Angel Of Mercy    Angel Of Mercy by Strwriter

 Author's webpage:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/7676/duecredit.html

 Author's disclaimer: Alliance owns Fraser, Kowalski, Dief, Delmar,
Victoria, Due South...heck, they own everything here except for the story
itself. And, of course, the Sister, because that's YOU.

 Author's notes: This story is written in the second person present tense.
What that means is that the reader is actually a character in the story.
It's an unusualy viewpoint, and may seem awkward until you get used to it,
but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

  

 The noise is unmistakable. Buzzing like an overgrown Yukon mosquito, the
small aircraft is growing steadily closer. Any moment now, it will land
outside your door, and you must be ready for it. Quickly, you grab another
roll of gauze and shove it into your pocket, then take up a position at
the window to watch and wait. 
 You can feel your hands shaking, and you clasp them tightly together.
It's just been so long since this small hospital has seen a serious
patient. In the six months you've been stationed to this remote Yukon
position, you've only seen a handful of patients. Trappers mostly,
suffering from lacerations caused by the wickedly sharp traps and knives
that make up that livelihood. Never anything this serious. What did the
radio say? Thrown from a moving car? 

 Sister Mary Joan steps up behind you and puts a comforting hand on your
shoulder. "Frightened, Sister?" Blushing in shame, you nod. 

 "What if he needs surgery? Or a transfusion? There's only the one Doctor,
and this isn't even a real hospital! Three years ago, it was a Park
Ranger's station!" You gesture around the tiny three-room cabin. It's
always seemed good enough, with it's two neatly made beds, it's cheery
fireplace, and it's rows of gleaming medical supplies. Now, however, it
looks only slightly better than a handheld first aid kit. 

 The older nun seems to recognize your fears. "God will take care of him,
Sister. Just let him guide your hands." You nod, but before you can think
further about the life-and-death realities of this situation, the plane
has landed, it's wheels crunching into and marring the pristine white
surface of the snow. 

 Surprisingly, you find that the butterflies dancing in your stomach soon
dissipate. Training takes over, and you feel an eerie calm as you approach
the side of the plane. The medics of the rural air medical transport are
lifting down the gurney now, and you crane your neck to see the patient.
It's morbid, you know, and you resolve to confess that to the priest
tonight, but you want to know what a human being looks like after being
thrown from a speeding car. 

 As the wheels of the gurney settle onto the frozen ground, you get your
first good look at the patient...now a 'he' , you observe. His face has
been wrapped mummy-like in red-tinged bandages, one arm and both legs
bound and splinted. You know there are probably internal injuries as well.
A thick blanket protects him from the biting chill of the Yukon winter,
but you can still make out the generalities of his form. Not too tall, but
not exactly short, either. A bit on the skinny side, the straps holding
him to the gurney outlining narrow hips and lanky arms and shoulders. Bits
of blonde hair peek out here and there between the bandages on his head,
but what strikes you about the man is his eyes. 

 They are like the eyes of a madman, afire with emotions too numerous to
count. By their red rims, you can tell he's been crying, and you get the
feeling that it wasn't all from physical pain. Gently, you stroke his hand
as you walk beside the gurney. You know you shouldn't get attached to
patients...how many times were you told that in nursing school? But
something about this man reaches out to you, and you justify that Jesus
never shrank back from getting close to those who suffered. 

 "It's going to be all right," you whisper gently. His eyes flicker in
your direction, and you smile, praying silently that your words are not a
lie. "What's your name?" 
 He winces as he tries to speak, and fresh blood blooms scarlet on the
bandages as the movement re-opens a torn lip. "Ruhh..." The word is a
harsh, rasping sound, almost a grunt. He squeezes his eyes shut in
frustration, then tries again. "Ruhh....Raahh...Ray." You have to step
aside a moment as the gurney is brought through the narrow doorway into
the cabin, then move to his side again, taking his hand. "Hello, Ray," you
say softly, "I'm Sister Mary Angelique. You're at a hospice...we're going
to try to help you, all right?" "Uh huh," Ray manages. There is a moment
when he seems to turn inward, his eyes growing glassy. That distant
expression makes your heart stop for a moment, but it is worse when they
focus again. Such pain and worry. "Fr..." His voice chokes off in pain,
but he pushes past it and begins again, his tone desperate.
"Fra...Fraser...got...him...too?" Curious, you turn to the medic. "Who's
Fraser?" 

 He shrugs, knocking snow off the shoulders of his parka onto the floor.
It melts almost instantly. "Beats me, Sister. This poor bastard was the
only one that hunter brought in. Said he found him lying in the snow by
the side of the old jeep trail. From the skid marks, it looked like he'd
been tossed from a car. The injuries backed that up...bruises, abrasions,
fractured bones. I'm pretty sure there's nothing life threatening,
though." 
 *Thank you, Lord.* You smile in gratitude, then as you look back to Ray,
your smile fades. "I'm sorry, you're the only one they brought in. Is
Fraser a friend of yours? Were you traveling together?" 

 The reaction was remarkable. Ray's eyes abruptly fill with tears, and he
makes a small, choking sound, clearly trying to suppress a sob. There is a
tiny motion of the bandaged head that is meant to be a nod, then the
bleeding lips part again. "Hand. We...go... hand..." Ray abruptly reaches
up with his free arm, and you see that even though it's not splinted, it's
crusted from abrasions and dark with bruises. He grabs your wrist, and
your eyes widen in shock at the strength of his grip. "Fraser...pushed me
out..." 
 "What!" You gasp, your other hand flying to your mouth. Feeling anger
begin to well up, you look to the medic again. "Get it out on the radio.
We've got a name for the man who did this to--" 

 "No!" Ray's voice interrupts. "Did...it...to save....to save me." His
eyes begin to flutter closed, but he fights the creeping blackness, an
almost animal desperation blazing in those penetrating eyes. "Now...gone."
Those last words rip into you, the tone of such terrible loss that you
feel your own eyes tear even though you know neither man. You want to make
it better, to heal the heart which is obviously wounded so much more
gravely than the body, but you don't know what to say. 

 Soon, it is moot. The agony-filled eyes close, and despite yourself, you
expel a sigh of relief. Now you can work on healing his body, and then,
maybe, you can find out more about his other wounds. 

 *** 

 "I don't know what to do, Father. I've tried everything I can to get
through to him, but it's not working." You look plaintively at the screen
that separates you from the priest in the tiny, makeshift confessional.
It's been ten days now since Ray arrived, and all you've managed to find
out is that his last name is Kowalski and that he is American. The latter
wasn't even by his own admission, but his accent is as clear as if he were
wearing a sign marked 'Chicago Born And Raised.' 

 The priest's voice is warm and gentle. "Are you praying for him, my
child?" 
 "Many times a day." You feel yourself blush as you admit, "I think the
Virgin Mary might be growing a bit tired of me bothering her." 

 He chuckles. "There is no such thing as too much prayer, my child. Ray
has been through something terrible. Something so terrible that he not
only refuses to talk about the incident, but even about himself." 

 "I know, Father...I want to help him." 

 "You are. His body is healing well." 

 "But what about the rest of him?" you protest. 

 "The soul heals in it's own time. Pray for him, help his body heal, be
there for him when he needs you. That's all you can hope to do." 

 "Yes, Father." 

 "Is that all, my child?" 

 Your head bows slightly in shame. "No, Father. I have sinned." 

 "In what way?" 

 "This morning, Ray asked me if Fraser had been found. I told him that he
hadn't...but I didn't tell him that the search ends today. I am guilty of
the sin of lying. I am also guilty of the sin of pride...I was prideful
when we unbandaged his face yesterday and I saw the improvement." You sit
quietly as the priest absolves you of your sins and bestows forgiveness.
Leaving the confessional, you still feel heavy, burdened. It is the guilt
of another, perhaps, but it is on your shoulders. 

 As you step into the ward, you pause to look at your patient. Ray looks
remarkably childlike as he lays there sleeping, the blankets rumpled
around him. You smile slightly, shaking your head. No matter how many
times you fix those blankets, he messes them up again in moments, even
though you can never figure out exactly how he manages it. Fine blonde
hair has fallen in loose strands over his forehead, his angular features
soft in sleep. The bruises have faded for the most part, but there is
still darkness around his eyes and across one cheekbone. New pink skin
gleams over his cheeks and one bare arm where the more shallow abrasions
have healed, but the deep ones remain scabbed and crusted, looking like
gnarled islands on his pale skin. His right arm and both legs are still
encased in plaster to shelter the fractured bones, but eventually, his
body will heal fully. You're not so sure about his heart. 

 Over the last ten days, you've tried everything you could think of to
draw him out. He now knows everything about you...where you're from, your
childhood, the events that compelled you to leave your former life to
become a nun in this remote area. But you know very little about him. Even
to learn that his last name was Kowalski was the result of three days of
gentle interrogation. He's told you that his friend's name is Fraser, and
given a general description, but that's all. He won't tell you what they
were doing or how they knew each other. 

 You stopped pressing for information three days ago. It was just too
painful to watch him evade the questions with nothing answers or that
black, self-depriciating humor. Ray seems to have no sense of self esteem,
no happiness behind the blue eyes, and you wonder what could have possibly
stripped a man's soul like that. Do you really want to know? Opening a
nearby cabinet, you withdraw the antibiotic ointment and some cotton
swabs. Ray's wounds have to be cleaned several times a day to ward off
infection from the filthy asphalt the flesh was abraded against. You know
the procedure is painful, but he bears up remarkably well, responding to
the pain with nothing more than clenched teeth and more of that same black
humor. 

 A few steps away from his bed, you hear the radio squelch. Quickly, you
set down the supplies and hurry to the radio. The call sign is 'Eagle', so
you know it's the search team. Could they have found something? Have your
prayers been answered? "Angel here," you say excitedly, "come in, Eagle." 

 Static bursts across the channel, obscuring part of his reply, but you
could swear you heard the word 'found'. Your heart leaps into your throat.
"Did you find him?" 
 "Sorry, Angel." Your heart sinks, but you try to look at this
objectively. This was a long shot anyway. Four days ago, they found the
car. It was a burnt out hulk at the bottom of a ravine, crushed and
mutilated almost as badly as the two bodies inside. Those poor people had
been reduced nearly to ashes, nothing left to identify them to family or
friends. You had known then that it was probably futile to keep hoping,
but you haven't quite been able to stop yourself. 

 "We've combed the whole area," he assures you, "Only tracks belong to a
local trapper...we know his boots. No one walked away. Other than more
bits and pieces of that car, the only thing we found today was a hat
lodged in a cleft in a rock. We think it belonged to one of those poor
guys in the car." 

 Swallowing past the thickness in your throat, you thumb down the mike key
to answer. "Thank you, Eagle. God bless." This is it. The last report of
the last day of the search. It's over. You're about to sign out, but a
sudden idea catches you. "Angel to Eagle..." "Go ahead." 

 "Can you describe the hat for me? Maybe Ray can identify it." 

 There is a pause, then the voice is hesitant as it replies. "It's pretty
ugly, Sister. Are you sure?" 

 "Very." 

 "Ok." You hear shuffling as the hat is retrieved. "From the looks of
things, I think it was a Mountie's hat in a past life. I hear Stetsons are
pretty tough...that's about the only reason it would still be around. It's
totally charred black on the outside, and there's a big hole torn in - no,
scratch that, *blown* in the crown. Something all over the inside. Looks
like blood. Won't know for sure until the forensics people get it. That's
all." 
 "Thank you," you say quietly, then sign out. You stand there for a long
moment, staring at the radio. How are you going to break this to Ray? 

 The question is soon answered, as Ray's distinctive, slightly nasal
Chicago diction invades on your thoughts. "It's his." You gasp in
surprise, then turn to look at the man. 
 He is looking at you with those penetrating eyes. You wonder how long ago
he woke up, how much he heard. "His?" 

 "Fraser's. The hat." He looks down, his free hand twisting in the
blankets. "His hat." 
 "Fraser was a Mountie?" 

 "Yeah. Real Dudley Do-Right, died in the wool Mountie." His voice is
strangely flat, as if the words are being spoken by a machine. "A freak." 

 "A freak?" 

 "A freak." The narrow shoulders shudder, and there is a moment when he is
completely still. Then you he swipes his hand over his eyes. You see him
bite his lip, and when he continues, his voice is almost trembling. "Total
freak...but we were partners anyway. Don't know why I put up with...." He
pauses again, but it's too much for him to continue. Ray closes his eyes,
and when he opens them again, he's locked it all down. The emotions are
still there, but it's like looking at something through an impenetrable
sheet of ice. Partners. You take a deep breath. What was a Mountie doing
with an American from Chicago as partners up here in the Yukon? Was it a
business venture? Vacation? An international crime? "Ray, I know you're
American...." 

 The side of his mouth quirks up in a small, almost mocking half-smile.
"What about it?" 
 "Well," you begin slowly, "if he was a Mountie, I really do need to
contact the RCMP about his..." No, you can't say death. "...disappearance.
His family would want to--" 
 "He hasn't got any." The words are sharp, almost explosive. 

 "I see." 

 No one says anything for what seems like an eternity. No one knows what
to say. Then finally, you clear your throat. Part of you wants to hold
him, to comfort him, or to at least take his hand, but you know he
wouldn't want that. "Ray, you don't have to do this if you aren't ready,
but I think it would be very helpful for the RCMP to know what happened
to...was it Constable Fraser?" 

 "Sorta." He's sullen, his one good arm wrapped tightly against his thin
chest like a pouting child. 

 "In what way?" 

 "They'd promoted him. To Sergeant. Just found out about it a couple weeks
ago. But we hadn't gotten back to make it official yet." 

 "Sergeant Fraser then. Can you tell me what happened back there?" 

 "I could." That same tone, so petulent you're tempted to slap him, but
with that wounded undercurrent that makes it impossible. 

 "Will you?" 

 "No." 

 "Just no?" You carefully measure your tone, trying not to push too hard
while still being firm. "Ray, from what I gather, someone out there did
this to you and your friend. You've been badly hurt. Sergeant Fraser is
missing and may even have been killed...and you're the only person who can
do anything about it." 

 He laughs bitterly. "Do something about it. What am I supposed to do
about it? I'm lying here in a zillion pieces, and the guys who did it to
me are barbecue." 
 "But they may have been working for someone." you insist. Looking
directly into his blue eyes, you take his one free hand in both of yours,
squeezing tightly. "Please, Ray, tell me what happened. If not for me,
then do it for God." 

 "What's he got to do with this?" 

 A quote from Psalms comes to mind, and you recite softly, "'A righteous
God who searches minds and hearts shall bring and end to the violence of
the wicked and make the righteous secure.'" 

 He frowns quizzically. "So you're sayin' God's got a witness protection
program?" 
 You've never heard it interpreted quite that way, and you giggle. "Sort
of. What that passage is saying is that God wants justice done, and if you
are willing to step forward, he will help you achieve that justice. The
wicked will be punished, and the righteous man will be safe." 

 "Then how come guys get whacked for ratting on crooks?" 

 "The price of free will, Ray. If an evil man wants to hurt a good man,
more often than not God won't reach down a fiery hand to stop him. But it
all balances out in the end." You pause as a new thought comes to mind.
"Are you afraid someone will go after you if you talk?" 

 "No." The answer comes too quickly, and he refuses to meet your eyes as
he speaks. Unwillingly, he has just admitted his precise fear. You decide
to take a new tack, try and approach it from behind. 

 "All right. If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to." 

 "Sorry," He grins, a lopsided expression that only lifts one side of his
mouth. "That reverse psychological thingy isn't gonna work on me either." 

 "Reverse psychology?" Your expression is as pure and innocent as a
newborn baby, and you know that you'll have a lot of confessing to do
tonight. "I would never." From the pocket of your apron, you withdraw a
vial of disinfectant. "I'm just not going to argue in circles with you
when it's time to change your bandages." 

 Ray groans and flops back on the pillow, and you have to fight the urge
to giggle again. So melodramatic. One would think you'd suggested
amputation. Your movements are quick and efficient as you snip off the
dressing that binds a deep gash on his scalp. Gently, you nudge aside the
blonde hair to examine the wound. 

 It's healing nicely, but gravel and dirt had been forced into this
particular injury quite deeply. You've had to open and clean it several
times, insuring that it heals from the inside out to avoid trapping any
particles inside that might cause infection. Wetting a cotton ball with
alcohol, you begin swabbing at the thick scab, noting with a shake of your
head that dark specks of dirt continue to appear along with the russet
stain of the dissolving blood on the cotton. Contaminants are still being
forced up. 

 As the scab dissolves, the alcohol begins to encounter torn and tender
flesh, and you hear Ray take a sharp, hissing breath in pain. "You know,
Mr. Kowalski," you say casually, "you're a textbook example of not judging
a book by it's cover." 

 His teeth are clenched as you quickly swab out the inside of the gash,
but he manages to keep his voice surprisingly cool. "How so?" 

 "We get these big, strong trappers in here all the time. Men a head
taller than you and three times as broad." 

 A tight smile appears on his face. "Grizzly Adams, eh?" 

 You stop and look down at him, your mouth open in mock astonishment. "Why
Mr. Kowalski, I do believe you're starting to talk like a Canadian." 

 This gets a genuine chuckle from him. "Side effect of hanging around up
here for the last three months. You know what the really bad part is?" 

 "What?" 

 "I've got a craving for pemmican." 

 Nodding gravely, you make one last swipe of the wound, ignoring the wince
it prompts. "If you want some, I'm sure I can get it for you." Your eyes
twinkle, both of you well aware that a fondness for the tough, desiccated
meat patties is one of the final warning signs of Yukon acclimation. 

 "From one of those trappers?" 

 "Of course. The next time one of them comes in, I'll get you all you
want." Soothing ointment is squeezed on next, and you smile as you hear
him actually sigh in relief. "Believe it or not, they're the biggest
babies you ever met. One of them gets a paper cut, and he comes running in
here like it was the end of the world. By the time they actually step in a
bear trap or cut off a finger, they usually just faint dead away at the
sight of their own blood. You, on the other hand - a little Yankee city
boy - come in here, as you put it, 'in a zillion pieces,' and you haven't
screamed or fainted once." You pause as you cut the gauze to it's proper
length. "Although I don't think I've ever met anyone quite as fast as
you." 

 An actual blush appears on his cheeks at this. He's had a habit of
ducking and wincing when you or Sister Mary Joan are treating him, and
it's become something of a running joke. The blush soon fades, though,
replaced by the pride you knew that your assurance would bring to his male
ego. Men always like to be told how brave they are, and in this case,
you're happy that he deserves the praise. "So I'm real stoic, huh?"
"Absolutely." You begin to wind the bandage around his head, but soon
stop. Something has changed about his demeanor, a quietness replacing the
playful banter. 
 "Fraser'd be surprised to hear it." 

 Treading carefully, you decide to press him a bit on this. Maybe he will
volunteer some information that will help you in determining what
happened. "Why is that, Ray?" 
 "Two months ago, we were in this really bad blizzard snowstorm thing.
Fraser was trying to get us to a sheltered place on the mountain, but the
sled fishfinned--" 
 "Fishtailed?" 

 "Yeah. It swung around as he turned the dogs, and whoosh! We're twenty
feet down a crevasse. Fraser cut the ties with his knife real quick so the
dogs didn't go down, but we had to pull the sled up ourselves. I went nuts
over a couple of bumps and bruises, really made a stink about it. Wasn't
until two days later that I found out he'd broken his arm when we went
down. Set it himself and kept right on going. Didn't say a word." 
 "Sounds like a very brave, strong man." In your mind's eye you try to
create an image of this iron-willed Sergeant. "Was he a 'Grizzly Adams'
too?" 

 Ray laughs at this. "Hell no! He was tough as nails, sure, but he didn't
look it. More like a freakin' choir boy. Little bit taller than me, but
not real big - 'bout six feet I guess - with the kind of looks that drive
women nuts. I guess it's a good thing for me that he's not here, or I'd be
playing second fiddle again." 

 You smile. "You're not bad looking yourself, Ray. Aside from the blood,
of course." 
 His jaw drops. "I thought you were a nun." 

 "I am." You reply, "But being chaste doesn't mean that I'm blind." 

 "Just that I can't get nowhere." 

 "Right." 

 You finish tying off the bandage on his head and move around to the other
side of the bed to check on the cast over his right arm. "Your friend,
Fraser, did he have a first name?" The question is asked casually. His
guard is down now, just like you'd hoped, and you don't want a step too
far to bring the walls back up again. "Yeah. Benton." 

 So formal! That sort of name doesn't seem to fit the man that Ray has
described at all...it seems more suited to an accountant, or a poet
perhaps. "Are you serious?" 
 "Completely." 

 "Sounds like an interesting guy." 

 "He..." The light air suddenly vanishes, and his shoulders slump as a
darkness seems to descend over his eyes. "He was." 

 Now or never. Stopping your work, you lock your eyes with his. "Ray,
please...tell me what happened. Benton may not have any family, but from
what you tell me, he surely had friends. They deserve to know the truth." 

 "I can't." 

 "Yes, you can." You're almost yelling at him now. "Or did he mean so
little to you that you are willing to forget him?!" 

 It was meant to provoke some kind of reaction, but you don't expect this.
Ray seems to explode, suddenly sitting bolt upright, shaking in anger.
"It's FOR him, dammit!! I don't want him remembered for this!! I want
Frannie and Welsh and the Duck Boys and the other Ray - even the Ice Queen
- to remember him as Superman!!" 

 None of those names mean anything to you, but you decide to seek
clarification later. "Why would that change, Ray? Was he doing something
illegal?" 

 "No!!" 

 "Then what was it?!!" You match him in temper, your noses less than an
inch apart now. "In the name of God, Ray, tell me what happened!!" 

 His blue eyes stare into your soul, the hurt and anger almost too much to
bear. For a moment, you expect him to strike you, then he turns away
suddenly, settling back to the bed like a deflating balloon. When he
speaks, his voice is thick, the words clearly coming only with difficulty.
"Her name was Victoria." 

 To Be Continued...... 

 Dropping this quickly before I run to dinner with the family...Due Credit
votes have dropped way off, and I had time to pound this out. 

 "Victoria?" He nods, and you pull up a chair. Something tells you this is
going to be a long one. "Tell me about Victoria, Ray...was she a friend of
yours?" 
 "Hell no." His face twists in disgust at the mere thought, and you decide
that this is not the best time to reprimand him for his language. "She was
a bitch. A real bitch." 
 "What did she do?" 

 "What didn't she? Murder, extortion, heartbreak, betrayal, perjury,
resisting arrest, assault, illegal flight, stealing...yeah, she was a real
sweetheart. If I'd ever met her, I'da killed her. Right there...BAM,
dead." One hand mimes firing a gun, and he seems almost gleeful of the
idea of murdering this woman. The attitude horrifies you, but if this
Victoria is all he says she is, perhaps he has a good reason. 

 "She did all this to you, Ray? Was she your sister...wife..." You
hesitate, then force your tone to be non-chalent. It doesn't matter what
you think of this, it happens a lot these days. "Your lover?" 

 The blue eyes meet yours, and you know the answer before he answers.
"Fraser's. He met her about twelve years ago, up here in Deep Freeze.
She'd robbed a bank, and he tailed her into the middle of a blizzard. He
was just a kid really, ink wasn't even dry on his RCMP commission, but
he's like a pit bull, y'know. Spit on the sidewalk and he tracks you to
your grave. Kept at her after everyone with half a brain had given up.
Lost his pack, lost his climbing supplies, some say lost his mind, but
didn't lose her." 

 "Persistent man." 

 "You don't know the half of it." Ray shifts in the bed, scratching at the
itchy areas at his shoulder the plaster casts inevitably cause. It's
clearly stalling for time, but you wait patiently, the look in your eyes
making it plain to him that you aren't going away. Finally, he realizes he
can no longer avoid telling his story. With a deep sigh, he closes his
eyes. "He tracked her to a place called Fortune's Pass or something, but
the snow had closed in, and they had to huddle together to survive. They
were trapped there for days...nearly died. He talked to her until he lost
his voice, then put her fingers in his mouth to keep 'em from freezing.
Then he says he kinda drifted off. Dying. But she started reciting this
poem, and he hung on to that. Don't know how, but they lived through it
and found his pack." 

 He shakes his head, that one-sided smile touching his lips again, though
his eyes stay closed. "Fraser said they ate everything in one meal. That
says something about how far gone he was...this guy would normally ration
the hell out of every bite. But hey, I figure he was twenty one and
freakin' out about the snowstorm thing, and who am I to talk?" 

 The smile fades. "She wanted him to let her go. She'd just been the
wheelman, y'know, the driver. No biggie, and everyone thought she was dead
anyway. The RCMP woulda been turning cartwheels just to see Fraser come
back in one piece." 

 There is an almost surreal quality to this story - hearing about the life
and love of a dead man - and you lean closer, mesmerized. The next part
seems obvious, but you're hoping it's not true. "He loved her, but he
brought her in anyway. Did she go to prison?" "Yeah. Ten years. By the
time she got out, she was really twisted. Came up with this whole plot for
getting back at him. Shot his dog, burned down his Dad's cabin, planted
stolen cash on him, shot a guy with his RCMP gun, framed him and his other
partner for a bunch of crap...and if that wasn't enough, she screwed him.
Not just his body, either. Totally trashed his head and broke his heart."
He opens his eyes, and the hate burning in them takes your breath away.
"Damn thing is, he was going to marry her. He's not your average Joe...not
the kind for one-night stands and all, though God knows he could get 'em."
"Hmmm." You make a non-committal noise at this. 

 He leans forward a bit, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
"You'd never believe this if you saw the guy, but we were talkin' about a
thirty-two year old virgin. He'd been waitin' for her. Loved her, y'know,
and wasn't about to do it with somebody he didn't love just for the sake
of doin' it. Not that he'd had a lot of choices before Chicago,
though...he'd been living out in the armpit of nowhere. When Victoria was
sprung, he thought she'd straightened her act up." This prompts a derisive
snort. "Like hell she had. After she'd trashed his life, she tried to get
him to go with her. He almost did, too...loved her that much. I know what
that's like. When you're so nuts about a woman that you totally lose your
head. I guess I should be glad no one shot me." 

 Your eyes widen. "Shot you?" 

 "That's the only thing that stopped him. His partner tried to whack the
bitch, and it hit Fraser by accident. He still carries the slug in his
back." 

 There is so much venom in this tale that although you know it's biased,
you find yourself hating this woman already. You shake your head in
amazement. All these feelings and you don't even know the victim or the
villain. "I'm so sorry, Ray." 
 He shrugs, feigning indifference. "Hey, it wasn't me. And Fraser put it
behind him. Took him a while, but he let her go." A surprisingly wicked
smile suddenly lights his eyes. "I think he had the hots for the Ice
Queen." 

 You frown. "Ice Queen?" 

 "Sorry. Nickname. That was his boss, Inspector Thatcher. Cold as ice, but
what a babe! The only time I ever caught him checking out a woman was her.
Watching her legs go by like any red-blooded American." Something about
the thought of the man Ray has described ogling a woman strikes you as
funny, and you can't entirely stifle a laugh. "Oh dear!" Your words seem
to hit Ray like a physical blow, and he stares at you for a long moment,
his mouth slightly open. Curious at the startling reaction to such an
innocuous statement, you ask "What's wrong?" 

 "Fraser. That was his thing, his deal. 'Oh Dear' when the rest of us guys
were cursing our heads off. I don't think I heard a half dozen dirty words
come out that guy's mouth in the two and a half years I knew him, and
those weren't even stuff my Mom'd clean my mouth out with soap for." His
head hangs. "I didn't think anybody else said that. But I guess if anyone
did, it'd be a nun." 

 You nod, then change the subject. "But back to Victoria, Ray. Was she the
one that did this to you and Fraser?" 

 "Kind of." 

 "Kind of? How?" 

 "We'd stopped for supplies up in Tuktuyaktuk, Fraser's old stomping
grounds. Between chewing the fat - and I do mean literally, Sister - with
the locals and loading up, we got a phone call. Seems Miss Vicky wasn't
through with Fraser. She'd gone down to Chicago, talked to another Mountie
by the name of Turnbull. He didn't know who she was, and thankfully didn't
know WHERE Fraser and I were, or I'm sure we woulda found a bomb in our
blubber or something. But he did tell her about another lady who could get
in touch with us." 

 "Thatcher?" 

 "Bingo. The call was from Ray Vecchio, the old partner who'd handled this
lady before...the one who wound up shooting Fraser over her. He'd put a
make on Victoria from Turnbull's description. He was ready to haul his
butt up here, but Fraser said he'd come down. Faster that way and all." 

 You're completely engrossed with this tale now, but something occurs to
you. "Why didn't you just contact this Thatcher woman and warn her?" 

 That sarcastic snort again, and he shrugs. "She's on some kind of
top-secret Canadian thing. Foreign governments out to steal your maple
syrup recipe or something, I guess. No one would tell us where she was.
But we knew Victoria could find her - even just from the description an
idiot like Turnbull had passed - and we knew that Fraser could find her
faster." 

 "And that was when it happened?" 

 He nods. "Yup. That's when it happened." 

 Ray stops and lets himself sink back into the pillow, his eyes closing.
For a moment, you fear that the story is going to stop here, that this is
the beginning of another long and painful period of silence. Soon, though,
you see that is not why he stopped. His eyes are closed too tightly for
rest, but there are no tears. Gently, you touch the fresh bandage. "Does
it hurt?" 

 "You could say that." He winces, trying to squirm without moving
anything. Not an easy feat. "I think I'm out of the ouch juice." He nods
towards his IV bag, which hangs limp and virtually empty. Laughing softly,
you check your watch. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Kowalski, you've kept me
entranced with this little story of yours when I should have been
refilling your IV. You ran out fifteen minutes ago." A tight grin appears.
"Maybe I should keep my mouth shut then." 

 "Maybe I should refill the IV and you should keep talking." You retort
quickly, "Or I just might have to resort to unholy means of persuading
you." Teasingly, you wave the syringe of pain medication, pretending to
contemplate seriously not giving it to him. 

 "I can't believe it," Ray sighs, "I'm being blackmailed by a nun." 

 "You bet you are." Even as you banter with your patient, your thumb
smoothly depresses the plunger of medication into the fresh bag of saline
you've affixed to his IV line. Withdrawing the needle with a flourish, you
sit back down besides him. "There you are. All 'doped up' again, as you
put it. Keep talking." 

 A truly roguish look dances in his blue eyes. "Make me." 

 What the heck, you decide. You'll play his game for a little bit. With a
smile of your own, you reach for the King James and begin to read. "In the
beginning..." 

 He frowns. "Whatcha doing?" 

 "Reading," you say innocently. 

 "How far?" 

 "All of it. Right through to Revelation. Unless...." 

 His bandaged head cocks to one side. "Unless?" 

 With a schoolgirl grin, you tap the bible. "Unless you spill it. Now." 

 "Hey!" Ray protests, "That's not..." 

 Ignoring him, you begin. "God created the Earth. And the Earth was
without form, and void; and there was darkness upon--" 

 "Ok, ok!" The American throws up his one good hand in abject surrender.
"I'll crack." 

 Satisfied, you set the bible down and lean forward, listening eagerly. At
first, it seems like Ray is going to take his own sweet time about
beginning, but after only a few moments, he begins. The Chicago-accented
voice is wistful now, clearly longing for his lost friend. "Fraser figured
out the quickest way to get to the airport at Inuvik, where we could hop
one to the Windy City and pick up Victoria's trail. We headed due south
for a couple hours, then I called it quits. He'd told me we were gonna be
going off the beaten path to get there faster, but he didn't tell me
there'd be no path at all. He wanted to take us up this pass thing, over
an ice field, and down into Inuvik. I took one look at that place and told
him he was out of his little Mountie mind. That's when he told me about
what happened with him and Victoria." 

 "And you changed your mind." 

 "Lost my mind was more like it. Agreed to go with him." He smiles
ruefully, "Actually, he did pretty good. I closed my eyes, and half the
time I couldn't tell I was going over terrain so scarey I almost wet
myself a couple times. We might have made it, but we ran into trouble." 

 You see Sister Mary Joan enter the room behind Ray, and you subtly shake
your head. Now is not the time for her to be coming in. Thankfully, she
sees that you've gotten him talking, and ducks out without any further
instruction. "What kind of trouble." 

 "Seals." 

 Curious, you frown. "Seals?" 

 "Seal hunters, actually. Whacking baby seals right, left, and center. Of
course, God forbid Fraser ignore little details like the fact that they
were packing enough heat to arm a small country, and we had exactly one
hunting rifle and a dozen rounds between the two of us. Takes us right in
there, waving his RCMP badge and trying to put the whole lot of them under
arrest." 

 You shake your head incredulously. "Something tells me they weren't very
cooperative." 

 "More than that, they knew Fraser. Seems when he was a boy scout, he
tried to infiltrate another seal whacking group. Got the snot beat out of
him. The leader of this group had been a member of the other one, and it
wasn't too hard to peg Fraser as a repeat offender, twenty years later or
not. There just aren't that many blue-eyed Caucasian guys up in
Inuitsville to start with, and even less of them with a superman complex
like Fraser's. You can probably guess how thrilled they were to see him
again." 

 "They tried to kill you?" The pieces of the puzzle are slowly knitting
together, and you are beginning to see the final picture. 

 "Shoved us into a jeep and pointed us up this narrow, twisting little
pass. It was this far from our tires to the edge, and then....whoosh. Nada
for about fifty meters. They were gonna drive us to the top, then..." He
salutes mockingly, "Sayonara. We'd have been written off as another
accident...it was on our route anyway, and they'd just have guessed that
Fraser had goofed." 

 Solemnly, you nod. "That was the ravine where they found your jeep. How
did you escape?" 

 His voice trembles slightly at first, then steadies. "On the way up to
the pass, Fraser smelled something funky. He tried to warn them that their
brakes were failing, but they didn't believe him. All they did was laugh
and say they'd expected more from a Mountie, and if he was gonna beg for
his life, why bother to lie? He wasn't lying, though...and finally, he
looked at me...and the look in his eyes just--" Ray stops a moment, then
his voice comes back at a whisper. "I'd never seen him that desperate
before. I knew...I knew right then that he was gonna save my life. And
that he wasn't expecting to make it." 

 After a short silence, he looks up, fire blazing in his eyes as he looks
right at you, every word suddenly rock-steady. "We were almost on the pass
when he lunged. Slashed my seatbelt with a knife he'd hidden on the
underside of his boot, then opened the door and shoved me out. I hit
damned hard...actually HEARD my legs crack. It hurt so bad...God, I
thought I'd been set on fire. I looked up, and Fraser was about to jump
after me. Then..." 

 His voice chokes off, but you prod him to continue. "Then?" 

 "They shot him. His shoulder just exploded in blood, and he went face
down on the seat, his arm kinda hangin out the side as they kept on up the
trail. I watched them go...then they rounded the corner, and I guess
Fraser was right about the brakes. They must have failed. There was a
squeal, and then...just an explosion. I saw the smoke. Lotsa smoke. Then I
passed out. When I came to, it was still there. The car was still burning.
I lay there in the snow and watched it...God, it felt like forever. I kept
waiting for Fraser to come back, just do his Superman thing and walk out.
But he didn't. No one came for hours...I was so cold I stopped hurting. I
don't know how long it was before I was found." 

 "And were brought here." 

 "Yeah. I was the lucky one." 

 *** 

 It wasn't long after his confession that Ray had retreated into himself
again, that same flippant mask coming up to hide the pain. This time, you
decided to let him, figuring that he had more than earned a little refuge
after laying bare the truth. You slip into the role of Just Nurse without
complain, the therapist and friend taking a backseat until she is needed
again. Clearly, Ray is grateful for this, but he is also just as clearly
not about to start talking again any time soon. 

 You contact the RCMP with the details you've learned, of course, but it
doesn't make much difference. The seal poachers are a band they've been
pursuing for years, and now, though saddened of course to hear that the
dead man was one of their finest, they seem almost proud that he took the
poachers with him to the grave. It seems a very harsh attitude to you, but
you understand. This is a harsh part of the world. 

 That night was a night of tears and confessions for you as well, as you
told Ray's painful story to Sister Mary Joan and the priest. You thought
your own heart was breaking as you let free the sobs you had held back as
he spoke. Both the priest and the Sister reacted with the same horror you
felt, and you had to persuade them not to speak to him about it. To
respect his self-imposed distance. 

 It's almost harder to treat him now that you know his secret, but you
manage. Clean and bandage, soothe and medicate. Never a word, never any
acknowledgment of the story you share. 

 The second morning after he told his tale, you are cleaning the gash on
his head for what you are fairly sure is going to be the last time. You
are satisfied with the rate of healing, but somehow, even that simple,
clinical statement sticks in your throat. 

 The tasks are finished with remarkable swiftness, and within minutes you
have turned away again, discarding the soiled bandages in the bright red
biohazard container into which all bloodied materials must go. It sits
beneath the window, and as you shut the lid, a flicker of movement catches
your eye. 

 Startled, you look up so quickly that you bump your head on the underside
of the window sill. Through the crust of frost on the glass, you can just
make out a large shape in the distance, less than a kilometer away on the
white, barren landscape. 

 As it trudges closer, you can make out the massive form of Delmar
Higgins, a trapper who you've come to know well. He came to this area not
three months ago, complaining of 'overpopulation' in his previous stomping
grounds. Every so often he has come by the hospice, bringing you meat,
skins, or any other little gift he can manage as repayment for the time
you stitched up a finger he had nearly severed on one of his traps. You've
told him it's unnecessary, but still he persists, and you've come to
appreciate the company he provides on his visits as much as anything. 

 You squint through the glass, your breath creating a small hazy circle
around your nose and mouth. Higgins is definitely bringing something big
this time...possibly even a whole caribou from the looks of the bundle he
has slung over his shoulder. If it is, you know you'll have to turn it
down. That is simply too much of a gift to accept. 

 "Whatcha lookin' at?" Startled, you whirl around to look at your patient.
He doesn't seem to notice anything remarkable about the first words he's
spoken in nearly two days, but simply stares at you with frank curiosity. 

 Deciding not to react to the sudden break in the silence, you respond
smoothly. "It's Delmar Higgins. He's a trapper who comes around every once
in a while to bring us things. How do you feel about caribou?" 

 He scratches his head, then shrugs. "Ok, I guess." A pause. "Did you say
Delmar?" 

 "Yes." 

 An incredulous expression appears on his face. "No way." 

 You leave the window and approach Ray's bed. "What is it?" 

 "That guy pulled Fraser and me out of an ice crevasse not three months
ago. Talk about Grizzly Adams!" He taps one finger against his head
knowingly. "Couple snowballs short of a full igloo, if you know what I
mean." 

 Giggling, you nod. "I know, but he's a sweetheart. Just enrolled at the
local Inuit school, actually. The kids love him." 

 "Grade four?" 

 "How did you know?" 

 Ray grins...the first smile you've seen from him for what seems like
forever. You've begun to treasure Ray-smiles, as though they were actual
gifts you could hold in your hand. "Just a hunch," he admits. 

 You open your mouth to say that he should be here any moment, but just
then, you hear the thud of snowshoes being dropped on the wood of the
porch, and a scuffeling as though a great bear were nosing around. With a
nod to your patient, you go to open the door. 

 Higgins nearly fills the doorframe as you open it, a look of astonishment
in the crinkled eyes above the massive Santa Claus beard. "Well whaddya
know," he marvels, "knew I was coming, eh?" 

 "We had a hunch." Smiling in welcome, you step aside to let him pass
through. The bundle over his shoulder is wrapped thickly in moose and seal
pelts, and you frown. He's never brought meat that way before. You begin
to question him about the unusual transportation method, but he suddenly
does something far more surprising. 

 Rather than heading to the storeroom, he turns for the second bed in your
tiny ward and unceremonially dumps the bundle onto it. Feeling both
perplexed and a bit annoyed, you rush over and lift one corner of the
furs. Pointing firmly at the contents, you stare straight up into the eyes
of the huge man. "What do you think you're doing, putting this here?" 

 He shrugs slowly. "Bed seemed like the place to put him, Sister." 

 "Him?" You look down into the parcel, and suddenly, your knees seem to
turn to jelly as your head spins. One hand clamps tightly over your mouth
as you fight not to scream. 

 The parcel contains not meat, but a human being. Actually, you realize,
that status is somewhat questionable at the moment. Your lifting of the
furs has exposed his face and one shoulder, and what you see truly
horrifies you. What was once a thick head of dark hair is now mostly
singed away, the side of his face crudely bandaged. Any exposed skin is
cruelly red with burns and abrasions. One eye is swollen shut, and the
entire face is grossly distorted by swelling, though the underlying
structure seems to have been quite handsome at one point. Another homemade
patch is centered over his shoulder, but the massive discoloration around
it suggests a terrible wound beneath. 

 Eyes wide, you stare up at Higgins. "Where did you...who is..." The words
stumble awkwardly over each other in your shock. 

 "Found him in the ravine next to a real mess of a car. Brought him home
and did as best I could to patch him up until he was good enough to move."
He gives you a mournful look that would not look out of place on a
sheepdog. "Hope you can help him, Sister. Ben Fraser's been a friend of
mine from grade four." 

 At the sound of Fraser's name, Ray sits bolt upright in his bed. His eyes
are like a wild animal's, bright with a hot mixture of hope and fear.
"Ben?!!" It's the first time you've ever heard him call his friend by his
first name, but that won't register until later. 

 Snapping into action on behalf of the poor soul in front of you, you
begin to gently pull away the furs as you step between the beds to shield
Ray's view. He protests loudly, and you can hear the bed shaking as he
fights to get up. Looking up to Higgins, you motion towards Ray with your
head. "Don't let him get up! Those legs and that arm can't move, or
they'll break all over again." 

 Nodding in quiet agreement, Higgins goes over to the bed. As you slowly
tease the furs away, layer by layer, you hear his slow drawl addressing
the American. "Now, Ray, Ben's going to be ok. You've gotta sit still,
understand. Need to be in one piece when Ben gets better." 

 "Like hell!" Ray's angry cry is halfway between a scream and a sob. "I've
got to get over there! Fraser! Fraser, can you hear me, buddy?!!
C'mon...say something!! FRASER!!" He is more or less hysterical now, but
you know that you're better off leaving his restraint to the massive
trapper. 

 "Listen to him!" You shout over your shoulder, "Just stay still! I'm
taking care of Fraser." 

 "Is he alive?!" 

 "Right now, yes. But he's hurt, Ray...terribly hurt. I've got to
concentrate!" The mutilated flesh revealed by the next moosehide turns
your stomach, and you know that you need help. Now. "Sister Mary Joan!"
You yell, "Please, help me!" 

 Within moments, your fellow nun comes running into the room, where she
stops in shock in the doorway. One hand flies to her mouth as her face
pales in shock. "Dear Lord! What...?" 

 "Higgins found Fraser. He's in pretty bad shape. Ray's not taking it
well. Sedate the American, help me with the Mountie." Your words come in a
rapid staccato, like a verbal machine gun. All emotion has been shoved
aside, or you know you would cry over the shattered form of what was once
a kind-hearted man in his physical prime. 

 Thankfully, Mary Joan neither argues or takes offense, and you know
without turning when she injects the sedative into the cop's IV. He
protests loudly and fervently, but it does no good. The potent drug is
already flowing into his veins. After a moment, you hear Higgins' solid
voice again. "Thank you very much, Sister. Now you can go help with
Ben...I'll hold this one down until he goes to sleep." 

 Tuning out Ray's rapidly-dwindling arguments, you focus entirely on the
body in front of you. Soon, Mary Joan's rubber-gloved hands appear beside
your own. Without even bothering to look up, you brief her on the injuries
you've found. "First and second degree burns...small patch of third on the
back of the right hand. Abrasions over fifty percent of skin surface.
Massive contusions. At least three, possibly as many as six fractured
ribs, fractured right femur, bi-lateral tib-fib fractures, severely
displaced fracture of the right ulna. Possible internal injuries, although
abdomen seems soft and easily palpable. Twelve-centimeter contaminated
laceration with infection on the right thigh. Skull fracture with swelling
and possible concussion. Cartilage damage to the nose and right ear.
Multiple small incisions and lacerations, many infected. Infected bullet
wound to right shoulder...entrance and exit wounds. Massive blood loss,
certainly exposure. Mild frostbite to tips of ears and fingers. Serious
dehydration and malnourishment." 

 Your friend lets out a low whistle. "He's in pretty bad shape." Her dark
eyes look sadly into yours. "Poor Ray." 

 "Poor Ben!" Carefully, you start to tease away the crude bandage over the
bullet wound as the other nun begins an IV line. You wince as the wound is
revealed. It's a nasty mess indeed, the dark, congealed blood of the round
entrance puncture surrounded by swollen, discolored flesh in every shade
from near-ebony to sickly greenish yellow. Murky yellow fluid oozes from
the infected injury, and you shudder just thinking about the agony such an
infection must bring. Ten days with critical injuries and only the crudest
of medical aid has not served him well. 

 Trying not to look, you wet a cottonball with alcohol and begin to clean
the area. Suddenly, the corpse-like form twitches away from the contact,
and your heart leaps into your throat. *Good God,* you think, *he can't be
conscious!* Quickly, you motion towards the medicine cabinet. "Morphine.
Hurry...I think he's waking up." You know the pain must be truly
excruciating. 

 Time seems to crawl to a halt as your gaze fixes on that battered face.
His eyelids flutter, then slowly, as if even that act is painful, they
open slightly. The eyes that look back at you seem as blue and deep as the
Arctic ocean, but they burn with unspeakable suffering. They seem to beg
you to end his misery, and your own eyes brim with tears as you shake your
head. 

 As gently as if you were taking a butterfly into your hand, you brush
your fingers against his raw cheek. "You've got to keep fighting, Ben,"
you whisper. "I know it hurts, but there are people here who care about
you. You've got to live...for Ray...for Meg...for all your friends. And
for me." 

 The blue eyes look directly into your soul, and you nearly scream at what
you see. He's giving up. After ten days of hanging on, he is giving up
with the finish line in sight! His eyes close, and you howl in
frustration, a purely animalistic sound that shocks your companions. You
know it's coming, but still the sight of the heart monitor's rhythmic line
smoothing to a flat beacon of death comes as a cruel blow. 

 Frantically, you begin CPR as Mary Joan sets up the defibrillator. With
each compression, you beg God to save this man's life, to persuade him to
turn back at the gates of heaven and finish his work on earth. Fraser is
going to live. Glancing briefly at Ray's innocently slumbering form, you
vow that no matter what it takes, this life will not slip through your
fingers. "It's not gonna be this easy, Ben!" You're shouting at the top of
your lungs between breaths, "Not this easy! If I have to rip the heart out
of my chest and give it to you, you're going to live! Do you understand
me?!" 

 Mary Joan calls for you to clear, and you reluctantly take a step back,
your eyes locked on Fraser's closed eyelids. "Please, Lord," you murmur,
"Don't take him yet...he's needed here." 

 You don't dare breathe as the metal paddles are applied to his chest, and
as the current surges through his shattered body, you know that if too
much prayer is possibly a sin, you're going straight to hell. Fraser
convulses as the electricity rips through him, but after a brief
fluctuation, the heart monitor's line remains completely flat. "No!" The
word hisses between clenched teeth, and your hands are fisted so tightly
that your nails cut into your palms even through the latex of your gloves.


 "Again!" The order is shouted almost as Mary Joan adjusts the dials,
ready to try again without the need for instructions. A higher voltage
causes his body to jerk convulsively, and this time, the monitor's green
band begins a steady rhythm. One beat, two beats, three...then the heart
beat begins to fade again, and soon the flat line has claimed him again. 

 "Again!" This time, she moves even faster, and your cry coincides with
yet another burst of electricity. Your eyes are riveted to the monitor,
your own heart seemingly stopped in anticipation. "Please," you murmur,
"please live...Blessed Mother Mary, please let him live!" 

 One beat. 

 Two. 

 Three. 

 Four. 

 Five. 

 An almost hysterical laugh of relief bursts from you as the monitor shows
a steady heartbeat, the peaks and valleys strong and constant. He lives.
Wiping tears of gratitude from your cheek with the back of your hand, you
whisper a brief prayer of thanks as you move to his side again. Looking
down at the closed eyes and burn-crusted face, you smile. "You've done
your part, Ben...now I'm going to do mine." 

 *** 

 "I can't tell you how much we appreciate this, Delmar. You've really
saved your friend's life all over again. Thank you so much." 

 The burly trapper blushes at your praise, looking down at his
snow-crusted boots like a little boy. "You're welcome, Sister. But I'm
just doin' fetch and carry, is all." 

 You look at the large bundle beside him. Like the previous three, it
contains bandages, medication, and dozens of vital bags of IV fluids and
nutrients...even blood. This tiny hospital was unprepared for two serious
patients so close together and requiring long term care, and you've had to
have supplies air-dropped in. 

 A doctor would have normally come as well, but the weather has been
severe, and it's far too risky. Lacking a doctor's more advanced care, Ben
would surely have died without Delmar's willingness to trek into the
driving snow and fetch the heavy bundles. Smiling warmly, you place one
hand on his massive shoulder. "Well, I'm going to have to ask you to fetch
and carry one more time, if that's all right." 

 He frowns quizzically. "Sure. But I thought you've got your medicines
now?" 

 "We do." You lean closer, whispering. "This time it's a special surprise
for the boys." 'The boys' are what you've taken to calling your two
patients. Indeed, although both are grown men, the last week since Ben
arrived have brought you so close that you almost consider them sons. 

 Bushy eyebrows raise in curiosity. "Really now? What is it?" 

 "His name is Diefenbaker." A smug smile tugs at your lips. This is your
coup...agreeing to have Ben's wolf brought in. He's been staying with the
RCMP detachment in Tuktoyaktuk after escaping from the remaining poachers
and leading his entire team of huskies directly to their front door. Ray
thinks that having the faithful animal nearby will speed Ben's recovery,
and by now you are ready to do almost anything. Besides, the cop informs
you that this will not be the first time Diefenbaker has parachuted. 

 Delmar grins. "I know Dief. Good dog. He jumps, eh?" 

 "Apparently so." 

 He scratches at his head in astonishment. "Well I'll be. When do I go get
him?" 

 "Will you be able to get to the drop point in three hours?" 

 "No problem." 

 "Good. He'll be there at two o'clock." 

 Nodding his agreement, Delmar bends to re-attach his snowshoes, then
stops. "So...I just catch him? Or can he land on his own?" 

 You pause. Ray didn't tell you that specifically, but you assume that
since he didn't stipulate a need for someone who was adept at catching
falling wolves, the animal is capable enough on his own. "I think he does
it himself." 

 "Good enough. See you tonight, Sister." With a brief, rather awkward tip
of his thick beaver hat, Delmar turns and leaves, admitting a brief gust
of frigid air. You shiver as the door swings shut behind him, marveling at
how anyone can be so unaffected by such weather. For a few minutes, you
stand by the window, watching the mountainous form slowly trudge away to
vanish in the thick swirling snow, then you turn back to the main ward. 

 Ray is sitting up in his bed, which you have pulled close to Ben's to
make it easier for him to observe his friend. The devotion of the American
has been truly remarkable. Although Ben has yet to show any signs of
consciousness, he has been there faithfully for hours, reading and talking
to the Mountie with no sign of weariness. His own rate of healing has
improved greatly, as if learning of the other man's survival galvanized
his own will to live. Already, he is hopping about with the aid of
crutches, assisting in any tasks his injuries will allow. Mostly, though,
he sits and talks...and watches. 

 Quietly, you lean back against the wall to take in the two men. Ray's
face is soft as he watches the Mountie, and you marvel at how the same
blue eyes that can crackle with so much danger can seem so gentle. Raised
in the middle of a tough American city, he is a cop who has seen
everything nasty the world has to offer and carries the scars, both on his
body and heart. From what he tells you, however, Ben has managed to keep
his soul untouched and innocent. Logically, these two men should be too
disparate to be partners. What you see speaks differently. This is true
brotherly love, uncaring of blood or background. 

 Suddenly, Ray winces, reaching behind his neck with his good hand as he
makes a face. You shake your head as you step forward. How can that face
manage to look so rugged and so boyish all at once? "Neck sore?" 

 "Yeah," he admits, "guess I've been looking down too long at Fraser." 

 "Here..." Rubbing your hands together first to warm them, you begin to
gently massage the back of his neck. His muscles are tied in uncountable
knots, and you whistle softly. "No wonder it hurts!" You use your knuckles
to work the hardest spots, and soon the blonde head is lolling loosely. 

 "Mmmm," he murmurs, "I didn't think they taught this to nuns." 

 "Therapeutic massage is part of nursing nowadays. It releases tension and
increases circulation in sore muscles, see?" You can almost feel him
smile. 

 "Oh yeah." The massage continues for a few more minutes, then suddenly,
you pull away. Ray's head pops up, a disappointed look in his eyes. "Hey!
Why'd ya stop?" 

 "You seemed better," is the terse answer. 

 He looks at you for a long moment, then one side of his mouth quirks up
in that lop-sided grin. "Guess so. Thanks." 

 There is a tense silence that seems to stretch forever, then you abruptly
sweep around to the opposite side of the Mountie's bed and examine the
unconscious man closely. "Ben's looking much better." 

 He *is* looking better. Much better. There is a general feeling of
improvement about him, his face still pale, but lacking that horrible
ghostly pallor that it held while his body fought the rampant infections
that nearly killed him. You've managed to beat that back with medications,
and his fever has cooled, his body strengthening daily. He is out of
danger now, and for that you offer daily prayers of gratitude. 

 The burns on his face have darkened to ugly, thick scabs, but you know
that as unappealing as that looks now, it means they are healing properly
and will likely not scar. The fractures are bound in pristine white
plaster, and yards of white gauze hide the cleaned and treated cuts that
once festered openly. The frostbite on his nose and ears is completely
gone, the broken nose set and packed to it's prior, sculpted form. His
bullet wound was the worst, of course, requiring massive amounts of
antibiotics and the removal of bits of dead tissue before it could be
properly cleaned and bound. Now, though, even that is healing well. His
solid frame still looks rather gaunt from two weeks of subsiding on
nothing more than the broth Delmar could spoon-feed him, but the
intravenous IV nutrients are beginning to fill the hollows between his
ribs. 

 Currently, your largest problem is the worry that he will not regain
consciousness. Ben was held sedated for three days, but for the last four,
his sleep has been natural, the only drugs fed into him simple
antibiotics, nutrients, and painkillers. You worry that his head wound was
more severe, that he will possibly never awaken. Those are fears you
cannot voice, however. You couldn't do anything to dampen Ray's hope. 

 Ray shakes his head and taps a finger against a spot on Ben's bare chest.
It's an old scar, dark against the white skin. "See that. Believe it or
not, he was hit by an otter." 

 You laugh. "An OTTER? You know, Delmar said that Ben had gotten in some
weird scrapes, but he never mentioned otters." 

 "Weird is right. Delmar found us in one of those, actually. Down an ice
crevasse, stuck chest-to-chest in this little opening over a bottomless
pit." A strange expression comes over his face. "We...we were singing." 

 "Singing?" Surely you didn't hear that right. 

 He nods. "Singing. I'd told him that I'd seen death before, and he'd
asked what I'd done. I told him sang. So we sang." Ray grins
self-depriciatingly. "He chose a lot better than me. I'd picked Abba.
Fraser sings like a bird anyway...I sing more like a cat being run over by
a lawnmower." 

 "It's not how you sing that matters, Ray, it's why," you assure him. "You
and Ben sang for friendship and hope. I can't think of a better reason." 

 There's a pause as he seems to consider this, then he starts to sing; a
haunting, lilting melody in a charming, if untrained tenor. 

 "Ah, just one more time, I will sail the Northwest Passage, To find the
Hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea. Tracing one warm light..."


 "...through a land so wild and savage..." The words startle both of you.
They come in a voice that - far from being birdlike - is quite hoarse,
halting and as weak as the memory of a passing breeze. Looking down in
shock, you find yourself staring a pair of blue eyes you had been worried
you would never see again. Ben's eyes. 

 Ray's face is bright with a grin of boyish delight, and you see that your
hardened Chicago cop has tears threatening to overflow. The last words of
the verse tremble and come in a ragged unison, but it is not how they are
singing, it is why. Two friends who have again looked death in the face
and come away alive. 

 "To find the Northwest Passage o'er the sea." 

 THE END