Some Strange Prophecy

by Speranza

Prologue.

Ray Kowalski rolled over, switched the lamp on, and grabbed for a pencil before even really registering the ring of the phone. Jesus, the last time he took a call this early, there'd been three guys sighted from the FBI's most wanted list, and the morning had ended with a thousand foot jump and punching Fraser in the face. He shouldn't even answer the phone, except here he was, answering the phone—wide awake, glasses askew, staring down at the yellow legal pad he'd dragged onto his lap.

"Vecchio," he said.

This announcement was greeted with a laugh. "Yeah, right."

Ray moved his eyes to the glowing digital red of the clock: 4:36 a.m. What the fuck was this? He'd assumed dispatch—who else called at four-fucking-thirty in the morning?

"Who is this?" he asked, quickly scribbling down the time and the date. "Who are—"

"Keep your pants on, that's a good boy," the voice said. "I need you to listen to me, all right? I need you to listen real good, because this is important."

Ray was seriously tempted to shoot back an answer like, "Fuck you and fuck important,"—except there was a queer kind of sincerity in the guy's voice. Ray argued with himself for a second and then decided to keep his mouth shut. "Okay," he said instead. "Okay, I'm listening."

"Good. All right. So—hey, wait, you got a pen?"

"Yeah," Ray replied, tapping his pencil irritably against the yellow pad; what, was this guy gonna tell him how to do his job? "I got it. Just talk already."

"See, and I've heard so many good things about you, and look, they all turn out to be true." The man on the phone took a deep breath, and Ray suddenly understood that he was nervous. Ray added that to the list of words he'd scribbled on the pad in front of him: male, white, local accent, nervous. "Okay, so here's the deal," the voice said. "You ever hear of Victoria Metcalf?"

"No," Ray said, and scribbled down the name. Except, he realized as he stared down at it, that wasn't true. "Yeah," he said; and fuck, he'd seen that name. "Yeah, I know that name, where do I know that name from?"

"Escaped prisoner. Robbed a bank. Shot her partner. Tried to frame Benton Fraser for murder—"

Ray clutched the telephone receiver so tightly that he heard the plastic creak. "Yeah," he said, mindlessly drawing a circle around the name. "Right. What do you know about it?"

The man on the phone laughed softly, bitterly. "Man, I know everything about it. And I got late-breaking, up-to-the-minute news that nobody knows yet, not even Welsh."

Ray wrote down on his legal pad, connected to Welsh?? "Oh yeah? What's that?"

"She's been arrested. They got her," the man said, and his voice was so tight that Ray thought something might actually snap. "Yesterday. Last night, actually."

"Where?" Ray asked.

"Atlanta, Georgia. First degree homicide, two counts. One was her partner," the voice said quietly. "The other guy was a cop."

Ray winced involuntarily. "Okay, so they got her, right?" He stared down at his notes: Metcalf, captured, Atlanta, homicide, cop. "That's good."

"Yeah, that's good. But...." The voice on the other end of the line hesitated for a moment and then said, "Look, I don't know how well you know Fraser—"

The pencil snapped in Ray's fingers; who the fuck was this guy to be questioning him about his own partner? "I know Fraser," he retorted. "I don't know who the fuck you—"

"Shut up and listen," the man said, and there was an authority in that voice that made Ray think cop. Cop or mafia; no one else had the balls. "Tomorrow morning, they're gonna fax Welsh, okay? I got the inside dope on this one—the arresting officer down there is called Hutchins, that's H-U-T-C-H—"

"Yeah, I got it, I got it," Ray said, scribbling furiously with the pointed end of his broken pencil. Hutchins.

"—I-N-S, Detective Frank S. And this is the kicker, Vecchio, okay? He's gonna want Fraser to go down there to make the identification, because there's nobody else that fucking bitch has left alive, do you understand?"

Ray swallowed hard. Yeah; yeah, he understood that.

"And Welsh is gonna have to say yes—because yes, right? It's our case, we want to make the I.D., we want to cooperate, testify, the whole nine yards. Except you can not for any reason let Fraser go down there alone. " The air of authority was gone now, and the man just sounded scared. "You hear me? I don't care what you have to do—you tell Welsh that you're going, and if Welsh says no, you go anyway. And if he won't give you leave, you quit the fucking job and go anyway. You've got to glue yourself to his side and stick with him—"

"Okay, but—" Ray interrupted.

"There's no buts to this!" the man yelled, and Ray started worrying that he was gonna stroke out. "There are no buts about this, do you understand? One thing, one lousy thing I need you to do for me—so just do it, okay?"

Ray tightened his grip on the phone. "Who are you, anyway?"

There was a long, weary sigh at the other end. "Who do you think?"

"Vecchio?" Ray whispered, already knowing it was. "Man, you're nuts. You shouldn't be doing this—"

"I got to." Vecchio sounded agonized. "Fuck, you don't under stand—"

"Hey, is this a secure line?" Ray asked, panicked.

"It's a secure line, believe me," Vecchio assured him. "I got better spy-detection equipment than the Feds. Better information, too, but I'm not mobile is the problem. I'm stuck where I am—so you've got to be there for him. Because listen to me, you weren't here for round one of this, but I was. And this woman—she's nuts. And she makes him nuts. You may think he's nuts now, but you haven't even begun to see what nuts is where Fraser's concerned."

That was a terrifying thought. "But—I mean, he's over her, right?"

"I don't know," Vecchio said. "You see him with anybody else?"

Ray frowned at the question. "No."

"Has he dated anyone else since you've known him? He hasn't, right? Like a brick wall," and Ray couldn't deny it. "I'm telling you," Vecchio warned, "he's still tied up with her somehow. And I don't know if he loves her, but I know this much: she hates him."

"What?" Ray asked, startled.

"She hates him; you can't even begin to believe how she hates him. She'll kill him if she gets the chance, and Fraser just loves giving her chances."

This was crazy; Vecchio'd been undercover too long, and he'd developed a mobster's paranoia. Or maybe Ray just didn't want to believe it—that Fraser could still be in danger, that Fraser could still be in love.

"She's in prison, Vecchio," Ray pointed out. "How's she going to get at him?"

"There's lots of ways to kill somebody," Vecchio said in a hard voice. "Fraser especially."

Ray felt helpless and confused, and together, they felt a lot like anger. He didn't like that Vecchio knew all this personal stuff about Fraser, and he didn't like Vecchio lording it over him—like just because he was Vecchio first, he was somehow better at it or something. "I don't understand. I don't know what you think she's going to—"

"You don't have to understand," Vecchio interrupted angrily. "Because I'm telling you: Victoria Metcalf is dangerous to him, and I mean really dangerous. So if you give half a shit about Fraser—"

And christ, that hurt; Vecchio couldn't possibly know how he felt about Fraser. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?

"—you'll stay with him, and look out for him. Please," and Vecchio was practically begging him. " Please, okay?"

Except Ray knew who this guy was: he was the real Ray Vecchio, Fraser's partner, the guy he'd been hired to replace. Ray wanted to hate Vecchio for out-Vecchioing him, but he couldn't, because Vecchio loved Fraser too, even if not in the same hopeless stupid way, knock on wood.

Ray took a deep breath and tried not to feel threatened; it wasn't as if he was going to vanish into thin air, now, was it? "Look, I'll stick by him. Like glue, I promise."

"Swear to God?" Vecchio asked.

"Swear to God. I swear on my mother. Your mother. He's my partner too, okay?"

"Okay. Okay." Vecchio seemed to be calming down a little. "I'll do what I can from here, find out what I can. Meanwhile—you, what do I call you?"

"This is a secure line?" Ray asked again.

Vecchio snorted. "I told you already, I got better equipment than—"

"—than the Feds, all right, okay. My name's Kowalski. Ray Kowalski—"

"Christ, they brought in a Polack. Typical." Vecchio sighed and hung up.

---

Part One.

Ray got to the station bright and early—maybe too early, because everyone looked half-asleep at their desks. Bright morning sunlight slanted across the floor of Welsh's office, but the office was empty, dust motes spinning in the air.

Ray turned around and smashed right into Frannie, who was carrying a tray of coffee cups with plastic lids.

"Hey, whoa, sorry," Ray said, hands flailing to steady the teetering cups, and burning his hand as hot coffee spurted up through the top like a geyser. "Ow! Fuck! "

Frannie stared nervously down at the cups as they settled. "Geez, watch where you're going, Ray, willya?!"

"I'm sorry, I said! Where's Welsh?"

Frannie handed a cup of coffee to Huey. "Light, no sugar?"

Huey sighed. "Black. And sweet."

Frannie cracked a grin and exchanged the cup for another one. "Yeah, well, I knew that," she said, nudging her hip against Huey's, "but what about the coffee ?"

"Frannie?" Ray pleaded. "Welsh?"

Frannie didn't so much as deign to look at him. "I dunno," she said. "He's around here somewhere."

"Good morning, Francesca." Ray whirled, and there was Fraser—larger than life and twice as red. "Ray." He looked entirely like his normal, polite self, and not at all like a lovesick maniac who might go high-tailing it after his serial-killer girlfriend.

So maybe Vecchio was wrong—but then again, he was Vecchio now and it didn't pay to doubt yourself.

"You're early," Ray said, frowning. "I didn't figure you'd be here till—"

"I asked the Constable if he wouldn't mind coming early," Lieutenant Welsh said, taking the last of the coffees off Frannie's tray. "Tell me this is light, no sugar, Ms. Vecchio."

"That's light, no sugar, sir," Frannie confirmed, and braced the empty tray against her hip.

"Excellent work. Constable, if you wouldn't mind coming with me?" Welsh moved off toward his office, and Ray now saw that he had a manila folder in his other hand. "You, too, Vecchio." Welsh walked back around his desk, sipping his coffee. Ray trailed after them, pulling the office door closed and choosing to hang back against it. "Constable," Welsh said, with a wave of his hand, "why don't you take a seat?"

Fraser looked concerned now; he'd put his hat down on the desk and was standing there in something like military posture, hands behind his back. "If you don't mind, sir, I think I'd prefer to stand."

For a moment, Ray thought maybe Welsh was gonna argue the point, but then he shrugged and dropped it. "We've got some business to discuss," Welsh told him. "I got a call this morning from a Detective Frank Hutchins—"

In his mind, Ray heard Vecchio's voice: H-U-T-C-H-I-N-S, Detective Frank S.

"—of the Atlanta P.D. Three days ago, they logged a 911 call from the Armitage Hotel in downtown Atlanta. A maid, cleaning one of the rooms there, found a body in the tub—caucasian male, naked, gunshot wound to the head, D.O.A."

Fraser had cocked his head and was listening with respectful interest, but Ray's stomach had turned. Fraser didn't know who this murderer was.

Welsh did, though; he could see it in the Lieutenant's eyes. "Hutchins was the detective assigned to the case—well, him and his partner, a guy called O'Brien. They got a break, because the Armitage had just installed security cameras. She was trying to cover her face, but they got at least one clear shot of her off the tape, and then they showed the picture around until they found a cabbie who'd picked her up. She was staying at the Hyatt Regency, in the penthouse suite."

Fraser had gone utterly still at the mention of the word "she"—and Ray realized that this was Welsh's way of breaking it to him. Welsh was letting it sink in slowly, letting Fraser do the guesswork and react in his own time. He could see Fraser schooling his expression into blankness—and, fuck, Vecchio'd been right about everything, because Fraser was putting the pieces together right in front of him, which meant that Victoria Metcalf was the first "she" that came to mind. Maybe the only "she" he really cared about.

"They sent O'Brien to her room with some story about a robbery, trying to stall her until the warrant came through. They didn't want to make her suspicious, and they figured, hey, she was only a woman."

Fraser's face looked like it was made out of glass, but Welsh just nodded conversationally, like they were sitting around at a bar telling old stories.

"She shot him in the face at point-blank range, and they barely caught her—the concierge saw her crossing the lobby, and Hutchins tackled her to the ground. O'Brien was upstairs, dead on the carpet."

Welsh reached for a cigar and carefully cut the end off; he wasn't looking at Fraser's face, Ray noticed.

"Forensics matched her prints to a bloody thumbprint found on a faucet at the Armitage; she'd washed her hands afterwards. Her prints also rang the cherries with us," Welsh said, and opened the manila folder. "She's wanted here in Chicago for the murder of Jolly Hughes. They faxed us a picture this morning."

Ray watched as Welsh handed the fax to Fraser. Fraser looked at it for a long time.

Finally, he looked up. "She's cut her hair."

"Yeah." Welsh's voice was brusque but his eyes were sympathetic. "So they want you down there as soon as possible," he said, busying himself among his papers and waving his hand in the air dismissively. "I'll have Ms. Vecchio book your flight."

Fraser started in shock, but Welsh pretended not to notice. "They want—me?"

Welsh glanced up. "Yeah, to make the I.D. Give a statement—you're the only one who can connect the woman they got in Atlanta to the woman you arrested in Canada. And they got her dead to rights on a cop killing down there, but we still might want to try her ourselves—for faking her own death, and Jolly's murder, and the conspiracy to frame you."

Fraser stood up a little straighter. "I'm not interested in pressing charges, sir."

This got Welsh's attention, but good; his head jerked up, eyes narrowed into slits. "What are you saying here, Constable? I'm counting on you to act on behalf of the 27th Precinct, the City of Chicago, and the State of Illinois, and if you can't—"

Fraser surprised him by stepping forward to interrupt. "Yes—yes, of course, Lieutenant; I didn't make myself clear. Certainly I do understand that I am being asked to act in an official capacity as a liaison to the Chicago Police Department, and I am both willing and prepared to discharge all duties required of me, including assisting in the indictment, prosecution, and sentencing of Victoria Metcalf by the Georgia court." Fraser took a deep breath, and Ray forced himself to breathe, too. "However," Fraser added, "I am not prepared to press charges in Chicago on my own behalf—as a private citizen, as it were."

Welsh shot a questioning look over Fraser's shoulder at Ray. Ray mimed his total and complete lack of comprehension as to what the hell this meant, and then quickly slumped back against the file cabinet, fingers running through his hair, when Fraser turned around to look at him.

"All right, Constable," Welsh said wearily. "Go home and pack your bags."

Ray straightened up. "I'm going too," he announced defiantly.

"Yeah, Vecchio, you're going too," and Ray felt suddenly stupid, like he'd just bashed his way through an already open door. "I'm sending you with Constable Fraser as a representative of this precinct—so don't blow it, all right?"

"Yes, sir," Ray said, ducking his head down. "I won't, sir."

"It shouldn't take long to make the formal identification, but the Atlanta D.A. might want to meet with you while you're down there, take a deposition so he's got his facts straight. You'd better study up, Detective," Welsh added grimly, handing Ray a folder at least two inches thick. "You were one of the few people who met her."

"I remember it well, sir," Ray replied instantly. "Or I will have. I'll have remembered everything by then, sir, I promise," and shit, going undercover really fucked with your verbs.

"Go on, then, and have a good trip, gentlemen," Welsh said, dismissing them. Fraser nodded stiffly and left the office, and Ray was right behind him when Welsh said, "Oh, and one more thing, Detective." Ray turned, and Welsh added, softly, "Shut the door."

Ray shut the door.

In a moment, Welsh was back around the desk and gripping him tightly by the upper arm; he was a big guy, Welsh, but boy, when the chips were down, that bulk sure could move. "Kowalski, I don't want you to let Fraser out of your sight from the time you leave this office to the time you come back here. Blame it on me, if you have to—I'm only authorizing a single hotel room, and I'm giving you permission to expense everything. I don't want him having so much as a cup of coffee without checking with you first."

"Yes, sir," Ray said instantly; he'd been through this speech before.

"I want you to drive him to the Consulate, and wait for him while he packs his bags, and then drive him to the airport. I want you stuck to him like glue. You weren't here for this the first time around, but—"

"—but this woman is nuts. And she makes him nuts," Ray finished. "And I may think that Fraser's already nuts, but I haven't even begun to see what nuts is where Fraser's concerned, right?"

Welsh looked surprised. "That's right, Detective. That's it exactly."

"Plus she's really dangerous, so I gotta stay with him at all times."

Welsh stared at him, frowning. "Right."

Ray sketched out a two-fingered salute with one hand, and clutched Victoria Metcalf's file to his chest with the other. "I gotcha, sir. I got it covered," he said, and backed out of the office.

---

Frannie had the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, but ripped a piece of paper off the pad in front of her and handed it to him. "Here," she said. "You're on Continental Airlines, Flight 182 and you're leaving in four hours, so move it. I'm on the phone now with the hotel people, they've got me on hold. I'm trying to get you a reservation at the—"

"Okay, yeah, wherever," Ray said, stuffing the paper into his jeans pocket. "I'll call in when I get there—and get me a car, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah," Frannie said, rolling her eyes. "But Rent-A-Wreck is out of business, so you'll have to drive a car from this century, okay?"

"Har-de-ha. Just rent me a car—and call the motorpool, tell them I'm leaving the Chevy in long-term parking."

Frannie pointedly checked her fingernail polish. "You ain't the boss of me," she said, but a moment later, she was up and out of her seat, the phone thudding onto the desk. "Fraser!" Frannie's eyes went huge as she crossed her hands and pressed them hard to her— heart, okay, it was probably her heart she was going for. "If there is anything I can do— anything—to help you through this difficult—"

"Much appreciated, Francesca," Fraser interrupted, somehow managing to avoid so much as glancing down at Frannie's heaving bazooms. "Ray," he added, turning to Ray, "are we ready?"

"Yeah," Ray said, shooting a quick look of triumph at Frannie. "Yeah, I think so."

Fraser put his hat on. "Then let's go," he said.

---

Ray tried to feel him out a bit in the car, but Fraser was all head-shakes and one word answers.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Ray," Fraser said, but his fingers were tapping a nervous beat against his thigh.

"Cause, I mean—you know this woman really well, right?" Ray shot a quick look at Fraser, but Fraser was staring blankly out the passenger side window. "She's...someone you know," he finished lamely.

"Yes," Fraser agreed, as Ray pulled up in front of the Consulate. "She's someone I know. Why don't you wait here while I get my things?" he added, and opened the car door.

Whoa—nyuh-uh, no way! Ray fumbled with his seat belt and yanked his own door open. "Hang on, I'll come with you," he said, and jogged after Fraser into the Consulate.

It didn't take Fraser long to get ready. He threw a few necessities into a leather satchel, slipped his brown uniform into a garment bag, and then hesitated for only a moment before stripping out of his red serge uniform and pumpkin pants. Ray just stared, not bothering to hide his amazement; it was still a magic act to him, how Fraser got out of all those buckles and straps and laces so fast and without even showing any skin.

Fraser changed into jeans and a gray button-down shirt while Ray stood there, shuffling from foot to foot and waiting—and what was weird was how Dief kept circling around and around Fraser's legs and barking, as if he knew there was bad juju ahead. "Dief," Fraser said, bending down to write a note on his desk, his satchel already slung over his shoulder, "I'm counting on you to look after yourself, and not to give Constable Turnbull any trouble."

Dief barked again, then drew back on his haunches and gave a low growl of such outrageous ferocity that Ray felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

"Don't worry," Fraser replied, almost offhandedly; he was still writing. "It's a maximum security facility."

Dief suddenly leapt up and bounded toward Ray, startling him so badly that he stepped backwards into the door and banged his head, hard. "Ow!"

Dief leapt up onto two legs and barked expressively into his face.

Ray'd never been particularly good at speaking wolf, but this time, he felt he was exactly on Dief's wavelength. "I know, I know," he hissed between clenched teeth. "She's dangerous. I'll watch him," and as a reward for this, Dief licked a long, wet stripe along his face. "Eww," Ray said, drawing his arm across his cheek to wipe off the wolf spit, and shoving Dief away with his other hand.

Fraser glanced up. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"Nah. I'm just trying to avoid being wolf lunch," Ray said.

"Dief, stop it." Fraser signed his note, then folded it and slipped it into an envelope, which he addressed and left propped on his desk. "All right," Fraser murmured, as he stepped back and looked around his office; it was, as always, neat as a pin. Fraser nodded to himself and then said, "Let's go,"—and Ray got a funny feeling, like maybe they'd neither of them ever see this office again.

---

Fraser came up to his apartment and nervously paced the living room while Ray packed a bag, and Ray was grateful that they'd gone to the Consulate first, because he never would have remembered to pack a suit if Fraser hadn't. Unlike Fraser though, Ray didn't bother with a garment bag. He just rolled his blue pinstripe and a white shirt into a ball and shoved it into his carry-on with some t-shirts, underwear, and socks. Presto. Done.

Fraser stayed quiet in the car on the way to O'Hare, and really, it was starting to creep Ray out a little, because usually it was Fraser who helped the time pass with—okay, with interesting strands of conversation: Inuit stories, ear anecdotes, fun facts about mold. At the very least, Fraser could be counted upon to feed him a straight line, and while other people took Fraser at face value, Ray knew that the straight man was the genius of any comedic team. But now Fraser's face had a terrifying stillness, so maybe Ray Vecchio knew what he was talking about, and Fraser was in danger.

At the airport, Ray sat down in an ugly metal chair with their bags and watched as Fraser wandered around the industrially carpeted room, pacing back and forth before walking up to the vast floor-to-ceiling windows to peer out at the planes. Ray tried to relax but couldn't; some part of him was entirely focused on Fraser as he moved from window to window. Fraser looked small next to the huge jets rolling past, and Ray was tempted to go to him, check on him. But Fraser looked like he needed the space.

Ray called Frannie instead, his eyes fixed on Fraser's back the whole time. "You got a hotel?"

Even from a distance, Frannie's sighs could blow your house down. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. You're at the Vista Atlanta Airport, under the name Stanley Kowalski—"

This jerked Ray's attention away from Fraser. "What the—? Why the hell'd you do that?"

"Not me," Frannie interrupted. "Welsh. Welsh says he doesn't want either of your names on anything, meaning 'Fraser' or 'Vecchio.' You, you're nobody, so you don't count."

"Great, thanks. What about the car?"

"Under Kowalski, at a place called—"

Tall. Brunette. Long, curly hair, headed straight for Fraser—and Ray had jerked upright in his chair before remembering that not only was Victoria Metcalf already in custody in Atlanta, Georgia, but she'd apparently cut her hair. So of course this wasn't her, and Ray let himself settle back into his seat. Fraser turned politely as she approached, and then looked down at his watch and told her the time—like there weren't fifty million clocks around them, since it was a fucking airport after all. Sure enough, the woman said something else, then laughed and tossed her hair seductively. Geez, if he were Fraser, he'd probably go off his—

"Hey! Hey!" Frannie yelled into his ear. "Did you hear a freakin' word I said?"

Ray shook his head and came back to the conversation. "No. Say it again."

"The car. Is under Kowalski. At a place called Pegasus : P-E-G-A—"

Geez, them Vecchios sure liked to spell, huh? "Pegasus, yeah," he said.

"—S-U-S. At the airport, you got that? It's only a Honda, but—"

Fraser nodded his head politely and stepped back, away from the woman—who stepped forward again, into his personal space. God, talk about pushy. Just then, the intercom blared out an announcement which Ray didn't catch, but people at his gate started lining up. Ray glanced up at the LED screen over the desk and saw the word: BOARDING. "Yeah, all right, Frannie, my flight's boarding. Call you when we get there," he said and hung up.

Fraser was walking back hurriedly, and behind him, Ray could see the disappointed woman, who was staring after him with open longing on her face. "That's our flight, isn't it?" Fraser said, gracefully swiping his satchel off the floor and swinging it up, over his shoulder.

"Yeah. Let's go."

It took forever to board the plane, because you always had to shuffle to the door at a snail's pace, and then you had to cram yourself up the tiny little center aisle and hold up the whole line and try not to smash the little old lady in front of you in the face with your elbow as you raised your arms to jam your bags into the overhead compartment. The only good news, Ray thought, as he pulled the bag off Fraser's shoulder and stuffed it into the overhead beside his duffle, was that he was 17A and Fraser was 17B and there was no 17C—it was a smallish plane, with only two seats on each side. Ray hated being all crammed up against a stranger. "Window or aisle?" he asked Fraser.

"Window," Fraser replied, then added, "if you don't mind."

Ray made an "after you" gesture and Fraser brushed past him and nearly fell into his seat. Ray quickly sat down next to him; he was relieved, as always, to be out of the rush of aisle traffic. Fraser, he saw, was methodically going through everything in the seat pocket in front of him, and actually took the time to read every word of the air safety card. By the time Fraser'd neatly returned everything to its pocket, everyone was pretty much seated, and a moment later, the stewardesses began their presentation, instructing them on the plane's safety features, pointing out the emergency exits, and explaining that they should all read the air safety card even if they flew frequently.

Ray turned to tease Fraser for having read the card already, but to his surprise, Fraser wasn't listening to the presentation. Ray'd been sure Fraser would be listening attentively, perhaps even preparing to ask a pertinent question, but Fraser wasn't; he was lying back, head lax against the headrest, staring moodily out the window.

"Fraser?" Ray asked, before he could think better of it, and Fraser rolled his head toward Ray and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Ray's mind went blank; he could ask Fraser if he was okay again, except what had changed since the last time he'd asked? Instead, he found himself smiling at Fraser, and, to his relief, Fraser showed him a quick smile in return. "Nothing," Ray said.

"Our flight time will be one hour and fifty-eight minutes," the stewardess announced. "Please buckle your seatbelts as we will be taking off shortly," and what was weird was that Fraser reached across and took Ray's hand in his, squeezing it tightly as the plane took off.

Ray's heart thudded in his chest as he squeezed back—and much as he wanted to believe it, he didn't think that Benton Fraser was afraid of flying.

---

The flight was supposed to be non-stop, and so it was—non-stop fussing by the stewardesses, four of them, each more gorgeous than the last, and each of them stopping by to make sure, completely sure, that the passenger currently occupying seat 17A had everything his heart could possibly desire. He'd never seen customer service like it.

"Would you like a drink, sir? A fruit juice, then? Water, perhaps?" "Can I offer you a blanket? An extra pillow? A moist, hot towel?" "Coffee, sir? Tea, sir? How about a lozenge?" Nobody'd ever offered him a lozenge in all the years he'd been flying.

The worst thing was how they all looked right past him at Fraser, who was leaning back against the wall of the airplane and saying "No, thank you," in increasingly desperate tones.

At least that explained why Fraser wanted the window seat.

---

Ray heard the click! of Fraser's seat belt buckle a moment after the ding! of the seat belt light, and instinctively understood the plan—if they were quick, they were close enough to the front that they could be out of the plane by the time everybody else was up. He bolted up and popped the overhead compartment, and—with an ease they couldn't have planned—Ray swung their bags down into Fraser's waiting hands, and a second later they were dodging up the aisle and past the yearning, regretful faces of the stewardesses.

"Thank you for flying—"

"It was a pleasure to have you aboard—"

"Please enjoy your stay in At—"

"Thank you," Fraser said, somewhat breathlessly, as Ray grabbed his arm and dragged him past the line of stewardesses and out the door. "Thank you. Thank you kindly!"

Man, it was a Polite-a-thon in here. Ray dragged Fraser up the ramp and stopped at the top, where an airline steward, wearing a blue uniform with a gold stripe down the pants, was standing with a clipboard.

"Hey," Ray said, "could you point me in the direction of—"

The steward didn't even look at him; he was apparently riveted by the sight of Benton Fraser. News flash! Fraser was really fucking pretty!—and this was old news to Ray, but it had apparently struck the steward with all the force of a revelation. Except dream on, buddy: Fraser doesn't swing your way. Hell, Fraser didn't swing either way, Fraser swung no way, Fraser was a sexually locked door.

Ray interposed himself between the steward and Fraser and shook his hands wildly in the guy's face.

"Hello? Vista Atlanta Hotel?"

The steward shook himself out of his daze with a visible effort. "Shuttlebus outside Terminal Two."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser replied, and they set off, following the appropriate signs.

---

Ray had to give Frannie credit; she'd booked them into a nice place. The Vista looked like a first-class establishment, complete with its own bar and what looked like a decent restaurant. This also boded well for room service possibilities, which Ray asked about when he checked them in—and yeah, the place had 24 hour room service, which was every guy's dream.

He could see that the clerk was looking curiously over Ray's shoulder at Fraser, but Ray was following protocol—they didn't need to know who he was sharing the room with, and Welsh had said to keep Fraser's name out of it. Fraser didn't even notice the clerk's curious glances; he seemed preoccupied by his own thoughts, and was startled when Ray touched his arm and handed him the room's spare key.

"We're in Room 720, seventh floor," Ray said, and then, because he couldn't help it: "You okay?"

"Yes," Fraser said promptly, but he looked pale and not a little bit scared. "Yes, of course."

They took the elevator up to their room, and way to go, Frannie; it was nice-sized, with a little sofa-and-coffee-table area as well as two queen sized beds. Ray slung his dufflebag onto the sofa and went to go check on the bathroom. When he came out, Fraser was hanging his brown uniform in the closet.

Ray glanced at his watch; it was four-thirty. "I'm gonna call these guys, Fraser," he said, and started digging in his dufflebag for the Metcalf file. "Let 'em know we're here, maybe make an appointment for—"

"Not today," Fraser said, and if he'd been pale before, he was now actually white. "Not—I mean, surely, they're about to close—"

"For tomorrow morning, I figured," Ray said slowly; he wasn't sure how to reassure somebody who wouldn't admit anything was wrong. But Fraser was visibly relieved at the words, and so Ray added, "I'm thinking sometime after ten—might as well wait for after the rush hour. I hear the traffic out here is hellish."

Fraser sat down heavily on the sofa, like his legs weren't up to the job anymore. "Good thinking, Ray."

"And then we can get a decent breakfast," Ray said, sitting down at the desk and yanking the receiver out of its cradle. He flipped the file open, checked the number, and dialed. "Which I'm guessing we'll need," he added, muttering almost to himself. Fraser didn't answer; he was just staring vacantly into space.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Hutchins," the voice said, and Ray could hear the familiar bustle of a bullpen in the background.

"Detective Hutchins, this is Detective Ray Vecchio from the Chicago Police Department."

"Ah, Detective Vecchio, we've been expecting you," Hutchins said, and somehow he sounded both tense and relieved at the same time. "Is Constable Fraser with you?" and Ray set up an appointment for Benton Fraser to identify Victoria Metcalf at ten a.m. the next morning.

---

The hours in between were some of the most difficult Ray'd ever lived through. They hadn't managed to get lunch before leaving Chicago, so Ray was starving. He called room service and had food sent up for them, but Fraser was vacant and uncommunicative, and barely ate anything before pushing his plate away. Ray ate his own dinner and half of Fraser's while he read carefully through the Metcalf file, committing key facts to memory. Meanwhile, Fraser sat slumped on the sofa in a totally un-Fraser-like posture, circling endlessly through the television's seventeen channels and seeming not to see any of them.

Finally, when Ray'd finished reading the file, he thudded it shut, slid back in his chair, and let his palms fall onto his thighs with a decisive smack. "Come on, Fraser," he said, standing up, "we're going out for a drink."

Fraser opened his mouth to argue, but apparently thought better of it. "All right, Ray," he said, and raised the remote control. The television turned off with a click.

They went down to the dimly-lit hotel bar. Fraser surveyed the room with a sweeping glance before nodding toward a round, candle-lit table in the back. When Ray sat down across from him, he understood the wisdom of the choice; he was facing the room, and he could see everything, while Fraser had his back to everyone and so was completely protected from view. Fraser clearly appreciated the privacy.

The waitress was a stunningly beautiful black woman with small dreadlocks that swept away from her face like a sunburst. She came over with her pad to take their drinks order, and lit up when she saw Fraser, but Fraser never lifted his eyes from the flickering candle at the center of their table.

"What can I get you?" she asked, looking quickly from Fraser to Ray to Fraser again.

"Johnnie Walker Black," Ray said. "On the rocks. Fraser?" he asked, expecting Fraser to order a ginger ale or a glass of milk or something like that. But in this, Fraser surprised him.

"Glenfiddich. Neat," Fraser said without even looking up.

Ray camouflaged his surprise by grabbing the bar menu and ordering cheese fries with bacon. The waitress nodded as she wrote this down, then backed away from their table, eyes still fixed on Fraser. Ray felt pretty fascinated by Fraser himself, and braced his forearms on the table and leaned forward over the candle once the waitress was safely out of earshot. "You're going to have to talk about it sooner or later."

Fraser looked up, a glint of irony in his eyes. "How about later?" he inquired.

"Later's okay," Ray answered sincerely. "Later's fine; whenever you want. I just want you to know that—"

He stopped, because the waitress was already back, carrying two thick-cut crystal glasses on a circular tray. Fraser's drink, Ray saw instantly, looked better than his. She lingered a little, probably waiting to see if she could catch Fraser's eye, but Fraser left it to Ray to do the thank yous, and kept his own eyes fixed on his drink.

When she was gone again, Ray picked up where he'd left off. "Just, if you want to talk, or if you just need—I dunno, whatever. Whatever you need, okay?"

Ray lifted his glass to his lips, but Fraser just took his drink between two fingers and turned it around and around and around, watching the candlelight flicker off the crystal.

Finally, Fraser said, softly, "I met her twelve years ago. I found her huddled in a crag on the lee side of a mountain, almost frozen, very near death. I staked a lean-to with my rifle and draped my coat around it and I held her for a day and a night and a day. I thought I would die—I thought we would both die. But when the storm broke, we were alive...and I felt by then like I'd known her for a thousand lifetimes. It took us four days to reach the nearest outpost, and we camped that night within sight of the church's steeple and made love—and I held her in my arms, and she asked me to let her go...and I didn't. I sent her to prison."

Fraser returned to silent contemplation of the candle, and Ray let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "Geez, Fraser..." and if that wasn't the most inadequate thing one human being had ever said to another, he didn't know what was. "I don't know what to..." Ray reached across the table and squeezed Fraser's hand, and that seemed to be the right thing to do, because Fraser instantly squeezed back tightly and looked up, and there was relief in his expression.

"I'm ready," Fraser said. "I think I'm ready," and then Benton Fraser picked up his scotch and downed it all in one gulp.

---

Ray woke up the next morning to the sound of water. He opened his eyes; the curtains were still drawn, but there was a crack of light coming from under the bathroom door. Blearily, Ray pushed himself into a sitting position, then fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses. The hiss of the shower ceased with a screech from the pipes.

Ray was sitting in bed with his knees drawn up, trying to motivate himself to further movement, when the bathroom door opened and Fraser came out. He was vigorously rubbing his wet hair with one towel and had another snugly wrapped around his hips. Ray stared at him from the darkened side of the room. Fraser didn't seem to realize he was awake yet, and so he was moving with a weird sort of ease—the kind of ease he only had when he was running after criminals or jumping from high places. As Ray watched, Fraser stopped toweling his hair—which was now standing every which way, like he'd been electrocuted or something—and began moving the towel over his chest and arms with swift, sure strokes.

Finally, Fraser draped the towel over the doorknob and went to root through his satchel. Ray took this moment of distraction as an opportunity to lie down again, curling up on his side to hide his erection. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten hard looking at Fraser, and it probably wouldn't be the last, but there was no sense in freaking the guy out.

Fraser straightened up with a wide hairbrush and began rapidly scraping his hair away from his face. When it was all neatly in place, Fraser put the brush down on the vanity table—and yanked the towel away from his hips. Ray nearly fell off the bed as he jerked forward, straining to see—but he couldn't see much, not nearly enough. Fraser briskly toweled his dick and balls, then turned back to his satchel and slipped into a pair of white boxers. A moment later, he was gone, having stepped out of viewing range to the closet, where Ray heard him rummaging for his uniform.

Geez, that was a perk. Ray closed his eyes and sighed contentedly up at the ceiling. No harm in looking, after all—hell, looking at Fraser was practically a national sport. Or maybe, Ray thought, stifling a smile, it was more of a pastime—

"Ray?" Fraser's voice was barely a whisper.

Ray didn't know whether to answer or to pretend to be asleep. He compromised with a grunt. "Mhuh?"

Fraser kept his voice low. "I'm going down to get some breakfast. Do you want anything?"

Yeah; he wanted Fraser to go downstairs so he could jerk off; two minutes of privacy and he'd be good to go. Instinctively, Ray rubbed the root of his dick, then slid his hand down to cup his balls, which had drawn up high and tight.

Except no—suddenly, it crashed in on him. No, no, and he could hear Vecchio and Welsh and Dief, even. Don't leave him for a moment! and in a flash he was sitting up, boner totally forgotten. "No, wait. I'll come with you."

Fraser looked oddly somber in his brown uniform, and Ray found himself missing the red serge. "You needn't, Ray," Fraser said gently. "You can get another hour's sleep—"

"No, no, I'm up," Ray said, shoving the covers off his legs, and thankfully, his erection was fading fast; years of disappointment had pretty much trained it to do that. "I'm up. Just—sit down for a minute. I'll just jump in the shower, brush my teeth. Won't be a minute." Fraser didn't move, so Ray waved his hand wildly—from Fraser to the nearest chair to Fraser to the chair again, until Fraser got the idea. After a moment, Fraser sighed and sat down, hat on his lap. "Good," Ray said, backing into the bathroom. "Good. Don't move, okay?" and geez, he must've taken the fastest shower of his life.

---

He was still wet behind the ears when they went down to breakfast, and if Fraser was quiet yesterday, he was a total freakin' mute today. He just sat there, quietly moving bacon and eggs around his plate and sipping tea. The waitress, a mousy brunette with a high ponytail and great knockers, kept trying to get his attention—"More tea, sir?" "Is everything all right?" "Would you like me to get you something else?"—but Fraser said nothing, not even "Fine," or "No, thank you," or "Yes." Instead, he just looked up briefly and showed her an expression that maybe could have been vaguely interpreted as a smile, and shook his head yes or no.

Finally, Ray growled at her and she backed off, brandishing her coffee-pot like a weapon. Ray went back to eating his own breakfast and worrying about Fraser, and he was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't hear the loudspeaker until Fraser nudged his arm. Ray jerked up, and suddenly the words of the announcement came into focus. "Paging Mr. Kowalski, paging Mr. Kowalski. Please proceed to the white courtesy phone."

"Probably Welsh calling," Ray said, sweeping his napkin off his lap. "The cell's dead out here; no reception. Don't move, okay?" Fraser nodded in agreement, and Ray got up and headed into the lobby, eyes searching for a white phone. He spotted one right away, and better yet, it was right across from the alcove housing the restaurant, so he could watch Fraser while he talked.

Ray picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear. "Kowalski here."

"You still got him?" Vecchio asked.

"I got him, I got him."

"What, right there?" Vecchio pressed.

"Yes. No. I mean, yeah, I can see him, but—"

"Man, you gotta stay with him," Vecchio interrupted, "because today is the day, Stanley, okay? And I'm telling you, it's gonna get weird when he sees her, and you've got to be ready for anything, for everything—"

"What're you, my mother?" Ray replied, exasperated. "He's drinking tea. He's eating toast. You want pictures or something?"

"I've got pictures," Vecchio said darkly. Ray looked quickly around the lobby, but he didn't see anyone who looked like he might be an informant for an undercover cop with the mob. But what the fuck did he know?

"Okay, so you listen to me, then," Ray said, fighting off the shiver in his spine. "I am on this. I am ready for whatever is gonna happen here. And my name is not Stanley. It's Ray."

"That's not what I hear," Vecchio said, and hung up on him.

---

Ray drove them into downtown Atlanta in the car Frannie had rented for them, a thoroughly practical white Honda. Ray hated the car's styling, but it was new and had tinted windows and air conditioning—which was not nothing, he realized, as they hit the mid-day sunshine. He found the Fulton County Jail with no problem; it was a complex of white concrete, depressing in the way all jails were depressing. He pulled the car up to a booth and flashed his badge. The guard welcomed them to Atlanta in a soft southern drawl and raised the bar so they could drive into the lot and park.

For a moment, Ray thought Fraser wasn't going to get out of the car. He just sat like a stone statue in the passenger seat, knuckles white where they clenched the door's inside handle. Ray had turned off the engine, opened his own door, and had one foot out on the asphalt when he realized that Fraser hadn't so much as moved—and then suddenly Fraser did move, flinging his door open with something that looked like grim determination.

Ray drew sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on as he and Fraser crossed the lot. Fraser looked even paler than normal in the bright Atlanta sunlight. The APD had at least tried to pretty the place up, lining the walkway with heavy concrete flowerpots, but Ray didn't think anyone was gonna be fooled into thinking the place was Disneyworld—it was a jail, and it stank of meanness and desperation.

Damien Kowalski's son would always know a meat-packing plant when he saw one.

Fraser lost his nerve ten seconds before they would have entered the building—and it was then and only then that Ray believed everything Vecchio'd been saying, because he'd never seen Fraser lose his nerve before. But there it was: one second Fraser was striding toward the five glass doors that marked the entrance, and the next moment he was swerving sideways and walking, with almost equal determination, around the side of the building.

Ray pivoted and chased after him with long strides. "Fraser, wait. Hey! Fraser..."

For a moment, Ray thought Fraser was actually going to run for it, and he could hear Vecchio nagging him: "It's gonna get weird, and you've got to be ready—" But Fraser stopped and turned to face him, and Ray didn't think he'd ever seen Fraser look so miserable, so absolutely goddamned desperate.

"Fraser," Ray said, trying to put the sympathy he felt into his voice—and then, and he wasn't at all sure how it happened, he had his arms around Fraser and Fraser's arms around him. It was kind of shocking, and it was kind of wonderful, though the fact that Fraser needed a hug actually freaked him the fuck out.

But Fraser sure seemed to need something, so Ray squeezed him tightly and then, feeling bold, ran an affectionate hand over the back of Fraser's head. Fraser's hair was soft as mink under his fingers, and Fraser sighed and stepped back after giving Ray one final squeeze.

"You ready?" Ray asked; there was no point, he now understood, in asking if Fraser was okay.

Fraser seemed to steel himself. "Yeah," he said. "Ready," and together they turned back toward the row of glass doors.

---

Detective Frank Hutchins was waiting for them, and fuck, he looked like a guy who'd just lost his partner. It was written all over his face—in the pale blue eyes, the thinning gray-blond hair, the hard lines of exhaustion around his eyes and unsmiling mouth. Cops who lost their partners tended to turn into old men overnight, and Hutchins was an old man now, though he probably couldn't be more than forty or forty-five. But there was something aged in his expression, like something had died inside him, like some kind of horror had taken up permanent residence right behind his eyes.

Without quite realizing it, Ray let his hand swing out to brush the hem of Fraser's brown uniform. The contact felt good, reassuring.

"Good to meet you, Detective. Constable." Hutchins extended his hand, which was just a little bit sweaty.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Fraser said quietly. So Fraser was thinking about it, too—well, fuck, of course he was. Victoria Metcalf had shot Hutchins' partner in the face.

"Yeah. Me too," Hutchins said bleakly, and then he motioned for them to follow him. They moved together down the hallway. "I'm gonna put her in a standard target-present line-up for you, Constable," Hutchins said. "Just so everything's by the book."

Fraser, staring straight ahead down the hallway, jerked his chin in a tight nod.

"Then we're gonna go down to Charlie Callister's office," Hutchins continued. "He's the ASA working this case, and he's a good guy. He wants to get a preliminary statement from you, just to have something to work with. We got a stenographer coming around eleven."

Again, Fraser jerked his chin, and then Hutchins was ushering them through a door and into a conference room. Inside, there was a young uniformed cop who Hutchins introduced as Officer Brenda Lathris—and Ray couldn't help but notice that Officer Lathris was blonde and really, really pretty. Sort of like Stella circa 1990—

Geez, but he needed to get laid sometime soon.

"—see her, though she won't be able to see you," Officer Lathris was saying. Fraser was nodding rapidly, eyes already fixed on the one-way mirror at the far side of the room. Fraser knew the drill, they both did; they'd set up hundreds of these identifications themselves. Officer Lathris twisted a small, snaking metal microphone toward her mouth and pressed a button on the wall. "All right, send them in."

Fraser went very still as a door on the other side of the mirror opened and another female cop came out, followed by five women in prison grays. They were all about the same height (5'6" or 5'7", according to the measurement lines behind them) and they were all strikingly pretty—slim and blue-eyed, with short, dark curls. Ray knew the procedure—the women were supposed to come out, turn left, face front, and the witness would be given several minutes to come to their own conclusion before the officer in charge asked any questions, so as not to lead the witness.

But there was never a second of doubt as to which of these women was Victoria Metcalf, because Benton Fraser went to her like a homing pigeon—first with his eyes, and then, like a man in a daze, with his whole body, until he was practically pressed up against the glass in front of her: number four. Ray looked around the room and saw that Detective Hutchins looked relieved—Fraser'd picked right, not that there was ever any doubt, Ray supposed. But still, it was weird to see Fraser so totally...focused, if that's what you called it, especially since Fraser normally never gave women the time of day, even when they were six foot two and gorgeous and pushing their tits in his face. But Victoria Metcalf had Benton Fraser's attention, all right—she had his full, undivided attention.

Ray took a quiet, shuffling step to the right to get a better look at her; he wouldn't have been able to pick Victoria Metcalf out of the line-up himself, that was for sure. She was pale, as pale as Fraser was, with wide blue eyes and a full mouth. Ray did a quick compare and contrast between her and the other four women they'd selected—and he had to admit, Victoria Metcalf had a kind of...light to her—even in prison, which was a place that could suck the light out of almost anybody.

But she had something, that was for sure. Something that had Fraser transfixed like a lovesick dog...and suddenly, Ray was really afraid for him.

"Constable?" Officer Lathris murmured tactfully, and Ray turned and saw that both she and Detective Hutchins were hanging on Fraser's answer. It occurred to Ray to wonder what they would do if Fraser just lied to them, pulled away from the glass and said, "Number one," or "Number three," or something else blatantly false. And then Ray realized exactly how much had just changed between them, because when he'd left the hotel this morning, he would have sworn that Fraser'd never lie to anybody about anything.

"Constable?" Officer Lathris repeated nervously. "Do you need more time?"

To Ray's relief, Fraser managed to get a hold of himself and turn around. "Number four," Fraser said calmly, and it was like the room let out a collective sigh—him, Lathris, and Hutchins, all at once.

Brenda Lathris scribbled something down on her clipboard, then pressed the talk button again. "Thank you, ladies," she said, and the five women were led away.

"Thank you, Constable," Detective Hutchins said. "We appreciate your help. Now, if you'd just follow me, we'll go and take your statement."

"I want to see her," Fraser said.

Ray felt his heart kick into overdrive; shit, Vecchio'd been right. It was like some strange prophecy—Vecchio'd said that Victoria had a hold on Fraser, and here she was, still having a hold on him. If Vecchio's prophecies continued to hold true, Fraser was about to start acting like a lunatic. Any minute now, possibly.

Hutchins was frowning. "That wasn't part of the schedule."

"No, it wasn't," Fraser agreed, and he was eerily, scarily calm. "But I want to talk to her before I give any sort of statement."

"I'm not sure I can set up an interview that fast," Hutchins hedged, but Ray'd used that bullshit line himself, and Fraser was a cop, too.

"Well, that's all right," Fraser replied. "I'm sure my statement can wait."

Hutchins shot an angry look at Ray—but Ray kept his face neutral. He felt for the guy, he really did—but Fraser was his partner, and he wasn't gonna sell him out.

"All right," Hutchins said. "Wait here, I'll see if I can get you in."

"Me too," Ray said, and that brought both Fraser and Hutchins' heads whipping around. Ray ignored Hutchins and focused his attention on Fraser. "I gotta be in the room," he told Fraser, almost apologetically. "I don't have to listen, but I've got to be there. That's a deal breaker, Frase," and after a moment Fraser's shoulders slumped a little and he nodded.

Ray turned to Hutchins. "Set it up," he said.

---

They compromised by arranging a standard prisoner visitation in the Fulton County Jail's visiting area—a room divided in two by a clear Plexiglas wall and further divided into a series of compartments for privacy. Ray expected Fraser to protest this, to demand a face-to-face interview with the woman. But Fraser didn't seem to have any problem speaking to Victoria Metcalf over a telephone and through a barrier of bulletproof glass.

There were a few other people scattered and chatting on telephones, but not many. Officer Lathris directed Fraser to a compartment near the end of the row, far from any of the other visitors, and Fraser nervously took a seat in front of the window. Ray casually leaned against the wall directly behind them—from here, he'd be able to see Fraser's back and Victoria's face, and under the circumstances, it was Victoria he wanted to keep an eye on.

He knew she was coming when Fraser scrambled to his feet—and geez, that was Fraser all over, politely standing for a woman even if she was a two-timing, murdering, thieving cop-killer. He had the satisfaction, however, of seeing an almost horrified look cross Victoria's face—they clearly hadn't told her who was here to see her.

She looked sick for a moment, and Ray wondered if she was gonna pass out or throw up. But somehow she managed to grope her way to her seat, and lower herself into it, and fumble the telephone receiver off its hook. Ray couldn't see Fraser's face, and he was kind of glad about that, because Victoria seemed to have been destroyed by Fraser's very presence, and Fraser's hands were visibly shaking as he reached for the phone.

He couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, though he could see Victoria's lips moving, and at one point, she showed him a warm and luminous smile. But then her lips stopped moving and she started listening—and to Ray's horror, Fraser leaned forward and pressed his hand against his glass, like he wanted to reach through it to touch her, and a moment later she raised her hand on the other side and pressed it against his.

Ray gritted his teeth and looked away for a moment, feeling anger and fear and—jealousy too, why not admit it? Because Fraser was still clutching the receiver and talking to Victoria in a soft, urgent voice, and they were both pressed up against the glass now, practically humping the glass, caressing and stroking it, and—

But that wasn't quite right. She was caressing the glass, but she was also—not luminous, but crying. Ray blinked quickly to dispel the red haze blocking his eyes. Fraser was still talking, but Victoria's face was now a portrait of suffering so intense that it looked like something out of a painting somewhere. Then Victoria began sobbing openly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she touched the glass in front of her. She shook her head from side to side, slowly, no, no, no... Her free hand fell away from the window, and as Ray watched, Fraser skittered a hand across the glass, as if he could follow her and grab her hand back.

Victoria half rose out of her chair, face contorted by grief. Fraser half rose out of his seat, too, and practically plastered himself against the glass, still clutching the receiver. Victoria backed away from him, shaking her head and crying, her face the very picture of sorrow. And then, Fraser briefly covered his eyes with his hand to collect himself, and when he straightened up, he said only a few more words into the receiver before hanging up.

Victoria looked as shocked as Ray felt, and she suddenly leaned forward and began battering the telephone receiver against the bulletproof glass as if she wanted to bash Fraser's head in. Ray was instantly coiled to spring, Vecchio's voice in his head: She hates him; you can't even begin to believe how she hates him. Fraser took a surprised and stumbling step backwards, but otherwise held his ground. The guards came and yanked the phone out of her hand before pulling her back, away, toward the cells.

Fraser stood there and watched them take her, and stood there even after she was gone. Ray let his eyes drop to the floor, feeling like he shouldn't be there; he had no freakin' business being there at a moment like this, except he'd promised Vecchio and he'd promised Welsh. But he really had no business being there, because Fraser was a human being and he deserved a little goddamned—

"Ray?"

Ray looked up, and Fraser was standing in front of him, and he looked okay, except for how he was kind of shaking.

"Can we...?" Fraser's voice was kind of shaking too, as he looked longingly toward the exit.

"Yeah, Fraser," Ray said softly, reassuringly. "Come on, let's go."

Fraser seemed a little dazed, so Ray took him by the elbow and steered him out of the visitation room and into the cool, dark hallway. Fraser blew out a long breath once the door to the visitation room closed behind them and relaxed visibly, bracing one hand against the wall and letting his head hang forward.

Ray would not, would not, ask if Fraser was okay. "You ready to see this D.A. guy?"

"Yeah. Yes. I think so." Fraser lifted his head and gave him a strange, shell-shocked look. "My God, Ray," he said. "I think I just got divorced."

---

Part Two.

"Oh my GOD!" Ray Vecchio yelled, so loud that Ray winced and yanked the phone away from his ear. "He thinks he married the stupid bitch!!"

Tentatively, Ray moved the phone closer to his ear; geez, it was a wonder that ASA Callister hadn't heard the screaming and come running back to his office. Ray'd been surprised when Callister's secretary had informed him that he had a phone call, "a Mr. Kowalski calling for you, Detective Vecchio," and sent him to take it in Callister's office. He'd known it was Vecchio—who else had the chutzpah?—and felt a lot more respect for Vecchio's anxiety now that he'd seen Victoria Metcalf for himself.

He hadn't anticipated this much screaming, though. "I mean, he didn't, right?" Vecchio was asking, like that was the most horrific thing he'd ever heard in his life. "Marry her, I mean? I mean—not legally, right?"

"How the fuck do I know?" Ray demanded.

"I mean, he couldn't have been so stupid as to—"

"We'd know, wouldn't we? I think we'd know if he—"

"Because Fraser's done some stupid things before, but this—"

"He couldn't have. He would have told me. He would have—"

"You?" Vecchio demanded. "Why the hell should he tell you ? He didn't tell me."

"Well, he would have told me," Ray shot back, "which is why I know it didn't happen. And besides, there'd be paper, a license, something, and there's not, right?"

"Right," Vecchio said, sounding vastly relieved. "Right. So what the fuck's he talking about?"

Something was tickling the back of Ray's brain, and he struggled to remember what it was. "He told me...he said something about..." and then it came back to him. "He told me how he met her, up there in the Arctic—"

"Yeah, yeah, Fortitude Pass, Hopkins, snowstorm, I got it," Vecchio said wearily.

Ray stifled a smile; he thought he was starting to like Vecchio. "Yeah, well, he said something about how they had sex near some church—'within sight of the steeple,'" Ray repeated, as the phrase came back to him, "and you know, I think that for Fraser, that would be pretty much enough."

The line was so quiet that Ray wondered if Vecchio'd hung up on him again. But a moment later, Vecchio sighed and muttered, "Yeah. Yeah, that would do it," and Ray could practically see Vecchio scrubbing the front of his face as he spoke. "That's Benny all over...but this is bad news, Stanley."

Ray opened his mouth to say, "Ray. Ray. It's Ray," but maybe this wasn't the time. Vecchio sounded on the verge of despair.

"If he thinks he's married her, then that's it—game over," Vecchio said miserably. "It's gonna be an honor thing with him. He's gonna be tied to her for life..."

"No, but..." Ray frowned down at Callister's desk. "He said divorce, he specifically said—"

"He said, he said ! You're divorced, Kowalski—would you testify in court against your ex?"

Ray thought about this; it was an impossible question. Stella was a prosecutor, and okay, they'd had their bad times, and she could be a bitch, but he couldn't imagine her as a murderer. "I don't know," Ray said finally. "Maybe not. But Fraser's giving them a statement."

"Yeah, but is he implicating her?" Vecchio asked suspiciously.

"He seems to be," Ray replied. "I mean, you know Fraser, he's tactful, but I think he's telling them the whole story, starting with her arrest at Fortitude Pass—"

Vecchio harumphed. "He can't be telling them the whole story. I don't think he's gonna tell anyone that he had sex with her before he arrested her—"

But Vecchio was wrong about that. "No, but he did," Ray interrupted. "I heard him tell Callister that he and Victoria were involved—'emotionally involved' was what he said. I mean, he's got to tell them: that's not something you want coming out on the stand."

"Yeah, sure, assuming he testifies," Vecchio said glumly.

"He'll testify—why else would he give them a deposition?" Ray asked, frowning.

"I don't know. But he—" Vecchio sighed. "He's completely unpredictable, when it comes to her. I mean, she escaped, and he never went after her. Fraser never went after her," Vecchio said meaningfully. "Fraser, who's the most stubborn cop I've ever met, who has a track record of going to other countries to track people down, and he doesn't go after Victoria Metcalf, who framed him for murder, who shot his wolf—"

Ray felt his skin goosepimpling. "But, I mean—he had duties. At the Consulate—"

"He nearly got thrown out of the RCMP for going after his father's killers," Vecchio pointed out. "He did get thrown out of Canada. You're saying he was afraid to lose his job filing papers with the Ice Queen? Nah, nah, nah, nah, I don't buy it," Vecchio said. "He must have wanted her to escape. Because he thinks she's his fucking wife."

Ray bit his lip; shit, Vecchio had a point. Which could put another whole spin on the deposition Fraser was giving. For a moment, he was torn between his loyalty to Fraser, and his need to think this out with Vecchio—who was, after all, Fraser's partner and Fraser's friend. "Geez, Vecchio, in that case?" Ray said finally. "Fraser could be telling them about their relationship to get himself discredited as a witness."

"What?" Vecchio asked sharply.

"Well, work it out. I mean, normally, Fraser's a star witness, best thing that you got. You ever seen what Fraser does to juries?"

"Yeah," Vecchio said with some satisfaction. "He turns them to jam."

"Right," Ray said. "But if he admits he's involved with her..."

"Holy shit." Vecchio was right there with him. "If he admits he's involved with her, then the state's star witness is a police officer who had sex with the defendant before he arrested her, who acted as her agent in a diamond robbery when she got out of prison, and who was actually shot by the police while attempting to escape with—"

"Apprehend." Ray felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his head. "You mean apprehend—"

"—attempting to escape with the defendant," Vecchio said grimly, and his tone brooked no argument. "He was going to go with her."

"That's not true." They'd given him the files, he'd read all the files on this. Fraser'd outwitted Victoria, set her up, and was racing to apprehend her when he'd gotten between her and Ray Vecchio's bullet. All the case reports Ray'd ever read agreed on that, and shit, this was Benton Fraser they were talking about. "Your own case notes, I read them and—"

"Fuck the case notes. He told me."

Ray pressed two fingers to a vein that was throbbing in his forehead. "Christ, that can't be true. She'd already stolen the—and she shot—"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Vecchio said quietly. "She makes him crazy, Kowalski. Ray," and hearing Vecchio call him "Ray" scared the shit out of him.

---

It took hours for them to get everything they wanted out of Fraser. Ray prowled around outside the door, popping his head into the conference room every hour or so, but they were always still at it. At least, they brought food in for them—turkey and cheese sandwiches wrapped in butcher's paper, and cups of coffee, and cans of soda. Not that Fraser seemed to have much of an appetite; he took two bites of his sandwich and then let it sit at his elbow.

Finally, at around six, the conference room door opened and Fraser came out. Charlie Callister was behind him, yammering something about how helpful Fraser had been, and wasn't this just a model of collaborative law-enforcement, but Ray saw right away that Fraser was dying to get away from there, and so he stepped forward briskly, initiated a quick round of hand-shaking, and pulled Fraser the hell out.

Fraser barely made it back to the car—and geez, it felt like ten thousand years since they'd last seen the Honda. Fraser seemed to collapse into the passenger seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest and closing his eyes against the setting sun. His brown uniform looked strangely rumpled, and Fraser actually seemed to fall asleep for a while, there; lulled, perhaps, by the rhythm of the car as Ray drove back to the Vista Atlanta.

He pulled up in the Vista's circular driveway and leaned across the car to put his hand on Fraser's shoulder, intending to shake him awake as gently as possible. But Fraser's eyes opened the moment Ray touched him.

Fraser looked somehow different, but Ray couldn't figure out why. Same eyes, dark blue and fringed with black lashes. Same face on the other side of the car, glimpsed over two thousand car trips and stared at during a hundred stakeouts—except maybe Fraser's face was somehow less blank than normal, less carefully schooled, like there was some really big emotion bleeding in around the edges.

Fraser turned away, reached for the door handle, and got out of the car.

Ray handed the keys to the valet and followed Fraser toward the hotel's entrance—and then Fraser stopped short so suddenly that Ray actually smacked into him fairly hard, and had to grab at him to steady himself.

"What?" Ray asked, and when Fraser turned to look at him, his face was pale and apologetic.

"Nothing," Fraser said hastily. "Sorry, Ray," and then Fraser stretched out his arm blindly and pushed his way through the hotel's revolving glass door.

---

Fraser was heading wordlessly toward the elevator bank when Ray took his arm and tugged him toward the hotel bar. Fraser hesitated for only a moment before relenting and letting Ray pull him inside and order him a Glenfiddich, neat.

To his surprise, Fraser drank the whole thing down in one gulp, then signaled the waitress for another. Okay, so it was going to be that sort of evening—and really, he should have seen it coming; he himself had been blotto for months after he'd signed his divorce papers. He got the waitress to bring over nachos, quesadillas, beer nuts, chicken wings—anything that might tempt Fraser to eat—but Fraser merely nibbled on a nacho or two before burying his nose in his scotch.

Women. Ray put his elbows on the table and let his head hang in disgust. Even Benton Fraser, who was perfect at everything, couldn't get the woman thing right. You couldn't live with 'em, mainly because they didn't let you live with them. Stella'd thrown most of his stuff out into the hallway—well, except for the breakable stuff, like the stereo, which she'd at least packed up in the original cartons with the styrofoam and everything.

Fraser looked like somebody'd just thrown his stuff out into the hallway, except Fraser didn't really have that much stuff. Still, Fraser had the faraway look of a man asking himself some really tough questions, like "What the hell am I living for?" and "Who the hell gives a damn for me, now?" Ray remembered sitting on his sofa with a beer in his hand and asking himself those sorts of questions, and he felt a wave of empathy for Fraser.

"It's all right," Ray murmured. "You're better off without her," and geez, that was a really stupid thing to say. When things had gone bad with Stella, it had mainly been with the fighting and throwing things. Victoria Metcalf had robbed a bank, committed fraud, and killed three people; it wasn't like couples counseling was really going to help.

But Fraser seemed to take his stupid comment in the spirit in which it was meant. "Thank you, Ray. I'm sure that's true." He smiled briefly into his drink, then added, "I must admit, I'm relieved. To be rid of her." He finished the scotch quickly, as if it could chase away the brutal thought. "Perhaps I pledged myself too easily," Fraser said, clicking the empty glass unsteadily back onto the table, "but I've paid for my rashness many times over, I think."

The waitress—the same beautiful black woman from last night—appeared at the table with yet another fresh whisky. Fraser looked up gratefully as she exchanged the full glass for his empty one, and Ray glared at her—if she didn't ease up on the customer service, Fraser was gonna be face-down in the nachos by the end of the night.

So when Fraser reached out for the third glass, Ray intercepted his hand by taking it in his own. It was warmer than he expected. Fraser stared down at their interlaced fingers with some surprise, then looked up into Ray's face.

"Look, I've been where you are," Ray insisted, "and there's no point in numbing yourself to it, okay? A couple of drinks are good, they calm you down, stop you from punching things or ripping yourself up inside. But any more than that and it's anesthesia, Fraser, and it never even works. The feelings always come back, so it's no good fighting 'em." Ray squeezed Fraser's fingers tightly; he wished somebody would have told him this, back in the day. It would have saved him a world of pain. "You've got to feel what you feel, Fraser," Ray said passionately, "and to hell with everyone else."

Ray became aware that Fraser was massaging the palm of his hand with the ball of his thumb, stretching out the tight, tense muscles there. It felt terrific.

"Yes, Ray. I understand," Fraser said softly. "But I'm not trying to numb myself to my feelings—quite the reverse, in fact. Do you know," Fraser said suddenly, lips twisting into a bitter smile, "that the last few times I've seen Victoria, she's been behind glass?" Fraser gave Ray's hand a final squeeze and then carefully put it down on the table between them. "Or perhaps—perhaps it was me."

"What else can I get you boys?" The waitress put her hand on Fraser's shoulder and bent down to hear them—and okay, Ray thought, it had gotten crowded in here, but it wasn't that crowded. Fraser's eyes fluttered and then closed, and Ray saw, with a start, that she was kneading the back of his neck. This was providing quite a show for a table of stewardesses across the aisle, who were staring at Fraser with naked, open-mouthed desire.

"Nothing," Ray said tersely. "The check." Fraser opened his eyes, and the waitress took the hint and skedaddled. "Look, it's been a long day," Ray said, shoving a plate of cold quesadilla out of the way, "so maybe we ought to—"

He shot a swift, narrow look at the woman now approaching the table—one of the stewardesses, apparently taking a dare from her pals. She was tall—and weren't stewardesses always tall, like they came from some special race of beings or something—with pale skin and green eyes and freckles. Most strikingly, she had an unruly mess of carrot-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Might as well have had the map of Ireland drawn across her face, but Ray didn't think the navy blue uniform she was wearing was for Aer Lingus. She wasn't even all that pretty, Ray thought meanly—she was just a little too tomboyish, a little too impish, a little too cocky.

Fraser only looked up when he heard the clink of metal; Peppermint Patty had dropped her room key onto the table in front of him. The tag said 403.

"It's getting crowded in here," she said to Fraser, and geez, the freakin' nerve of her. "Do you want to come upstairs and have a drink in my room?"

Fraser stared up at her blankly, and Ray drummed his fingers impatiently while he waited for Fraser to say no. Except Fraser didn't say anything, and Fraser didn't say anything, and Ray was just about to tell her to scram when Fraser reached for the key, dragging it across the table before picking it up.

"Yes," he said, and stood up. "I think I'd like that very much."

Ray felt his mouth fall open and he looked up just in time to see Fraser slide an arm around the woman's waist and lean forward to kiss her, and maybe it was the way she opened her mouth, or the way Fraser leaned into it, or the way he slipped his fingers into her thick mess of hair, but things got hot and heavy real fast.

Ray just gaped, and he was still too shocked to speak when Fraser broke off the kiss, panting a little, and said, without even looking at him, "I'll see you in a while, Ray."

Ray was still sitting there, alone and astonished, when he realized that Fraser was totally and entirely out of his sight.

---

What the hell was he supposed to do, go up to 403 and smash the door down? Watch him, yes; stick to him, yes; like glue, yes; but there had to be limits, because it was perfectly clear that Fraser'd gone up to 403 to get laid.

Holy shit! Fraser'd just gone off to fuck a stewardess! and Peppermint Patty's two friends were huddled at the table across the aisle from him, looking just as shocked as he felt. It was like they all of them knew that this wasn't supposed to happen , like maybe the world was about to end or gravity was gonna take a holiday or something, because slutty redheads were not supposed to be able to pick up God-fearing Mounties in airport bars.

It was just wrong, and geez, what if Fraser was having some sort of nervous breakdown? What if this was exactly the whacko circumstance that Vecchio and Welsh and even Dief had been warning him to watch out for? Except he hadn't seen it coming!—and in his head, Vecchio said, in a voice that had long suffered fools: "Yeah, well, that's why they call it a surprise, Stanley. You don't see it coming."

Ray threw some money on the table and scrambled to his feet—only to notice, with some dismay, that one of the other stewardesses had taken this as her cue to get up as well, and was giving him a come-hither look that would have been flattering if he hadn't totally been freaking the fuck out . She took a couple of stumbling steps toward him in her high heels, and showed him a coy little smile—and man, Ray would have to find out the name of this airline, because "friendly skies" was a serious fucking understatement.

"Hey," she said, raising her hand to run a meditative thumb up and down Ray's lapel. Her nails were long, and polished, and pale pink. "I'm Susan. What's your—"

"I'm Ray," Ray said hastily, "and I would really, really love to, except I can't right now," he said, and fled the bar.

---

Outside, in the lobby, the only thing he could think to do was to ring 403 on some goddamned pretext, just to make sure Fraser was there and not, say, helping Victoria Metcalf break out of jail with two tickets to Rio de Janeiro in his pocket. The phone rang and rang and rang and then went to voicemail: "Hello," the computer voice said. "You have reached Room 403—" and Ray racked the receiver, because geez, if he were getting fucked by Fraser, he wouldn't answer the phone either.

Desperate, he punched the numbers again—and now he got a busy signal, which meant they'd taken the phone off the hook.

Okay. So Fraser was at least there and not running off to Brazil with Victoria Metcalf, which was something, at least. He paced around the lobby like a crazed dog, wearing circles into the carpet and earning himself strange looks from the desk clerk on duty. What was he supposed to do, stake out the room?

He went to stake out the room.

The elevator, when it stopped on the fourth floor, opened out onto a hallway identical to the one on the seventh floor where they were staying. Ray walked as quickly and as quietly as he could toward 403, which was, the sign said, around a corner and at the very end of the hall. The corridors were deserted, except when he rounded the corner to the wing where 403 was located, he saw an elderly waiter pushing a room service cart back toward him.

Ray pulled out his badge and drew the waiter aside. "Look, uh. You didn't happen to see a Canadian Mountie and an Irish Air Stewardess—" Christ, A Canadian Mountie and an Irish Air Stewardess walked out of a bar... "go into that room over there, number 403? Maybe they were getting a little, you know—personal?"

The waiter just blinked at him and then said, in a quavering voice, "Non parla inglese."

Right. Ray sighed and nodded and waved the man away with his badge. Stomach fluttering, now, he walked silently up the hall toward 403, which was just a plain, ordinary door. He stopped, listening hard, but heard nothing: the Vista was a nice hotel, and the doors were plenty thick enough for you to be able to fuck a stewardess in private if you wanted to, and it was pretty clear that Fraser wanted to. He supposed he could camp out in the hallway, or break into the room next door and put a glass to the wall like a pervert—but he wasn't gonna do either of those things.

Sometimes you had to have a little faith in the universe, and if you couldn't do that, you had to at least have faith in the guy who was your best fucking friend.

So Ray raised his hands in surrender, and slowly backed away from the door. Ten minutes later he was in his own bed in room 720 and staring up through the darkness at the ceiling. He told himself that Fraser'd be back, that Fraser wouldn't just leave him like that—except Fraser had left Vecchio just like that, and with a helluva a lot more at stake.

---

Fraser came back around half-past four in the morning. He was obviously trying to be quiet about it, but Ray was on the knife's edge of awareness and came awake at some small noise, maybe the sound of a boot thumping to the floor.

Fraser was sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to Ray, taking off his boots. His white Henley glowed faintly in the dim light, allowing Ray to see the strange, slumped set of his shoulders. The musty scent of sex was thick in the air, and as Ray watched, Fraser crumpled his uniform jacket into a ball and hurled it across the room toward the closet.

"Fraser."

Fraser turned, but Ray couldn't make out his expression in the dim light. Fraser stared in his direction for a long moment, and then he stood up and made a beeline for Ray's bed. Ray barely had enough time to push himself into a sitting position before Fraser was kneeing his way onto the bedspread. The covers tightened around Ray's legs as Fraser stretched out beside him and buried his face in Ray's lap—and christ, this was everything he'd ever wanted, except this was nothing he'd ever wanted, because Fraser was shaking, sucking in great, heaving breaths like he was crying, except without noise and without tears. Bewildered, Ray held Fraser close and tried to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do or say here.

Fraser was asleep before Ray could think of anything.

---

When Ray woke up the next morning, it was like it hadn't happened, and if Fraser's bed hadn't been made (or if there hadn't been a distinctly Fraser-shaped indentation down the left side of his bedspread) Ray might have assumed that he'd dreamed the whole thing. But Fraser looked just like his old self, neat and clean in crisp jeans and a freshly-ironed white shirt, and nothing at all like the debauched and dejected mess of last night.

"Uh..." Ray said, and fumbled for his glasses on the night stand. "Good morning?"

"Good morning, Ray." Fraser looked at himself in the mirror and began attempting to subdue a cowlick at the back of his head. "Did you sleep well?"

For a moment, Ray genuinely didn't know what to say. Did Fraser want him to pretend that nothing had happened? He wasn't sure he could do that.

"Yeah," Ray said, finally. "Fine. What about you?" he asked, wondering if Fraser would admit to any of last night, or if he'd just pushed some mental reset button. "How was—did you have a good time with Peppermint Patty?"

Fraser didn't even look at him. "Do you mean Katie?"

Ray rolled his eyes. Katie. "Yeah, Katie, I mean Katie—how did it go with Katie?"

"Fine." Fraser still wasn't meeting his eyes. Maybe he couldn't. "She had an early flight this morning."

Well, that was one good thing about stewardesses; they didn't stick around to make trouble. Katie was probably halfway around the world by now, and that was just about far enough. Ray licked his lips and chose his next words carefully. "I gotta say, Fraser...you kind of shocked me with that. I didn't much figure you for the casual hookup."

Fraser didn't answer right away, and Ray had just resigned himself to another day of Fraser being weird and uncommunicative when Fraser said, "Our bodies are made for pleasure, Ray," and this was such a shocking answer coming from Fraser that Ray could actually feel his eyebrows shooting up into his bed-flattened hair. "And if we choose to make social alliances," Fraser said shakily, putting his hairbrush down with a click, the cowlick still unvanquished, "which limit the possibilities of that pleasure? The more fools we."

Ray just stared at him.

---

After breakfast, Fraser was on the verge of succumbing to the advances of the waitress with the big tits when Ray faked a stomach cramp and allowed Fraser to escort him back to their room. He locked himself in the bathroom for half an hour, pleading gas but actually pacing and freaking and trying to figure out what the hell to do about this.

One thing was clear: he had to get Fraser out of Atlanta, because maybe it was something in the water here, or the air, or maybe just being in the same city as Victoria Metcalf screwed with Fraser's brains the way a magnet damages an electronic device. He'd call Welsh, call Frannie, get them both on the next flight back to Chicago and hope that a day or two of their normal routine would bring Fraser back to his senses. Maybe Dief could help.

Armed with this plan, Ray flushed the toilet and washed his hands loudly and opened the bathroom door—only to find Fraser making out with a tall, strikingly beautiful chambermaid against the wall near the open door of their room. Her chocolate brown skin contrasted strikingly with Fraser's own pale complexion. He'd opened her blouse a few buttons, and she'd undone his shirt to the navel—and his hands on her neck and her hands on his chest looked like an Escher drawing, a negative in black and white.

Fraser's hair was sticking up in all directions from where she'd run her fingers through it. Fraser broke off the kiss and looked up at Ray guiltily—but really, he didn't look near guilty enough under the goddamned circumstances.

"Ray," Fraser said, and cleared his throat, embarrassed. "If you...perhaps you wouldn't mind..." Fraser said, and tipped his head toward the open door.

Ray considered throwing a full-scale shit fit—he could feel one building that was nearly operatic in scope—but decided to keep it buttoned up until he was sure he wouldn't have an aneurysm. Besides, he thought, blindly shoving his way out of the room, past the chambermaid's cart, toward the elevator bank, at least this time he knew where Fraser was, and meanwhile he could get on the phone, call Welsh, get backup, reinforcements, a net—

He went down to the desk to buy a roll of quarters, and the desk clerk smiled and passed him a pale green phone message.

Call me, Stanley.

There was a phone number, with an area code in Utah. He was pretty sure that Ray Vecchio wasn't in Utah, but Ray Vecchio, like God, seemed to work in mysterious ways. Ray found a bank of phone booths in the lobby near a deserted banquet hall, chose the phone on the end, and thumbed some quarters into the slot.

Vecchio answered the phone with a question—"You're still in Atlanta?"—which made Ray think that this was a dedicated line, maybe a disposable phone bought for the purpose. Or else it belonged to some poor schlub from Utah who now no longer needed a phone, but Ray didn't want to think about that.

"Yeah," Ray said. "We're still here."

"Is he with you?" Vecchio asked.

"Yes. No." Ray rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand; he had a motherfucker of a headache. "He's upstairs, in the room."

"Okay, good. Don't ever call me when he's around—"

Ray interrupted with what needed to be said. "He's fucking the chambermaid."

There was a long stretch of silence on Vecchio's end of the conversation.

"He's what?" Vecchio asked finally.

"Fucking the chambermaid," Ray repeated, and really, it felt good to tell Vecchio about it. "Upstairs. Last night, he fucked an airline stewardess."

There was another long stretch of silence on Vecchio's end.

"I don't know what airline she was from. It might have been Delta," Ray supplied helpfully.

Vecchio still wasn't saying anything, and so Ray took advantage of the opportunity to unburden himself: "I got to tell you, this wasn't the weird behavior I was expecting. I mean, this is the weird behavior, right?"

"Fraser fucked a stewardess ?" Vecchio seemed to be having some trouble processing this, and who could blame him?

Ray tightened his hand around the armored metal cord that connected the receiver to the box of the pay phone. "Yeah. The stewardess and the chambermaid, and he would've done the waitress this morning if I hadn't stopped him—"

"Holy canoli," Vecchio said in a small voice.

"—which, you know, really isn't typical of him—"

"Isn't typical ?" Vecchio was getting hostile. "Yeah. Yeah, I would say that's not really typical—"

"You want to know what's happening?" Ray interjected angrily. "I'm telling you what's happening!"

"—of Fraser to be fucking three women in twenty-four hours , not when before that he's fucked one woman in ten years—"

"Is this my fault?" Ray shouted into the phone, because damn if it didn't sound like Vecchio was accusing him of something. "No!" he shouted, answering his own question. "No, it is not my—"

"—and that one woman just happened to be a murderous, cop-killing psychopath! Who's he porking now, Lizzie Borden ?"

God, why did Fraser have to go wonky on his watch? Ray let his head thunk against the front of the pay phone. "The stewardess's name was Katie," he said miserably, "and she looked okay; I don't think she had a record or anything. She's gone now, anyway—flew out this morning. The chambermaid's name I don't know, but she's employed here at the hotel. I could run her through the system, if you think it's worth it."

"It's her fault," Vecchio snapped, and Ray didn't have to ask who she was. "This is some plan of hers, or else she did something to him—like post-hypnotic suggestion!—"

"No, man, no," Ray sighed. "He's just—look, you were divorced, right?"

Vecchio sounded sad for a moment. "Yeah."

"So you know that stage right after you want to kill yourself when you make yourself believe that, really, this was the best thing that ever happened to you because the world is full of beautiful people and probably a lot better sex than you've been getting?"

"Yeah," Vecchio sighed.

"Well, you and me, we were deluding ourselves," Ray said. "But in Fraser's case it's true."

But Vecchio wasn't having any. "No. No. I'm telling you, Kowalski, Victoria's got something to do with it. He's discrediting himself," Vecchio said suddenly, and Ray could hear the faint sound of snapping fingers. "He's casting aspersions on his own character, divesting himself of all credibility!—"

"He's going through his own personal seventies!" Ray yelled, frustrated. "Next is gonna be roller disco, and designer jeans, and ABBA—"

"—so that he can get that bitch sprung from jail, Kowalski! Where the hell does ABBA come into it? "

"Would you shut up and listen to me?" Ray pounded a fist against his temple. "Fraser has women throwing themselves at him. I'm talking morning, noon, and night—"

"I know," Vecchio groaned. "Believe me, I know."

"Plus the women we're talking about, you can't imagine the women we're talking about," Ray nearly moaned.

"I can imagine them," Vecchio said, somewhat grimly.

"Tall and gorgeous and stacked—"

"I know, I know." Vecchio sounded miserable. "It was always like that."

"So okay! So why shouldn't he get laid, if he wants to?" and Ray wasn't sure who he was arguing with now: Vecchio or himself. "Why shouldn't he score the occasional touchdown?"

"Because he's Fraser," Vecchio shouted at him, "and he doesn't do casual sex! The man doesn't do casual anything—he irons his shorts, for Christ's sake!"

"So maybe he's seen the light!" Ray replied heatedly. "Turned over a new leaf! I mean, you wanted him to get over Victoria, he's getting over her, seeing other people, dating finally—"

" Dating ? This isn't dating," Vecchio retorted. "This is Fraser acting like—"

"Like Shaft, " Ray said glumly.

They let that sit between them for a moment.

"Can you dig it?" Ray asked.

"Shut your mouth," Vecchio said.

---

Vecchio agreed that he had to get Fraser out of Atlanta as soon as possible, so Ray hung up and called Frannie, who told him that their plane tickets were open-ended. There were flights leaving every two hours, she said; all they had to do was show up at the gate. Relieved, Ray hung up and strode confidently back toward the bank of elevators. As the car lurched back up to the seventh floor, Ray realized that he'd been tunelessly humming— Who is the man that would risk his neck for his brother man? Shaft! —and made himself shut up. That shit was freaking him out.

The chambermaid's cart had been pushed further down the hall, which Ray thought was a good sign. He knocked briskly on the door to 720, and when there wasn't any answer, he pulled out his key and opened the door.

Mistake. The room was still occupied. The chambermaid was upright on the bed, and Ray got a single, clear look at her—her smooth back, the soft curve of her shoulders, the graceful tapering of her torso to her waist before the gentle flare of her hips—before she looked over her shoulder at him, shrieked, and leapt off the bed, dragging the sheet with her. She wrapped it around herself like a toga and rushed toward the bathroom just as an arm flailed upward, after her. Hair all messed up and looking confused, Benton Fraser sat up in the bed. He was completely naked. "Hi."

Ray realized that the chambermaid had been straddling him. "Hi," he replied; his mind was otherwise blank. "Uh...sorry about that."

Fraser casually reached out and tugged the horrible floral-print bedspread over himself from the waist down. "It's all right. We were essentially finished. Just lollygagging, really."

For a moment, Ray could only imagine "lollygagging" as a deviant sexual practice beyond his wildest imagination. Then he got a grip. "We've got to go back to Chicago," he said.

Fraser seemed to consider this. "Why?" he asked finally.

Ray blinked; he hadn't studied for this question. "Because," he said. "Because we're done here. Aren't we done here?" Ray was suddenly struck by the fear that Fraser wanted to be near Victoria—maybe attend her bail hearing, or show up when the grand jury was convened. "I mean, you don't want to— You're not looking to see her again, are you?"

To Ray's relief, Fraser visibly shuddered at the thought. "God, no. No. I...no."

"Okay. Good. So what are we waiting for? We can grab the next flight to Chicago, be back in time for dinn—"

The door to the bathroom opened, and the chambermaid stepped out, dressed again in her white blouse and black skirt. Her kinky black hair was cut short, framing her face and highlighting cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. Fraser's spirits visibly lifted at the sight of her. "Angela," he said. "Where are you from, originally?"

Angela smiled widely, and geez, her smile was a glorious thing. "New Orleans," she said in a soft, sexy voice, except it came out sounding a lot like, Nawlins. "How'd you guess?"

"Your accent's different from everyone else's—though there do seem to be any number of subtle gradations." Fraser closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, as if he were listening to music. "It's lovely," he said, opening his eyes again. "I've never heard anything like it. Would I like New Orleans, do you think?"

Warning bells went off in Ray's head. "We're not going to New Orleans, Fraser."

But Angela had let out a low, voluptuous moan. "Mmm. Sure would." Her eyes were far away and dreamy. "Ain't nothin' not to like. The music. The food...."

"We got music," Ray said, shortly. "We got food."

"Gumbo and catfish and jambalaya, crawfish and oysters and clams—"

"We're not going to New Orleans, Fraser," Ray interrupted, trying to sound as if that was definite, final, not even a question. "We're going to Chicago. We're going home."

Ray knew, right then, that he had blown it. Fraser lay back on the bed, laced his fingers together over his bare stomach, and stared up at the hotel's white stucco ceiling. "Well, I don't know, Ray," he said, and his voice sounded stubborn and kind of sad. "It's not really my home, is it?" and that was the nub of it, the thing that Ray should have remembered before he opened his big fat mouth. "You can, of course, go home any time you like."

Damage control; all he could think to do was control the damage. "We don't have to decide this right now, Fraser," Ray said quickly. "Let's just, uh—take a moment to reflect on, uh. Let's not do anything rash, here. We'll stay put, think things over," Ray said. "Things'll look different in the morning," and strangely enough, that turned out to be true.

---

Angela went back to her cart. Fraser went into the shower. And Ray just stood there, staring at the rumpled bed where Fraser and Angela had just made love, and his mind kept conjuring up the most lurid images: Angela riding Fraser's cock, Fraser's hands tightening on her hips while his mouth opened in silent ecstasy—

The thought propelled him into motion, and he barged his way into the hot, steamy bathroom. The shower was still running and the mirrors were all fogged up—which was just as well, because Ray wasn't sure he could have looked himself in the face just then.

Fraser's head—face flushed, dark hair dripping—poked out from behind the white shower curtain. He looked surprised. "Ray?"

"I'm worried about you," Ray blurted; he wasn't sure that was what he'd actually come in to say, but it was true enough. "I am really fucking worried about you, Fraser. I mean, you do what you want, you sleep with whoever you want. Me, I'm fine with that, because I am not a prude, Fraser; I am a hip, swinging guy who is in touch with," and okay, this was really more than Fraser needed to know, "everything I need to be in touch with," Ray said finally. "So I don't want you to think that I'm judging you, because I am not judging you, Fraser."

Water was spraying through the gap in the shower curtain, and Fraser quickly ducked back into the shower. Ray could hear the disruption of the stream of water as Fraser's body moved under it.

Maybe he shouldn't be thinking of Fraser's body quite this much.

"Go on, Ray," Fraser said. "I'm listening."

Ray's legs felt suddenly rubbery, so he sat down on the closed toilet seat. "Just, I think this is fine, what you're doing," he said, staring down at the white tile floor, "just so long as you're okay and not, you know. Freaking out."

The water stopped, and Ray could hear the gurgle of the drain, the soft drip drip drip of the remaining water onto the porcelain. Ray looked up, waiting.

"I'm all right, Ray," Fraser said finally. "Really, I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Ray said softly, before he could stop himself.

The curtain was abruptly jerked a few inches to the side, and Fraser's arm snaked out and yanked a towel off the rack. A few moments later, Fraser stepped out of the tub, damp and dripping, a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked angry.

"All right, maybe I am freaking out, but I have a right to freak out, at least a little, don't you think? I'm thirty-eight years old, Ray," and holy shit, but Fraser looked good in that towel. Ray stumbled to his feet, mainly so he could maintain eye contact. He didn't think he could handle being at towel-level right now. "And for the last thirteen years, arguably the best years of my life, I've been— I mean, I haven't allowed myself to— You know. " Ray actually thought he did know. "Because I promised her I'd— " Ray was beginning to think that Fraser wasn't going to be able to finish a single sentence, but then Fraser gathered his thoughts and burst out with: "But I'm not blind, goddamnit!"

Ray was shocked more by the actual meaning of Fraser's words than by his unexpected use of profanity, because if Fraser wasn't blind—well, what had he seen, exactly? Ray realized that he pretty much depended on Fraser being blind when it came to matters of the heart, or the 'nads—and he strongly suspected that, in this, he was far from alone.

"I do see when people are flirting with me," Fraser said, crossing his arms over his bare chest, and geez, his nipples were tightening up hard as the bathroom cooled off. Ray forced himself to stare at Fraser's face; if he looked any lower than that, he wasn't going to be accountable for his actions. "I just haven't been at liberty to respond," Fraser added irritably. "I've trained myself not to respond—not just to say 'No,' but not even to think 'Yes.'"

Ray swallowed hard and nodded, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Fraser's face; boy, he knew just what Fraser meant. No, he thought. No, no. Down, boy.

"But now—finally!—I'm free, Ray. So why shouldn't I say yes?" Fraser's skin was flushed with indignation. "It's not as if it's hurting anyone..."

"Course not." Ray knew this part of the best-friend playbook by heart. "You—you should go for it, Fraser," he said. "The world is your oyster, buffet, clams on the halfshell..." He stopped, maybe having taken the seafood thing too far.

"Physical love is a beautiful thing," Fraser insisted, thankfully ignoring his newfound obsession with shellfish. "There's nothing wrong with a healthy expression of physical—"

"You bet," Ray interrupted; he was trying to be supportive, but he didn't think he could stand being lectured on the beauty of physical love by a gorgeous heterosexual Mountie in a towel. "Nothing wrong with it," Ray said, backing slowly toward the door.

But Fraser just followed him into the bedroom. "My whole life, I've been trying to fulfill obligations to other people. My mother, my father, the RCMP," Fraser said, squatting down in his towel next to his discarded jeans and underwear. "Admittedly, I might be overcompensating at the moment," Fraser added, in what had to be the understatement of the freaking year, "but it's awfully nice to be living for myself, for a change."

Ray tried hard, very hard, not to look at where the towel was so obviously gaping. This must be some kind of hell. "Okay, yeah. Sure. Whatever."

"I think I'd like to go back into town." Fraser stood up, one hand clutching the top of the towel, which looked on the verge of slipping off his hips. "We're here, after all, and I've never been south of Chicago. But Atlanta is the real South—and all I've seen of it is the airport and the police station and the county jail. Typically," Fraser added, with just a touch of bitterness.

Ray saw his chance. "Great idea, Fraser! Why don't you, uh. Get dressed." He sat down on the sofa, picked up the remote control, and resolutely turned his attention to the television. A minute later, the bathroom door shut softly.

Fraser's towel was hanging neatly from the knob.

---

Ray supposed he should have seen this coming, Fraser being who he was, but Fraser wanted to go to Stone Mountain Park, which Ray had to admit was a pretty nice park as parks went. Part of it was that it was just a nice day to be outside, all blue sky and green grass and pleasant-warm like Chicago never got. They ate hot dogs and looked at the creepy Confederate carving at the top of the mountain and hiked around the lake, and then Fraser dragged him to tour a pre-war plantation on the south side of the park. Ray supposed he was lacking in historical imagination, but Fraser seemed fascinated by the place, which probably looked like Tomorrowland next to a shack in the Arctic.

Afterwards, maybe throwing him a bone, Fraser revealed that there was a classic car museum on the premises. This contained—holy god— a 1948 Tucker, as well as eight other absolutely one-of-a-kind automobiles, including a 1928 Astin Martin, which was only one of the coolest roadsters ever made, a muscle car before cars even had muscles. Ray spent a happy hour and a half in absolute hog-heaven before the renewed rumblings of his stomach forced him to abandon his elaborate automotive fantasies.

Fraser said he wanted to try some real down-home Southern cooking, and the girl at the information booth was happy to tell Fraser about every single restaurant in the city. Fraser leaned against the counter and smiled and nodded and smiled at her, until Ray finally lost his patience and growled, "All right, Fraser. Enough."

Fraser looked at him guiltily. "I'm sorry, Ray. We'll go right now."

They ended up eating at the place closest to the park, a place called Susie Lou's, which sounded Chinese to Ray but what the hell did he know? Fraser ordered fried chicken with okra, collard greens, and grits, for god's sake, apparently determined to have himself a cultural experience. Ray, who had ordered somewhat more conservatively (burger and fries, Coke), watched while Fraser chowed down happily, mmm-mmming and sensuously licking his fingers.

The waitress—a pretty brunette who looked like Daisy Duke—hovered over the table, refilling Fraser's glass of lemonade, asking how he liked everything, murmuring in a soft southern lilt how she just loved to see a man with an appetite. Ray propped his head on his hand and shot her skeptical looks, and soon she was ignoring him entirely. "Now what'll you have for dessert, honey?" Daisy asked Fraser, showing Ray her back and her perky little backside; geez, if those shorts got any shorter they'd be a fuckin' belt. "We've got some delicious pies, mmm-hmm—my favorite is the pecan pie, we've got a pecan pie to die for." Daisy made a few pornographic "dying for pie" noises.

Fraser didn't seem to mind Daisy's imminent demise-by-pie. "That sounds wonderful," he said. Daisy winked at him and jiggled away. She returned a moment later bearing a humongous slice of pecan pie, which Fraser went at with gusto.

Ray coughed theatrically, and Daisy's head jerked toward him. Hello, I'm Ray Kowalski, and I'm alive. He had the sudden paranoid suspicion that no woman would ever look at him sexually again, not if he kept partnering with Fraser, anyway. "I'll have the same. Plus a cup of coffee, light and sweet."

"Yeah. Sure." It took her five minutes to reappear with the pie, and while Ray had been expecting nothing more than a sliver, it was actually a really generous slice. He was confused for a moment until he realized Daisy's cunning plan—to keep his mouth full while she chatted Fraser up. "So," Daisy began, "where you boys from?"

Ray groaned, knowing that Fraser would be helpless to resist a conversational gambit like that. He was trapped between Northern Courtesy and Southern Hospitality, and the only way out seemed to be to stab a fork into his throat.

"Well, I was born in a barn about seventy-five miles south of the village of Inuvik, in the Northwestern Territories of the Nation of Canada. However, when I was six, I went to live with my grandparents in Tuktoyaktuk..."

Ray had three cups of coffee and two pieces of pie.

"...before coming to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father," Fraser said, quite a while later. Daisy had by now actually pulled up a chair and was making enthusiastic, please-please-go-on noises. "That's where I met Ray," Fraser said, looking at Ray, "though not this Ray, but that's a whole other story, and it takes roughly two years to tell. I'm afraid we haven't got that kind of time," Fraser added, and glanced down at his watch—and then, suddenly, to Ray's great relief, he was up and on his feet and saying, "Goodness, we'd really better go if we want to get to the Cyclorama before it closes!"

Ray loved the Cyclorama. Ray loved the fucking Cyclorama before he even knew what