The Thin Line	Hi All! This one may be just a touch weird, but I (mostly)
dreamed it, okay? Take that as a disclaimer, btw. This story is rated PG
for subject matter and W for weirdness. Also, all the characters used
herein belong to Alliance. I'm just borrowing their toys and playing in
their sand for a bit and promise to play nice. By the way, comments,
criticism welcome at: jackeec@aol.com or jackeec@worldnet.att.net 

 THE THIN LINE 

 by Jackee C 

 ---------------------- 

 "You've gotta be kidding me," Raymond Vecchio exclaimed as he looked up
at the store at which his friend had stopped. "You can't be serious about
buying furniture from this place. It's just old junk!" 

 Fraser paused before entering the store, "Some would consider the Riviera
as 'old junk', Ray." 

 "Yeah, well...that's different," Ray insisted. "The Riv is a classic..." 

 "Ahhh," Fraser said, continuing on into the store. 

 "Ahhh? Don't give me any ahhh's," Ray followed. 

 "So what are we looking for? And where is everybody?" Ray asked, peering
uneasily about the dim confines of the little antique shop. Suddenly he
sneezed. "Benny, we gotta get outta here, it's messing with my allergies.
I hate dark, dusty places." 

 "I was informed that this particular shop has an Aviatre dresser," Fraser
replied, handing Ray a handkerchief over his shoulder. 

 Ray gave the stiff hanky a hard look, before he was overtaken by another
sneeze. "What's an aviator dresser, anyway?" he asked crossly. 

 "Aviatre," Fraser corrected. "It's a wonderful piece, Ray. They aren't
worth much, monetarily, but I'd love to have one. My grandmother had one,
but of course it was destroyed in the fire. Perhaps it's in the next
room." 

 Ray watched as his friend headed into an adjoining room, and then with a
reluctant sigh, followed. When he rounded the corner, it was to find
Fraser going through the drawers of a large, clunky looking dresser. "Is
*that* it?" 

 "Yes," Fraser answered as he moved to open another drawer. "Aviatre
dresser's are made along the principle of a Chinese box puzzle. If you
open the drawers in a certain sequence, at certain degrees a secret
compartment opens." 

 "So it's a dresser and it's a puzzle," Ray asked, incredulous. "Now I get
it," he threw his hands into the air. "You drag me through this dank,
dark, dingy little ...dungeon so you could play with a dresser?" Suddenly
a small drawer in the middle of an ornate carving near a small mirror
opened. 

 "Ahhh, there it is," Fraser said in satisfaction. "It's nearly identical
to my grandmother's. Except the riddle is still in the drawer..." 

 "Riddle?" Ray asked, still stunned that there was actually a little
drawer in the dresser. "You mean it's a dresser that's a toy that tells
jokes?" 

 Fraser considered Ray's question. "Well, not precisely, Ray. There is
only ONE riddle." 

 "Whatever," Ray brushed Fraser's answer aside. "What's the riddle?" 

 Fraser reached a finger into the bottom of the drawer to try and pull out
the tiny folded paper. "Ouch!" he pulled his finger back hurriedly. A
small sliver of wood was stuck deeply into his forefinger. "It appears
that I have splinter," Fraser explained, pulling the offending object from
his finger and carefully laying it on the dresser before retrieving the
slip of paper. 

 He read it aloud: "The division of opposites, easily crossed." 

 "What's that supposed to mean?" Ray wondered aloud. 

 Fraser dropped the paper and backed away, suddenly. "Stay back," he
whispered. 

 Ray frowned. "What is it, Benny? What's wrong?" He reached out a hand to
help his friend. 

 Fraser stumbled back and fell over a chair. 

 "Benny! What's wrong?" Ray ran to his friend's aide, growing more and
more alarmed. 

 Fraser just scooted away until his back was against the wall, hands out
to ward off Ray's approach. "Back off!" he yelled. 

 "Fine." Ray said, hands up in a gesture of peace. Forcing himself to be
calm, he continued, "Benny, it's gonna be okay. I just need you to talk to
me, tell me what's wrong." 

 Fraser laid his head against the wall, drew his knees up to his chest and
began to silently weep. 

 "What's going on here?" a short chubby man entered the room. He looked
from Fraser to Ray. "Is he friend of yours?" 

 "Yeah, he's a friend of mine," Ray whispered as he moved closer to his
friend. The shop owner stood silently by. When he was close enough, Ray
placed a hand on Fraser's shoulder, in an offer of comfort. 

 Suddenly, Fraser exploded into motion, knocking his friend to the floor,
before he scrambled back to his corner. 

 "I go call somebody!" the little man exclaimed, rushing from the room. 

 "Benny," Ray said, staying well out of reach this time. "You've gotta get
a hold of yourself or they're gonna come take you away on the paddy wagon.
Think of Diefenbaker, your wolf. Who's gonna take care of him if you don't
snap out of this." 

 Fraser eyed Ray with suspicion and mistrust, unwilling to let him out of
his sight. He held on tightly to the rail of a headboard that leaned
against the wall. 

 Ray eased himself into a nearby chair. The frightened, wild look in his
friends eyes told him that any sudden move wasn't a good idea. So Ray just
sat and began to speak softly to his friend. "You know, Benny, you're the
best friend a guy could have, and I owe you a lot. You always stand by me,
and I want you to know I'm gonna stand by you." 

 The words seemed to calm him somewhat. The wild look was beginning to
fade, when Ray heard the sound of the shopkeeper returning. "He's in
here," the little man was saying. Ray saw all the fear and wildness come
rushing back in full force. 

 He turned to see two muscular looking men in white coats entering with a
gurney. One of them held a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. 

 "Stand clear," he ordered Ray as he loaded the syringe. 

 "Should you be givin' him that?" Ray asked. "You don't even know what's
wrong with him." 

 "It's safe," the paramedic assured him, squeezing a small spray from the
tip of the needle. At a gesture to the other medic they closed in on
Fraser. 

 Ray turned his back on the sounds of Benny's struggles against the
medics. When the sounds had died down he turned to see the men lifting
Fraser's unconscious body unto the gurney. He followed them out to the
ambulance. When he tried to climb into the back, one of the paramedics
gently held him back. 

 "Sorry," he said. "No can do, Buddy. Regulations." 

 "Yeah? Try and stop me," Ray said, trying to move around the muscular
medic. 

 The medic held Ray back with little effort. "Listen, in cases like these
it isn't advisable. He's obviously delusional and we need to keep him on
as even a plane as possible. You could complicate things. We'd prefer if
you followed." 

 Ray thought about arguing the point further, but realized it wasn't
helping Benny. With effort he relaxed and nodded. 

 The medic gave Ray an understanding smile and climbed into the back of
the ambulance. 

 As Ray watched the ambulance doors swing shut a sense of unreality came
over him. He barely felt his feet hitting the pavement as he ran for the
Riv. He didn't remember unlocking the door or even getting behind the
wheel, and it took a few seconds for him to realize that nothing happened
when he turned the key in the ignition. He turned the key again in utter
disbelief. A wide-eyed gaze at the instrument panel revealed that there
was gas, and no warning lights. What could be wrong? 

 With a heavy sense of dread, he focused out of the front windshield. The
ambulance was two blocks down the road, lights off. As fast as his fingers
would allow he popped the hood and ran around to see what might be wrong. 

 Everything looked in place. And then he saw it; his battery connection
was loose. Four steps to the trunk, two more back to the driver's side
door to get the keys, and two more back to the trunk for the toolbox. In
less than sixty seconds Ray had the battery tightened, hood closed, tool
box on the seat beside him and the car started and on its way in the
general direction the ambulance had taken. 

 As he followed the route to the nearest hospital, siren blasting, his
anxiety was fast changing into fear and a gnawing uncertainty. He called
in to the precinct in an effort to patch into the ambulance service to
find something...any information at all. Something about the entire
situation didn't feel right. 

 "Rodgers," Ray acknowledged the voice on the switch board. "Can you give
me any information on a 911?" 

 "Sure, Vecchio, whatcha need?" 

 "I need a 911 call made about 10 minutes ago from Middelton Antiques
about a delusional man." 

 "Sure thing." There were several seconds of silence as Officer Rodgers
checked her records. "Sorry, Ray, there is no 911 for a delusional man.
Are you sure that was the complaint? We just got a 911, maybe five minutes
ago, but it's no delusional, other than that nothing even remotely close."


 "What's your five minutes ago?" Ray asked. 

 "Sniper." 

 Ray banged a fist on the steering wheel. "What else you got?" 

 "The usual grizzly lineup. A domestic, a gunshot wound, a stabbing, heart
attack...wait a minute something's coming in right now. Ugh..." Rodgers'
voice faded out... "Ray, sounds like an ambulance just *exploded* over on
Merriman..." 

 Ray didn't hear the rest of Rodgers' statement because he'd dropped the
handset. He swung the Riv around the next corner and headed for Merriman,
his heart in his throat. 

 The scene wasn't a pretty one; pieces of debris could be seen strewn
across the road. The once white front end of the ambulance was quickly
being overcome by fire; the driver's compartment already having lost the
battle, while the back end was obscured by thick black smoke. 

 Through a haze of unreality, Ray could hear the sound of approaching
sirens. Duty would have dictated his reporting that he was on the scene,
but his only thought was to get to Benny. Nothing else mattered, not the
voices calling his name, or the thick smoke that threatened to burn his
lungs to cinders. Even the pain of the hot door handle only slowed him
down. 

 He drew back against the pain and pressed on forward, blinking against
the fuzzy edges that threatened to overtake his perception. 

 Suddenly he felt something grabbing at his arms. He wanted to fight, but
he was weak. Too weak to resist. The rear doors began to recede and then
nothing. 

 

 Ray felt stifled. He couldn't breathe. His eyes flew open as he sat up
with a start. Something crashed to the floor on his right. It took a few
moments to realize that he was in what appeared to be an examination room,
and he'd knocked over an IV. 

 There was an oxygen mask covering his face. He reached up to pull it off
and found that his right hand was wrapped in white bandages... hurt, too,
come to think of it. In fact, everything hurt. His eyes burned, his throat
was raw, and his head felt like it had been smashed repeatedly between two
jackhammers. 

 With a cough, he looked down to take stock of the rest of his body. He
was still wearing the same slacks and shirt he'd worn to that antique shop
with Frasier. Benny... 

 As the days events began to slowly click into place, a duty nurse entered
the room to see what the commotion had been. One glance at Ray's shocked
expression and she gestured to someone outside of the door. After a few
whispers, she entered and uprighted the IV and then left the room. 

 "Hello, Ray," Lt. Welsh said carefully as he closed the door behind the
nurse. 

 "Where's Benny?" Ray asked in a small hoarse voice. 

 "Ray..." Welsh began, then sighed and ran a tired hand over his face. He
reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a familiar object and handed it
to his shocked detective. 

 Ray took it with his left hand and opened it. It was Benny's wallet.
Inside was his RCMP Identification and several other pieces of I.D. The
contents blurred. 

 "We found this at the scene. There wasn't much left, but-- his
identification holder was flame-proof." Another sigh, "He's gone, Ray." 

 Ray's eyes remained focused on the wallet. He remained silent several
seconds and began to laugh. "Yeah, just like Benny. He would have a fire
proof wallet--probably had it specially treated. Yeah...just like him." 

 "He was a good man," Welsh agreed. 

 Ray looked up at the Lt. "The last thing I said to him was that I'd stand
by him, that I'd be the kind of friend to him that he was to me." With a
sniff, Ray pulled out the IV and threw his feet over the side of the bed. 

 "Where're you going?" Welsh asked. "You shouldn't be leaving here, yet." 

 "I'm going to go be a friend." Ray said and walked out of the hospital. 

 Ray pulled himself slowly from the cab after it stopped at 221 West
Racine St. He felt tired, tired and incredibly old; every muscle ached.
But nothing approached the ache within. A strange sense over came him as
he started up the stairs. He could feel Benny's presence. Somehow, he just
*knew* that he would see his friend on the other side of that door. He
took the steps two at a time and threw open the door at 3J. 

 The apartment was dark and quiet, only Dief looked up from his position
near a window. 

 Undaunted, Ray ran from one room to the other. Empty. The anxious
expression faded to utter disappointment. Disappointment turned to loss
and hopelessness. He sank to the bed, elbows on knees and covered his
face. 

 Dief whined and moved toward the dejected human and rubbed against his
knees. 

 Ray looked down at the wolf. And the wolf looked at him. "It's just you
and me now, Diefenbaker," he whispered. 

 Birds were singing. Ray couldn't remember the last time he'd actually
*listened* to the singing of birds. Today he focused all of his being on
that bird song. He let it fill his mind. Long chirp. Long chirp. A strange
song, indeed. It stopped and began again. 

 "Aren't you going to answer that?" A voice asked. 

 Ray's eyes flew open, and then immediately squinted against the bright
sunlight streaming through the window. 

 "Why?" he asked rolling into a sitting position. "It's obviously someone
I don't want to talk to, right now. What are you doing here, anyway?" 

 "I came to take care of the wolf." 

 Ray froze. "Don't bother, that's my job from here out. It's what Benny
would have wanted." In the ensuing silence, Ray moved toward the window.
Outside people were going about their Thursday morning, walking, talking,
eating, drinking...living. What right did life have to go on? 

 "You don't have a corner on the market for despair, you know." 

 Ray remained silent. 

 "So, you're just gonna sit here in this apartment and wallow in
self-pity? Come on, Detective, you can do better than that!" 

 "But I didn't, did I?" Ray spoke softly, guilt and self-deprecation
evident in his stance. 

 "Ray, you can fight the fine fight, but you can't always win the war." 

 "That sounds like something he would say," Ray almost chuckled. 

 "Must be a Mountie thing. Cherish your memories, Ray; his light shone far
too brightly to be allowed to completely extinguish. You have to go on
living, and in a sense, he can live, too. The world will be a dark, lonely
place if we ever lose sight of that." 

 "Inspector..." Ray turned from the window. 

 "I envy you," she went on past the catch in her throat. "I envy you the
strength of your friendship and the multitude of your memories. I only
have a few, and I plan to hold on to them for dear life. Because there is
no other way I'm going to be able to get through this." 

 Ray noticed for the first time, the rumpled state of the woman standing
before him. The soft peach suit looked as if she'd slept in it. Her hair
was tousled and her makeup all but gone. It was pure instinct that caused
him to go to her. He didn't care that his silk shirt was wet from her
tears or that his face was wet from his own... 

 A soft song played against his consciousness. It was beautiful, drifting,
peaceful. There was no pain in this place. Had he felt pain before? He
couldn't remember. Before was only an echo that no longer mattered. The
song played on. Touching, dancing against the edge of his consciousness,
sweetly lulling his senses into a wonderful euphoria. 

 A second level. The mists shifted. This time, he could smell. Flowers,
soft, sweet, gently windblown flowers. And linen. He savored the smells,
allowed them to wash over him and through him. It was so easy and
wonderful and peaceful here, he didn't want to leave. 

 He felt it. Something soft beneath his fingers. He hadn't though of
moving before. The music blew across his face. He felt it ruffle through
his hair. The music and the flowers and the wind all combined as a
physical touch, gentle in its caressing. 

 He opened his eyes. He could find nothing to focus against in the mists.
Several fluffy white sheep suddenly appeared in his line of sight. He
smiled. With the smile came the realization that his throat was dry. What
did that matter in such a beautiful place as this? He opened his mouth as
if to speak and to his dismay, the mists faded and the music stopped. 

 The mists were replaced by a dark haired woman gazing loving down at him.
And the music was replaced by her beautiful voice. 

 A soft breeze from the nearby open window rippled softly through the dark
curls. The smell of a new day mingled with her smell. Her face held a
vague, yet painful familiarity. 

 "Hello, Ben," she said. "Welcome home." 

 A gentle breeze billowed through the wide curtains that were situated
over the bed in the ensuing silence. He found something familiar in her
eyes. He felt a feeling of history that he couldn't place. "Back?" he
finally asked. 

 "Yes." She spoke softly, intimately, her eyes never leaving his. "You've
been sleeping a long time, and now you're back with me." 

 He drew his eyes away from hers, and glanced around the room. The walls
were decorated with flowered wallpaper and heavy oak furniture. The room
looked homey, but it didn't *feel* like home. Not like she did. A feeling
of loss suddenly sprang up in the back of his mind, something was missing.


 "Where's..." His voice trailed off and he pushed himself into a half
sitting position. 

 The woman drew away anxiously. "Where's...what?" Something in her gaze
had changed. It confused him even more. 

 Loss changed to outright worry, edged with panic. "I'm terribly sorry,"
he began. "You see, I've lost... something and...and I don't know what it
is." 

 "It's okay," the woman relaxed. One of her small hands touched his in
comfort. "You've had another episode. It happened before when you skipped
your medication. Speaking of which," She snapped open a bottle that sat on
the night stand and dumped out a single yellow tablet. "You're due for
another dose." 

 He gazed hesitantly at the little pill in her hand. He couldn't say why,
but this didn't *feel* right, either. 

 "What's wrong, Ben?" she asked sitting on the side of the bed. "We've
been through this before, you have to take this because of your chemical
imbalance." 

 His panic was growing. "I'm not aware of a chemical imbalance." There was
an inner urging to get up and run away, but he fought it. "I don't even
know where I am, or who you are."

 "Ben, I promise you'll feel much better after you take 

 this." Her voice was soft and calm. It's calmness seemed to go right
through him, weakening his fears. All the while, her eyes beckoned him. 

 ` "Ben, you trust me," she whispered. He took the pill from her hand. 

 "Good. Now swallow it." She was waiting with a glass of water from the
night stand to wash it down. 

 "There. Isn't that all better?" she asked with a triumphant smile. 

 Dief cast a glance at the humans in the midst of his pacing. He didn't
understand why his Mountie's boss and the detective were acting this way.
Didn't they know that there was urgent work to be done? He'd give them a
few more minutes, no longer. 

 He was rewarded for his patience. The female mountie, who didn't often
dress like a mountie, was leaving the apartment. It was time to state his
case. 

 "What is it, Diefenbaker?" Ray asked, turning thoughtfully away from the
door. "You're hungry, right? Well, I woulda fed you by now, but I had
trouble finding the Purina Wolf Chow." 

 Dief barked again, ignoring Ray's comments and headed toward the bedroom.


 "No Diefenbaker, you won't find your master in there. He won't be coming
back any more," Ray tried to explain, but the wolf wasn't looking. Ray
sighed, Dief was obviously in denial. He wondered if there were such a
thing as a wolf therapist. 

 Halfway across the floor, Dief stopped, turned and barked again more
loudly. 

 Ray gave in and followed. 

 "What?" he asked in confusion when the wolf stopped in front of Benny's
wardrobe. "*I'm* not the mountie! And I have no intention of playing dress
up." 

 Dief barked again. 

 "Take a closer look," Ray ran a hand across the top of his head. "See, no
mountie here. Besides, I hate going through other peoples drawers. It
just.." 

 Dief stepped around the ranting human. Sometimes, you just had to take
matters in your own paws. With a decisive motion, he clamped a drawer pull
between his teeth and pulled. The drawer came out with a rush, its minimal
contents spilling all over the floor. 

 "Aww Diefenbaker!" Ray exclaimed, shaking his head. "Why'd you have to go
and do that?" He didn't have the heart to truly berate the animal. Instead
he stooped over to clean up the mess. Half a dozen pair of highly starched
shorts littered the floor. Ray couldn't resist the urge to tap a pair
against the wooden flooring to see if it would bend. It didn't. 

 By the time he'd gotten the contents back into the drawer he was smiling
in spite of himself. Starched shorts were so uniquely Fraser. The smile
faded as the bottom drawer came into view. It was completely empty.
Curious, he examined the top drawer and the closet. All of Fraser's
clothes were gone, save his uniforms. 

 "This makes no sense..." Ray stood in the center of the room, utterly
confused. "Where are...?" Ray's eyes widened with sudden knowledge and a
slow smile spread across his face. 

 Dief gave Ray a long suffering look and snorted. The human had finally
gotten the message. 

 By the time Inspector Margaret Thatcher reported to the consulate, she'd
gone home, showered and, she hoped, composed herself. She stopped to look
at the conspicuously vacant post near the front door. For the briefest
second she thought she saw him there. But she blinked, and he was gone.
She moved on into the building. It was going to be a very long day. 

 "A Jilliette Marshall is waiting to speak with you," her secretary
directed her to the woman standing near a window in the outer office area.
"She's the --" 

 "RCMP Media Relations Expert," Thatcher filled in, dryly. "I know. Thank
you." With her best diplomatic smile pasted across her face, she went to
show the woman into her office. 

 "Thank you, Inspector," the woman said once they were settled in the
office. "I flew in this morning to help co- ordinate our efforts in
Constable Fraser's memorial." The woman pulled a thick file folder from
her brief case. "Even though this is truly a sad occasion, it thrusts the
RCMP in the public eye once again. An international hero had fallen
tragically in the line of duty and in his honor the memorial service will
receive international coverage, live. Musical Ride has agreed to do an
exhibition and the Prime Minister has tentatively agreed to say a few
words via satellite. We do have a slot scheduled for you to say a few
words, since you were his superior. The words you are to say will be give
to you in printed form on the day of the memorial. We must rally all the
support we can in advance. Our analysts believe that if we began a
campaign now, the service should rate up there with Elv--" 

 "Wait a minute." Thatcher held up a hand, overwhelmed at all the woman
had told her, and feeling woefully unprepared to deal with this situation.
"The American officials haven't released his name yet, pending the outcome
of the investigation and notification of next of kin. How can you..." 

 "Inspector," Jilliette interrupted politely. "As Constable Fraser's
direct supervisor, your face will be seen by millions. An event like this
could make your career. Not to mention the publicity for the RCMP." 

 Feelings of inadequacy turned to fury. "Ms. Marshall, a man died! Surely
that matters more than the publicity!" 

 "As I said," the woman explained patiently, as if to a child. "Constable
Fraser *was* a hero. It's important to be on top of these things. Believe
me. It's my job to know." 

 Thatcher glared at the woman across her desk. Before she could form the
thoughts in her head into a tactful response, the intercom sounded.
"Ma'am, pardon the interruption, but the Mayor's on line one." 

 "Thank you." Thatcher snatched up the phone. "Good Morning, Sir... Excuse
me, what did you say?...a parade?...just a minute, please." She turned
toward the woman who sat across from her. 

 "The Mayor wants to throw a parade in Constable Fraser's honor. How does
the media relations department feel about that?" 

 "Only if other mounties are in the parade. And mounted." 

 Thatcher gave the woman a look, but went back to the phone and relayed
the message. 

 "He says that can be arranged, but wants to know how many?" Thatcher
relayed back. 

 "Tell him--" 

 "Look, why don't you just take my phone. Take my office." Thatcher got up
from behind her desk and stormed from the room to the sounds of the media
relations woman chatting with the mayor. 

 She stepped from her office to find her secretary trying to fend off the
members of the press who'd appeared in from nowhere as best as she could
tell. "Inspector Thatcher," a blonde woman spoke upon seeing her. "Is it
true that Constable Fraser was killed in an explosion last evening?" 

 Thatcher stood frozen in front of the camera for a moment before she
responded. "I have no comment." 

 "Yes, it's true," a voice spoke up from behind her. 

 Meg turned to see Jilliette Marshall standing poised for the cameras. She
couldn't watch, and so ducked into an office. Constable Fraser's office,
she realized only after she'd closed the door. The room was darkened and
still; there were no signs of life. She moved to switch on the lights and
open the blinds, but stopped herself. Instead, she sank into his chair and
buried her face in her hands. 

 Ray was practically running when he entered the 27th Precinct. Elaine had
been sitting staring dejectedly at her terminal, but at Ray's approach,
her face crumbled. She rose to give Ray a hug, but was surprised when he
grabbed her up and swung her around. 

 "Ray! Ray, what are you doing?!" She exclaimed. 

 "He's alive!" Ray announced triumphantly. 

 "He is?" Elaine asked, shocked. "Are you sure?" Hope shined as
brilliantly in her eyes as it did in Ray's. 

 "Of course, I'm sure!" Ray cried. 

 Other's gathered around upon hearing the news. Though some found his
methods a bit unorthodox, Fraser'd had no enemies here. 

 Lt. Welsh left off his battle for the danish that had gotten stuck in the
snack machine to see what the ruckus was about. He was surprised to find a
grinning, practically bouncing Detective Vecchio in the middle of a group
of his officers. 

 "What's going on, here?" he asked. 

 Ray turned toward the Lt., and broke the happy news. 

 "Yeah?" Welsh was skeptical. "Where is he?" 

 Ray's smile faded a little, "Well, sir, I don't know for sure at the
moment, but there is evid--" 

 "Come with me, Vecchio," Welsh cut the Detective off and led him to his
office. 

 "Shut the door," he said, when they were inside. "Now, I can't have you
spreading any unfounded rumors around this precinct, Detective. So, I need
to hear your evidence, now, before this goes any further." 

 "Well, Sir, all his clothes are missing." Ray said. 

 "His *clothes* are missing? That's it?" Welsh asked, disbelieving. "Has
it occurred to you that they might be out to the cleaners or they may have
simply gotten stolen? This is Chicago, detective." 

 "Yes, it had occurred to me, sir." Ray answered calmly. "But that isn't
the case. Somebody kidnapped him, played the switcheroo and took his
clothes along, too, for good measure." 

 Welsh sighed. "Vecchio, I have a report here on my desk that says a man,
about six feet tall dressed in jeans and carrying an RCMP identification
bearing the name of Constable Benton Fraser, was burned to death in the
back of that ambulance. Two other men of similar height and build died as
well. Which story would you say has more veracity?" 

 "Sir, I know he's alive, and I'm gonna find him." Ray spoke softly. 

 Welsh considered his detective. He knew there was nothing he could do to
keep him from looking for his friend, but he couldn't have him spreading
false hope around the precinct, either. 

 "Detective I'm ordering you to take a leave of absence, effective
immediately. You're posing a threat to the well-being of this precinct by
spreading unfounded rumors." 

 "What?!" Ray exclaimed. "You can't be serious? Tell me you've at least
got someone looking into the case." Ray cocked his head to one side,
unable to believe that the Lt. was giving up so quickly. 

 "Sarducci's on the case--" Welsh started. 

 "Sarducci?!" Ray's eyes saucered. "But he's a glorified traffic--" 

 "Vecchio," Welsh spoke quietly, his tone communicated the warning that
his volume did not. "This is not a criminal case and falls into Sarducci's
jurisdiction. Which doesn't concern you at this time, seeing as you're on
a weeks leave." 

 Ray gazed at the Lt. with an expression of stunned disbelief mingled with
confusion. "But Sir," he tried again, more softly. 

 "Ray, I understand how you feel," Welsh said tiredly. "I'm speaking to
you as a friend when I tell you you have to let him go." 

 "That's funny," Ray chuckled without humor. "Another friend told me to
never let go. Funny how that works isn't it?" Ray turned and walked out of
the Lt.'s office and out of the precinct. Of course he managed to walk
past Sarducci's desk, even though it sat in a far corner of the room. 

 A light tap at the door startled Inspector Thatcher awake. She gazed
around the office, disoriented. "Yes, come in," she called automatically. 

 Constable Turnbull poked his head into the room. "Sir, you have a
personal call on line 17." 

 "Thank you, Constable," she said as she picked up the phone. 

 "He's alive," an urgent voice began before she got the chance to say
hello. 

 Ray pulled the Riv up to the alley entrance of the Consulate as he'd been
directed. She'd told him to wait in the car. But after two minutes, Ray
was eyeing the bell near the door marked: Service Entrance with an
intensity that bordered on disgust. "Women, they're all the same," he
inform the wolf. "Never on time." 

 A moment later the door opened and the dark head of Inspector Thatcher
popped out. Noting the Riv, she cast another glance over her shoulder and
quietly pulled the door shut. 

 "What's with all the cloak and dagger, if you don't mind my asking?" Ray
greeted her. 

 "Press," was Thatcher's one word answer. 

 Ray threw her a look with a raised brow. He wasn't certain he wanted to
know what she meant by that; things were complicated enough. He left it
alone. 

 "So what's this incredible evidence you have?" 

 "All his clothes are missing." Ray answered smugly. 

 "What?" Thatcher questioned in disbelief. "Did it ever occur to you that
they--" 

 "That they might be out to the laundry or stolen?" Ray cut in,
confidently. "Yes. But I know Benny. He never does laundry on Wednesdays,
it's always Monday. And besides no one sends *all* their clothes out to
the laundry." 

 "Okay, I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt here for a minute. No
one takes *all* their clothes to the laundry. Do you have anything else?" 

 "Well, thank you kindly," Ray responded with only mild sarcasm, as he
pulled the Riv from the alley. "Of course I have something else. But
that's where you come in." 

 "If there's any chance that Constable Fraser is alive, I'm in. But what
is it that you want me to do?" 

 "I need you to open an investigation from your end. Or at least get a
crime lab to Fraser's apartment. Whoever took his clothes has to have left
some kind of physical evidence." Ray was on a roll. "I'm thinking whoever
took his stuff had to do it while Willie was walking Diefenbaker, which is
basically a thirty minute window--" 

 "Detective, hold it," Thatcher held up a hand. "Aren't you the police?" 

 "Well, yeah," Ray nodded sheepishly. "But, I've been put on a leave of
absence. I won't have access to the anything that is discovered, at least
not officially." 

 "Surely you have friends who'll feed you information..." Thatcher
insisted. 

 "What? Are you trying to say you won't do this?" Ray asked, suspicious.
"Don't tell me you're giving up on him too! All I need is a chance to find
all the evidence. It's there, but noone's ever going to find it because no
one will bother to look there." 

 "No, Detective, I'm not saying that I won't help. I said if there was any
chance--" Thatcher tried to make him understand her position. 

 "Chance? Of course there is. It's more than a chance, it's reality!" Ray
couldn't believe it. He'd thought the Dragon Lady would do anything she
could, if only to be able to continue to torture the mountie in the
future. Especially after that morning. He mentally amended the Dragon Lady
to Inspector Thatcher. 

 "Detective," Thatcher spoke warningly. "As I was saying, RCMP leadership
has decided that Constable Fraser is dead and have already planned his
memorial service. My hands are tied, I can't order an investigation." 

 "Well, then, we'll just have to do it ourselves," Ray said determinedly.
"Here. Read this so you can get up to speed." Ray retrieved a file folder
from beneath his seat and handed it to the Inspector. 

 "Detective you do realize that it's illegal for us to have this folder
outside of the precinct," Thatcher said as she took it from his hand. 

 "Don't tell me you're about to go all Canadian on me." 

 "No. That's Fraser's thing. I just thought you should know that you have
illegal possession of the *wrong* file. These are for missing bodies." She
shoved the file back beneath the chair. 

 Ben felt fuzzy around the edges, but he managed to stand with relative
ease. He'd found jeans and a shirt laying across the foot of the bed. His
socks and shoes were tucked under the edge. As he pulled on the shirt,
something on the mirrored vanity caught his eye. It was a man's billfold.
It had to be his, why else would it be there? There couldn't be any harm
to taking a look inside. 

 There was an Oregon driver's license inside with a picture of man he
recognized as himself. The name beneath the picture was Benjamin P. Gross,
born June 24, 1954. There was nearly a hundred dollars in cash and a small
picture of he and the dark-haired woman. He still didn't know her name.
He'd fallen asleep before he'd had a chance to ask her again. His name was
obviously Benjamin Gross. 

 The photo was a grainy black and white and obviously candid; neither of
them were smiling. If he were to guess, he'd say they both looked
miserable, as if they were parting. He removed the photo from the wallet
and flipped it. There was a date printed on the paper by the processing
company. It read: 02/96 JFAP. 

 He slipped the wallet into a hip pocket and thoughtfully began to button
his shirt. What was he going to do, next? Learning the woman's name was
first on his list. And then he'd have to find out what had happened to
him. Again the feeling of loss washed over him, but he found it easier to
push aside this time. 

 With a sharp motion he turned to the mirror to straighten his shirt. A
flash of gold in the mirror stopped him in his tracks. A thin gold band
resided on the fourth finger of his left hand. He was married. 

 He closed his eyes. "Oh dear." 

 "I still can't believe you keep all this stuff in your apartment," Ray
remarked again as he watched Thatcher lug a heavy black bag up to Fraser's
apartment. He'd would've carried it for her, but his right hand was still
bandaged and she'd threatened to hurt his other hand if he touched her
'tools'. 

 "Well, when I was girl, instead of doing my dolls' hair, I finger printed
them." Thatcher responded. 

 "Let me guess, You watched all the girl crime-fighter shows like Cagney
and Lacey and Police Woman." 

 "Well actually I sorta liked Hawaii 5-0. My favorite line was 'book'em
Dan-o'. I think I must've had a crush on Jack Lord." 

 "Who woulda thought," Ray murmured under his breath. 

 "What was that?" Thatcher asked. 

 "Nothing," Ray responded, at least holding the apartment door open for
her. 

 1 hour later 

 "So, what do we have?" Ray asked, taking inventory of the small pile of
plastic bags in the middle of the kitchen table. 

 Thatcher looked a bit perturbed as she dumped the last bag on the table.
"This is the last thing I found," she said, tossing another bag on the
pile. "I found it near the bed." 

 Ray squinted to get a look at the bags' contents. "Are you sure that
isn't yours?" he asked suggestively, seeing that it was a dark hair. 

 Thatcher's gaze hardened. "Look again, detective. My hair isn't that long
or that curly." 

 Ray sat up straighter at her words. He snatched the bag from the pile and
drew out the piece of hair the Inspector had so carefully placed in it." 

 "Hey you're damaging the evidence!" she objected. 

 Ray's expression darkened in fury as the long strand came into view. He
knew only one person with hair like that who might wish Benny ill-will.
Who would do anything to possess him. 

 "Victoria," he whispered malevolently. 

 "Victoria?" Thatcher's ears perked up. Why did that name sound familiar? 

 "Yeah, she's the reason Frasier got shot right before you got here," Ray
replied, shoving the hair back into the baggie. 

 Thatcher considered that for a moment. "There are lots of things that
aren't in reports, detective. Is there something I should know?" 

 "Yeah, you bet there's something you should know. This woman, she'll do
anything she can to make his life miserable. She thinks she owns him. And
he thinks she loves him." 

 Thatcher's eyes dropped. "Even now, after all this time?" she asked.
"Would he still go along with her in a plot such as this, so he could be
with her?" It was a reasonable question. Any investigator would have asked
it. 

 "No!" Ray exploded. "Frasier once told me that there are two horrors,
living without honor and dying senselessly. Don't you see, going with her
would be without honor." 

 "But according to the report, it could be constued as if he *were*
leaving with her at that train station," Thatcher had to say that. She had
to be sure. 

 Ray sighed and looked away. "Well, maybe in his own way he felt that he
was protecting her. Dying an honorable death to save her life." Ray's
voice was very low. This wasn't something he wanted to talk about. 

 "Look, we're wasting time. If Victoria has him we have to find him, now!"


 "Well where do you suggest we look?" Thatcher asked. Ben was nothing if
not an honorable man. 

 "I got a hunch about this flyer," Ray said holding up a yellow paper with
an advertisement near the bottom for an Aviatre dresser. 

 "I'm listening," Thatcher said, following him out the door, Dief
following along behind. 

 "Notice that there weren't any of these along the street or scattered
elsewhere in the building. Why do you suppose that was?" Ray felt that
Frasier must surely have been rubbing off on him. 

 Thatcher nodded, understanding. "Because it was meant for Fraser only, to
lure him to that Antique shop." 

 "Bingo." Ray answered. "Now, I've never heard of an Aviatre dresser.
You?" 

 "Well, yeah," Thatcher nodded. 

 "Okay," Ray sighed. "Maybe it's a Canadian thing! But in any case, I say
we check out that Antique shop." 

 "I've been thinking," Ray said as he deftly maneuvered through the early
afternoon traffic toward the Antique shop. "Somebody burned in that
ambulance. No one's gonna believe us unless we have conclusive evidence
that it wasn't Benny." 

 Thatcher's brow furrowed and she paused in thought. "How many people were
in that ambulance, detective?" 

 "Three, why?" 

 Thatcher's eyes were focused on the floor of the Riv. Some of the papers
had slid out of the file and from beneath the seat. "Uh, would you say
Fraser's six feet tall, 180 pounds or so?" 

 "Yeah," Ray shrugged. "What's this about?" 

 "...and the EMT's? What'd they look like?" Thatcher continued ignoring
Ray's questions as she pondered something. 

 "Same height, but pretty muscular. Not an ounce under 210. Both of them
had dark hair. Enough with the twenty questions are you gonna let me in on
the big secret or not?" Ray was beginning to feel put off. 

 Thatcher shrugged, "It's seems such a coincidence that three bodies
matching that description were stolen from the morgue at Mercy Hospital
yesterday morning." 

 "Aah, there you are," the dark-haired woman smiled as she entered the
room with a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. "It appears I
timed lunch correctly. Since you're up, would you like to eat downstairs?"


 "Yes, thank you," Benjamin answered politely and followed her back down
the stairs. 

 "This is a lovely home," he said as he took in the pictures of flowers
and birds along the walls. "Have we lived here long?" Though he looked
around the room, his kept coming back to the bridal set she wore on her
left hand. 

 The woman smiled a secret smile, as she went about setting the table.
"No, Ben," she admonished. "I see you still don't remember, huh? We came
to this house a week ago for an anniversary retreat. Ten glorious years." 

 "You don't seem terribly upset that I've forgotten our anniversary, " Ben
noted. "When were we married, exactly anyway, um...dear?" He smiled. 

 The woman eyed him with a thoughtful smile. But then her eyes glazed as
she relived a memory. "We were married in the middle of the worst snow
storm you ever saw. March 2, 1986 at high noon. We were forever united
that day, Ben. We were always meant to be together, you know that don't
you?" 

 "Actually, I don't really know very much," Ben answered, softly. "And I
apologize for not remembering our anniversary." 

 "It's okay," she assured him. "We've been through setbacks before. All
that matters to me is that you're here. As long as I have you, everything
will be just fine. I love you, you know." 

 Ben eyed her uncomfortably. "I-I don't know what to call you," he said. 

 "Toria. I go by Toria." 

 Ray pulled the Riv into an alley half a block from the Antique shop. "All
right, you take the front and act like a customer." Ray ordered as he
checked his weapon. "I'll come in the back way." 

 "If we're right about this flyer only being sent to Fraser, that should
get a rise out of him." Thatcher commented from her side of the vehicle. 

 "Ready?" Ray asked. 

 "Yeah, ready." 

 "This is delicious," Ben said after he'd chewed his first mouthful of the
sandwich Toria had made. 

 "It's your favorite," she said, her eyes shining. 

 Ben watched the sunlight that shone through the huge bay 

 window play across her features. "It looks warm for March," he commented.


 "Looks can be deceiving." 

 Ben's brows went up a fraction. "I found a picture in my wallet. It's of
the two of us at a much younger age. We both look very unhappy. Do you
know when it was taken?" 

 "Let's see," she thought as she munched on her sandwich. "We had to be
away from one another for awhile as I remember. I had to do some work for
the gov't. One of our friends snapped that and gave it to us. It wasn't
very long after we were married in fact." 

 "Do you remember that friend's name?" Ben asked. 

 "Benjamin!" Toria spoke with a slight sharpness. "Is this twenty
questions?" She softened it with an affectionate look. 

 Ben shrugged. "I was...curious." 

 "Well, of course I don't remember. It was so long ago." 

 "I must say thank you for preparing such a wonderful meal," Ben announced
suddenly. "It's only fair that I clean the dishes. And no, I won't take no
for an answer," he admonished her when she was about to argue. 

 Toria watched him collect the dishes and put them in the sink. She
watched his movements as he expertly ran the dishwater. He was a beautif--
She was startled by a knock at the back door. 

 Her shocked gaze flew to the picture window. 

 A pudgy gentleman, with curly hair sticking out from the sides of his cap
waved and held up a basket of yellow eggs. 

 Toria's shock faded to irritation. "No, we don't want any," she called
through the window. She'd thought this place was isolated enough for them
not be disturbed for at least a couple of weeks. 

 The pudgy man's smile drooped a little. "It's a gift!" he insisted,
through the window. 

 Toria sighed. Perhaps if she just took his little gift, he go away
quicker. She unlocked the door, opened the screen and reached out for the
basket. "Thank you," she said and moved to close the door. 

 Ben had come up behind her to see what was going on. He wondered about
her curious behavior toward a complete stranger bearing eggs. 

 "Do I know you," the egg man asked him suddenly. 

 Ben blinked at the sudden change of events. He cast a look toward Toria
for confirmation. "No, I don't think so," he said. 

 "It's me Buxley! Remember I tried to sue you and Canada? You are
...um...Fraser right? Bentley, Bradley or something like that Fraser." 

 Ben's frown deepened as he examined this new information. 

 "Excuse me, but my husband has been very ill, and can't have this type
of--" 

 "You're married?" Bucksley asked, surprised. "Ain't that the darnedest
thing. I had you pegged with that..." Buxley trailed off as he realized
what he was saying. "Oh, um, I just wanted to bring you some eggs to
welcome you to the neighborhood. I know it isn't much but, welcome." With
that he hustled back to his truck. 

 "I'm terribly sorry about that Ben," Toria apologized. "I know how things
are after your episodes." 

 Ben wasn't listening. He was staring down at his bare ring finger. 

 "What's wrong, Ben?" Toria asked, a sliver of unease running through her.


 "Benton..." he corrected absently. 

 "What are you talking about?" Victoria asked, fear now edging her voice. 

 "I remembered my name," he told her, his eyes boring into hers. "And I'm
not married to you." 

 "Ben!" she exclaimed, eyes wide with unshed tears. 

 "There's no mark, Toria. I took off the ring to wash dishes. It's only
now dawned on my what was wrong. If I were to have worn a ring on the same
finger for ten years, the skin beneath would be different. And that
picture, it was dated February 1996. You had that made didn't you? Why did
you that, Toria?" Ben's face was filled with confusion and
disillusionment. He'd been hoping that the little things he'd discovered
wouldn't' add up to this. 

 "Oh, Ben," Toria closed her eyes and the tears spilled over. 

 Inspector Thatcher approached the front entrance of the Antique shop just
as a burly gentlemen was moving the sign to closed. She banged on the
door. "Hey, let me in!" she called. 

 The man turned to unlock the door. With one hand he grabbed her and drug
her into the darkened shop. 

 Thatcher was not to be manhandled. She immediately dropped as if in a
feint, pulling the big man off balance. He stumbled and came tumbling in
her direction. She kneed him in the groin on his way down. "That's because
you caught me on a really bad day!" 

 She tied him with some twine from a nearby table and tapped his mouth
with packing tape. Then she headed on toward the back of the shop. She
could hear voices speaking. She didn't recognize either of them. Where was
Ray? 

 Meanwhile. Ray crept along the wall near the back entrance of the
building. The shopkeeper was begging someone for mercy. 

 "No, no hurt me. I do what you ask. You no fair!" 

 "Fair," the other man laughed. "This is fair. Survival of the 

 fittest. I can't have anyone around who might remember my face. See, my
wife's gonna cash a nice fat insurance check down in the Cayman Islands
here soon and prefer to meet her there without worry of any one coming
looking for me. So, sorry buddy. It's you or me." 

 Ray wriggled his fingers on his gun as he prepared to step around the
corner. 

 "Freeze police!" Ray yelled as he threw his body around the corner, gun
up and ready. 

 The man that Ray recognized as one of the ambulance drivers looked up in
stunned amazement. It took a seconds hesitation before he aimed at Ray and
pulled the trigger. Ray was much faster, the shot that Ray's police issue
lodged in the man's arm, caused his shot to go wide, shattering a
giant-sized lava lamp. 

 Inspector!" Ray called as he began to cuff the man and read him his
rights. 

 "All ready on it!" Thatcher called from the phone she'd found on a wall
in a back room. "Yes, could I speak with Lt. Welsh, please?" 

 Ray and Thatcher stood in the back room dejectedly after a fruitless
interrogation of the shop owner. 

 "At least now everyone's looking for him," Thatcher said. "His face is
gonna be pasted across every television screen in the greater Chicago
area. Not to mention the wonders of cable television." 

 "Yeah," Ray agreed. "But we don't even have a clue, as things stand." 

 "Is this the Aviatre?" Thatcher asked, curious. 

 "Yeah, looks like they even left the compartment open," he commented
after a cursory glance. 

 "Was the riddle there?" 

 "Yeah, never did figure it out, though." 

 "What was it?" 

 "A dividing of opposites, easily crossed," Ray recited. 

 Thatcher slumped. "That's too easy," she complained. 

 "Too easy?!" Ray exclaimed. "Did I not just say--oh, never mind, it's
probably a Canadian thing." Ray allowed a few seconds of silence pass.
"So, are you gonna tell me or what?" 

 "It's a thin line, detective." 

 "Oh. I think I get it. Like between love and hate, war and piece, genius
and insanity..." 

 "I think you've got it, detective." 

 Ray's phone chirped. "Yeah, Vecchio," he answered. "Okay, Elaine, put it
through." 

 "You can't ever leave me," Toria cried. "We're meant to be together, we
love each other. I know you can feel it, too." 

 "I do feel something," Ben admitted. "I feel that I know you, but I--it
eludes me just how. Your love shines so brightly in your eyes, Toria and I
feel that I would be a fool for jeopardizing such a thing. But, the quest
for the truth is the highest honor. If our love is as you say, then it can
weather the storm of the truth." 

 "Are you saying that you'll go with me once you know the truth?" Toria
asked, resigned. "If you find that you still love me?" 

 "If I can, I will," Ben answered. 

 "Always with a condition." Toria noted, moving toward the window. She
wrapped her arms about herself in a gesture of self comfort. Softly she
began reciting the poem she'd recited so long ago, in a cold, cold place.
The place that had been melted by this man. She turned so he could see his
face when the memories returned. 

 Ben's eyes widened in shock at the words that would remain forever burned
across his subconscious. First a trickle. That time in the snow, and the
things that followed. His reason for betraying her, her name. 

 "Victoria," he whispered. The memories rushed on ever faster, pouring
over him. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed at the tide of raw emotions that
he'd again have to learn to live with. The vast ocean of memories was
suffocating him. 

 He opened his eyes to find that she was standing before him, only a hands
breadth away. "Why?" he asked. 

 "Because, to make you mine, I had to take everything else." 

 "If I remember you tried that before." 

 "Yes, and you gave so willingly. Will you go with me, now? I know you
still love me." 

 "Victoria..." he trailed off. He couldn't tell her the words she wanted
to hear. The wounds of her treachery would not allow him to trust her
again. 

 Ben watched the woman before him change. Her countenance changed from
that of a loving wife to someone else. Someone who was angry and vengeful
with eyes full of hate. He was shocked by the change. 

 "We will be together, Ben!" She ground out bitterly. "One way or
another!" 

 Ben heard the soft 'snict' of the switchblade as it was opened. He also
heard another sound in the back ground. A helicopter. If he could just
hold her off until they arrived... 

 He grabbed her right arm to try and wrest the knife from her grasp. He
hadn't expected the needle in her left. She plunged it deeply into his
side. The syringe's contents went to work almost immediately. His
responses were beginning to slow. His knees went out from under him. 

 "Don't you see, Ben. It's better this way. We can be together forever,
now." Victoria's smile was maniacal. 

 She took one of his now limp arms into her hand. "This'll just sting a
bit," she warned with a smile. She slid the knife into his wrist. "One for
you," she said. "Now, one for me." She cut one of her own wrists, barely
flinching. 

 Then with a heavy sighed, she continued, holding the cut wrist close to
herself. "Now isn't that better?" She reached for his other arm. 

 "No, Victoria," Ben gasped out. "You can't do this!" 

 The sound of heavy footsteps could be heard in the house, now. "Ray!" Ben
tried to call out. "Help her, Ray!" 

 Victoria paused in what she was doing to listen to what she'd missed in
her deranged state. With a cry of frustration at being foiled again, she
drew back the knife and viciously stabbed downward. 

 Ray came around the corner just as she drew back the knife. His bullet
went through her shoulder cleanly, knocking her away from Fraser. 

 While the other officers took care of Victoria, Ray ran to Fraser's side.
Thatcher settled on his other side, trying to stop the massive blood loss.


 "Ray," Fraser whispered softly. "I saw her change. . . " 

 Ray looked down at his best friend and understood. "I know, Benny. It's a
thin line." 

 The Thin Line -- EPILOGUE 

 --------------------------------------- 

 "Thanks, Joe." Ray said to the officer outside the door of room 917. 

 "Sure, no problem, Vecchio," Joe grunted with a wave. "And I'll be sure
not to let any Canadians in," he added to Ray's back. 

 Ray didn't turn around, but merely threw a hand in the air to acknowledge
Joe's words. 

 When he reached the elevator, he leaned against the metal walls with a
heavy sigh. That had been harder than he'd thought, and not for any of the
reasons that he'd expected. The soft ping alerted him to the fact that the
doors would be opening soon. He pulled himself into a standing position
and nodded at the two nurses who entered, before himself exiting on the
third floor. 

 Room 302 was around a corner and at the end of a hall. Ray found himself
picking up his pace as he drew closer to door. By the time his brain
acknowledged the fact that voices were coming from *inside* the room, he'd
already pushed the door open. 

 Flowers sat on every available surface along with cards and pink message
slips. The room almost rivaled the flower shop at the mall. And among all
the foliage lay Constable Fraser, if it were possible, at attention while
simultaneously prone in bed. Inspector Thatcher stood over him, exuding
her usual air of authority. 

 "Oops. Excuse me, I didn't know you were here, Inspector. I'll come back
later." 

 "It's quite all right, detective," Thatcher softened and actually almost
smiled in Ray's direction. "I was just about to go talk to the doctor,
anyway." She threw a last meaningful look in Fraser's direction and left
the room. 

 Ray returned her smile and held the door open for her. 

 "Hiya, Benny! How ya feeling?" Ray asked with a little too much cheer. 

 "I'm fine, Ray," Fraser replied with a distracted look. "Have you and
Inspector Thatcher become...friends?" 

 "Aah, well, she ain't so bad once you get to know her a little," Ray
answered, pretending to scratch his jaw to hide the smile that threatened
at Fraser's frown. 

 "What happened to your hand?" Fraser asked at seeing the band the circled
Ray's palm. 

 Ray shrugged. "It's nothing? Have the doctors spoke to you yet?" 

 "No. Were they able to determine what was in the syringe?" Fraser let
Ray's lack of an answer slide. He obviously wasn't ready to talk about it.


 "Yeah," Ray pulled up a chair and sat. "That was just your basic
tranquilizer. But, do you remember that splinter you got after you opened
that secret drawer in that old dresser?" 

 Fraser nodded. "Yes." 

 "Well, it seems someone took the liberty of tipping it with some
experimental hormonal drug called," Ray pulled a slip of paper from his
pocket. "...Pyrmaniz-something or other." 

 "Pyrmanizitoclin-A." Fraser inserted with an understanding nod. 

 Ray gave him a dubious look. "How could you possibly know that? The
M.E.--" 

 "Ray, I read it *through* the paper," Fraser consoled. 

 "So you've never heard of it before?" Ray asked. 

 "No, Ray." 

 "Okay. This P. stuff produces an immediate paranoid reaction in people
who don't have this funky chemical imbalance. In other words, it made you
nutso, so that the paid off shop keeper could call the bogus ambulance
drivers. These bogus drivers were, in fact, *real* drivers who, oh just by
the way, were under suspicion of a little on the side dealing. They stole
three bodies from the morgue and planted them in the ambulance, one with
your wallet, and set it on fire. They were gonna take the insurance money
and leave the country, while you were delivered to you-know-who." 

 Fraser nodded, silently taking in the scheme Ray'd laid out before him, a
solem look coming over his face. 

 Before he opened his mouth, Ray knew the question he was going to ask.
And he wanted to postpone answering it, but he knew if he didn't tell him,
Benny'd just find out on his own. 

 "How is she, Ray?" 

 Ray eyes settled across the room on a particularly large flower
arrangement, but he wasn't seeing it. What he was seeing was the barren
little room that *she'd* occupied, no flowers, no cards and no visitors,
save for guards and those who would prosecute or evaluate or put her away.
Worst of all was the hope he'd seen in the eyes that didn't quite look at
him, but glanced beyond his shoulder as if seeing someone else. 

 "Ray," Fraser prodded. 

 "She's not the woman she used to be, Benny." Ray answered finally. 

 Fraser held his breath. "What exactly does that mean, Ray?" 

 Ray shrugged and shook his head. "Physically, she's gonna be fine. But
mentally, she's slipped over the edge." Ray kept his eyes across the room,
not looking at his friend. He didn't want him to know that she'd thought
he and every other man that entered her room was Ben. Or that she asked if
he'd come to take her home so that they could be together again. He just
didn't 

 want him to know. 

 He heard Benny let out his breath. "Thanks, Ray, for telling me." 

 "Sure, Benny," Ray patted his shoulder as he stood up. "Look," he began.
"I gotta get back to the station. I'll be back after work, okay?" 

 Fraser gave him a small smile and nodded. 

 Downstairs on the first floor, Ray entered the florist shop. The
harassed-looking attendant all but glared as he entered. Ray felt sure he
knew where most of the flowers in Benny's room had come from. 

 "What can I do for you?" the attendant asked with acidic cheer. 

 "I'd like to have some flowers delivered?" Ray answered her with a polite
smile. 

 "All we got left is yellow roses," the woman offered. "Plus, could be
awhile, our delivery boy has a couple dozen to deliver as it is." 

 "Yellow roses'll be fine, and as long as you deliver today it'll be okay,
too." Ray answered. 

 The clerks brows went up a little. "What room number and message?" 

 "No message, and room 917." 

 ......done. 

 The End.  Return to the Due South Fiction Archive