After volunteering to investigate the alleged sale of illegal drugs in a gay strip joint, Chicago's Detective Ray Vecchio promptly vanishes. Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, is so desperate to find Ray he'll do anything, even go "under cover" (or--more accurately--go "uncovered") as a stripper himself in the hope of finding a clue to Ray's disappearance. He is far from happy about having to resort to such measures, however, and vows that if he succeeds in finding Ray and restoring him to safety, he will subject that young man to....

"You're not going in there without backup, Ray."

"Oh, yeah? Says who?" Vecchio lifted an eyebrow and grinned at Fraser. He looked as cocky as a kid who'd just won all the marbles.

"I do," Fraser said. "As your partner--"

"You have no official jurisdiction, Frasier."

"Thank you for pointing that out, Ray. I meant, speaking as your life partner, I wish you would take Detectives Huey and Dewey with you tonight."

"The Duck Boys? Ah, Frasier! What good would they do? They'd blow my cover for sure!"

"What is your cover, Ray?"

"Easy. I'm gonna be the visiting club owner from out of town, trying to make contacts in Chicago to benefit my operation. I'll buy a couple of rounds, keep my ears open, pick up the scuttlebutt, and before you know it, I'll nail the sellers."

Fraser sighed, then took a bite of his sandwich. Since his Consulate duties hadn't permitted him to go out to lunch, Ray had volunteered to pick up a couple of Italian subs, along with a hamburger for Dief, and bring them over so that all three of them could eat lunch in Fraser's office.

He tried again. "Ray, I understand that you now feel that you're experienced in apprehending drug kingpins, after the wonderful success of your deep cover operation..."

Ray beamed. "And the promotion, don't forget."

"Yes, the promotion. You thoroughly deserved it, Ray, for putting yourself into such danger, going under cover with the Mob."

Ray tried to look modest and failed. "Nothin' to it, Frasier."

"All the same, Ray, there are procedures to be maintained. Have you notified the Leftenant that you're going to the Catamaran Club to see if illegal sales of drugs are in fact taking place there?"

"Welsh knows and approves. I told him this morning."

"And he didn't suggest backup?"

"No." Ray shrugged. "Probably because he thought you'd be along."

Fraser sighed. "And so I would, if it weren't for this visiting Canadian dignitary and the gala dinner the Consulate is giving for him. Inspector Thatcher has put me in charge of the security arrangements for the evening, so that means I can't leave."

"And what is Dragon Lady supposed to be doing while this is going on?"

"She's going to be charming people," Fraser said, making a mental note to see that the Inspector had no more than two drinks, even if he had to water them down himself. She was apt to behave in a somewhat uninhibited fashion when she'd had a few too many, and he feared for his country's reputation if she ever fulfilled her threat, most recently voiced to the Mauritanian ambassador, to "show what Canadian women are like underneath."

Ray snorted. "Her? Charming? I should live so long."

"Anyway, I wish you'd reconsider about the backup, Ray, since I can't accompany you tonight."

"Frase, I appreciate your concern, but nothing's going to happen to me, okay? I'm a big boy now and I can take care of myself. Sure, I'll miss not having you along tonight, but I'll have those creeps nailed by ten o'clock. Eleven at the latest."

"Ray, will you promise to call me on your cell phone at eleven o'clock tonight? I'll be at home."

"Home" was the apartment he and Ray had rented the week following Ray's return. Ray had now been back in town for three weeks, back on the job for one, and still hadn't come down from the "high" of having helped to put away no fewer than three big-time drug lords and a host of lesser fry.

Fraser looked at his lover, allowing himself to gloat over every detail of Ray's appearance. It was still a novelty to have the man in his life again after Ray's long absence on the undercover operation. It was, in fact, all he could do to keep his hands off him. He cleared his throat. "Er, I wish we were there now. I would like, er..."

Ray shot Fraser a look that made the Mountie draw in his breath sharply and look away: otherwise he would have turned into a pillar of fire, ready to start licking at Ray all over. Ray seemed to pick up on this thought, because in the next minute Fraser felt himself being drawn into arms at once hard and slender, and Ray's hot mouth on his. Silence ensued as Ray kissed Fraser deeply, and Fraser responded like a hummingbird sucking nectar from a flower.

"Well," Ray said after they finally broke apart. "I guess I'd better get going. Wish me luck and I'll call you at eleven tonight."

"Good luck, Ray, but I still wish you would observe police discipline and call for backup..."

"Frasier, don't worry! Nothin's gonna happen to me!"

Arriving home ten minutes before the appointed time, Fraser turned on the light, drew the window shades shut, and locked the front door. At precisely eleven o'clock he looked at the telephone on the dining room credenza. It sat there stolidly. If his had been a more fanciful nature, he might have imagined that the instrument was sneering at him. At five minutes past eleven Fraser sat down, willing the telephone to ring. At eleven-fifteen he became worried enough to ask Dief's opinion as to why Ray hadn't called.

Dief growled.

"Oh," Fraser said, "you think the paperwork might have taken a little longer than usual, after he apprehended the suspect--or suspects--so that's why he's delayed?"

Dief growled again.

"I'm sure you're right. Well, we'll give him a while longer."

At eleven-thirty Fraser, having changed into civilian clothes, checked his wallet to make sure that he had enough money for taxi fare. At eleven forty-five he called for a taxi, and at ten minutes to midnight he and Dief left the apartment in a yellow cab, bound for the Catamaran Club.

At the Catamaran, the evening was still in exuberant, rather drunken, progress.

"Stay, Dief, I'll be right back," Fraser instructed his wolf. Then he entered the establishment.

A truculent-looking individual, bare-chested, liberally tattooed and wearing a yachting cap, appeared in the foyer. The room beyond was dark, except for the spotlights playing across the small stage, and crammed with patrons. Loud--excruciatingly loud--music issued from it.

"Good evening, sir," Fraser said. "A friend of mine was here tonight and I'm looking for him. May I come inside?"

"What does he look like?"

"He's tall, slender, wearing a gray Armani suit, with a blue shirt." Fraser added a few details and looked hopefully at the bouncer. "Have you seen him?"

"Nah, but I'll ask the bartender. Wait here."

A few minutes later the bouncer returned. "Come on in and talk to Pete. He thinks he saw your friend earlier tonight."

"Thank you kindly." Fraser flashed a smile at the bouncer, who appeared dazzled.

Pete gave information as obligingly as Fraser could have wished. "Your friend, yeah, I noticed him about nine o'clock, over at the table in the corner, see? The one with the crooked candlestick. He was having a beer and looking around, then this other guy comes up to him. He sits down and they start to talk. An hour later they're still yammering. Then they get up and your friend leaves with this guy."

Fraser's heart raced. "What did the man look like, do you remember?"

"Oh, yeah. He comes in here two-three times a week, especially if there's a new act. He's around fifty, short gray hair, about five-ten, hundred eighty or hundred ninety pounds. He likes to watch the strippers."

"The strippers?"

"Yeah, that's a specialty of the house. Every evening we have a strip show."

"Oh, really," Fraser said. "And this man, do you have any idea what his name is or where he lives?"

Pete shrugged. "Name's Guido, but I dunno his last name. I don't know where he lives. Drives a sporty car, though, a Lexus. So he must be pretty well off."

"And my friend left with Guido tonight," Fraser mused.

"Yeah, and he didn't look too happy about it either," Pete said. "He was walking real stiff and slow, you know? And his eyes were going all around the room, like he was looking for someone."

Like backup, perhaps? Fraser groaned inwardly. Instinct told him that Ray was walking stiffly and looking wildly around the room because there was a gun in his back. Oh, Ray, Ray! he thought. Why didn't you listen to me? Now you've been abducted and I have no idea where you are.

"Thank you kindly, Pete," Fraser said. They shook hands, and Fraser slipped the man a folded five-dollar American bill. He hoped it would be enough.

Outside, Fraser took the wolf's head in his hands and looked into his eyes. "Find Ray, Dief. He's in trouble. Find Ray!"

Dief needed no second invitation. He turned, sniffed along the ground, trotted to the parking lot, then took off in a lope down the street. Fraser raced to keep up with him, mentally cursing himself for not having paid more attention to physical fitness lately. Really, he had slacked off abominably of late. Since Ray had reappeared in his life, exercise had given way to sexercise, but everyone knew that didn't really tone a person's muscles--although, of course, there were numerous cardiovascular benefits.

By the time Fraser caught up with Dief the wolf had skidded to a stop on the banks of the Chicago River.

The river. Oh, God. Fraser's blood ran cold but he remained calm. It would not help Ray if he panicked.

"Ray's in the river, Dief?"

Dief barked into the darkness, looked at Fraser and wagged his tail, then barked again. Fraser stood for a moment, considering. He knew the wolf was frustrated because Ray's scent had stopped at the river's edge, and there were no further clues. The only thing Fraser could do now was notify Lieutenant Welsh at the 27th District Police Station, and urge him to drag the river. Could Ray have been thrown in, according to usual Mafia procedure, with his feet stuck in cement to ensure that he'd drown? Certainly there would have been time for that to happen. The bartender said that Ray had left with his new "friend" at ten o'clock. That meant that by eleven o'clock, when Fraser had been at home waiting for Ray's telephone call, Ray might already have been killed. The thought made him so sick that he wanted to give way to grief then and there, but his sense of duty kept his emotions in check. If Ray were still alive--and so far there was nothing to indicate he was not--then he would be best served by his partner's finding clues that might lead to his rescue.

And if he were no longer alive, Fraser would hunt down the men who had killed him and put them behind bars for life, never again to draw breath unhaunted by Mounties or wolves.

He cast a last glance at the river, shimmering with the reflections of the street lamps as it slapped softly against the bank on which he stood, then whistled Dief to his side.

"Come on, Dief, we're going to make a telephone call and then we'll go back to the Catamaran Club. I have a plan."

The next morning the telephone extension in Fraser's bedroom rang at 5:30 a.m., waking him instantly. He jerked upright, reached for the receiver.

"Constable," a tired-sounding voice said, "Welsh here."

"Good morning, Leftenant."

"Fraser, I'm calling to tell you we spent the whole night dragging the river. We didn't find a body. That's the good news. The bad news is that we have no leads, no tips, no nothing to tell us where Detective Vecchio might be. Or even whether he's still alive."

"I believe he is, Leftenant. And I intend to find him."

"You do that, Constable. We've got almost the entire station fanned out through the city, looking for Detective Vecchio. Call us if you need anything. Hear?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you kindly."

As he showered and dressed, wild hope surged through him. Last night he'd approached Karl, the owner-manager of the Catamaran, who had first been appalled, then amused, and finally intrigued, as Fraser explained his plan. To implement it successfully, however, he would need to take the afternoon off.

"Yes, Fraser," Inspector Thatcher said when he put the question to her. With seeming reluctance, she transferred her gaze from her laptop to himself. "You performed your duties very well last night at the dinner. Take the whole day off, if you like."

She sounded distant: perhaps she was thinking of the Mauritanian ambassador.

Fraser bowed his head and left the room with the decorum befitting a Deputy Liaison Officer at the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. Once outside the building, however, he began to run. To say he had a lot to do was something of an understatement: he was, in fact, about to pack a good three years' worth of training into a single afternoon.

That evening, when the curtain rose for the nine p.m. show at the Catamaran Club, Karl, who also acted as the master of ceremonies, stepped before the microphone to introduce the various artistes. Each act was accompanied by taped music played on a loudspeaker system. To make the striptease acts more exciting, additional "music" was rendered by a loud, not entirely professional, trio of musicians equipped with drum, cymbals, tenor saxophone, and guitar. The audience--well lubricated by beer or stronger drinks--greeted each performance with the utmost enthusiasm.

After the second act, Karl seized the microphone to announce the next performer.

"And here with us tonight, folks, following our own, home-grown Rocky Hard-On and Gary Thunder Thighs, is our guest artiste, straight from the strip joints of Saskatchewan! Will you welcome, please, that concupiscent Canadian cutie, RORY BOREALIS!"

The spotlight veered sharply from Karl to fall on Fraser, who stood center stage, looking miserable in mukluks and anorak. The utter humiliation of having to take off his clothes and expose his body to strangers struck like iron into his soul, but it was a measure of his desperation that he would resort to such measures to find Ray. "I'm doing this for him," he told himself. "I'll never see these people again after tonight. Think of Miss Fraser--she could have handled this with no loss of dignity a-tall."

The time he'd gone undercover as an art teacher at a girls' boarding school in Chicago had called on every one of Fraser's artistic and acting skills. As Miss Fraser, he had earned the respect of many students, the friendship of one, and the exasperation of Ray, who'd been more attracted to Miss Fraser than he cared for his Mountie friend to know.

But at least Miss Fraser hadn't had to take her clothes off in public. The only way to emerge from this situation with sanity intact was to pretend that all of this was happening to someone else with the same name. Meanwhile, the catchy, foot-tapping song called "Afternoon Delight" blaring from the loudspeaker was causing the audience to clap, stamp its feet, and whistle with appreciation. As the color of the spotlight changed to a bilious shade of green, Fraser, moving with exaggerated bumps and grinds in time to the beat, pulled off the fur-trimmed uniform cap--the same cap that Ray had once described as "a dead animal on your head"-- tossed it into the audience, and retreated behind the footlights.

"Smile, dammit," Karl hissed at him, stage left.

Oddly, Fraser suddenly found it quite easy to follow Karl's instruction: the music was having an effect on him as well as on the audience. The spotlight focusing on him continued to change color as Fraser bumped and ground his way across the stage, first letting the anorak fall off, then removing the mukluks one at a time and tossing them away. His arms, chest, and back glistened with day-glo green body paint: his legs, out of the mukluks, were day-glo blue. The audience continued to wolf-whistle and roar its appreciation as the lights played back and forth across Fraser's body in imitation of the northern lights.

Fraser, now wearing nothing but a leather thong, continued to twirl around the stage.

Skyrockets in flight
Afternoon delight...
Oh..ohh...afternoon delight!

"Take it off, take it off!" the audience yelled. "Take it ALL OFF, Rory!"

Fraser looked at Karl, who shook his head. Fraser did a final twirl, blew kisses to the audience with the fingertips of both hands, then dived to the left of the stage. Thank God, his act was over.

Half the audience howled its disappointment as the music stopped and the act ended, while the other half methodically stamped and clapped to a chant: "Rory--Rory--Rory!"

"Where is he?" Fraser asked Karl under cover of the noise.

"At the corner table, as usual, and he's never taken his eyes off you since you went on," Karl said in his ear.

It was time to make his way among the members of the audience, pausing to flirt here and there, so that those who were moved to do so could tip him. Fraser steeled himself for the ordeal of tipping, which he knew would involve members of the audience trying to stick rolled-up dollar bills into his G-string, then walked outside, still in body paint and makeup.

It took five minutes to work his way over to the corner table. Fraser could see his quarry watching his approach with the expression of a child who'd just been told that he could have all the ice cream at the party. "Good evening, sir," Fraser almost purred, mindful of the way Miss Fraser would have done it. "Would you like a little company?"

"By all means."The middle-aged man with crewcut gray hair stood up and pulled out a chair for the visiting artiste. "My name's Guido, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you, Guido." Fraser smiled and sat down.

"Liked your act," his new friend confided to Fraser. "Wouldja like a drink?"

An automatic "No, thank you" rose to Fraser's lips, when he remembered in time that he was supposed to be flirting with the man. "That would be nice, thank you," he said. "A small gingerale, please."

"Waiter!" Guido snapped his fingers, gave the order, turned back to Fraser. "You're very...well, very attractive. Maybe you'd like to have dinner with me tonight, Rory."

While pretending to flirt with Guido, Fraser's brain was ticking over the data available and subjecting it to an analysis so rapid, and so far below his conscious mind, that he was hardly aware of the process. He already knew that the man whose table he was sharing came into the club by himself several times a week: that meant that he was definitely gay, probably single, and sufficiently well off to afford the club's not inconsiderable cover charge. And every time he came to the club, he sat with his back to the wall, at this table in the corner. That meant that he could not be ambushed from behind, and that in turn meant he had reason to think that someone was out to get him.

Although Guido was stocky, the body beneath the black turtleneck shirt and gray silk suit was neither flabby nor soft--which meant that he was getting at least some exercise in his everyday life. And although his fingernails were well-manicured, the palms of his hands were callused. Perhaps he did physical work of some kind, out of doors. The man's deeply tanned face, neck, and hands reinforced this assumption, as did the crinkles at the corners of Guido's eyes: Fraser had seen such crinkles on people who spent their days squinting at the sun. The clean-shaven jaw and cropped hair argued past military service: perhaps he'd spent time in the United States Navy and still made a living on the water.

Fraser now gave a little giggle and fluttered his eyelashes. "Rory's my stage name," he said, leaning toward Guido in a confidential manner. "My real friends call me Ben."

Sweat broke out on Guido's brow, and Fraser almost yelped as he felt the man's stockinged foot stroking his bare leg under the table. "Tell me," Guido said, very low, "underneath that G-string, are you...Big Ben?"

It took all Fraser's self-control not to flinch at this outrage, but he controlled himself, and even--remembering Miss Fraser--made a little moue. "Well," he said, looking at Guido from under his eyelashes, "that's for me to know and you to find out, wouldn't you say?"

"Have dinner with me tonight, Ben."

Fraser put on a demure expression. "It's forbidden to date the customers, you know, Guido."

"Rules are made to be broken."

"Well," Fraser said, as if with reluctance, "I can't deny that you attract me, Guido. But--" he glanced around, "--we'd have to be very discreet. We can't possibly be seen together in public. I'd lose my job."

"Look," Guido said, "if we went to a place where no one would see us, would you come to dinner?"

"Somewhere really private?" Fraser asked. "In that case, yes, I'd love to."

"I know a place. You could meet me there."

"That sounds good, Guido," Fraser said, lingering over the name. "But are you sure we wouldn't be seen? The last guy who dated a customer got found out and they fired him on the spot. He didn't even get severance pay. I'm Canadian, so I can't afford to mess up my work permit--you understand, don't you?"

"Yeah, I get it. Well, this is great!" Guido sat back in his chair, beaming "I'll get some carryout from a restaurant. What do you like?"

"I like Italian food, especially," Fraser said, giving the man what he hoped was a flirtatious glance. "Yes, I really do enjoy eating anything Italian."

Guido, whose ancestry was obvious from his features and whose clothes and manner almost shrieked "Mafia," grinned. Fraser immediately thought of a shark.

"No problem. What time do you get off?"

"My act is finished for the night, but give me half an hour to scrub this body paint off. Then I'll meet you...where?"

"Ah, I'll send someone to pick you up, okay? Look for a white Lincoln town car."

"Thank you." Fraser managed a flirtatious smile. "I'll be at the back entrance of the club, waiting."

"Okay, Ben. I'm looking forward to it."

"So am I, Guido. Later!" He kissed the tips of his fingers in Guido's direction, then rose gracefully from the table. His mind was racing as he made his way through the audience to the green room.

Half an hour later he stepped outside the back of the club, wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and his leather jacket, for the night was chilly. Only a minute later a white Lincoln town car drew up alongside, with a gorilla at the wheel.

No, Fraser corrected himself, it wasn't actually a gorilla. The man simply looked like one. With his Neanderthal appearance and lack of speech, the man exuded menace. However, he behaved politely enough, getting out of the car and coming around the other side to open the back door for Fraser. Fraser slid into the back seat, his mind still racing. Before scrubbing his body paint off in the shower, he'd taken a call from Detective Huey, who said that no trace of Ray had been found despite a day of scouring the city. Convinced that Guido held the clue to Ray's whereabouts, Fraser told himself he would stop at nothing to find his partner. Well, almost nothing. The law still had to be upheld, and he was, of course, out of jurisdiction here in Chicago.

The sensing device hidden in Fraser's jacket would let Detectives Huey and Dewey track the car in which he was a passenger. Dief should be with them by now, as Fraser had asked them to go to the apartment to pick up the wolf. There was no telling what the night would bring, and if things were to somehow to go wrong, it was reassuring to have a highly trained wolf on one's side.

The car stopped at the riverside. The river! Fraser peered into the darkness.

"Here," the gorilla said. He got out of the car again and once more came round to open the door for Fraser.

Fraser stepped out, looking around for his host.

"Here, Ben," Guido said, striding into view from the darkness into the pool of light cast by a street lamp. "This way."

Fraser followed Guido a hundred yards or so, then gasped.

"Isn't she a beauty?" Guido said. The two men had stopped before a houseboat moored at the river's edge. Fraser felt excitement rising in him: so Dief had been right, the river was the clue.

"I sell these babies for a living--float 'em up and down the river."

"What a nice job to have," Fraser said. Inwardly, he was rejoicing: he was willing to bet that every single one of Guido's houseboats carried a cargo of illegal drugs for off-loading in Chicago and sale in the Catamaran Club.

"Come on up," Guido invited. He shone his flashlight along the side of the houseboat, so Fraser could read the boat's name: Sweet Repose.

Fraser followed Guido up the small gangplank and watched while Guido made the houseboat ready to cast off.

"I thought we'd go to the Lake and cruise around," Guido said. "Then we could have a bite to eat and, uh, get to know each other a little better. What do you say?"

"Sounds great," Fraser said, watching as Guido took the wheel. He hoped that his backup team would be able to keep pace with the houseboat as it traveled up the Chicago River to where it flowed into Lake Michigan. He would have to go along with Guido's plans for now, as the gorilla in the white Lincoln had seemingly settled in his parking place along the riverside for the duration.

He rendered silent thanks to the Chicago Police Department for the device, about the size of a beeper, sewn into the lining of his leather jacket. The BodyGuard would give the Satellite Command Center in downtown Chicago an exact fix on his location at all times, and the Center would in turn relay it to Detectives Huey and Dewey, now following the houseboat on a parallel route through the streets of Chicago.

Guido appeared to be studying the instrument panel, so Fraser, not wanting to interrupt his concentration, put his hands on the railing and leaned forward to study the water below. The metal felt cold under his hands and in the soft light cast by the houseboat's outside lamps, he could see that the effects of weather and air pollution had affected even this new houseboat: a light haze dulled the railing. However, the rivets gleamed bright as stars in a winter sky, even in the half-light. Odd: considering that the rivets would have been used to secure the rails in the first place, they should have weathered at the same rate as the railings themselves.

Just as Fraser was considering the possible ramifications of this anomaly, Guido coughed and said, "I think we'll pull up here."

They had arrived at a yacht harbor. Judging from the direction in which they had traveled, Fraser calculated that they were somewhere near the Shedd Aquarium. Guido stopped the boat, dropped anchor, cast the hawser over a mooring post, and turned to Fraser.

"Now," he said, rubbing his hands together, "how about a little kiss, Big Ben?"

He reached for Fraser, who, having forgotten for a second that he was supposed to be a flirtatious striptease artist, reacted instinctively by punching Guido in the jaw.

"Ow!" Guido yelped as he fell backward against the railings, then rolled his eyes upward as he sagged into a heap on the deck.

Fraser looked at him with concern, but a hasty examination convinced him that the man was in no serious danger. He had to be neutralized, however, and quickly. A brief search of the deck turned up a wooden box containing, among other things, a roll of duct tape and a ball of stout twine. With the help of his Swiss Army knife, it was the work of minutes to cover Guido's mouth with duct tape, tie up his hands and feet, and search his clothing. Guido's keys were in his trouser pocket. Good.

Fraser rolled the gangster over onto his stomach. When he came to, the simple business of turning himself right side up would make sufficient noise to attract Fraser's attention. Now to search the boat.

Sweet Repose was certainly in tip-top shape, he thought appreciatively as he opened one door after another. Whatever his lapses as a citizen, Guido--or someone paid by him--was certainly earning his pay with respect to the housekeeping side of things. An immaculate, if tiny, kitchen; a snug, spotless bathroom; a tidy but comfortable living room; a bedroom with a double bed, and...a locked room. Fraser inserted the most likely looking key of the bunch and unlocked the door. When he pushed it open and flicked the wall switch, the light revealed a second small bedroom with bunk beds, the lower of which contained...

"Ray!" Fraser could not stop the exclamation that rose to his lips.

White as cocaine and still as death, Ray lay in the bunk bed, covered by a blanket from the neck down. His heart hammering against his ribs, Fraser dropped to his knees beside the bunk to make the necessary checks. He sniffed Ray's mouth, lifted one of his eyelids, and took his pulse. If he had to guess, he would estimate that Ray had been heavily sedated--probably with chloral hydrate. But there was no time to lose: he pressed the panic button on the "BodyGuard" device inside his jacket. This would alert the Command Center, and then the standby team, that Fraser wanted backup--with sirens wailing and rubber tires screeching--as soon as possible.

He lifted the corner of the blanket to discover that Ray was buck-naked beneath: probably to lessen his chances of running away easily, should he regain full consciousness. Fraser quickly reviewed his knowledge of drugs. Heavy sedation, he remembered, was not the same as rendering someone completely unconscious. In the latter situation, round-the-clock medical supervision would be necessary. A person who was merely sedated would be capable of surfacing long enough to drink water and use the toilet, with assistance. Someone--who? The gorilla who drove the white Lincoln?--must have been keeping an eye on Ray, helping him to drink water from the glass, still half-full, which stood on the night stand next the bunk bed, and helping him to the bathroom when necessary.

All this ran through Fraser's mind while he wrapped Ray, who still seemed to be out cold, in the blanket, and helped him to a sitting position. As he was preparing to hoist his partner over his shoulder in the "fireman's carry" position, he heard the first wail of sirens, and smiled with satisfaction. Help was on the way.

Ray resolutely refused to stay in the hospital for the rest of the night. "There's nothin' wrong with me that a shower, some food, and four hours' sleep wouldn't cure," he insisted after the emergency room personnel had checked him out.

"You'll have a headache the size of Mount Rushmore when you wake up, but some aspirin'll take care of that," the attending physician said. "All right, you can go home, but you can't go back to work for 24 hours."

Fraser intervened. "Excuse me, Dr. Leary, but is there any medical reason that would prevent Detective Vecchio from answering a few questions?"

The doctor, a perky young Irishwoman, shook her head. "As long as he doesn't talk for more than half an hour. He needs to be off his feet for at least a day."

"I'll make sure he stays in bed," Fraser assured her, and earned a quirk of the eyebrow from Ray, who, Fraser noted with interest, seemed to be recovering rapidly.

Huey, Dewey, and Dief were waiting outside the hospital to hand over the keys of the latest Riv, a peacock-green beauty that was rapidly assuming the Number Two position in the Vecchio heart.

"Thanks, guys," Ray said. "Frasier, just this once I'll let you drive to the station. And you've got to do exactly what I tell you, because if anything happens to this car..."

At the 27th District Station, Lieutenant Welsh was eager for facts. "All right, what did you get, Vecchio?"

Ray closed his eyes. "You know...I can't remember what happened after I got on board the houseboat. Damn!"

"It's the after-effects of the sedative, Leftenant," Fraser said. "Detective Vecchio may be unable to recall his discoveries because of the amnesia induced by chloral hydrate. I believe that when he regains his memory, he'll tell you that the cocaine is being smuggled in the railings of the houseboats that Mr. Boccaccio sells."

"The railings!" Welsh's eyebrows shot up. "That's a new one. But then, I've heard of them secreting the stuff in toilets to get past Customs. Go on."

"Yes, sir. The railings are metal posts, hollow inside, into which bags of cocaine could be fitted, provided they were long and narrow. I noticed that the railings were a different coloration from the rivets that had been used to fasten them together, and I believe, sir, that if you investigate--"

"Done." Welsh snapped a few orders into the speaker phone on his desk. "And now," he said, leaning back in his chair and surveying Ray with a sardonic expression, "I'd like to know how Detective Vecchio's cover was blown."

"It happened when I was sitting with Boccaccio at his table." Ray blushed and appeared to embark on a study of his shoes. "One of the guys I busted in the leather club a couple of years ago--remember when you were babysitting that teenage girl, Frasier, and she kept running away from you--"

"Christina," Fraser said. It made his feet ache even now, when he thought of the dance Christina had led him across Chicago by night.

"Yeah, well, the guy comes up to me and says, I know you, you're the pig who busted me and dragged me down to the 27th District Station, where I had to spend the night in the drunk tank,' and Boccaccio looks at me and says ' Pig? Pig?', and that was all she wrote."

"Why didn't they kill you?" Dewey asked.

Fraser shot him a look of reproof. It really was too bad of Detective Dewey to be so blunt.

"Believe it or not, I was more use to them alive. They wanted to exchange me for some of their Mob guys who're inside at the moment."

"And we would have done it, too, Detective." Welsh sat forward again. "The work you did on your last big assignment alone would guarantee that. But I think you need a refresher course in police discipline."

"I'll see that he gets it, Leftenant," Fraser assured Welsh, and this time earned more than a quirk of the eyebrow from Ray: this time it was a green-eyed stare.

"Did I ever tell you about my days at the Depot in Regina, Ray?" Fraser said that evening after dinner. Dief had gone out for a night on the tiles, and he and Ray were sitting on their new, extremely comfortable, queen-sized bed. Ray had just thrown down the remote in disgust, claiming there was nothing decent--hell, nothing even indecent--on TV that night.

"No, Benny. Hey--this isn't going to be an Inuit story, is it?"

"No, Ray."

"And it doesn't have anything to do with walrus pelts, right?"

"Not walruses, Ray. Horses. Did I ever tell you about a Mountie's relationship with his horse?"

"No, but I can see that you're about to." Ray shifted against the headboard of the bed, plumped the pillows behind his back. "All right, now I'm comfortable. So tell me."

"During our training at the Academy, Ray, we were taught to regard our horses as partners. My horse was beautiful, a stallion named Inuksuk."

Ray tried out the strange-sounding syllables. "Ee-nook-sook?"

"It's Inuktitut for ' like a human.' I loved my partner, he was so long and lean, such a thoroughbred..." Fraser's hands trailed a long, slow path from Ray's shoulders down his chest, to his legs and feet. "His hair was short and black and felt silky..." Fraser's hands gently stroked Ray's buzz haircut. "...like my current partner's hair."

"Oh, man, I could get used to this. Lucky Inuksuk," Ray said, sliding down until he was lying on the bed. He closed his eyes. "And what did you and your partner do all day, Frasier?"

"A lot of things. For one thing, I had to groom him every morning. We started equitation training at seven a.m., right after Inspection Parade at six-thirty."

"And what did that involve, exactly?"

"Sometimes I rubbed him down with a special horse cream, to keep his coat supple, like this."

Fraser knelt on the bed beside Ray, spreading aromatic oil from a small bottle on to Ray's skin with long, smooth strokes.

"Um, ah, oh," Ray said, as Fraser's hands moved from his shoulders to his chest, paused at his waist to slip off Ray's boxers, and then continued their journey down into the nest of dark, wiry curls around Ray's deliciously tight, full genitals.

"Ahh, ahh," Ray groaned as Fraser stroked the oil delicately on to Ray's cock and decorated his balls by spreading the oil with little curling motions of his fingertips.

"Ummm g'mmm," Ray muttered, as Fraser flipped him over to his stomach and began to stroke oil on to his back.

Fraser's hands moved lower, over the peach-mounds of Ray's buttocks, and then into the peach-cleft between.

"Ohhh!" Ray grunted in pleasure as Fraser's oiled fingers slipped inside him and massaged his prostate. "You did this to your horse?"

"Not exactly," Fraser admitted. "He only got a light treatment. You, on the other hand, are going to get the full Mountie." He withdrew his fingers and turned Ray over again.

"And just what does that mean?"

"Discipline, Ray," Fraser said between his teeth. "You need to be severely disciplined for what you did to me. Do you have any idea of what I went through when you disappeared like that? I thought you were dead. Something kept me going, something wouldn't let me stop looking for you, but there for a while, I thought you were at the bottom of the Chicago River with your feet encased in cement."

Ray had the grace to look guilty. "I'm sorry, Benny. I shouldn't have done that to you. What can I do to make it up to you, so you'll forgive me?"

" You can submit to discipline, Ray."

"Punishment, you mean?" A look of concern crossed Ray's face.

"Oh, not necessarily. Sometimes, when my partner did well in our training exercises, I'd reward him with a mouthful of sugar..."

Fraser bent his head to cover Ray's lips with his own, sliding his tongue into his partner's mouth, rejoicing in the softness of the full lips, the sweetness of his tongue.

"...and other times, I'd give him a carrot."

Ray opened his mouth to accept Fraser's cock, by now redder and larger than any carrot that ever grew. Fraser groaned as his cock throbbed ecstatically in response to Ray's rhythmic sucking, but after a minute or two of agonizing bliss, he gently withdrew.

"Come back here, Benny!"

"No, Ray, I'm the one giving orders now. Sometimes Inuksuk would get so skittish, I'd have to smack his rump to get him to calm down."

"Uh oh!" Ray sat up suddenly, turned, and made as if to get off the bed, but Fraser imprisoned him with one arm and forced him back on to the bed, on his stomach.

"That was behavior unbecoming of a thoroughbred partner, Ray. I demand satisfaction!"

"Sir, yes sir!" Ray's voice, muffled by the pillow, still managed to sound sarcastic.

The sight of his partner's peachy buttocks made Fraser lick his lips with desire. How delightfully firm, round, and compact they were: how they gleamed like orchard fruit, growing half-hidden by green leaves. He began to smack the peach-cheeks in a light tapotement, intended less to discipline than to arouse.

Ray wriggled, then turned his head on the pillow so he could talk. "I can't believe the stuff you learned in Mountie School. What next?"

"Before I could put Inuksuk through his paces, I had to satisfy myself that he was in perfect physical condition. That meant conducting a thorough examination of his body."

"Ohmigod, Benny." Ray moaned as Fraser rolled him over on his back and rubbed one of Ray's nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's going to be necessary to conduct an oral examination, Ray."

"Um, ah," Ray said as Fraser began to suck hard on one olive-brown nipple. Once that had stiffened satisfactorily, Fraser turned his attention to the other, while simultaneously stroking Ray's cock.

"You're driving me crazy, Benny!" Ray gasped. "Come on, do it to me, fuck me now!"

"Not before I've inspected all your parts, Ray. I want to make sure you're an Italian stallion at the peak of perfection."

"I'm about to peak, I don't know about perfection--" Ray said, and then gasped as Fraser's tongue delicately licked his cockhead and then traced down the vein of his shaft to his sac.

"Aahh...aahhh...ahhh...."

Ray's fingers raked through Fraser's hair as Fraser's tongue traveled back up the shaft to the slit. By now Ray was so ready that his cock was oozing pre-ejaculate, and Fraser began to worry that the fun would be over far too soon. He removed his tongue and then palmed Ray's sac, gently pulling down on it as a way of putting the brakes on.

"God, wouldja get on with it, Studley Do-Right?"

"Inuksuk was never sarcastic," Fraser hissed in his partner's ear. "But when he threatened to disobey me, I would mount him and ride him at a hard gallop until he acknowledged that I was his master."

"Oh, God, you're turning me on, Benny," Ray moaned. "Do it, stop torturing me like this, come on, will ya?"

He turned over onto his stomach once more and lay waiting, his whole body appearing to quiver with impatience.

"Very well, Ray. I'll just pick up the reins..." Fraser's breath was coming in gasps now, in time with the rising sexual tension that turned his body into a finely strung bow, taut and ready. He slipped a hand beneath his partner, curled it around Ray's cock, now hot, hard, and heavy, slipped his own cock into Ray's peach-cleft, and entered him in one long, delicious, driving stroke.

"Ah!" Beneath him, Ray thrust back at the same time that Fraser thrust forward, and then excitement pounded through Fraser as he began to ride his partner in a hard gallop. He felt taut, stretched wire-thin, as he and Ray established a rhythm that lasted until Ray started bucking like a colt.

He felt as if he were melting into Ray, as if rider and partner were indeed one entity. His nerves thrummed with the ecstasy of possessing his lover, ecstasy all the more intense because Ray had so nearly been lost to him. Then he ceased to think at all: Ray's climax triggered his, and when Fraser finally collapsed on top of him, both men were flushed, sweaty, slippery, and spent. Panting, they lay facing each other until Fraser could feel his heart slowing to its normal beat.

"So that was the full Mountie," Ray said after a long silence.

"Did you like it, Ray?"

Ray chuckled. "I've never seen you in this mood before, Benny. I guess I have a lot to learn about you, even after all this time."

"Eight months while you were under deep cover, Ray," Fraser said, rolling on to his back and staring at the ceiling. "Or, to be precise, seven months, three weeks, and--"

"That's okay, Benny, I get the idea--"

"Eight months I had to live without you, wondering where you were and what you were doing, every second of every day. Eight months of wanting to hold you in my arms and not being able to--and then, two nights ago, I thought I'd lost you forever."

"Well, you didn't lose me," Ray said. He raised himself to plant a kiss on Fraser's lips. "And forever is how long we're going to take to learn about each other. Starting tonight."

Copyright May 1998 by Rupert Rouge on all original story content. Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the author. BodyGuard is a trademark of Global Trak Products. Comments welcome at RupertR@hotmail.com.