Prologue    Prologue by L Garlick

  

 <PRE>
 Prologue
 By: L. Garlick 

 Standard disclaimers apply: No infringement of copyright implied, no
other posting, no publication for profit, etc. If you'd like to proceed
with any legal action for my technically unauthorized use of your
creations, please do so. You'll just be wasting time (which I have plenty
of) and money (which I have none of, since I'm definitely not making any
from this piece of fiction). Just make sure to take a number because the
line forms to your left. Also, it might be a while before your number
comes up, so get comfortable. 

 This is my first completed attempt at 'dS' fan fiction. More is in the
works. Comments? Send them to: l_garlick@yahoo.com. Make sure to include
your return address if you'd like a reply. 

 WARNING: Rated 'PG' (just to be on the safe side) and 'H/C'. May NOT be
suitable for some younger readers since it deals with a death/attempted
suicide theme. 

 Prologue
 By: L. Garlick 

 (SCENE: SENIOR CADET DETACHMENT SQUADROOM, 'THE DEPOT', RCMP ACADEMY,
REGINA, SASKATCHEWAN PROVINCE, CANADA.	

 It's late October and two days before graduation so the dozen or so
cadets in the office are hurrying to finish some last minute details. A
few of their classmates are still out with some of the Academy instructors
getting in that final bit of 'real' experience, in this instance a 'ride
along' with some of the Regina city police officers, before going to their
Field Coaching posts. 

 Two of the teams still out come into the office. It's early fall, which
means it's cold and raining outside, so the four officers (two graduating
cadets and two seasoned instructors) are dressed in medium-weight jackets
and rain slickers - and dripping wet. The two young men are their usual
boisterous selves as they greet their fellows; they've dealt (vicariously)
with some not-so-serious crimes today and are still elated by their
'practice'. The two instructors are gently chiding them about their 'lack
of proper RCMP decorum', but they're obviously not serious about the
correction since these 'kids' will soon be full-fledged Constables and
then gone. The Watch Commander comes out of his office and calls to one of
the returning cadets.) 

 "Cadet Westfall. Will you please come into my office?" S/Sgt. Anders
quietly asked as he spotted the newly arriving senior cadets. His voice
easily found its' target, despite the noise level in the busy room,
causing everyone to pause and glance at the indicated cadet. 

 "Yes, sir," Mark Westfall smartly replied. He'd been called into the
Watch C/O's office before and it usually meant he was in trouble. He
turned and raised an accusing eyebrow at his partner. 

 "Don't look at me!" Fraser exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock
surrender. "I haven't the slightest idea what you did this time." 

 "Some help you are," Westfall said and, unable to keep from grinning any
longer, slapped his dripping Stetson against Fraser's chest. His friend
returned the grin as he automatically grabbed the hat. "I haven't done
anything, as far as I know, so - whatever it is - it's probably all your
fault!" he retorted in a teasing tone as he shook a finger at the other
man. "I've been told several times you're a bad influence on me, Benton
Fraser, and now it seems my sources were right!" 

 "Now would be a good time, cadet," Anders said, his tone and expression
clearly indicating he wasn't in any mood for their usual bantering. 

 Westfall's high spirits and boyish grin immediately vanished as he
glanced one more time at his friend and then handed Fraser his dripping
slicker. "Whatever's happened - it must be serious, Anders isn't usually
so abrupt," he commented quietly to his partner before more loudly
responding, "Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" Ben merely shook his head and shrugged
as Mark turned to obey their commander. There was concern in his eyes as
he watched Mark disappear into the C/O's office then he looked around for
a place to hang up his friends' wet hat and raingear. 

 Anders moved around behind his desk as Westfall entered the office.
"Close the door, cadet," he ordered then sat down and began to sort some
paperwork. Mark quietly swung the door closed then moved to stand at
attention in front of the staff sergeant's desk. 'What the hell did I do
now?' he silently wondered as he waited. Anders continued to rearrange the
files in front of him for another minute before glancing up. 

 "Sit down, cadet," he said then looked away again. Westfall raised an
eyebrow in surprise (and relief) then sat in one of the chairs in front of
the desk, if he'd been in serious trouble Anders would have ripped into
him while he was still standing. Personal experience had taught him that
the C/O didn't believe miscreants should be comfortable while they got
what was coming to them. 

 Anders ran a hand across his mouth before quietly saying, "I have some
bad news and I'm not quite sure how to say it, so bear with me cadet." 

 "Yes, sir," Mark replied, a feeling of utter dread sweeping over him and
settling in the pit of his stomach. 

 After a few moments of silence, Anders abruptly stood and paced over to a
geophysical map of Canada hanging on the opposite side of the room. He
studied it for several moments then said, "For the last hour I've been
trying to find an easy way to say what I have to tell you - but there
isn't one, so I'll just give it to you straight out." He turned and looked
directly at the waiting cadet. "There's been an accident," Anders paused,
took a deep breath and continued in a rush, "A drunk driver hit your
wife's car head on. There wasn't anything the paramedics could do. Carole
apparently died on impact. You were out in the field, so I thought it best
to wait until you returned to tell you." Pausing once again he finished,
"I'm sorry, Mark." 

 "No." Mark shook of his head, his voice deceptively quiet. "No, that
can't be true. They must have gotten the identification wrong. Carole
can't be-- " Mark choked on the word and shook his head again in denial.
"We're going to have a baby in four months. She can't be--" 

 "They found her photo identification in her purse, Mark," Anders gently
interrupted. "It was Carole." 

 "No," Mark insisted, then looked away. "No." As he looked back at Anders,
shock turned to anguish as he saw the expression on his commanding
officer's face. "No." 

 "They... " Anders moved around in front of the desk and sat on a corner
of it before continuing, "They took her to the hospital. The Coroner needs
you to go over there and officially identify... " He couldn't bring
himself to finish the official statement. Carole and Mark Westfall had
been this Cadet Detachment's unofficial mascots ever since the young
married couple arrived at Depot and Anders was finding it difficult to
deal with the reality of Carole's abrupt and senseless death. They sat in
silence for a couple of minutes as Mark tried to absorb what he'd been
told. 

 Anders finally broke the increasingly painful mood by saying, "If it
helps any, I know what you must be feeling right now. I lost my wife a few
years ago but, at times, it still feels like it was only yesterday." He
continued to talk for a while, hoping to ease some of the grief he knew
the younger man was feeling. Nothing had ever done more than blunt the
veteran RCMP staff sergeants own grief over the loss of his wife, and Anna
had died more than ten years ago. He watched his cadet closely as he
spoke. Mark simply sat there, staring straight ahead at nothing the entire
time. Eventually he ran out of things to say Mark obviously wasn't hearing
anything he'd said anyway, and told the cadet to go home. He'd tell the
Coroner that the 'family identification of the deceased' had to wait until
after Mark could bring himself to face the reality of the situation. 'And
from the look of things that may take a while,' Anders thought as,
unseeing and without a word, Mark slowly stood and walked out. The other
cadets were still hard at their duties, so only one of them saw him
re-enter the squadroom. 

 "Hey, Mark!" Fraser called to his friend. "What was it this-- " He
abruptly cut off the question as he noted Mark's expression then asked,
"What is it? What's wrong?" 

 Anders had followed Mark out of the office and saw a couple of the cadets
silently signal to the rest that something wasn't quite right. Quiet
descended on the busy room as most of them stopped what they were doing
and watched the two cadets. Mark halted in front of Fraser, shock plainly
visible in his expression and movements. By the time he was able to bring
himself to reply, everyone in the squadroom was listening. 

 "It's... Carole," Mark quietly said, not looking at Ben, or anything else
for that matter. "Anders' says she was in an accident. She didn't make
it," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper and his expression
blank. 

 Fraser stared at him in shock. The three of them had become close friends
ever since Mark had invited his overly reserved classmate home for dinner
one night shortly after they started training together. "What!?" he
exclaimed, grabbing Mark's arm. "When?" he demanded. 

 "Stay," Anders quietly ordered as some of the other cadets, hearing the
news, began to move. Neither Fraser nor Westfall heard the order but the
rest of the room froze in disbelief. 

 "Over an hour ago. I have to go now." Mark started to brush past but Ben
refused to let go of his arm and made him turn around. 

 "Mark... " The look of desolation in the other man's eyes stopped
whatever else he been about to say. Reluctantly, he released his grip and
Mark slowly left the room. Watching until he was gone, Fraser looked
helplessly at Anders then at Cadet Liz Marchand, who was standing a few
feet away. She and Carole had developed a close friendship over the past
few weeks and she'd been helping Carole get the nursery ready. In fact,
the four of them had gone out to dinner the night before. He remembered
that Liz had teased Carole about trying to play matchmaker and 'fix her
up' with him. 

 "Go after him, Ben," Liz said. "He shouldn't be alone right now." 

 'She's right,' he thought. 'I can't let him leave this way.' He grabbed
his jacket and trotted out the door but, by the time he got to the
building's entrance, Mark was nearly at the end of the Academy's long main
driveway. He stopped and watched as Mark broke into a jog then started to
run down the street. 

 "He's heading for the hospital," Liz said as she came up behind Ben. 

 He glanced at her then back at Mark's swiftly retreating form. "How do
you know?" he asked. 

 "It's what I'd do," she quietly replied. After a moment, she continued,
"He's had a severe shock. There's no telling what someone will do when
faced with this type of thing." Fraser paled as he realized what she was
implying. "Despite what anyone else might say - including Mark - you can't
let him be alone. Not now. Use the truck," she urged, gesturing toward a
new, recently delivered RCMP four-wheel drive vehicle that was parked
nearby. 

 Normally, Fraser would never even think of taking anything that wasn't
clearly his property - this situation was anything but 'normal', however.
Ignoring the rain, he ran over to the truck, threw open the driver's door,
got in and drove off in high-speed pursuit of his friend. For once, he'd
worry about the consequences later; right now he had to get to Mark before
the other man did something nearly unthinkable. 

 

 At first, Mark simply wanted to get as far away as he could from Anders
and the things he'd said. Running blind down the middle of the street, he
was nearly hit twice by cross traffic before he finally came to a stop and
noticed he was at the hospital's Emergency Room entrance. 

 He had no idea why he was there. 'Carole's not here... and our baby isn't
here, either,' he thought, bewildered. The words echoed through his mind
as he looked up at the imposing glass and steel structure that they had
visited several times a month since they got the news about her pregnancy.
'Carole's not here. The baby isn't here. They're both at home. Safe.
Alive.... No. Carole is not here! The baby is not here. No! Anders' has to
be wrong! They can't be...!' 

 "No!!" he shouted at the building then staggered back a few steps onto
the grass of the circle drive and collapsed to his knees. "No!" Sitting on
the slick grass, the cold rain pouring down and soaking him to the skin,
he leaned forward and placed his hands on the soggy ground. Eyes tightly
closed, he lowered his head and tried to shut out the cruel reality
hammering at his mind. The din inside his head was so loud he didn't hear
the tires of the truck squeal in protest as Fraser slid it to a stop on
the wet pavement a few yards away. 

 "Mark!" Ben yelled as he jumped out of the truck and ran toward the other
man, almost losing his footing on the slippery grass as he stopped.
"Mark?" he asked, nearly pleading with his friend to respond. 

 Shaking his head, Mark dropped to the ground on one elbow. He hadn't even
noticed Ben, much less heard his own name being called. Nothing existed
for him now but Anders' words: 'A drunk driver hit your wife's car head
on. There wasn't anything the paramedics could do. Carole apparently died
on impact.' There wasn't anything they could do... there wasn't
anything... there wasn't... 

 Fraser slowly came closer and knelt next to him. "Hey, Mark, can you hear
me? Mark?" he gently asked as he reached toward him. Just before Ben could
touch him, Mark slowly placed his forehead on his rain soaked sleeve and
collapsed the rest of the way to the ground. Alarmed, Fraser closed the
short distance between them and touched his friend's shoulder. 

 "Mark?" he asked again, worry heavily lacing that one word question. Not
getting a response, he gently tugged on Mark's arm and, when he
encountered no resistance, bent down and examined Mark a bit closer. He
seemed to be unconscious. 

 "Is anything wrong, Cadet?" someone who obviously recognized Fraser's
uniform, suddenly asked from behind him. 

 Fraser whirled in surprise; a hospital security officer was standing a
few feet away. He'd been so concerned about getting to Mark he hadn't
noticed or heard the man's approach. "No," he automatically replied, then
immediately corrected himself. "Yes. He's just been told his wife's
been... killed... in an accident. I... I think he's passed out." 

 "Let's get him inside, out of the rain and cold," the officer suggested
as he came over. "They should be able to do something for him in there." 

 "I hope so," Fraser replied as he turned around and started to pick Mark
up. 

 "Let me give you a hand there," the other man offered. 

 "No, thank you kindly," Fraser quickly said. "I've got him." He struggled
a bit with Mark's limp bulk but finally managed to get him off the ground.
Closely followed by the security officer, he carried him into the
emergency room. 

 

 "How's Mark?" Liz asked as Ben came into the otherwise empty squadroom
the next day, the graduation ceremony was tomorrow, and he needed to clean
out his desk. His other classmates had already cleared out their own
workstations and he was a bit surprised to see anyone there. 

 The young, 'all-but-official' Constable hung up his coat and hat then,
without a word, went over to his assigned desk. Sitting down, he started
taking things out of the drawers. Unable to do this last chore the day
before, he'd hoped to have some time alone to sort out his thoughts about
what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. 

 "That bad?" Marchand persisted. Fraser didn't reply but she could see
that every move he made shouted anger and grief. 

 Without even a glance in her direction, and with uncharacteristic
disregard for any damage he might be causing, he started to almost
literally throw all of his equipment into a discarded cardboard box he'd
appropriated from the supply room. "What are you doing here?" he demanded
in a tight voice. 

 "Clearing out Mark's desk," she quietly replied. That startled him enough
to make him look up at her then over toward another desk on the other side
of the room. As soon as he'd realized the two new cadets had developed a
friendship, Anders had put their workstations as far apart as possible and
still allow them to be in the same room. Otherwise, the C/O had wisely
reasoned, no one would have been able to get anything done when their
duties required them to be there together. 

 He paled and swallowed reflexively as he saw the sealed box sitting on
top of the desk. Somewhat ashamed that he hadn't thought about doing that
himself, he looked down for a few moments then resumed his packing. A
small pewter statue of a wolf standing near his nameplate caught his eye
and he reached for it. Turning it over in his hands, he painfully
remembered that Carole had given it to him. Carefully, he placed it on top
of the other things. 

 "Come on, Ben," Liz demanded as he finished then stood and picked up the
box. "I'm not letting you out of here until you tell me what's going on
with Mark - and you, for that matter." 

 "Other than Carole being dead and Mark apparently so unable to face that
fact that he'd rather voluntarily be comatose, you mean?" he asked,
looking directly into her eyes. 

 Liz paled at the totally unfamiliar angry edge to his voice and the
hardness of his expression. "What!? No! That's not what I mean and you
know it! And don't take that tone with me, Benton Fraser. Carole was my
friend, too!" She retorted then abruptly turned her back on him. 

 He stared at her for a few moments, clearly seeing and hearing the effort
she was going through not to cry in front of him. 'It's not a thing
Mounties do,' he could almost hear Corporal Wilson, one of their former
instructors, say. 'And yet, that's exactly what I want to do - need to do.
But I can't. Why?' 

 "I'm sorry, Liz," he offered as he sat the box back down and rested his
hands on the top edge of the open container. "I don't really know how Mark
is - much less myself. The doctors either can't or won't tell me anything
other than there's apparently no physical reason for him being
unconscious. And, well... that's a big part of the problem." 

 She quickly wiped her eyes then turned back to him. "Ben. If it helps
any, we're all going through pretty much the same thing right now," she
replied in a shaky voice. "You're not the only one who likes Mark, you
know. Both of you did occasionally spend time with other people, but we
all knew the two of you were the best of friends and there wasn't anything
anyone could, or wanted to do, to change that. A few jealous souls thought
about it, but they were quickly dissuaded by your real friends." 

 Embarrassed, he looked down at the box for a few moments. "Liz... I... I
don't know what to say." 

 She stepped around the desk and placed a hand on his arm. "Believe me, I
understand. And you don't have to say anything, Ben." 

 He shook his head. "Yes, I do," he said as he looked up. "Because I miss
Carole so badly and I'm... " He looked away and had to take a deep breath
to steady his voice before he could continue, "I'm... scared... that Mark
will... I don't think I could take it if I lost both..." 

 Without a word, and acting purely on instinct, she pulled on his arm
until he half-turned toward her then wrapped him in a hug. Something she'd
wanted to do ever since she first met the handsome cadet several months
ago - but for a very different reason. Now, despite not being very
'Mountie-like', she knew it was something they both needed at the moment.
Fraser hesitated, then returned the hug. They stood that way until he
gently pulled away. 

 "It'll be all right, Ben," she tried to reassured him. "Everyone just
needs some time, that's all. This just happened yesterday, for God's
sake!" 

 "Uh... ahem... yes. Yes. You're absolutely correct," he said, nervously
tugging at his collar. 

 She smiled sadly at the oddly endearing blush that crept up his throat.
'That look of embarrassment belongs on a little boy,' she thought then
stopped any other thoughts of that sort - they made her feel like she was
taking advantage of the situation. 

 "Well, uh, I need to be going," he hastily said then turned and retrieved
his box. With a final glance at her, he grabbed his coat and hat then
left. 

 

 Two days later, Mark was sitting in his favorite easy chair when someone
knocked on his apartment door. He ignored it until the knock sounded
again, this time louder and more insistent. 

 "Mark?" a voice, asked from the other side of the closed door. "Mark? Are
you in there? Mark?" More knocking followed the barrage of questions. 

 "Go away, Ben," he ordered, not in the mood for visitors. 

 "No. I'm not leaving until you talk to me," Fraser insisted. "I'll stay
out here all day if necessary, but we are going to talk. We have to." 

 "No, we don't," Mark snapped back. 

 "Mark, please. Open the door," Fraser nearly pleaded. 

 With an effort, Mark stood and moved over to the door. Just before he
reached it, Fraser knocked on it again. Now irritated, Mark abruptly
yanked it open. 

 Caught in mid-knock, Fraser, wearing his brand-new formal red serge dress
uniform and holding an equally new Stetson, stood there looking at him.
"Hello," he said. 

 Mark couldn't help but be impressed by the sight. The RCMP dress reds
were one of the things that had attracted him to the Force in the first
place. Things were radically different now, though, and it had lost a lot
of its appeal. 

 "Hi," he replied. After a couple of awkward moments, he gestured at the
uniform. "It looks good on you." 

 Fraser glanced down at himself then said, "Oh. Thank you." He fidgeted
nervously with his Stetson. "Of course, it would look better if you were
wearing one, too." Too late, he realized how insensitive that comment
sounded right now as he noticed Mark swallow and look away. "I'm - I'm
sorry," he hastily added in embarrassment and, at a loss for any more
words, he simply stood there wishing he hadn't come. Finally, after a
minute of painful silence, he softly asked, "May I come in?" 

 Backing up and turning away Mark returned to the chair he's occupied for
the greater part of the last twenty-four hours. Fraser realized that was
the only invitation he was going to get, so he stepped inside and closed
the door behind him. Slowly moving across the room, he tried to think of a
way to open a conversation. He'd never been good at these 'feelings'
discussions and this one was proving more difficult than he's anticipated.
Considering how Mark had answered the door, he knew Mark probably wasn't
going to be of much assistance. Still searching for the right opening, Ben
finally stopped in front of the window near the easy chair and looked down
at the street. The scene outside, pedestrian and vehicular traffic
hurrying through rain that was becoming more and more mixed with snow
didn't give him any ideas. 

 "I went to the hospital yesterday after--" He paused awkwardly, barely
catching himself before he could mention the graduation ceremony directly.


 Mark had yet to regain consciousness when the rest of his classmates were
graduating the day before. The Cadet Corps Commander had refused to delay
the ceremony for a possibly indefinite length of time just so one
temporarily disabled cadet could graduate with his class. In spite of the
fact that every single member of the senior cadet Detachment (as well as
several of their families) had independently made the same request. Cadet
Westfall would just have to miss the official ceremony and, if he still
wanted to continue with the Force, receive his certificate and field
training assignment later. It had been a very somber day for all
concerned. 

 "I went to the hospital this morning and the nurse I spoke to said you'd
been released yesterday afternoon. About the time that--" He winced and
once again interrupted himself. While he had known before he arrived that
this talk would be difficult for them both, it hadn't occurred to him
until just now exactly how difficult discussing Carole's loss with Mark
would be. He glanced around the apartment in search of assistance, then
regretted the idea. There were too many items that reminded him of who
wasn't here - and never would be again. 

 'Mark's been here alone for nearly a day surrounded by so many reminders
of Carole that he can't help but see them every time he turns around,'
Fraser thought, finding the familiar room incredibly difficult to look at,
so he could imagine what it had been doing to Mark. He pulled his
attention away from the photographs and knick-knacks. As he crossed over
to the chair to Mark's right, his gaze swept over the coffee table in
front of the two chairs. He froze at the sight of what was there - and
shouldn't be. 

 Though partially hidden by an old newspaper, he saw the handgrip of
Mark's service revolver. He glanced suspiciously at the newspaper covering
the gun. It was open to the crime report section... and the article about
Carole's accident. Fraser took a good look at Mark for the first time
since he arrived and couldn't remember ever having seen a more graphic
depiction of extreme depression anywhere. Not even in his grandparent's
extensive library. Mark seemed listless and, from the circles under his
eyes, it was obvious that he hasn't slept since being released yesterday.
Fraser felt compelled to say something - anything - before his friend
could do something incomprehensible. 

 Trying as hard as he could to pretend that he hadn't seen the gun, Fraser
sat down. They sat in silence for several long moments, Mark obviously
elsewhere mentally and Ben in growing agitation. "This is ridiculous,
Mark," he finally stated in frustration. His voice was tinged with
desperation, despite his best efforts, as he placed his Stetson on the end
table. "I can't keep verbally dancing around like this trying to find
something to talk about other than the subject that we both know has to be
addressed." 

 "And what would that be?" Mark challenged in a dull voice. 

 "Carole," Fraser stated simply. 

 "There's nothing to discuss," Mark retorted a bit more heatedly. "She's
gone. That's all there is to the subject." 

 "Then why did you 'check out' as Jack Chapman, our ever-so-eloquent
fellow cadet, so quaintly described your self-induced lack of
consciousness?" Fraser countered. 

 Mark stood up suddenly and paced over to the window. He stared out at the
dismal weather and said, "I don't think we have anything more to discuss,
Ben. You should leave now." 

 With a glance at the revolver, Fraser also stood. "I can't do that." 

 Mark turned, pure anger twisting his features. "You don't have a choice,"
he warned. "Get out or I'll damn well throw you out." 

 "You don't mean that, Mark," Fraser said in as calm a tone as he could
manage, hoping that Mark would pick up on it and also calm down. 

 "The hell I don't!" Mark insisted, his volume rising as he advanced on
the other man. "Get out!" 

 "Mark, calm down. There's no need to lose your temper!" Fraser said,
raising both of his hands. 

 "And why shouldn't I?" Mark demanded, drawing closer with each word. "Why
shouldn't I lose my temper? I've got every right to be angry at this
moment and you know it. So take some advice, Ben. Leave while there's
still a chance of walking out under your own power!" 

 Ben was acutely aware of why Mark was so highly agitated, still, he had
to try at least one more time to reason with him. "Mark, you don't know
what you're doing right now. Maybe if we just sit down and --" 

 He never got to finish. Mark lunged at him and pinned him against the
wall. "I said there's nothing more to discuss! Can't you understand
English or do I have to beat the message into you? GET OUT!" He held
Fraser by the front of the new tunic for a few more seconds then suddenly
let go and stepped back. As Ben regained his balance, Mark balled his
hands into fists. 

 "Mark, please. Listen to re--" Fraser started to say and received a right
cross to the jaw for his effort. He could only stare at Mark, unwilling to
accept the fact that his best friend has just struck him. The thought of
hitting Mark back never crossed his mind. "All right, all right!" he said
and once more held up a placating hand, this time more in self-defense.
"I'm going. Obviously you're not ready to deal with this issue yet. We'll
talk about it some other time. All right?" 

 "No. We won't," Mark stated. "In fact I don't want to see you ever again.
Do you hear me? Never. Again." He strode over to the door and yanked it
open. Fraser instinctively stepped back in anticipation of another attack
as Mark crossed back to his chair. "Now get out and don't come back,
unless you want to get hurt." 

 "You don't mean that. You can't mean that!" Fraser exclaimed. "We're
friends, Mark. I'm only trying to help, for God's sake!" 

 "Then leave, if you want to help so much," Mark shouted. "Because I don't
need you to psychoanalyze me. All I need is to be left alone. Got that?
Just leave me the hell alone!" 

 "And if I do as you say? What will you do then? What are you going to do
with the gun, Mark?" Fraser asked, gesturing at the coffee table. 

 The other man's entire attitude changed abruptly. He slowly turned,
picked the weapon up and, not taking his eyes away from the Smith and
Wesson, softly asked, "What d'you think I'm going to do with it?" 

 Fraser blanched as an involuntary image of his grief-stricken friend
sitting alone in this apartment, surrounded by reminders of his loss and
with a presumably loaded weapon close at hand, flashed through his mind.
"No," he insisted and took a step towards Mark. He knew he had to stall
for enough time to think of a way to get the weapon away, so he tried to
keep Mark talking. "That's not the answer, Mark, and you know it. Don't do
something stupid." 

 "When have you ever known me to do anything 'stupid', Ben?" he asked, his
voice still deathly quiet and calm. 

 "Never. So you shouldn't start now," Fraser quietly replied. "Give me the
gun, Mark." 

 "I don't think so." Mark turned and pointed the weapon in Fraser's
general direction. "I said get out. I really don't like to repeat myself,
so you'd better listen this time." 

 This wasn't quite how he'd expected the other man to respond - to say the
least! Getting a good look at the .38's full ammunition chamber for the
first time, he regretted opting for the flashier formal tunic instead of
his brown field uniform. He never contemplated its gunbelt coming in handy
when he'd decided they needed to have this 'talk'. Fraser had to swallow
before he could reply. "I can't do that, Mark. I can't leave. Not while
you're holding a loaded weapon." 

 "That's not an option," Mark said through clenched teeth as he cocked the
hammer with his thumb and raised it to sight down the barrel - directly
between his friend's eyes. 

 Fraser knew they were equally qualified with small arms, even so, at this
distance there's no way anyone could possibly miss a stationary target as
big as a human. He slowly raised both hands to shoulder level, making sure
to keep his palms toward Mark. He hoped the other man wasn't so blinded by
grief that he wouldn't mistake the gesture for anything other than what it
was - a plea for reason. 

 They stared at one another along the weapons' sightline for several
eternal moments then Mark slowly began to move around the coffeetable,
each step emphasizing his words. "This is all your fault. If I hadn't gone
with you none of this would have happened," he softly accused as he
stopped just out of Fraser's reach. The gun never wavered from its' target
as he continued, "If you still want to keep on breathing - then get going
before I forget that you were once my friend." 

 "My fault?" Fraser demanded in an effort to distract Mark from making the
worst mistake of his life. "What's my fault, Mark?" He glanced at the
revolver. It twitched slightly as the tension in Mark's trigger finger
increased along with his anger. He realized that if he wasn't extremely
careful in the next few minutes, Mark could very well shoot him. "Listen,
Mark, I know what you're going through--" 

 Mark barked a short laugh that was totally devoid of any humor
whatsoever. "You know what I'm going through? You!?" he asked in
disbelief. "How could you possibly have even the remotest clue about what
I'm going through?" Before Ben could even begin to formulate a reply, Mark
continued, "If I'd only ignored you when you practically begged me to go
on that ride-along... I might have been here to stop her. I might have
been able to keep her from driving that day or at least I could have been
the one behind the wheel. She was on her way to one of her routine
check-ups, did you know that?" He once more advanced on the unarmed
Constable, forcing Fraser to edge closer to the door. 

 "If I'd only turned away... then I would have been with her, driving, and
it might have been me dead on the pavement instead of Carole and our--"
His voice broke suddenly, a single tear escaping his shaky control to
creep down his cheek. He looked away for a second and the gun wavered
slightly. Calculating the distance between them, Fraser quickly speculated
whether he could disarm the distraught man before Mark could do something
that would undoubtedly haunt him for the rest of his life. He managed only
one step in Mark's direction before the other man snapped his attention,
and deadly aim, back in his direction. 

 "Mark," Fraser tried once again to reason with him. "You have to realize
that even if you had gone home instead of with me, the accident would
probably still have occurred--" 

 "You don't know that for sure!" Mark loudly interrupted, desperate to
deny his friend's words and remove some of the monumental, and
unreasonable, guilt he was feeling. "I could have done something -
anything! I could have stopped her." 

 "You don't know that for sure, Mark!" Fraser said, deliberately throwing
Mark's words back at him. "How would you have kept her from leaving the
apartment that day? What possible reason could you have given her to not
go out, especially since she had an appointment with her doctor that day?
You couldn't have known that drunk driver was going to plow into Carole's
car - no one could have known that! So, even though you would have been
here, the accident probably would have happened anyway." 

 "No! I could have prevented it! I could have-." 

 "Mark, will you listen to what--" 

 "No!" Mark shouted, all patience gone. "No. No more talking and no more
listening. I'm tired and you haven't said anything worth listening to."
Motioning towards the door with the gun, he continued, "For the last time,
Ben - get out. Now. Get out and never come back. If you don't leave now, I
can't be held responsible for what'll happen next." 

 Fraser stared at him for a few moments, finally at a loss for words.
Nothing he'd said so far has gotten through and it seemed nothing would
right now. Although he was honestly frightened about what would happen if
he left Mark alone in this condition and with a loaded weapon, there
didn't seem to be any other choice. Things had gotten too far out of hand.
He only hoped he could reach the authorities soon enough to get some
professional help for his friend before Mark... did anything to himself. 

 "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get," Fraser said in
resignation. Sick with the thought of leaving, he backed closer to the
open door. As he crossed the threshold, he hesitated as if he was about to
say something else, then thought better of it. Instead, he looked into
Mark's eyes one last time then nodded once, turned on his heel and left
before he could set the other man off again. 

 Mark slammed the door shut then eased the revolvers' hammer back down as
soon as Ben was gone. He glared at the inoffensive wood for a couple of
seconds before he once more returned to his chair and his brooding. As he
sat down, he glanced over at the other chair and saw the new Stetson still
on the end table where Ben had placed it such a short time ago. 

 He gingerly put the gun on the table beside his chair then rose and
picked the hat up, meaning to go after Ben and fling it at him in a final
gesture. Instead, feeling the rigidity of the brim and the texture of the
new felt he looked at it more closely. He noticed that there was already a
trace of perspiration on the sweatband and he detected the faint odor of
the soap Ben habitually used, despite Carole's efforts to get him to
switch to a shampoo specifically designed for his type of hair. He smiled
faintly as he remembered them arguing about it, then once again returned
to his temporary sanctuary - his chair. 

 Carefully placed Ben's Stetson on his lap, he and looked toward the
window. He'd been unable to think about anything other than Carole since
being allowed to return home yesterday, but this was the first pleasant
memory out of thousands that had paraded across his consciousness. He
continued to drag up more and more of these pleasant thoughts, most of
them involving the three of them, until he suddenly realized that it was
getting dark - and he was so very tired. Wearily getting up, the Stetson
safely tucked under one arm, he headed for the bedroom. He left the
revolver on the coffee table. In the morning he would unload it and, along
with the Stetson, store it deep in a closet. After he'd had a real night's
rest. And, although Mark didn't know it yet, it was all thanks to the
friend he'd just exiled from his life. 

 

 It was getting colder outside and there seemed to be more snow than rain
coming down, but he didn't even consider retrieving his hat. Fraser knew
there would be a charge for another one, and the quartermaster undoubtedly
wouldn't appreciate a brand-new graduate coming back so soon to
requisition another Stetson, but it was essential to have a complete
uniform when he arrived at his assigned FC detachment. Pausing on the
sidewalk outside, he looked toward the window of Mark's apartment for a
few moments. 

 It was useless to hope that Mark might have changed his mind and been
watching for him, still.... He tore his eyes away and looked down at the
sidewalk. He'd stood outside Mark's door for a few moments after it had
closed and seriously considered going back in to reclaim the Stetson.
Then, through the relatively thin wood, he'd heard the hammer of a
revolver being carefully released. Sensing that Mark was safe, at least
for now, he'd closed his eyes for a moment in relief then left the
building. 

 Knowing it would probably be the height of folly to come back tomorrow,
but unwilling to just walk away and hope everything would be all right,
Fraser looked for a payphone and called Liz Marchand. He told her what had
happened and asked her to drop by Mark's place. Mark would undoubtedly not
appreciate the gesture, but Ben was certain that he would react somewhat
less violently toward her. Even if he was a bit annoyed by the 'cosseting'
of his friends, Ben knew that Liz was more than capable of dealing with
him. As soon as he finished the call, he headed back to the barracks to
finish packing and say the rest of his good-byes. Even though he knew it
would be better if he talked with someone, he resolved to never mention
this farewell to anyone else. Ever. 

 Tomorrow he'd collect another Stetson and leave this now empty part of
his life behind. 

 Forever. 

 THE END
 <PRE>