Welsh nodded in agreement.
         "It was different because the person you thought was a criminal was a cop, but the fact remains that yer suspect gave you no choice but to shoot him, Ray. He knew what he was doing and he knew you would know what to do."
         "But he..." Ray began again and Welsh shook his head firmly, turning so he met the Detective's gaze.
         "Ray, it wasn't because he was a cop. Sure that hurts all of us, it's a sensitive area with any law enforcement group, but I think yer problem is you shot a Mountie and you won't forgive yerself fer it."
         Ray looked away, resting his arms on his knees as he linked his fingers tightly and tried to quell the urge to run, just as there was a knock on the door. Both men glanced up as Constable Fraser entered and Welsh rose, despite Kowalski's quiet moan of distress.
         "Good to see you, Constable," Welsh greeted warmly, clapping Fraser affectionately on his shoulder. "See if you can talk some sense into yer stubborn partner here. He's still set on leaving. I'm gonna go grab a coffee."
         Fraser thanked him and watched him leave before turning back to Ray. He was in civilian clothes today, which made it a little easier for Ray to look at him. The red serge reminded him of Constable Pierce.
         "Ya followin' me now, Fraser," Ray demanded and Fraser shook his head. He settled next to his friend, tossing his Stetson on the other side of them.
         "No, Ray," Fraser assured. "I wished to discuss something with Leftenant Welsh. I did not know you would be here." Ray shrugged and stared at the floor. "Ray, please tell me why you insist on resigning. You are such a good police officer, it..."
         "I suck, Fraser," Ray hissed. "Leave it at dat will ya?"
         "I can't leave it at that, Ray," the Mountie refused. "This concerns both of us and..."
         "Look, maybe...maybe one of da duck boys can be yer partner," Ray offered quietly. "Or dat new kid Rogers who just transferred in..."
         "I don't want a new partner, Ray," Fraser snapped, his patience wearing thin. "I want you, my friend, to stop wallowing in self pity and rejoin the world, for heaven's sake! I understand what you are going through but..."
        Ray bolted up and stared at the Mountie. "Fuck you, Fraser." He was so close to an emotional breakdown that he had only his anger to hide behind. "You don't know shit about what I'm goin' through, so just back off!" Fraser stood as well, his own temper flaring.
         "I do know, Ray," he pressed firmly. "I betrayed another Mountie. He was my father's best friend and he ordered my father's assassination, then he tried to kill me when I found out about it. They shipped me off to Chicago for turning in one of my own, Ray, made me feel like I was the criminal not Gerard. So don't tell me I've no idea what you are going through. I was shunned from my home by the very establishment that I have spent my life defending."
         "Dat's different," Ray exclaimed, though his heart went out to his friend. Maybe a few less Mounties in the world wouldn't be so bad if they'd turn on their own like that. "You didn't kill da guy, and he was a criminal! Pierce wasn't anything but confused and lonely and I shot him."
         Both men jumped as there was a scream from outside the office. They hurried to peer through the blinds. A suspect who should have been cuffed grabbed Francesca Vecchio and was holding a gun from one of the other officers to her head. The other cops had all drawn their weapons and were yelling at him to surrender.
         Ray and Fraser reacted, carefully opening the office door and dropping to the floor, so they could crawl out without being seen. Welsh was trying to talk the guy into releasing the terrified civilian aid, but it was obvious the guy was determined not to go back to jail and he continued to scream threats at those around him, demanding a squad car that would help him get away.
         Ray and Fraser traded hand signals and separated, praying the people they were crawling around didn't look down and draw attention to them. Ray was scared to death and trembling, but he had to help Francesca and he knew that although Fraser might divert the guy slightly by talking, the kid could still shoot.
         Making up his mind, he crawled around to Huey and started to lift up the Detective's pant leg, startling him. Huey hid his surprise well however, and turned his leg slightly so Ray could pull out the small gun strapped to his ankle. Ray's hand shook as he retrieved it, but he tightened his grip on it. He had to do this, it was the only chance they had.
         He saw that Fraser had made it over to the desk just behind Welsh and he knew the Mountie would stand up once Ray was in position. Just a little further and he would be able to sneak behind the guy, but he was sweating and he started second-guessing himself as images of Pierce lying in that alley surfaced.
         He wiped his face with his free hand and met Fraser's gaze by one of the desks. Ray shook his head and sat back for a moment. He couldn't do it! What if he missed the guy and shot Frannie? He didn't have his glasses. What if he missed altogether and the guy shot Frannie, it would be Ray's fault. What if he froze and got everyone killed?
         He knew that Fraser was waiting on him and the guy was getting more and more frantic, so they were running out of time. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Monica perched on one of the desks. No one else seemed to take notice of her. She smiled at him encouragingly. His Angel was there, the Angel God had sent him, so maybe it would be okay, maybe he could do this.
         "I'm not alone," he whispered to himself. "Please God, if yer dere, just let me do dis one last thing right and not get anyone killed."
         Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward and signaled Fraser, who promptly stood up from his hiding place and startled the gunman.
         "Excuse me, Sir, but I am afraid you will have to surrender your weapon," he declared and the guy turned toward him, giving Ray the clear to sneak around behind.
         "Who the hell are you," he demanded angrily. "Where'd you come from?"
         "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser offered. "I originally come from the Northwest Territories, a province in Canada, but I have lived in numerous locations in the Yukon as well..."
         While Fraser continued his spiel, no doubt confusing the gunman further, Ray stood, with just slightly less then his usual cat like grace because of his ribs, and moved slowly toward the suspect. His eyes met Welsh's and Fraser's briefly before he calmly tapped the nervous kid on the shoulder.
         The gunman turned abruptly in surprise and Ray's fist connected with his chin, knocking him to the ground. The gun slipped from the suspect's hand. Francesca pulled free and immediately ran to Fraser as Ray kicked the other gun away and leveled Huey's gun toward the perpetrator, his foot on the kid's spine.
         "Twitch," he warned, when the man looked like he would struggle. He was surprised that the adrenaline had stopped his hand from shaking and that his aim was steady. The suspect went limp in defeat, and Ray stepped back to allow the other officers to haul him away.
         Francesca ran to him and threw her arms around him as Huey stepped up to retrieve his gun, grinning at Kowalski as the civilian aide hugged him hard and made him wince.
         "Easy," he hissed, pulling her arms from around him carefully.
         "I'm sorry," she offered quickly, because she had forgotten about his injuries. "Thank you!" She reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek gratefully, having already thanked Fraser the same way, judging by the color of the Mounties's face.
         "Welcome back, Detective," Welsh almost crowed and Ray shook his head. He headed down the stairs, Fraser following.
         "Ray," he called and finally caught up with the Detective beside the GTO. "Where are you going?"
         "Home, crazy, I dunno," Ray retorted, climbing behind the wheel. Fraser hurried to the other side to settle in the passenger seat. He snatched the keys from his friend's hand in a decidedly un-Mountie like move.
         "Ray, we have to talk," he pressed. "Surely you can't still be thinking of quitting..."
          "Fraser! Dat was a fluke, and it was Huey's gun not mine. I can't even look at my gun Fraser. I'm useless as a cop."
         "You are a police officer, Ray," Fraser insisted. "With or without a gun you are what you have made of yourself, and you cannot just turn your back on that. Inside just now, you reacted because it is what you are trained to do. You didn't think of the consequences of what you were doing, you just saw a dangerous situation and went about fixing it. Just as you did with Constable Pierce, Ray. You saw what you believed was a potentially dangerous person and you acted upon that knowledge."
         "But I was wrong," Ray whispered. "I took someone's life and I...I should be punished fer dat."
         "You were manipulated by a number of factors, Ray. That does not make what you did wrong, it makes you human," Fraser stated. "Mrs. Dubois said her ex-husband had been going through a very difficult time, dealing with their divorce and some professional problems as well. She thinks her husband provoked you deliberately, Ray, so that you would be forced to fire on him."
         "But I...No," Ray croaked then looked away, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he tried to keep from losing it in front of the Mountie.
         "Tell me, Ray," Fraser pressed, grabbing his skittish partner by the shoulders and holding him firmly in place, forcing Ray to look him in the eye. "This is more than Constable Pierce's death, more than you having reservations of your judgement and consequential actions, isn't it? What is this really about?"
         "It could have been you," Ray finally cried, unable to bear it any longer. Fraser visibly paled. "It coulda been you I shot, you I killed, Fraser. I...I didn't get a clear look, his...his back was to me but he...he was yer height, had yer color hair, walked da way you do...I...I didn't think I...he seemed so familiar but I...I just reacted and..." He broke off and started to sob. "It coulda been you."
         "It wasn't me, Ray," Fraser soothed, pulling the reluctant man into his embrace. At least now he understood some of his friend's fear and guilt. "I'm right here, I'm okay and so are you."
         "God, Fraser," Ray moaned. "I see him in my dreams, see him turn to me and me firing at him, but when I move to...to...when he's dyin' in my arms it's...it's you, Fraser, and I...I'm so afraid of...I don't want anything' ta happen..."
         "Nothing will happen to either of us, Ray," Fraser assured confidently as he stroked his friend's hair. "As long as we stay partners, how could it? We're a duet, remember? A one-two punch. I set them up..."
         "I knock 'em down," Ray sniffed and moved out of the warm embrace to wipe his face and try and compose himself. Suck it up, Kowalski, yer bawlin' like a woman all over yer partner's shirt, the little voice in his head reminded. "I...I'm sorry fer...fer bein' such an ass before, Fraser. I...I didn't mean ta push ya away."
         Fraser smiled and handed his friend a handkerchief so he could blow his nose and soak up the extra tears on his cheeks. Ray needed some time to get over this. Perhaps they could both take a week or so off and go somewhere, just the two of them. He broached the idea to the Detective.
         "My folks got a cabin on da lake," Ray admitted quietly. "Not a lot to it, just two rooms, but it's got a great view and da fishin's cool. Well, in da summer, anyway."
         "I am sure there will be some fish this time of year, Ray," Fraser encouraged. It was only spring, after all.  "Perhaps we could play some cards and just...what do you call it...veg out?" Ray chuckled and handed his friend back the handkerchief.
         "I...I'd like dat, Frase," he agreed almost shyly and Fraser smiled.
         "Then let's go talk to the Leftenant and get the paperwork worked out." Ray nodded.
         "You go on in, Fraser, I'll...I'll be dere in a minute."
         Fraser regarded him quietly for a moment before agreeing and stepping out of the car. Ray probably just needed some time alone to compose himself and Fraser understood that. The Detective watched the Mountie enter the station, then stepped out as well and leaned against the car tiredly, lifting his face toward the sun, reveling in its warmth.
         "Hullo, Ray," a soft voice beside him spoke.
         "Hey Monica," he returned softly, turning to peer down at her, and she smiled at him. "You got another message fer me, or what?"
         "Do you need one, Ray," she inquired knowingly, and he shyly shook his head.
         "Nah, I...I think I read ya loud and clear now," he admitted and she nodded, pleased. "Is...is dere a rule dat says...well, are Angels allowed ta...Can I get a hug?"
        "Yes, please." She giggled and stepped into his arms, allowing him to embrace her as long as he needed to and returning the hug equally. Surprisingly, Ray felt no pain from his injuries as when Francesca had embraced him.
         "I'll miss ya," he offered when she stepped back and she blushed in delight as he kissed her cheek.
         "I'll always be with you, Ray," she assured, pressing her hand to his heart. "God will always be with you. You are never alone, remember that." He nodded.
         "I will." She started to move away and he caught her hand. "Is...was Tess...like you?" Monica nodded and was surprised when he bent and kissed her cheek a second time. "Den dat's fer her."
         "What about Andrew then," she teased brightly and Ray scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.
         "Um...just tell him thanks, and er...ta go easy on da mayo when he makes his next sandwhich." Monica laughed again and he released her.
         "Take care, Ray," she offered.
         "God Bless," Ray whispered and then she was gone.

         "Well, Angel Girl," Tess demanded when Monica joined them on the rooftop of the department, watching their assignment head into the station. Andrew was still wearing his chef's hat.
         "I think he'll be just fine," Monica decided fondly.
         "Oh, I already knew that," Tess dismissed. "I mean where's my kiss?" Monica laughed and threw her arms around the larger woman to kiss her cheek, causing Tess to chuckle heartily.
         "What's wrong with my sandwhiches," Andrew teased, having heard Ray's comment. "You ladies get all the breaks. I am sooo under appreciated."
         He was immediately pulled into their embrace for a ton of kisses from both. He laughed and Monica grabbed his cap and tossed it into the air, watching it turn into a beautiful white dove and fly away.
 

The End