"So, you're absolutely sure you're all right?" Ray was still looking concerned, and Fraser was trying his hardest not to show his embarrassment.
"Don't worry, I'm fine now. It was just a little tap on the head..."
"Yeah, well... three hours ago you couldn't remember your own name."
"Really Ray, I'm fine." Fraser had decided that the best way to gloss over the whole shameful incident would be to pretend that it hadn't happened... or that if it had happened he couldn't remember it happening. He cringed at the thought of Inspector Thatcher's expression. What must she think of him?
Ray looked at him suspiciously. "Yeah... right, you're fine. Look, I'm glad you're feeling better, and you've got your memory back and everything, but take it easy."
"Yes Ray, I intend to."
"Sure..." his friend continued to look at him dubiously. "You know, I could just swing us back home, I reckon you should stay over at ours tonight, Ma won't mind putting out an extra plate..."
"Oh, no... thank you Ray, but honestly, I think I should just have a bit of peace and quiet." He actually did have a headache, but there was no way he was going to share that fact with Ray. "I'll see you tomorrow after my morning shift."
"I'm sure Thatcher won't expect you to come in..."
"Still, I think I'd sooner just return to work as normal." The sooner he did so the sooner he could start to live down his humiliating performance of earlier that day.
"Okay... well, if you need anything, you know where I am. Just bang on the front door and holler."
"Will do." Fraser smiled, and got out of the green Riviera as quickly as he could without seeming over eager. "Thank you for the lift Ray."
With another worried frown Ray pulled away. Fraser closed his eyes and sighed with relief, before wearily climbing the stairs to his apartment.
'Am I being punished,' he had asked, when he last saw it, only hours ago. At the time his mind had been shaken loose from who he was, from his carefully constructed outer shell. How had that happened, he wondered... how could he so suddenly have lost his persona, the self that protected his self from himself? He had forgotten, however briefly, everything.
Not just everything... everyone. Not only had he forgotten his best friend Ray, he had also forgotten, of all people, Diefenbaker.
Most folks wouldn't count Dief as 'people' of course, because Dief was a wolf, but that was just prejudice on their part. Dief was bound to be sulking though, and with good cause. When Fraser had seen him earlier he had frozen flat against the wall. For all his memory loss he still recognised 'wolf' when he saw one. Not cute, not fluffy, not a 'lovely little doggie,' or whatever the people of Chicago saw. No, Dief was a wolf, and he was not above tearing out a throat if he had to.
Not just any wolf though, Dief was his wolf, in the same way as he was Ray's Benny. Friends.
Yet he had forgotten both of them.
I couldn't help it, he tried to tell himself, but still felt ashamed. Whatever excuse he might make, Deifenbaker had every right to be upset with him. Fraser had, uncharacteristically, persuaded Ray to stop off at a donut shop on the way home, where he purchased some gooey treats for his lupine friend. Maybe he could bribe his way to forgiveness...
"Hello Dief," he said, as he opened the door to his apartment. Dief lay across Fraser's sleeping pallet, with a haughty expression on his face.
"I'm sorry about earlier... okay? Here, I bought you some pastries..."
Dief stretched, and languidly strolled across the floor as though he owned it. He stood for a moment staring at Fraser with what, to Fraser, appeared a very hurt expression. Then he sniffed the proffered peace offering. He tilted his head, gently took the pastry in his mouth, and stalked off to eat in the kitchen. Fraser sighed. No wonder Dief was testy. This city was bad for him. He was increasingly a dog, rather than a wolf. Mad Maggie, the bag lady who lived over the road, would frequently comment on how Dief was "nearly human," as though it were a good thing.
Maybe Dief and he needed a holiday.
...
Ma was telling off the children and Frannie was shouting at Tony for taking the last piece of lasagne. "You can't still be hungry you pig, it's your third slice and I hardly got any." Maria, who would probably have said the same thing if Frannie hadn't got there first, started to raise her voice. "Don't you talk to my husband like that..."
The soundtrack to dinner continued in the background. Ray couldn't taste his food. He was tired, not just from the events of today, but from the slow build up of anxiety and secrets over the past few weeks. At some point he was going to have to talk about... well, 'it'... to his family, to Fraser. But for now he could just keep hoping that nothing would come of it, that somehow he'd be let off the hook.
The more he tried not to think about 'it' the worse the feeling got. Telling Ma would be hard enough, but he knew he could do it. She was a strong woman. What was really getting to him was how he could break the news to Fraser.
Maybe I won't have to, he thought to himself, it's not set in stone. Please God, let it fall through...
Today had reminded him how fragile his friend could sometimes be. Behind the appearance of invincibility was someone who did have feelings, no matter how he hid them, who did get angry, frightened, sad. Ray remembered their experiences in the Northern woods, when Fraser had also hit his head. On that occasion he had first lost his vision, then the use of his legs. At the time Ray hadn't questioned the fact that Fraser had suffered a traumatic injury... but since then he had sometimes wondered. Yes, Fraser really had been helpless, really blind and lame, really did need his help. But sometimes he wondered if the injury had been more psychological than physical. After all, it wasn't long after Victoria, and his friend was still feeling vulnerable and weak. Perhaps...
Oh, stop thinking about it Ray. Fraser's fine, he always pulls through...
Ray couldn't help it though. He couldn't help wondering what would happen to Fraser if this thing that he wasn't thinking about came through.
Silence suddenly drew itself to his attention, and he looked up. Hostilities had ceased around the table, and everyone was looking at him.
"Raimondo? Are you not hungry?" Ray looked down at his plate and realised that he had barely touched his food.
"I'm sorry Ma," he lied. "I'm not feeling well." This, of course, was a mistake. She was leaning across the table, with the back of her hand across his forehead. "I don't feel a fever Raimondo."
"Leave it be Ma, I'm fine. Just tired."
"I don't know what you're complaining about," Frannie grumbled. "You're not the one who fell off a car."
"Why, what happened?" Ma was preparing to get herself into a major flap now. Ray knew all the symptoms, the heightening of the voice, the wringing of the hands, and braced himself for the deluge of questions and suggestions.
"Fraser was trying to catch a criminal, and he fell off a car, bumped his head. Had a bit of memory loss... he's okay now."
"Oh, that poor boy... what were you thinking? You should have brought him here..."
"I did offer," Ray said, trying to hide his irritation. "He said he just wanted to rest..."
"He could rest here..."
"No," Ray snapped. "He needs peace and quiet. And so do I."
With that he jerked to his feet and marched out of the room. There was only so much family concern a man could take.
…
In his dream the world was white. Beneath his paws, beneath the snow, the long dark creaked and groaned. The floe was an icebound giant, and he was running across the bones of it as the deep's slow breath swelled, in and out. And below the skin of the snow, below even the ice, even the shadow, water rushed, the bitter blood of winter, slow pulsing with the tides.
He ran, muzzle to the snow, following the scent of his companions, and all around him the blizzard was his home, and all around him the wolves were his kin.
Fraser sat up, sweating, his heart racing in his chest. He'd had one of those dreams again... He hadn't had one of those dreams since he first befriended Dief, or Dief befriended him, whichever way round it was.
Dief was lying across the foot of Fraser's sleeping pallet. He was yipping in his sleep, feet twitching. Fraser lay back down and pulled the sheets up to his chin. "Stop dreaming so loud Dief," he declared. "I don't give you dreams about standing sentry duty or picking up dry cleaning, stop giving me tundra dreams, it's confusing." Unsurprisingly Dief said nothing in reply.
Fraser grunted, rolled over, and fell back into a dreamless sleep.
…
The following morning he bit the bullet, and walked into work as though nothing had happened. All the way there Ray's advice played through his mind... "take it easy... Thatcher won't expect you to come in..." He shook his head. He had to do this. Even if he took the day off he wouldn't be able to relax... he would simply brood, and feel increasingly ridiculous.
Tucking his hat securely under his arm he marched through the consulate doors, and cheerfully greeted Turnbull, who, oddly, was on his hands and knees, with a pair of tweezers. He appeared to be plucking the carpet.
"Oh, Constable," Turnbull leapt to his feet. "I'm so glad to see you well..."
"Is there some reason that I shouldn't be?"
"Oh, don't you remember... ?"
"I'm fine. Had a bit of a glitch yesterday, today I'm fine."
"Oh, good... good. Just, we weren't expecting to see you today..."
"Why ever not?" Fraser fixed his colleague with an innocent gaze.
"Oh, of course... I'm sorry... I misunderstood..." Turnbull looked embarrassed, then with a sideways smile got back onto his knees and recommenced plucking the floor with his tweezers.
"May I ask what you're doing?" Fraser was truly puzzled.
"Oh... I noticed that the carpet isn't of a consistent colour. I'm removing those threads that are too dark or too pale..."
Fraser was a great stickler for detail, and had taken his share of mockery for it. He'd got used to that. However, even to him Turnbull appeared to be paying a little too much attention to detail.
"Is the Inspector happy with your current activities?"
"Oh, yes... she told me to..." Turnbull paused, and thought, recalling the exact words to memory. He brightened up as he retrieved them: "she told me to just shut up and get on with it."
"Oh... good." Fraser blinked, trying not to betray his bewilderment. "So long as that is all sorted..."
Thatcher looked suitably frosty when he entered her office.
"Constable. I'm surprised to see you in today. Do you consider yourself fit for duty?"
"Yes Sir. I apologise for yesterday, though I'm not sure I remember a great deal about it."
"I see. Are there any other gaps in your memory?"
Fraser paused. It suddenly flooded over him, the reason for her chilly behaviour. She thought he had forgotten the kiss... Yesterday she asked had he forgotten their 'contact'? At the time he answered no, but today... Yes, he remembered. However, she didn't know that. Wouldn't that be easier all round, if he didn't remember the kiss?
She stared at him intently. "Well, Constable? Have you completely regained your memory?"
"Well, Sir, I'm not necessarily the best person to reassure you, but I think so... I certainly know enough to resume my duties. There are still a few spotty details of a personal nature, but..."
"Of a personal nature?"
"Yes Sir." Fraser stuck fast to his fib. "I'm afraid that some personal issues remain fuzzy. But I do remember my job."
Thatcher sighed. "I should have guessed as much. You're all duty Constable."
"Thank you Sir."
She gave him 'the look'. "You have sentry duty. I'll see you this afternoon, one pm, to discuss the ambassadorial visit."
"Yes Sir." Fraser had actually forgotten about 'the visit'. One of those endlessly boring events where everybody walked around pretending that beluga caviare tasted of anything other than fish's eggs. "That's tonight?"
"Yes." She gave him the look, again. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"No Sir," he bobbed his head and took a step back. "Thank you Sir."
Thatcher watched him leave the room, and kept her teeth clenched. She realised that she should maybe, today of all days, cut him some slack. But she was still upset that he'd forgotten the kiss. It was petty, but still...
She'd ask Turnbull to keep an eye on him. Just in case he looked peaky or something... so that someone else could be the one to cut him some slack and she could save face.
…
The ambassadorial visit lived up to Fraser's low expectations. It was as beautiful on the outside and as hollow in the inside as a rotten acorn. The oak panelled room gleamed with ambient light, smelled of beeswax, candles and wealth. All around him politicians, business men, and the occasional actor were drifting around the room, finding their orbit, forming little cliques. Inspector Thatcher floated from group to group, he assumed to liaise, a vision of startling loveliness in a blue chiffon gown. The fabric flowed and clung to her legs in such a way that... Fraser made an effort and stopped looking. Uncomfortably he ran a finger along the inside of his collar. The uniform was itching again.
Yesterday he'd told Ray that the uniform itched. He'd never told anybody that before, he realised. He'd barely even acknowledged it to himself... to suggest that a symbol of the law was less than perfect was unthinkable, as though the uniform was not just a symbol, but somehow what it represented. He wondered did the Law itself sometimes 'itch', did others find it less than a perfect fit? He had tried to live within the constraints of Law's boundaries... but yes, he admitted, sometimes it itched. Sometimes he just wanted to cut and run, away from stuffy functions, sentry duty, paper work.
Stop moping, he told himself. It's not that bad, after all. The uniform only itched on very hot days, standing sentry for example, or on occasions like this one, when the room quickly became overheated by the press of bodies "mingling." Of course, he had a lower tolerance for heat than most people, having grown up in the Yukon and North West Territories. The room felt like a sauna to him, and he wished he could step outside into a snowy night. Just for a moment.
"Constable Fraser," Thatcher spoke from behind his left ear. He jumped. He'd been so caught up in his own thoughts that he'd stopped paying attention to the room. "What are you doing? You're my deputy liaison officer, so liaise."
"Yes Sir," Fraser blinked. "Is there anything you want me to talk about?"
"So long as it's not the mating calls of wild moose, or some great white North story then I'm sure you'll be fine." She put the flat of her hand against the small of his back and pushed. He stepped forward into the press of warm bodies, and smiled, hoping that the rabbit trapped in headlights look could be mistaken for an enthusiastic welcome.
…
Ray was waiting for his FBI contact at the flat they'd provided for him. He mooched around the kitchen, trying to scrape enough ingredients together to make a decent meal. He knew he should do a "proper shop" at some point, but to stock this kitchen would feel like he was admitting the situation, as though he were abandoning the noise of his family. Half way house, he thought, they've got me in limbo, half way between my real life and this undercover nonsense they're trying to push down my throat.
Hence the flat. Ray's house was home to too many people, it would be impossible for Ray to be trained under the family roof. So here Ray was, on a Friday night, staring at a nearly empty fridge, and wondering if he should give up trying to cook and just order in a pizza.
He had a pang when he thought of pizza. Pizza was his and Benny's thing. It wouldn't feel the same eating a pizza by himself.
Before he could make his mind up about his dinner arrangements the door to his apartment opened, and in walked two of the most obvious looking FBI agents he had ever seen. Both were well over six foot, wearing black sunglasses, black suits. Their shoes shone, and even their skin seemed polished.
"Yeah, let yourselves in, why don't you? I've got nothing better to do."
"Mr Vecchio." The blond guy was talking. "We left you with photos and footage of Mr Armando Langustini. Have you had a chance to do your homework?"
"Yeah yeah." Ray sighed, and gave up the idea of eating tonight. "I've been looking at all the mugshots. You're right, he does look like me."
"So, are you going to do it?"
"Give me a chance to think first. First of all, anyone who knows him is going to know I'm not him, there are always some subtle differences. I mean, I can't know everything about the man, someone could catch me out any time. And how am I going to do the voice?"
"There are ways and means." The red haired guy cut in. "The voice is not a serious problem, it's simply slightly gruffer than yours. If the target didn't smoke then I'm sure you'd sound pretty identical to each other."
Ray pulled a face. "You're not going to get me to smoke."
The FBI guys remained silent. Ray sighed.
"Look," he conceded, "I'll watch the videos, I'll read up on the guy, but I'm not promising anything. I have a life here you know, I don't want to give it up. I've got family to support, I've got friends..." I've got Benny, he thought, but didn't say. "There are folks who rely on me."
"If you take on this assignment you will be directly benefiting not just your immediate family but the larger community, you will have a substantially increased income, which you can use to support your family, and you will have an expense account, no questions asked."
"Yeah, money isn't everything. I could wind up with a bullet through my head, and who will look after my family then?"
"If you were to die in the line of duty then rest assured, your family would be taken care of."
"That's a great comfort to me," Ray felt a sneer curling at the corner of his lip, and didn't bother to hide it.
"Detective Vecchio, there is nobody else who can do this job for us." The blond guy was speaking earnestly. "You have a knowledge of the Italian American community, you speak the language both figuratively and literally... and you could be this guy's twin. Where else can we find someone who looks so much like the guy who happens to be bilingual in English and idiomatic Italian? There is nobody else."
That was what really got him, where the knife really twisted in his gut. Why did this guy, this villain they wanted him to replace, why did he have to be so very much like him? If he had to have a twin out there in the world, some kind of a double, then what kind of sign was it that the guy was a crook? Maybe it was in the genes and Ray could just as easily have got mobbed up as joined the police force.
Well, Pa would have liked that.
He really didn't want to do this assignment...
The FBI guys were making themselves completely comfortable, setting up the video, for all the world as though they'd come around to watch the game.
"Detective Vecchio," the blond called, imperiously, "we have footage of the target, you'll want to see this."
He didn't, but he sat on the edge of the sofa and watched it anyway.
This isn't going away, he thought, miserably. I've got to tell them, Ma, Frannie, Benny...
On the television Ray's double was sitting at a bar in a strip joint, discussing 'business' with a mob boss. Ray's skin began to creep.