We have two Italian readers now! And a whopping 11 in the UK. That's even more awesome because I just found out that the guy who played me in this world was actually born in England! Kinda crazy how well he did my accent. Enjoy chapter 16. ~Ray K.

Chapter Sixteen: Dreams And Donkeys

I can remember my mom telling me and my dad about some crazy dreams she'd had. My dad didn't have much tolerance for listening to a second-hand dream. He'd get bored or frustrated because it didn't make any sense. But I liked my mom's dreams. A lot of them made me laugh, and we liked to try to figure out where they had come from.

Some people don't dream at all. Well, they do, but they don't remember their dreams. I've learned since coming to Mairead's world that everyone actually does dream, but some people have such regular sleep cycles that their brains have always finished the dreaming phase and forgotten about the dreams by the time they wake up. If you woke one of those people up during "REM cycle," they would remember dreaming like anyone else does. But for the sake of what stays in the memory, we'll say they don't dream.

Sometimes I wish I didn't dream. I don't every night, and sometimes when I do, they're OK dreams. Nice, even. But now and then, I have a nightmare. When I was a kid I had a couple of recurring nightmares. One was being abducted by aliens. Another took a lot of different shapes, but it was always at least loosely based on the time I wet my pants in public. It sucked. Since then, I've moved on to more grown-up themes which also suck: My dog dying. Getting shot. Watching my partner die. Losing a crucial piece of evidence. Screwing up my marriage. And the big one that lasted from childhood to adulthood: Drowning.

I never learned to swim. I liked kiddie pools when I was little, sitting outside in the sun, splashing around... but I was always scared of going into deep water. Maybe all my mom's warnings to not "go in over my head" had made me shy of it in the first place, but it took just one time of getting water up my nose to make me think I never wanted to swim in the deep end of any pool. The feeling of water closing over my head, the liquid that is so refreshing in a glass was burning through my nasal passages, attacking my lungs. I couldn't scream. Couldn't cry. Couldn't even cough. Couldn't even breathe.

I think sheer terror was what finally got me to hack most of the water out. Then I could gasp a little, only to cough again. Again and again. It didn't help that my mom was freaking out, asking me if I was OK, patting me on the back... none of that did any good. I couldn't answer her.

I was all right; no trips to the hospital or anything. But I was scared spitless of going underwater after that. Whenever a school friend had a pool party, I told my mom I didn't want to go. I sometimes said I felt sick. Sometimes I just asked her to say that I was sick. Sometimes the thought of going legitimately made me sick.

When I got older, I got kind of all right with boats. I guess it's like someone afraid of heights doing all right on a bridge as long as they don't spend a lot of time looking over the side. There's something strong between you and what you're afraid of, and you trust that whoever made it—the boat or the bridge—knew what they were doing, and it'll hold you. You don't panic unless you look down too much and start psyching yourself out.

As a full-grown adult, I had logic on my side. Even though I still couldn't swim, I knew more or less what to expect from water. I still didn't want to attempt swimming in deep water, but I could be around it. That's why I was willing to drive the Riviera into Lake Michigan, even though it seemed likely I wouldn't make it out alive. Better for me and the crazy Mountie to drown than for us to endanger a lot more lives by continuing to drive around in a flaming vehicle, or so he convinced me in the literal heat of the moment. That was our first case together. Good times.

I knew about getting out of a sinking car. I forgot to put my window down before we hit the water, but I got my seatbelt off with no problem and waited for the water pressure to rise inside the car so I could get the door open. As the car sank, I was crawling out the half-open door, onto the roof of the car, and then pushing off it... then I was flailing toward the shore. Flailing wildly and making no headway. I felt something brush my hand and I freaked out a little, thinking it was some sea creature. But a split second later, I realized it was the wolf and I grabbed on. He pulled me along a little until I lost my grip. Then something else caught my coat and started pulling me. It was Fraser, of course. Somehow he managed to keep both our heads out of the water enough to keep breathing, and also got us back to the pier just behind Diefenbaker.

They'd saved my life, though I wasn't quite ready to admit it. Still, it made me kind of cocky, and I decided to trust my bullet-proof vest to give us the upper hand when we confronted the arsonist. Just like I hoped, we were a one-two punch, only in this case I set her up and he knocked her down. It was still a win, so I didn't worry about the order too much. And being alive was a bonus at that point.

Then had come that crazy-ass case that had me and Fraser sailing around looking for crooks and singing sea chanties... Fraser says it's spelled chanteys... anyway, the important thing is, we got trapped on a sinking ship. I can't think of a time in my life when I was more terrified. I had already told Fraser I couldn't swim, and then he got me into that mess.

I was able to keep from losing my head because of that grown-up logic. I kind of knew how to float, and I knew what it would feel like if I got water in my lungs, and though I didn't want to die that way, at least I knew how bad it would feel... there's a strange kind of resolve that can come over a person when they know exactly how much they're about to be hurting. But I didn't want to die, and I did have a few panicky moments. If Fraser hadn't been with me, there's no doubt in my mind that I would have died. The "swimming lesson" he gave me was pretty pathetic—I could barely make any progress, and it took me forever—but it was enough to keep me kicking. Literally. Barely.

That night that Dief somehow detected my nightmare, it was a drowning dream. I was trapped underwater. I could hear the water rushing around me as I frantically reached out, searching for anything that could help me get out. I couldn't tell which way was up. I was going to die.

Then the rushing turned into barking, knocking, and a voice. Someone was on the deck of the sinking ship, trying to find me. They knocked on the wooden planks and called my name.

"I'm here," I tried to shout, but my voice was muffled by water. "Fraser!" I screamed, but hardly any sound came out. As I sucked in another huge breath, I woke up with a sickening rush of vertigo, coughing hoarsely.

I panted a few times.

"Ray?"

Fraser seemed to be knocking at the door of my apartment. I crawled out of bed, noting the time on my digital alarm clock, glanced down at my sleeveless shirt and sweatpants just to reassure myself that I was more or less clothed—no sense in sparking a new series of nightmares in the "I forgot an important article of clothing" category—and hurried to the door.

When I opened it, Fraser seemed poised to charge toward me.

"Fraser?"

"Ray." He was looking at me kind of wide-eyed.

"What's going on? It's two-thirty in the morning," I said, sounding pretty whiny, I guess. My throat felt tight.

"Diefenbaker woke me. He seemed to think you were in some distress."

"Really?" I looked at Dief and cleared my throat "I figured only one of those epiphany thingies would get you over here in your Boy Scout pajamas..."

"So, you weren't in distress?"

I glanced at him and then avoided his gaze. This was kind of awkward. "Well... no, not really."

"Not really?"

"Well, I was... having a sort of a... a nightmare."

"Oh."

I knew Fraser knew I had nightmares occasionally, and he'd never pestered me about them, but I still felt kind of embarrassed about it. I kept meaning to try to find that dream catcher he'd made me for Ray's birthday, but I couldn't remember where I'd stashed it and kept forgetting to look. "But he's deaf," I said, wanting to redirect the conversation. "So, how would he know that from inside your apartment?"

Fraser shrugged. "Perhaps he detected adrenaline in the air."

"Are you for real, Fraser?"

"Vibrations through the floor..."

"That's really... far fetched." When I looked at Dief, he moved closer and I petted his head. "I'm fine," I told him. I appreciated Dief's concern. He seemed to be taking his good neighbor duties to heart, and this wasn't the first time he had woken me up from nightmares. He was weirdly empathetic when it came to things like that.

"Did this nightmare have something to do with a case?" Fraser asked.

"No. Well, not directly," I said. I didn't want to talk about it, so I added, "It was just a dream."

"Quite... well, if you're all right, we should go back to bed."

"Yeah. G'night."

"Good night." He and Dief went back to his doorway.

"Fraser?" I said quickly. "Thanks... for checking on me."

He nodded. "Of course." He closed his door.

Of course... Fraser was the best friend I'd ever had. Of course he wouldn't ignore Dief. Of course he would check on me. Of course it was no trouble. Of course I could count on him.

Of course, I was embarrassed as hell. But for some reason, I felt good, too. My best friend was right across the hall. Nothing bad could happen to me while he was there. I wasn't going to let a dream get the better of me.

Of course, I had the dream again later that night, but this time I woke up before it got very far. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Friday, we learned that Ray's former associate Giuliano De Luca had been arrested, and was being transported to Chicago Saturday for his arraignment on Monday. Even though we were pretty sure he wouldn't have a chance to send anyone else after Ray's family, we would all keep our eyes peeled for trouble. Ray wouldn't say exactly what he had done to get De Luca so pissed off at him. I thought he would at least tell Fraser, but apparently not. Whether because he didn't want it to effect Fraser's opinion of him, or because he really took his oath to secrecy that seriously, I'm not sure. In the meantime, we had our new case/cold case to work on.

"I feel like I'm looking at tabloids," I complained. "You know, the 'What they're doing now' articles about celebs after they get old."

"Except they're way too ugly to be celebrities," Franny put in, looking over my shoulder at the pictures on my computer screen.

"Yeah, that's the one difference," I muttered.

Just when we were getting back to work after lunch, we were surprised by a visit from Constable Turnbull.

"Constable Fraser," he said, saluting Fraser unnecessarily.

"Turnbull," Fraser answered, returning the salute clearly out of tact.

"Inspector Lam asked me to tell you that he needs to speak to you on a certain matter at your convenience."

Fraser tilted his head. "And you felt it necessary to find me here in order to tell me something that can wait for a time of my convenience?"

"No sense in putting things off. And besides, I was already out on my lunch hour."

"I see. Well... thank you."

Turnbull nodded. "You're welcome!" He turned to Francesca. "Miss Vecchio, I also have some information that you might find useful."

"Me?" Franny asked.

"Yes indeedy. If you would be so kind as to accompany me somewhere quieter."

"Uh... I guess..."

Ray looked very confused as they left. "What's Fraser Junior doing with my sister?" he asked, sounding more bewildered than annoyed.

"During your absence, Constable Turnbull formed a friendship with Francesca," Fraser explained. "Most notably, she enlisted his help in finding a country song which contained the word 'donkey.' As of yet, he has come up with one which contained the word 'mule.' But by the look on his face, I'm guessing he hit nearer the mark this time."

"I thought she finally dropped that," I said.

"She may well have, but once Turnbull gets a goal in his mind, he doesn't let it go easily."

"Who does that remind me of?" Ray muttered.

A minute later, we heard quiet guitar music coming from the lunchroom.

"You were right," I said. I called over to detective Huey, "Hey, I think Franny may have finally found that donkey song."

"Who cares?" said Dewy.

Huey shrugged. "Took her long enough. I forgot about that a long time ago."

But we all set aside whatever we were doing when Francesca and Turnbull returned a few minutes later.

"Gentlemen," Franny said loudly, "we have... a song very much featuring the word 'donkey!' Turnbull?"

The Mountie put his foot up on a chair, resting his guitar on his knee, and began to strum and sing. "I bought me a donkey, 'bout four foot tall to plow my cotton in the early fall..."

Franny was grinning ear to ear while Turnbull sang, but by the time he got to the second chorus, Dewy interrupted.

"That's not country."

"It's folk at best," said Huey.

Turnbull stopped playing. "I must object," he said. "This is Johnny Horton, award-winning country and rockabilly singer."

"So, it's rockabilly," said Dewy.

"Oh, come on!" Franny erupted. "Just admit it! There are country songs about donkeys!"

"If we admit it, will you let this go?" asked Huey.

"I guess so," Franny said, looking like she hated to let them off so easy.

"Fine. There are country songs about donkeys."

Franny looked at Dewy and he nodded reluctantly. She grinned and gave Turnbull a high five.

"Now, you need to admit that not all country is sob stories and donkey ballads," Huey said.

Franny laughed. "I don't have to admit anything. And I don't have to like what I don't like. I can think country sucks if I want to."

"Oh, I do hope you'll change your mind about that," Turnbull said in a tone so earnest it was almost painful.

"I'll tell you what," said Huey. "I'll bet you that we can find a country song you like."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Well... no money on this, right? Just a flat bet?"

"No money."

"Okay. You've got a week."

"You had months!" Dewy objected.

"That's fine," said Huey. "I'm sure we can find one." He whispered something to his partner, who snickered.

"Is the concert over?" demanded Lieutenant Welsh, who I suddenly realized had been standing in his doorway for a while.

We all tried to look busy.

"In case you've forgotten, this is a police station, not a night club, a honky-tonk bar or jazz cafe. Got that?"

"Yes, sir," we chorused.

"Good. So, police, do your policing. And you..." he looked at Turnbull, who assumed perfect military stature, guitar at his side. "You go back wherever you came from. One is enough."

"Yes, sir!" Turnbull saluted.

Welsh shook his head and went back into his office.

Once the door closed, we all sighed, or in Franny's case, chuckled.

"Thanks... Renfield," Franny said. She got up on her tiptoes and kissed Turnbull's cheek, seeming to turn him bright red in an instant.

"Oh, you're very welcome, miss Francesca. I'd best be going now." The constable hurried from the bullpen.

I watched him go, not knowing whether or not to feel threatened. I caught Ray looking at me, and I knew he wasn't sure what to make of it, either. Maybe I was looking like an okay boy friend for his sister now, by comparison if nothing else.

More to come, but feel free to comment on what's already up. ~Ray K.