CHAPTER TWO

Ray flipped the defroster on and swiped his arm across the windshield to clear the condensate from his view. As he did, he said, "Hockey! Give me a break!"

"Hear me out, Ray," Fraser continued, ticking points off on his gloved fingers. "Hockey builds strength, endurance, cardiovascular fitness, character ..."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Character, right. It's an excuse for a fistfight!"

"I deplore that element of the game, Ray. But really, it is a small part of the sport. In international and college play, fighting is seldom seen. I grant you it's crept in to the minor leagues and to a lesser extent, the NHL, but it's not encouraged. Recent rule changes and enforcement are having a chilling effect." He paused, "No pun intended."

Ray gave Fraser a disbelieving look, but didn't argue the point. "Be that as it may, basketball is the people's sport. It's cheap. It's accessible. You can play anytime, anywhere. "

"I'm not denigrating basketball. After all, it was invented by —"

"Yeah, yeah. A Canadian. I know."

But Fraser was on a roll. "There's a purity to the athleticism combined with a ... grace ... and dexterity in hockey that you don't see in any other sport. A ... a ... gestalt, if you will. Ice skating, difficult in and of itself, must be mastered, then add to it the stickplay, goal-tending –"

Ray shook his head, vigorously. "Any kid can pick up a basketball and dream that he's Michael Jordan. He doesn't need anything else. With hockey, you need all that equipment, a rink, a Zamboni—"

"Not where I come from, Ray."

"Right, you carved your own sticks from the forest, used your grandmother's bunnocks as pucks ..."

"Bannocks," Fraser corrected automatically. Then nodded, "They made great pucks, as long as one of the dogs didn't get to them."

"With basketball, all you need is a hoop, and a ball. You don't even need a team. One on one." He gave Fraser a sidewise look. "Speaking of which, I am not picking you for my team, ever again. Not after that fiasco last week. Shut out by the Fire Department! I'll never live that down! "

Fraser hung his head.

"I don't understand it. You're a great player one-on-one, but you suck at a real game."

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser looked earnestly at his friend. "We never had enough players for a regulation game. Usually only my friend, Innussiq, and me, against a couple of Huskies." He looked down at his hands. "More often than not, it was just me. I admit I haven't mastered the finer points of team play." He rubbed at an eyebrow. "And I confess that I find the garbage-speak distracting."

"You mean, trash talking?"

"Yes."

"You just have to ignore it." The dash clock said 1:15. They had been sitting in the Riv for nearly three hours. Their conversation, like every stakeout conversation of Ray's experience, had meandered all over the map. Station gossip, local politics (of which Fraser was surprisingly well informed,), the best junkyards (of which Ray was very well informed), the program for the upcoming concert at St. Mike's, the best place in the city for tiramisu and the like. Ray rubbed gritty eyes. The nervous energy that had fueled him for the past several days since his mother's emergency admission was starting to dissipate. The noise coming from the back of the Riv wasn't helping his fatigue.

"How do you sleep with that racket?" he muttered, bobbing his head toward the back seat as he shifted to relieve stiff muscles.

"Practice," Fraser replied. He peered through his small spyglass at the dark high-rise building. They were parked in a back alley which gave them the perfect vantage point.

"You should have him checked for sinus problems," Ray complained, then added. "Do wolves have sinuses?" He peered through his own small pair of binoculars, then wiped the lenses on his shirt. He tried again, then rubbed his bleary eyes instead.

"I have. They do. And there's nothing to be done, short of surgery. I can't put him through that for my own convenience." Fraser winced at a particularly loud snort and whuffle. "I really can't," he repeated, as if trying to convince himself. "It's been worse in the city. Something about the quality of the air, I think."

"Quality of the air," Ray snorted. "Right. In Chicago."

Fraser set the spyglass on the dashboard. "I have to use the ... you know," gesturing with his head to the 24 hour gas station/mini-mart down the block. "Do you want anything?"

"Coffee." Ray picked up the binoculars again. "And a donut." The snoring stopped abruptly. Fraser reluctantly pulled the seat forward for Diefenbaker, then shut the door quietly. Ray picked up the abandoned spyglass and peered through it, then set it back on the dash. He smiled sheepishly. Using the device made him feel like a low rent Captain Hook.

He used the binoculars again, stifling a yawn. For the past three nights, they had been watching the apartment of a suspect in a string of robbery/assaults that had taken place in the Cabrini-Green neighborhood. That part of town was undergoing an inexorable gentrification process. Most of it still looked like Fraser's neighborhood, but it was slowly and surely being edged out by young urban professional housing.

One of Ray's snitches had given them a lead to a fence who had some of the stolen property in his possession. The fence wasn't talking, protesting his innocence as a mere put-upon pawnbroker. But Fraser had sniffed and licked, matching a substance on the stolen items to the crime-scene evidence. They'd traced the items, through a dazzling but unlikely series of deductions involving the resinous-like substance, to a wilderness outfitters club on Wacker. A bit of tracking by Dief, and some good, old-fashioned detective work had led them to a member of the club who kept himself fit with daily climbs of the rock wall, first dusting hands and feet with the resin. Paul Maxwell was an unlikely suspect with a respectable day job. Not enough evidence to arrest and charge, or even to question an apparently law-abiding taxpayer with no priors. But enough to justify the time spent in watching the guy, Ray hoped. Any suspicious activity they observed might be able to get them a warrant.

The m.o. was consistent. The burglaries took place late at night, always when the victims, always young single males, were home in bed. The common thread among the victims was the club on Wacker. The thief got in without any sign of a break-in, struck the sleeping occupant on the head to knock them out, then took his time in ransacking the apartment before disappearing without a trace. The frequency of the incidents was increasing, the violence escalating. The latest victim, a young stockbroker, had suffered a skull fracture in addition to losing cash, bonds, and jewelry.

Fraser had a theory that the nocturnal cycle, in addition to offering obvious concealment in darkness, accommodated the suspect's day job. The shared locker room could have given him easy access to the victims' keys.

Ray also had a theory - the guy liked busting heads of helpless sleeping people who could not defend themselves. He hoped they were both right, because they had no other suspects. The night-time security at his apartment building confirmed no ingress or egress in the wee hours by anyone on the nights in question. But the security cameras only surveyed the front and rear entrances to the building and the access doors to roof and basement. The top floors of the building were unconverted empty spaces that were sealed up tight. However, each finished loft apartment had a fire escape that was not visible to security cameras. Hence their unsanctioned stakeout. According to the security tapes, their suspect had gone in, but hadn't come out. Just like the nights of the burglaries. They had been watching his fifth floor (the highest occupied level) fire escape for the past three nights, to no avail.

The car door opened and Ray was face to face with a panting wolf. "Whew, doggie breath, Dief," he said, waving a hand in front of his nose. He instantly looked chagrined and slunk into the back. Ray called over his shoulder, "Nothing personal. I'm sure I'm no daisy." As he said it, he breathed into the palm of his hand, confirming it. "I need a shower," he said, sniffing at his shirt.

"Yes," said Fraser, handing him the coffee and a small paper bag.

"Thanks." Ray blew on the coffee, then yawned wide enough that Fraser heard his jaws creak.

"Ray, if you want to go home, I can –"

"I'm fine."

Fraser stole a glance at him. Ray's weariness was evident in the slump of his shoulders and the circles under his eyes. He doubted his friend had slept properly for several days.

"You're exhausted."

"I'm not leaving you here without a gun or backup."

"I have Diefenbaker," Fraser said, but his protest was immediately undercut by a burst of snoring from the back seat. Dief could fall asleep at the drop of a Stetson.

"Or jurisdiction."

Fraser had no reply to that. "I'm fine," Ray said, in a tone that brooked no argument. He stifled another yawn and changed the subject. "Hey, you'll never guess who I saw the other day."

"Barry Manilow."

"No," Ray said, giving him a strange look.

"Princess Diana."

"Nope."

"Saddam Hussein."

"How could I possibly see Saddam Hussein in downtown Chicago?"

"Well, you said I'd never guess. Was it–?"

Ray cut in before they played Twenty Thousand Questions. "Joey Paducci."

"Oh," Fraser said. "Well, I might have guessedif you had given me a chance." He saw Ray's expression. "Uh ... how is Joey?"

"Great. He's doing great. He's expanding the shop into the vacant space next door."

"That's good."

"Business has really been booming. Apparently, he's the go-to shoe guy for the Canadians in the city. You must have really talked him up."

"Not really. His work speaks for itself."

"He says the Dragon Lady is one of his best customers."

"The Inspector appreciates quality footwear."

"The better to grind you under her heel with," Ray cackled, rubbing his hands together in a fair imitation of the Wicked Witch of the West, "and your little wolf, too," At Fraser's mystified look, he said, "Never mind."

"That's a tad harsh, Ray. Inspector Thatcher expects no more from her subordinates than she does from herself."

"OK. Sorry." Ray dropped that subject. Fraser was loyal to a fault when it came to his superior officer. Even though she had put him on probation at their first meeting and tried to fire him on the second. And consigned him to sentry duty as punishment anytime she got her nose out of joint. Which was often. He shook his head. "Anyway, Joey and his ex are reconciling. Doing it up right. Big Italian wedding they never had the first time around. "

"Ray, that's wonderful."

"Yeah. His son was in the shop. Cute kid. Has his own little bindlestiff."

"Stitch." At Ray's puzzled look, he said, "The shoemaker's tool. It's not stiff," he elaborated. Ray blinked at him. "It's called a bindlestitch."

"Whatever." He continued, letting the unintentional double entendre pass without comment. "I wouldn't be surprised if we were invited to the wedding. Or re-wedding. What do you call it when you remarry your ex-wife?"

"I imagine Joey calls it bliss," he said, drily.

Ray smiled. "Yeah, I think he probably does."

"I've never been to an Italian wedding," Fraser mused. "Actually, other than Inuit and the odd civil ceremony at the Consulate, I've never been —

"The Dragon Lady can marry people?" Ray exclaimed. "Oh, sure! The Consulate is foreign soil, so she's like the Captain of a ship, right?"

"No, Ray. She can't. Weddings are strictly governed by the laws of the host country. But, since I have been assigned, there have been two weddings at the Consulate with an American official, uh, officiating." He chuckled. "In fact, I was drafted as best man at one. The groom's best friend had over-indulged at the bachelor party and ended up on a lakeboat headed to Duluth. With the wedding ring in his pocket. I had to improvise. Napkin ring from the Queen's tea service. Over Turnbull's strenuous objection, I might add."

"Don't talk to me about bachelor parties. What I mostly remember of my own wedding was trying not to throw up on the priest." Ray grimaced. "Boy, was Angie mad! Locked me out of the honeymoon suite for a couple of hours. Still, when we made up ..." He stopped, licking his lips. He felt Fraser's eyes on him. "Well," he shrugged, "you know how it is. The bigger the fight, the better the makeup s-" He cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. "So! What's an Inuit wedding like?"

"Traditionally, the groom gives his bride a new set of clothes."

Ray waited. "That's it?"

"Yes."

"Then, they're married?"

"Yes."

"No church, no bridesmaids, no wedding planners?"

"No."

"Huh." Ray tried to imagine such a no-fuss, no-frills event without success.

Fraser leaned close. "When I was eight, Innussiq convinced me that I had married his little sister, June." He looked rueful. "I had loaned her my mittens."

"You sure you're not?"

"Not entirely, no."

Ray laughed, then sobered. "Uh, Fraser. That shirt I gave you at Christmas?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"I was re-gifting, not proposing."

"Understood." He paused, thoughtfully. "Wedding customs are fascinating, Ray. What may have started out with a practical basis in reality can become ritualized to the point of abstraction." He turned in his seat to face him. "For example, in ancient times, the groom often abducted his bride. He needed a small army of friends to hold off the bride's angry relations which led to the tradition of a best man and groomsmen. Or the bundle of garlic, herbs and grain thought to keep away evil spirits has now become the bouquet of flowers that the bride throws to maidens in waiting." He scratched his chin. "I find wedding ceremonies to be quite compelling. Anthropologically speaking, of course."

"Then, you're gonna love an Italian wedding." Ray had been to more than his share. "You should see some of the anthropods on the Vecchio side." He took a bite of donut. "Food's good too."

Fraser looked thoughtful. "Have you ever attended a Polish wedding, Ray?"

"You kidding? Half my neighborhood was Polish. I don't know who puts on the better feedbag, us or them. Of course, the best are the mixed marriages." Fraser looked a question. "Y'know, Polish bride, Italian groom. Or vice versa." He nodded sagely. "Now, that's a shindig."

"Ah. Then perhaps you can explain." Fraser turned to him expectantly. "What role does the 'plah swan' play at a Polish wedding?"

"Huh?"

"A plah swan?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. How do you spell it?

"I don't know. Phoenetically, p-l-a-h s-w-a-n."

Ray scratched his head. "Where did you get that one?"

"Yesterday. In the canteen. I overheard two women talking about a Polish wedding they were planning to attend and the 'plah swan' one had to invite." He looked at Ray with the scholarly zeal of a librarian's grandson. "From their conversation, I gathered it was some sort of ritualistic figure required for the ethnic ceremony, offered up as a token sacrifice. Perhaps, similar to a Chinese ghost wedding or the Ukrainian custom of the couple burning an effigy of the matchmaker in symbolic revenge."

"Plah swan. Plah swan," Ray repeated slowly. "Plus swun. Plus one! The date!"

"Next month. I don't know the exact day –"

"No, no, they were talking about their dates. You know, on the invitation?"

Fraser looked blank.

"Oh, right. So, you've never gotten a wedding invitation, right?" At Fraser's nod, he continued. " See, if you're single, the invite is addressed to "Mr. Benton Fraser, plus one" or "Mr. Raymond Vecchio, plus one. Bring a date, fill in the blank. The 'plus one.'"

"Oh, I see." He got an odd expression on his face. "Oh, dear."

"What?"

"Nothing, Ray."

"C'mon, Benny."

Fraser squirmed in his seat. "I don't know if I should tell you this. I mean it was a private conversation. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but, as you know, my hearing is particularly acute. " He shifted position, clearly uncomfortable. "On the other hand, you are my friend. Ethically -"

"Just spit it out, Fraser!"

Fraser took a breath and plunged in. "In the canteen yesterday, Sophie and Maria were talking."

"The girls from Human Resources? What did they say?"

"Yes. Well, the women from Human Resources." Ray gestured impatiently. "Well, Sophie's cousin is getting married next month. Both the bride and groom are of Polish extraction and it's to be a big catered affair." He leaned in. "Maria is wearing a darling little black dress and wanted to borrow Sophie's black stilettos. Since Sophie is wearing her red Jimmy Choos with a red dress, Maria knew she wouldn't need the stilettos ..." At Ray's growl, he continued hastily, "That's not important. What is important is that Sophie needs a 'plah-', uh 'plus one.'"

Ray knew where this was going. He sighed. "And Sophie asked you?"

"No."

"She didn't?"

"No, she hasn't asked anyone yet."

"So? Just act surprised when she does. You gonna go? I mean the anthropological implications alone would be worth it." He added. "And Sophie's gorgeous."

"No! I mean, yes, they would. And she is very attractive. That is, what I mean ... she's not going to ask me." At Ray's puzzled expression, he continued. "She's intending to ask you."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Sophie? I thought she had a boyfriend."

"They broke up."

"And she wants to invite me?" Ray frowned speculatively. "Sophie. Jeez. She's never given me the time of day. I never would have guessed she had the hots for me."

Fraser looked uncomfortable.

"What?"

"She doesn't."

"Doesn't what?"

"'Have the hots' for you."

"How can you say that? She must have it bad if she wants to introduce me to the family right off. Wow. I never –"

Fraser said quickly. "She wants to get back with her boyfriend and plans to use her 'plus one' - you - to make him jealous."

"She wants to use me!?"

"Yes," Fraser said. "I'm sorry, Ray, " he added.

To his surprise, Ray grinned broadly. He looked into the rearview mirror and smoothed back his hair. "The kid's still got it!"

"You don't mind?"

"Mind what?"

"Being used like that?"

"Mind! Benny, a beautiful woman wants to use me as a sex object! Mind? It's my every adolescent fantasy come true!"

"Oh."

"I can do the jealousy thing."

"Ray."

"I mean, I'm helping her out, right? Like a Good Samaritan."

"Ray."

"You do that all the time."

"Ray."

"You know what would really make him crazy? If we -"

"Ray!"

"What?"

Have you seen Sophie's boyfriend?"

"Uh, no."

"Picture Arnold Schwarzenegger."

Ray gulped.

"Times two."

Ray stared at him, then picked up the binoculars again. Fraser retrieved his spyglass. They peered straight ahead in silence. After a while, Ray muttered, "Thanks for the heads up."

"Don't mention it."

Ray rubbed at his bleary eyes again. It was no use. He set the binoculars down on his chest and leaned his head back against the seat rest. "I'm just gonna rest my eyes a minute."

"OK, Ray."

Ray closed his eyes and thought of weddings. His own, Maria's, Frannie's. His parents had met at a wedding, he remembered. His pop had talked often and affectionately about spying his future wife across a crowded room, eating cheesecake with a knife and fork. A sure sign of a lady, according to the old man. Of course, that was when he was sober.

A rough voice interrupted his thoughts. "Whaddya know about it? At least, I was married for thirty five years. I didn't get no divorce after a lousy coupla years."

"Shut up, Pop," Ray said, wearily, to the back seat. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

"Don't tell me to shut up! I'm your father! Show a little respect!"

"I don't have to show you nothing. Go away, I'm working here."

"You call this working? You're wasting your time. The Mountie gave you a bum steer, with his licking this and smelling that. Disgusting! I told ya he was looney-tunes."

Ray whirled around, snarling in fury. "Yeah, you told me. You told me to leave him to die in the wilderness too!"

"Sure," his old man said, puzzled at Ray's anger. "That was good advice, too." He pointed a finger at Ray. "I always gave you good advice. But you never listened."

Ray turned fully around, facing front. He put his fingers in his ears. "I'm not listening now, Pop."

"Don't you turn your back on me, ya little snot!"

Ray did his best to ignore the stream of invectives coming from the rear seat. After a while it stopped. He removed the fingers from his ears.

"Raimundo," a woman's voice came from the back seat. There was an oddly muffled quality to the sound.

Ray's head whipped around. "Ma!"

His mother's nose was gushing blood on to her plate of cheesecake, though she was doing her best to staunch it with the bloody napkin she held to her face. His father smirked at him and grabbed his mother by the hair. "I told you not to turn your back to me, you little loser! See what you're making me do?" He pulled his arm back to render another blow.

Ray tried to lunge at his father to block the punch, but it was as if he was trapped in amber. He turned his head with great effort. "Benny! I can't move! Benny! Do something!"

Fraser lowered the spyglass and turned slowly to Ray. "I can't, Ray." His face was pale, ghost-white. "Don't you remember? You shot me in the back." He slumped forward. The back of his shirt was drenched in blood. "Sorry about the upholstery, Ray."

Ray moaned and struggled to free himself from his weird paralysis. His mother screamed as the sound of a slap echoed in the small space. "Stop it, Pop! Stop it!" he cried.

"You can't protect her, Raymond," his father sneered, "you never could. You were always nothing, and you're still nothing."

"Benny, please!"

Fraser spoke calmly through bloodless lips. "You're being juvenile, Ray."

Ray looked down at his struggling body. His feet, clad in beat-up Converses, didn't reach the floor. He caught a glimpse of his panicked face in the rear view mirror. A twelve year old boy with thick, dark hair looked back. Ray screamed in frustration and guilt and shame. "Noooooooo!"

"Ray! Ray! Ray! Ray!" Fraser was shaking his shoulder.

"Wha–!" he said, startled.

"You were dreaming," he said, concerned.

Ray spun around and nearly lunged into the back seat, startling a sleeping Dief into wakefulness. The wolf stared at him, then rose and licked Ray's face. He looked frantically around. Other than Dief, the backseat was empty. He gulped air, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Ray? Are you all right?" He still gripped his arm tightly.

Ray nodded slowly, then drew a shaking hand across his sweaty forehead. "Yeah," he mumbled as Fraser released him, "bad dream."

"Undoubtedly," he said. He cleared his throat. "Um ... do you want to talk about it?" To his relief, Ray shook his head, then picked up the binoculars.

"Understood." Fraser looked through the spyglass again.

There was a long silence. Ray looked at the dash clock 2:10 ... 2:18 ...2:22. His heart gradually slowed to its normal rate.

Fraser broke the silence. "She's going to be all right, Ray."

"Yeah," he said, quietly. If she wasn't, he was powerless to stop it. Just like when he was a kid.

Another silence, then Fraser spoke again. "Ray, I've been meaning to ask." When Ray looked at him, he continued, tentatively, "Would it be all right if I visited your mother in hospital? Just a brief visit. I wouldn't stay long," he added, quickly. "That is, if it's not an intrusion into private family time."

Ray put the binoculars to his eyes and squinted through them, trying to focus in on the correct fire escape. "Benny, I got bad news for you. You are family," he said. "Which one is it? Five up and two over? Or three?" The stupid dream had rattled him.

"Three," he said, quietly. He was touched by Ray's casual remark.

"Got it." Ray peered through the glasses for a few minutes. The silence stretched as dark thoughts continued to oppress him. He spoke, without thinking. "Your mom. How old were you? When she ... you know ...?"

A pause. "Died?"

"Yeah."

"I had turned six the week before."

"Ah, Jeez." His nephew, Antony, was that age. "Do you remember her?"

"It was a long time ago, Ray," he said, neutrally. But Ray heard the unspoken I don't want to talk about it nonetheless.

"Right. Of course, it was." He was embarrassed at his thoughtless questions. "Forget I asked."

There was an awkward silence filled only with the sound of Dief's snores. Fraser shifted uncomfortably. He never talked about his mother. Not to anyone. That was a wound that had scabbed over long, long ago. And you know what happens if you pick at a scab, Benton Fraser. The voice of his grandmother was so clear he almost looked in the backseat to see if her ghost had joined the stakeout. How many times had he heard her say that?

He glanced at Ray. Worry and weariness lined his friend's face. He realized, with a jolt, that he was getting a preview of what Ray would look like as an old man. Fraser wondered if their friendship would last until that was, in fact, the reality. Not likely, he realized with sudden insight, not if it was always a one-way street. He trusted Ray with his life. Why was it so hard to let him in, even a little bit? He took a breath and let it out slowly.

"I'm not sure what I remember," he began. Ray startled at the sound of his voice. He had thought the conversation was over. Fraser soldiered on. "I have a few photographs and I think... that's really what I'm seeing ... when I picture her face." He paused. "But I do have memories that I know are my own. Warm hands. Her smell. I remember her voice ... " He trailed off into silence.

"Really, Benny, you don't have to –"

"No, no. It's OK, Ray." His tone was wistful. "I have a vivid memory of her reading me a bedtime story."

"How did she die?" he said, softly.

"Her heart stopped beating," he said, simply.

Ray shot him a wary glance. "Hey, really, we don't have to talk –"

Fraser caught his expression and hastened to speak. "No, Ray, it's not ... " He tried to explain. "That's what my grandparents told me when I asked. It wasn't till many years later that I realized how ... how inadequate ... an answer that really was." He shrugged. "You didn't know my grandparents. The subject was simply not discussed." He paused. "When I was older, I speculated that it must have been a defect of the heart of some kind, an aneurism perhaps. But I've never really known for sure."

"Your dad never said?"

"My dad never talked to me about my mother." He snorted humorlessly. "In fact, my dad and I never talked. Not really. Not while he was alive." He looked over his shoulder suddenly, then turned back in his seat.

Ray also turned and looked. Dief stared back at him quizzically.

"What about 'never chase a man over a cliff' or 'don't buy a pig in a poke?"

"That isn't talking, Ray. That's pontificating. It isn't the same."

"My dad talked with his hands," he said, " a lot."

"Well, many Italian-Americans gesticul – " Fraser stopped. "Oh. You mean –"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, Ray."

"I'm sorry about your mother." Ray adjusted the binoculars. "She hadn't been sick?"

Fraser shook his head. "One night, she put me to bed, brought me a glass of water, and read me Peter Pan till I fell asleep." He rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "While I slept, she died. I never saw her again."

"That's rough."

Fraser stared straight ahead. "It was a long time ago." He took a breath. "When I woke the next morning, my father was there." He paused. "I remember he packed a bag for me - some clothes - none of which matched - and some toys - most of which I had outgrown - and took me to my grandparents in Inuvik. He was gone for a little while, but when he came back, I remember he had a beard ..." His voice trailed off. After a few minutes, he said, "He stayed a couple of weeks, I think, before going back to work." He sighed. "And that was the last time I lived with my father."

"Man, that must have been rough." The sympathy in Ray's voice was palpable.

Fraser shrugged. "Like I said, it was a long time ago."

They were silent, each lost in his own thoughts. Fraser thought of the gaunt, bearded wraith of a man that his father had been for most of that time, and the day that he had made an oatmeal and banana breakfast for his lonely, grieving child. It was the only time he had seen his father cry, though silently, tears running down his clean-shaven face as he had clutched his young son so tightly his boy-self could barely breathe. With a flash of insight, Fraser realized he was being unfair to his father. Even now, twenty seven years later, it hurt. Though, it gradually dawned on him, it hurt a little bit less now after telling Ray.

Ray thought about the chaotic, dramatic, emotional roller coaster that had been his childhood, in a crowded house in a crowded neighborhood in a crowded city and all the times he had wished it away. Wished he was an only child. Wished that his father would stop. Stop drinking, stop hitting, stop hurting. Wished for a different life. He stole a glance at the man beside him. What was that expression? Be careful what you wish for.

"Ma would love for you to visit, Benny. Like I said, you're family." He grimaced. "God help you."

"Thanks, Ray."

The silence stretched. "How 'bout those Bears?" Ray said finally, to fill the void.

"Grizzly or polar?" he replied. Ray cast him a disbelieving glance, then caught the upward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

"Whatever," Ray said, a smile in his own voice.

"Once," he began, "up north of Great Slave, I was treed by a grizzly. Three days and three nights."

"Treed?"

"A horse chestnut, as I recall." He gestured upwards with his hands. "There was a family of squirrels living in a hollow several feet above my perch. They kept dropping nuts on my head, trying to make me go away." He looked earnestly at his friend. "I'll tell you, Ray, after a while, that wears on a body. To this day, I can't abide – "

Ray, who had settled back for the long and winding road that was one of Fraser's stories, sat straight and pointed up. "Movement!"

They peered through the windshield. The window that opened on to Maxwell's fire escape was open. A dark figure climbed out, then was lost in the shadows. "What's he doing?" Ray asked.

Fraser squinted. "I don't know." He picked up the spyglass again.

They watched, waiting expectantly for the man to climb down to ground level. Ray fingered the gun in his holster, then fidgeted with the binoculars, training them on all the levels of the fire escape down to the ground. There was no one there. He leaned forward. "Hey, where did he go?

Fraser was also looking downward to no avail. He moved the spyglass upwards. "He's scaling the building." He was out the door like a shot. Diefenbaker followed.

Ray grabbed the radio. "Dispatch. Unit 327. Det. Raymond Vecchio, 27th precinct. Officers in need of assistance. Code 3, a 211 in progress at Covent Terrace Apartments. In the back alley. Over."

"Acknowledged, Detective. Unit on its way."

Ray clambered out of the Riv, craning his neck upward. Damn, Fraser was quick. He was already climbing the fire escape, though as stealthily as possible so as not to tip off Maxwell that he had a tail. Ray swore. Apparently, their theory was correct that the suspect was leaving his apartment via his own fire escape. But they had assumed he had descended the building. They had planned to follow, on foot or by car, and catch him in the act of breaking and entering.

But this unexpected maneuver had caught them off guard. Belatedly, Ray remembered that Maxwell was an expert climber, who kept himself in shape by scaling a rock-climbing wall every day. To what end, though? The security cameras confirmed that he didn't descend from the roof by way of the access stairs for the prior burglaries. The adjoining buildings were too far apart to jump across. Ray leaned his head way back. Maxwell had made the roof. Fraser, who was nearly at the top of the fire escape, froze and huddled out of sight against the wall.

Damn! There was nothing for it but to follow his partner. Ray leapt for the dangling ladder to the first floor fire escape cage. He snagged it on his first try and pulled himself up to the landing with a small grunt of effort. He moved quickly, but quietly, up the metal stairs.

Fraser, meanwhile, had made it to the top of the fire escape. Now, that he was closer, he could make out the rope array against the wall. Maxwell had fashioned a fixed line with tandem hitches, a technique common in mountaineering. The hand and foot loops allowed a relatively easy climb to the roof. He looked down. Ray was rapidly moving up the fire escape. Fraser grabbed the rope handholds and found purchase for a foot. He allowed a brief moment of admiration for the handiwork of his quarry before setting his mind and body on the task at hand.

As he reached the roof level, he peered cautiously over the parapet. He was just in time to see Maxwell make a running leap and swing from a rope suspended from the satellite TV tower. He landed on the roof of the adjoining building, graceful as a gazelle. Fraser, as much as he disapproved of the criminal ends to which this athletic activity was being put, was, nevertheless, impressed by the man's nerve and skill.

He looked down. Ray had reached the fifth floor fire escape. He was staring in disbelief at the rope array, then looked up and met Fraser's gaze. He shrugged his shoulders in mute sympathy at Ray's consternation. His partner really did not like heights. He saw Ray reach into his coat, then slowly withdraw his hand. There was no shot to take, even if he had the evidence to use deadly force to apprehend, which he didn't.

Their only advantage, at this point, was that Maxwell was unaware of the pursuit. Waving a gun at him while shouting"Police!" would only give him a chance to escape before they were in a position to apprehend. Fraser carefully pulled himself over the edge of the parapet. The dangling rope swing was still within reach. He peered out from his hiding place in the shadows. Maxwell was on the adjoining roof, crouching over something near the edge of the roof line. His back was turned. Now was his chance.

Fraser grabbed the rope with both hands, took several steps back, then launched himself with a light running step. He swung over the gap between buildings, then dropped, landing on all fours. He scuttled into the lee of a roof vent and held his breath. The rope swung back and forth a few times before coming to a rest. Fraser carefully lifted his head over the vent. Maxwell was still bent down, seemingly unaware that he was not alone. Fraser kept to the shadows, taking advantage of the protuberances of roof vents, air handler stacks and fans as he crept closer.

Below him, Ray had watched his partner disappear out of sight over the lip of the roof. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to say the hell with it, camp out on Maxwell's fire escape and nab the scumbag, red-handed, on his return. But he could hear that voice in his head, the one that spoke with perfect diction and a slight Canadian accent: He's on his way to bludgeon another victim into unconsciousness, Ray. And, this time, that victim may not wake up a 'tall.

"Aw, nuts, they don't pay me enough to do this," he muttered and put his foot into a rope loop. Ray gritted his teeth and refused to look down. He grabbed a handhold and moved up the side of the building at a steady, though nervous, pace.

Fraser crept closer. Maxwell was wearing a watch cap and some kind of nylon harness with zippered pockets and buckles over a close-fitting black jumpsuit. As he watched, the suspect straightened and reached over his head. He had some kind of device in his hands. Fraser squinted, trying to figure out what he was looking at.

Maxwell had constructed a steel cable array overhead, affixing it to a water tower on the roof. The cable ran along the roof at an angle, continuing out over open space, anchored at the other end somewhere Fraser couldn't see. But, not on this roof. He had seen something like this contraption before. Where? Aha! Last month at the dentist, he had read an article in a travel magazine about Costa Rica. Intrepid tourists would hang from a small hand pulley called a trolley and ride along a cable over the rainforest canopy. The contraption was called a ... zipline. With a sharp intake of breath, he realized that Maxwell was affixing his hand trolley to his own zipline, preparing to ride the cable off this roof. If he launched, he'd be gone in seconds. There was no time to lose.

He stepped out of the shadows. In a voice of authority, he intoned, "Paul Maxwell! Stop what you are doing. Put your hands over your head. You are about to be arrested on six counts of burglary and assault."

The suspected burglar started. He stared in disbelief. "Who the hell –?"

"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Please step away from the cable." Behind Maxwell, Fraser saw Ray on the roof of Maxwell's apartment building. He was reaching for the rope swing.

"A Mountie?" Maxwell was recovering quickly from his surprise. "What the hell are you doing in Chicago?"

"I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father, but for reasons that are not relevant at this juncture, I have remained as liaison officer with the Canadian Consulate." Fraser was stalling. He had no jurisdiction to arrest Maxwell and didn't want to lie about it. If he could keep him talking until Ray -

Maxwell moved. He grabbed the handles of the trolley car and hoisted himself up. Instantly, he was flying down the cable line, the trolley making a zhing-zhing whine as it traveled. Fraser moved to block his passage, mindful of the edge of the roof behind him, thinking to grab Maxwell and break his grip on the trolley handles before he reached the edge. He was careful not to place himself directly in his path, as Maxwell's momentum could easily unbalance him and push him off the roof. Ray would kill him if he recklessly endangered himself. Again.

He grabbed Maxwell's leg, stopping his forward motion. He hadn't counted on two things. The first was that the harness around Maxwell's torso tethered him to the trolley and prevented Fraser from yanking him free of the zipline. The second was Maxwell's lightning-quick reactions. Instead of trying to escape Fraser's hold on his leg, the burglar wrapped both legs around Fraser's waist and in an instant had lifted him bodily off his feet. Fraser barely had time to think, Oh, dear! before they both were swept along - zhing-zhing - over the roof edge and out over the void.

"I'm gonna drop you, sucka!" Maxwell gloated. "Let's see if Mounties bounce!"

Fraser scrabbled frantically to hold on to something, anything. He managed to get one hand around the harness that Maxwell was wearing. With the other, he grabbed at the trolley, his hand overgripping Maxwell's on the right handle just as Maxwell released his scissor-lock on his waist. Fraser didn't fall, but as his weight was added to the one side of the trolley, it jolted off its track and jammed, slamming both men to a sudden, jarring stop. They dangled together over the drop to the pavement below.

"Let go!" Maxwell shouted into Fraser's face.

"Hang on!" Ray yelled from the roof.

Fraser didn't answer either. He was too busy trying not to fall to his death, as Maxwell with a more solid, two-handed grip on the stuck trolley and the security of the tethered harness, was actively trying to dislodge him. He had landed one head-butt so far, and was kicking viciously at Fraser. Fraser tried to avoid the blows, but he couldn't use either hand. His grip on the trolley handle was the most precarious. He wormed his other hand into the strapping of the harness, seeking a better grip around the buckle that fastened at Maxwell's chest.

Ray was frantic. He had reached the edge of the roof just as Fraser had been swept off it, too late to grab them. Now, Fraser and Maxwell were dangling way out of his reach. He looked around, desperately searching for something - anything – to help his friend. "Hang on, Benny!" he called again. The two men were grappling, locked together, twisting violently on the cable. He drew his gun. But Ray couldn't shoot. He might hit Fraser.

Maxwell let go of the left handle of the trolley and pried at Fraser's fingers, where he overgripped the burglar's right hand. He bent the middle finger back until Fraser cried out and let go. He grabbed the cable. If he hadn't been wearing a leather glove, the cold steel wire would have cut into his hand. Maxwell grinned. He reached into a pocket of the harness. Fraser saw him take aim at the hand gripping the cable and swing a blackjack in an upward arc. Fraser knew he was going to lose his hold on the cable. He clutched at the harness with his other hand, desperately trying to secure his grip before the blow landed.

The harness came unbuckled in Fraser's hand. He had accidentally triggered a quick-release mechanism. Maxwell, feeling himself slip out of the harness, instinctively grabbed at it with both hands, letting go of the trolley and dropping the blackjack. His arms slipped through the harness, but, at the last minute, he snagged the strap with one hand. The other end of it ended in the buckle which was gripped tightly in Fraser's left hand, as Fraser himself dangled from his grip on the cable with his right.

Maxwell kicked frantically, trying without success to get a better grip on the harness. But, the strap was slipping through his fingers. His terrified eyes locked with Fraser's.

"Help me!" he pleaded, then screamed as his hand slipped off.

Fraser clamped a hand around Maxwell's wrist and hung on. Pain flared in his back, shoulders and arms as he strained to support his own and Maxwell's weight.

"Don't let go!" Maxwell cried. His legs kicked at empty air as he instinctively fought for purchase for his feet.

"Stop ... moving!" Fraser choked. Blessedly, Maxwell froze.

On the rooftop, Ray was aghast at the sight of the two men dangling over the precipice. His frantic search had revealed nothing to reach them - no rope, no ladder, nothing!

He called to his friend. "Benny! Ya gotta let him go! Then, grab the cable with both hands! You can pull yourself back over!"

"No!" Maxwell screamed and starting kicking again.

"Benny! Save yourself. Let him go or you're both going down!"

"I ... can't!" Fraser gasped.

"Do it, Benny! Now!"

"Please!" Maxwell begged, his panicked eyes meeting Fraser's. "Please!"

Ray was dangerously close to the edge of the roof himself. Face white and strained, he was frantic. There was only one solution. He drew his gun. If Maxwell was dead, surely Benny would drop the body? Then he could grab the cable with both hands and inch his way back into Ray's reach. He took a bead on Maxwell's flailing torso and braced the gun in both hands. So long as Fraser lived, Ray didn't care if he never forgave him. He tightened his grip on the trigger and held his breath. Then, he let it out and lowered the gun. He couldn't risk it. If he only wounded him and the man thrashed about ... even if he shot the man dead, that might cause Benny to fall, too.

" C'mon, Benny!" he yelled. "This is when you come up with the crazy-impossible solution that nobody else would ever think of. Now! C'mon!"

Fraser's face turned his way. Fear, pain and effort twisted his features. Then, their eyes met and Ray read the mute apology in their depths. There was no Hail Mary pass, no magical scheme, no Inuit remedy that was going to save the day. Ray understood completely. Fraser was saying goodbye.

He ran a hand through his hair, the desperation and helplessness he felt threatening to overwhelm him. It was a thousand times worse than his nightmare in the car. He ducked his head. He couldn't think if he was looking at Fraser. He struggled to control his emotions. He pounded his forehead with a fist. "Think, Vecchio! Think!" He needed rope, but the rope swing was too far away and would take too long to untie. Fraser had moments left. Ray took a deep breath in the manner that Fraser did to calm racing thoughts and looked over the edge of the roof, at the pavement below, at the other buildings in the vicinity, anywhere but at the sight of his best friend preparing to die. Wait a minute! The swing ...!

His eyes widened. He looked down and to the left. Then, his eyes followed the length of the cable. It was crazy-impossible, but it was the only chance.

"Benny! Listen to me carefully! We got one shot at this." Fraser locked eyes with him. His mouth was open and he was breathing in shallow straining gasps. He was beyond the ability to speak, wracked with pain, and dripping with sweat. He jerked his head in one short nod.

"OK. You hang on as tight as you can, buddy! I'm gonna blow the cable at this end. That'll swing you over that way." Ray pointed. "Towards that building with the white roof down there! See it?" Fraser twisted to look over his shoulder to where Ray pointed. Again, he managed one curt nod. "You make like Tarzan, right? When you get over that rooftop, you let go! You drop there! The fall is still a doozy but it'll be better than this one. Understand?"

Fraser tightened his grip on both the cable and Maxwell. He nodded again then dropped his head. Maxwell was staring at him, eyes bulging. Fraser wasn't sure if the terrified man comprehended Ray's plan, but he had no breath to explain it to him. At least, he had stopped struggling.

"Ready?!" Ray said, more for his own benefit than anyone else's. He pointed his gun at the cable where it ratcheted into the hoist. He took a breath, held it and pulled the trigger.

SNAP! The cable split. Ray raised an arm to shield himself as the cable whipped past him, then watched in horrid fascination, as Fraser, still gripping the cable in one hand and Maxwell in the other, swung away. Ray ran back to the edge of the roof. They were really moving, the cable seeming to lengthen as it straightened then curved upward in the arc of its trajectory. To his delight, Fraser and Maxwell swung over the top of the white roof, just like Tarzan. Their momentum carried them rapidly toward an adjoining high rise. To his horror, he realized that Fraser could very easily end up doing a George of the Jungle instead, and smash into the tall brick building.

To his relief, the cable reached its maximum length before they hit the brick wall. It started swinging back. "LET GO!" Ray yelled. He cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, "LET GO NOW!"

Fraser and Maxwell dropped. They landed in a heap, alarmingly close to the edge of the white roof. Ray held his breath. There was no movement. Ray cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted "BENNY? ANSWER ME!" No response.

An otherworldly howl echoed eerily between the buildings, raising the hairs on the back of Ray's neck. Dief's distress shook Ray out of his paralysis. He retraced his route back down to the ground as fast as his wobbly knees allowed. The apartment dwellers, awakened by the commotion, poked their heads out of windows. Ray shouted, "Police! Stay in your homes!" Sirens sounded, getting closer with each minute.

By the time he reached the ground, two uniforms were there. He quickly identified himself and instructed the older, heavyset officer to call an ambulance and wait for its arrival. He felt a bump against his leg. He bent and told the anxious wolf, "He fell, Dief. I don't know if he's OK, yet. Stay here." He whimpered, but sat back on his haunches. With the younger cop, name of Trainer, in tow, Ray trotted to the white-roofed warehouse, giving him a short synopsis en route. As the young officer's eyes widened, Ray let out a humorless laugh. He knew how ridiculous he sounded.

They found an access ladder on the side of the warehouse. Ray went first. He counted six stories before they made the roof. By his estimate, the fall from the cable was thirty feet, give or take. Nothing to sneeze at, but better than the alternative. He scrambled on to the white painted roof, Trainer on his heels. He dashed to the edge.

"Benny! Benny!" He skidded to a halt at the heap of unmoving bodies. Officer Trainer shone his flashlight. Ray noted with some small satisfaction that Fraser was sprawled on top of Maxwell. At least the asshole had been good for something. He felt with shaking hand for a pulse at Fraser's neck. He let out the breath he had been holding as he was rewarded with a slow and steady bump against his fingers. He and Trainer carefully turned Fraser over.

"Bring that light closer."

Fraser's eyes were closed, face slack, but unmarked. Ray unzipped his jacket, and followed the light beam down his torso. His heart stuttered when he saw the dark stain spread across the front of the flannel shirt. Buttons popped off as Ray ripped the shirt open, searching for the wound. The white T-shirt underneath was stained brown, not red. Ray leaned in for a closer look, then caught the smell of maple syrup. Trainer gave him a strange look as Ray barked a laugh. A quick survey of the unconscious man revealed all four limbs intact, no evident fractures, no external bleeding.

He tapped the side of Fraser's face, gently, but repeatedly. "Come on, Benny. Talk to me, buddy." He repeated it until Fraser's eyelids fluttered. He moaned softly. "C'mon, Benny. Look at me," he implored.

Fraser blinked. It took him a minute, but he managed to croak, "R- ray?"

"Yeah," He smiled weakly. "Me, Ray. You, Tarzan."

Fraser emitted a noise, then groaned.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

He grimaced. "Everywhere." He took a couple of painful breaths, then seemed to take in his surroundings. "Maxwell?"

"Underneath you."

"Oh." He struggled to rise, unsuccessfully.

"Hey, you don't move," Ray said, shaking a finger in his face. Fraser weakly subsided. Ray and Trainer lifted him in a four-handed carry and moved him to a sitting position against a roof vent. After they set him down, Ray pointed at Maxwell. "Check him out." The young officer rose to comply. "Be careful, Trainer. He's the bad guy."

He knelt beside Fraser. "How you doing?"

Fraser was holding himself as still as possible. Everything hurt, even, it seemed, his hair. "I'm ... alive," he said. "Thanks ... to you."

Ray ducked his head. "Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "It was Maxwell that broke your fall."

"Is he –?"

"He's alive," Trainer piped up. "I think he might have a broken leg." he said. "Maybe, two."

The sound of an ambulance siren drifted up to them. "Trainer, see if you can find the roof access and guide the EMTs up here."

"Yes, sir," he said, turning smartly.

Ray called to him. "And bring the wol – er, dog. Tell him Fraser's OK."

"Yes, sir," Trainer said, uncertainly. Then, he went.

Fraser leaned his head back against the vent and closed his eyes. "I couldn't let him go, Ray." He grimaced. "Then, I nearly couldn't let go a 'tall. My hand just wouldn't open. Then, I heard you shout and I thought, 'Ray will kill me if I don't let go now.'" He opened his eyes. "That did it." He turned his face away. "I'm sorry. Don't know why I couldn't ... can't ..." He closed his eyes, wearily. "Sorry."

"S'okay," Ray said, patting his shoulder, then stopped at the wince. "I couldn't shoot, Benny." His own voice grew husky. "I couldn't risk ... Not again."

"Understood."

Ray sat down heavily beside him and leaned his own head back against the vent. "You're going to the hospital. No argument."

"Yes, Ray," he said, meekly.

"Ma can visit you."

"Yes, Ray."

Ray closed his eyes. He was instantly asleep, only waking when Diefenbaker yipped excitedly. Fraser opened his eyes. Smiling gently, he said, "I'm OK, boy." Dief sniffed him, then began licking his shirt with enthusiasm. Fraser grunted, but didn't protest. Ray smiled. Ol' Dief and his sweet tooth. He rested his head on his knees until Fraser was strapped into the stretcher and wheeled away. Ray hauled himself wearily to his feet and with Diefenbaker, followed the stretcher to the elevator.