Slam Dunk, Part Three      Slam Dunk, Part Three

 by Kiki Cabou

  

 

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

 Author's Notes: Please see Part One.

 Story Notes: Please see Part One.

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

 

 CHAPTER FIVE: BLUE GRAVE 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 She took off her glasses and stared at them. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "You're new?" 

 The nurse nodded. 

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

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

 "Thanks." 

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

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

 No response. 

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

 Again, nothing. He turned on the lights. 

 "ROSA!!!"  

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

 "Hello?" she said, picking up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Mari, slow down!" 

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

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

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

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

 Mari sighed and began struggling into her underwear and jeans. 

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

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

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

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

 "Sonofabitch. Do they have a name?" 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Well, now he's loose." 

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

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

 "Shut up." 

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

 "Got it! You have a pencil?" 

 "Hang on." 

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

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

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

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

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


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

 "Benny?" 

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

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

 "What happened?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "What?" Ray asked. 

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

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

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

 "Why?" Ray asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

 Fraser looked up from the phone. "Yes?" 

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

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

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

 "What the hell was that about?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Yes, sir. Thanks." 

 "Yeah. Take care." He hung up. 

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

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

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

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

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

 She stopped and turned as the officer approached her. 

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

 "Very good, ma'am." 

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

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

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

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

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

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


 "Yes?" the woman answered. 

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

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

 "Sure." 

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

 Silence made Barbara nervous, though. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "You know Constable Fraser?" she asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Thanks for the ride, dear." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "All right?" 

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

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

 "Fine." 

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

 "Ray, what exactly are we looking for?" 

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

 "Ah." 

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

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

 Ray came over. "What?" 

 "Proof." 

 "Huh?" 

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

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

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

 "Right." 

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

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

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

 "Miyako?" 

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

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

 "What?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Right." 

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

 "~sniff~ Yeah." 

 "All right." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Miss," Fraser said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Good. Catch him," Miyako said. 

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

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

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

 "G'head. Here." 

 "Thanks." 

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

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

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

 "Wilson." 

 "Right on the ear." 

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

 "Sorry, sorry. Right on the nose." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "You okay?" Huey asked his partner. 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Indeed," Fraser concurred. 

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

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

 "Just do it, all right?!" 

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

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

 "Hi," Fraser said. 

 "Hi," came the reply. 

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

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

 They shook. 

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

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

 "Now, who placed this call?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Yes, sir." 

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

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

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

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

 The nurse shrugged. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Assistance." 

 "Hit the lights, Benny!" 

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

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

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

 "Constable? Is that you?" 

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

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

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

 "Approximately four and a half klicks, sir." 

 "Four and half what?" 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Ray?" 

 "What?" the cop asked, irritably. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

 "Thanks." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 And he turned left.  

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

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

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

 "It's all over," he said. 

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

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

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

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

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

 "I think so," the older man commented. 

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

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

 "They're upset. Give them time." 

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

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

 "Of course." 

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

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

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

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

 "Can I come in?" Mari asked. 

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

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

 The nurse stared. "What?" 

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

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

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

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

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

 Mari stared. 

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

 "He thought you two were ... ?" 

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

 "Shit." 

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

 "What happened?" 

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

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

 "I have a couch," Mari said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Hello?" 

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

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

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

 "Good. Kiss my boy for me." 

 "Will do." 

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

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

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

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

 But tonight, there was nothing to do. 

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

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

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

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

 ~Rrr.~ 

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

 Dief waited maybe three seconds. ~Rrrf.~ 

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

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

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

 A walk. To where? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Hello?" came the answer over the intercom. 

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

 "Fraser? Is that you?" 

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

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

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

 "Thank you," he managed. 

 "Sure." 

 BZZZT! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ~Rrrreeeeeoooww!~ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "O-okay," he said, finally. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


 "Okay, that's it." 

 "Thank you." 

 "You're welcome." 

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

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

 "Yes. That would be nice." 

 "Okay." 

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

 "So, what brings you here?" 

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

 "A weight," he said finally. 

 "A weight. What sort of weight?" 

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

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

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

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

 "Inconvenience me?" 

 He stared at her like she'd shot him. 

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

 "Is- is that all right?" 

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

 "Yes. Yes, you did." 

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

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

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

 "What happened?" 

 "We found Wilson." 

 "You did?" 

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

 "Good lord." 

 "Indeed." 

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

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

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

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

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

 He uncurled slightly and looked up at her. 

 "How?" 

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ONE WEEK LATER 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Mm. When's he coming?" 

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

 "Oh." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 BOOM 

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


 BOOM 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Always," Mari agreed with a smile. 

 They both heard cheeping in the bedroom. 

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

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

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

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

 "Ah. How about peaches?" 

 "Sure." 

 "Spinach?" 

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

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

 "Here here." 

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

 "Um, ma'am? Sir?" 

 They turned. 

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


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

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

 Stella gasped slightly and elbowed him. 

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

 Fraser was amazed that she was still speaking to him. 

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

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

 "Now kindly go away." 

 "Wh-What? Well, I never!" 

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

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

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

 "Yes, but still ..." 

 "Fraser." 

 "Sorry. ... Do we have enough? 

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

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

 "I am." 

 "Why?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 She looked at him, her eyes a little wild. 

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

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

 "You don't have to be afraid." 

 She stared at him. 

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

 She bit her lip. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 EPILOGUE: HONEY IN MY EAR 

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

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

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

 Fraser's hand on her shoulder made her jump. 

 "Are you all right?" he asked. 

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

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

 "Thank you." 

 "You're welcome." 

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

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

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

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

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

 "Oh. Right. Fergot." 

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

 "You're doing well," she said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "Whassup?" he asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 She smiled. "I love you." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 The End 

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

Author and story notes above.