Disclaimers: You know the drill: if you recognize the name, it belongs to Alliance. The city mentioned is completely made up. Anyone who goes looking will deserve a kick in the head.

This is slash, m/m, Fraser/Kowalski (oh yeah), PG most of the way, NC-17 at the end. But you might want to actually read the first part, you pervs.

Special thanks to my betas, Audra and Aristide. Both amazing, and I'm thinking of tattooing the bootprints both left on my ass just for the souvenir value. Also thanks to the 5Ps gang and various individuals both in and out of the fandom.

All Comments maybe sent to rattlecatcher@yahoo.com


All the Comforts of Home


By Denise Raymond


Chapter 1: Raven Sends a Detective

        I didn't take much with me, just a carry-on. With three separate airline transfers between Miami International and Prince Rupert Sound, luggage was just another way of saying, "I didn't need those clothes, anyway, Mr. Baggage Handler, you go right ahead and take them."
        Besides, I could pay less for something better suited to the climate up there. The six-hour layover in Vancouver helped. I loved the exchange rate. And even though I'd have less driving if I'd flown in to Yellowknife, Vancouver was bigger, and if I had to be surrounded by Canadians, I thought it would be easier to do it gradually, you know? Start out with "big city" Canadians, ease into small-town BC.
        Plus, I didn't really take a good look at the map.
        Time away, time to clear my head, that's all I really needed, I thought. Well, that and a high-powered divorce attorney.
        That stopped me.
        Are we really at that point? Really? I sighed, looking out the window at a whole lotta nature. That would be two for two, if we divorced. And down that line of reasoning I did not want to go, not then. No, all I needed was some time away and a pep talk from a guy who had even less luck with the ladies. Not to commiserate, just to talk.
        And maybe listen to some long story about Inuit rituals from the world's foremost authority on decency. Jiminy Cricket, RCMP, who first came to Chicago to remind one and all that not even Armageddon was reason to be rude.
        I smiled and shook my head as I stood on the tarmac outside of the puddle jumper I'd been in for the past hour and a half. Eight months had passed since I'd last seen Benny, telling him to go get his man. I couldn't join him, what with the bullet in my shoulder. Seven months and two weeks since I'd eloped with Stella. We'd planned just to be a few weeks in Florida, soaking up some winter sun. All I had heard about Benny was that he'd saved the day (of course) and was planning on staying in his homeland for a while. He hadn't resigned his post, he was just taking some of the 264 vacation days he hadn't got around to using. He'd even convinced that Polack, Kowalski, to go see some Hand thing, that's all Welsh had said. The Dragon Lady didn't have a lot more to say to me outside of "I'm busy, Detective, ask Turnbull."
        After we'd lost half our savings in what became a black hole, Stella had given me an ultimatum to either make it all better or get the hell out. I got the hell out. I didn't bother to contact Benny, tell him I was coming. Why would I? Benny, the soul of courtesy, would certainly welcome me home. I smiled, wondering if he still had two axes.
        After finishing up at the car rental, I called Stella.
        "So this is your answer?" she asked when I said where I was. Funny, how she sounded like my own head. But it wasn't the bitchy tone from our last fight, it was, I don't know, sad? Surprised, yeah, a little surprised. But it was a tragic voice, no matter what, and on the same wavelength as me.
        "I don't know, babe," I said. "I don't want it to be. But I just need to talk to an old friend, someone who won't say I did everything right, or everything wrong, you know?"
        "I know," she said softly. "Barbara called. She says hi."
        Great, Kowalski's mom. My wife's best friend. But Stella wasn't throwing that out there to bait me. I understood that, and let it pass. It didn't stop me from worrying that Barbara would tell her to leave me and go back to Ray. Dumb, but that's the best thinking most guys can do in matters of the heart.
        "So, what's Canada like?" she asked. We had silence and we had words. Both were painful, but it was nice to know we were still trying.
        "It's beautiful. And no one's shooting at me, so this is definitely better than the last two trips."
        Stella laughed at that, and I let out my breath. "Listen, I don't know how long I'm going to be up here. Maybe a week. Can you hang on until then?"
        "Yeah, sure," she said. Then she sighed. "Maybe when you get back I can take off for a while, too." She paused. "That's not what – I don't want that to sound like I don't want to see you, or –"
        "It's OK, Stel, this was out of left field, and I know it. Go ahead and book your flights, if you want," I said softly. Communication and compromise. I didn't want to lose this woman, not when I had Stanley Kowalski as an example of everything that was wrong with husbands, and Armando Langoustini as an example of everything that wrong with bachelors.
        She said good-bye, and I was on the road once more, with one of those travel-sized packages of Kleenex. You'd think with my nose, I could have blamed it on allergies.
        The scenery, well what can you say? It was Canada in September, so it was a little bit of green with a little bit of red. No snow, thank God. September in the Frozen North wasn't frozen, though it was certainly not the Sponge Bath of the South I was still not accustomed to.
        Nature. Not my favorite place, but I could see where Benny liked it. And it made me wonder how he'd been able to stay in Chicago for so long. I love the place, don't get me wrong, but I don't have any blind spots. I know what it's like. I suppose I was surprised he stayed on after I went undercover, but that's just ego talking, to say he'd been in town just because we were friends. Well, there was that whole exile thing, but still, that had to have blown over. Ma made sure he still felt welcome, like one of the family, which made me happy. Fraser was like a long-lost son to her, stuck in the Yukon before coming home to her, and to me, his brother.
        The guy can make friends with anyone, which is why I was always surprised to be his best friend. And from what they said around the 2-7, Benny got along with Kowalski. They didn't just play at being friends to keep my cover. "I'll give the fake Ray that much," I muttered in the car, "he did his job and no one got hurt while I was gone."
        I'd got Fraser's address by calling the Consulate in Chicago. Thatcher and Turnbull were gone, but my name was in so many files there, I was able to get the liaison officer to help me. Benny had been reassigned to Nupiak, British Columbia. I don't know how long he'd been there, but he had to be happy being back in Canada. Finally have a decent partner for once, too, not some mouthy big-city cop named Ray, Vecchio or Kowalski, take your pick.
        Nupiak was not anywhere near his dad's cabin in the Yukon. Prince Rupert Sound, where Dief saved Benny's life, seemed like the closest airport that offered car rentals. It's a resort town, or at least Canadians think it's a resort town. Nupiak was supposedly about five hours north, halfway between Telegraph Creek and Bennett, as if that meant anything.
        And the 'supposedly' was referring to dry weather, not the deluge that had me sitting in a diner in Hazelton for an hour and a half before tackling worse roads than West Racine. I was glad I'd gone with an SUV. No style to those big boxes, and they eat gas like three Rivs, but I didn't need to worry about any pothole smaller than the Grand Canyon. And even though everyone and his little brother told me the weather would stay clear the rest of the way, I wasn't going to take chances. Not in Canada. The place hates me.
        When I got to Nupiak, I decided to get directions at the local store. Of which there was, don't blink, one. Oh, yeah, this place had to feel good to Benny. I could also get something to take to him, because I might have been dropping in out of the blue, but that was no reason to be empty-handed.
        The store was busier than I expected. Obviously this was the place to socialize. I found some cookies for Dief, and was debating between the three types of cheese (four, if you included Velveeta, which I didn't), when someone called out my name.
        "Hey, Ray! What day is it?" The booming voice was followed by raucous laughter. Once I heard the laughter, I knew it was some other Ray, not me. After all, it's not the most unusual name. Gotta be at least one in every town. And sure enough, another Ray answered.
        "Y'know, Loomis, that joke just gets funnier every goddamned time," a voice said, and my gut turned to ice. Oh, no. Oh, no no no no, I prayed, this has to be a coincidence, some sort of hallucination. Maybe I dropped acid some time and never knew it. Please let it be that, Holy Mother, please let it not be a scrawny rat bag named –
        "Stanley Kowalski?" I croaked, rounding the corner to the front of the store. A man Stanley's size, in jeans, t-shirt and a down vest, froze in place before slowly turning. His hair was longer, I noticed. Not down to his shoulders, but too long to be spiky like the last time I saw him.
        Upon brief reflection, I decided I wasn't mad, I just wanted to kill him. The guy was here to see Benny, same as me, so there went my plans for relaxing and killing mosquitoes while Benny whittled. It sure wasn't going to happen now, not with Stella's ex-husband around. Stella's ex. Oh, great, well, that just made the whole situation even more special, didn't it?
        Kowalski, meanwhile, lost all color. And no one in the store was speaking, just looking back and forth at the two of us. The same sort of thoughts I'd been having seemed to pop up in his face, and in that same split-second, too. But Stanley was a man of action.
        "Oh, fuck!" he groaned, and closed the distance between the two of us. He grabbed my groceries, such as they were, and shoved them into the chest of some big guy in a green checked shirt.
        "Try being useful for once, Loomis," Kowalski muttered, then glared at me. "And you – come with me."
        I didn't have a choice, since he twisted the front of my shirt in his hands and dragged me out of the store. I stumbled out and down the street with him, trying to pry myself free. Damn, he was strong. Suddenly I was glad Frannie had pulled us apart that day at the district house.
        "Stanley, what the – "
        "Don't talk. Do not talk to me. Don't talk. You got that?" he said, his eyes trying to burn a hole in the sidewalk. I wasn't so much afraid of the scrawny goofball as I was able to recognize that there are times you can talk with a guy and times you can't, and this was not the time to talk with Ray Kowalski. I stayed quiet for about half a block, which is when he turned down an alley, pulling me with him.
        "Look, Stanley, I'm just as surprised as you – "
        "One more word and I swear I will kick you in the head. In here," he finished, and we marched up the steps of an old craftsman-style house. It was a duplex. Kowalski chose the door on the right and went on in, not bothering to knock.
        We were now in a lobby, with a couch and a desk separating the office from the waiting area. There was no sign as to what this office was for, just a few pieces of Inuit (I guess) art on the paneled walls. A woman at the desk, Inuit (again, I'm guessing – Benny talks mostly about Inuit, and you start getting the idea that's all there are in Canada, but then he'll throw in a few other names, so you have to listen close just in case there's a test), stood and smiled at the two of us. She had beautiful eyes and full lips, with long hair that Frannie's romance books always called "raven's wing black." A little plump for my liking, but all in all, nice. The smile really pulled it all together, even if she did look a little worried.
        "Ray? Is everything all right?" she asked.
        "Yer dad. Is he here?" Kowalski asked.
        "No, I'm afraid not," she answered, shaking her head and making that shiny fountain of hair shimmer. "He's having lunch with the elders. He should be back soon."
        Kowalski nodded, swallowed. He was nervous. His jaw was clenched.
        "I can't talk with this guy," he said to the woman. He noticed he was still holding on to my shirt and let go. He cleared his throat. What, was he crying or something? "Can you talk with him?"
        "Of course, Ray," she said in a soothing tone. "And Dad will talk with him too. One of us will give you a call later, is that all right? You'll be in town?"
        "Yeah," he said, letting her lead him back to the door. She raised her eyebrows at me with a hopeful smile before turning her attention back to Kowalski.
        "Tell yer dad that if we – that if this needs – I'll understand if things have to be delayed," he said, thoroughly confusing me, as if I hadn't been before. "That OK?"
        "I'll tell Dad that. You take care, now," she said, almost like a mother talking to a kid, and he left, stumbling. When I'd seen him in Chicago, when we were shooting bad guys, he had a little-boy strut and was full of energy. Now he looked broken. And old.
        "Hey! Stanley! What the hell is going on?" I called out the door, but the woman pulled gently on my sleeve.
        "Mr. Vecchio, please come in," she said. I turned to look at her.
        "How did you know my name? What is happening? Is Benny OK?"
        "I imagine the last question is the most important to you," she said. "Benton Fraser is quite well. As to how I know you, anyone who knows Corporal Fraser well enough to have seen the pictures on his mantel will know your face." Her eyes sparkled. "You are also featured in several of his stories about his time in Chicago."
        "Nothing too embarrassing, I hope," I said, flushing in response to those eyes. Ray, you're married, I reminded myself. It's a natural reaction of Vecchio males. When in a confusing situation, a little flirtation seems to calm us. I didn't mean anything by it. And she responded in kind, like it didn't mean anything and wasn't going anywhere. She was kind of like my sisters, if they'd been the kind of sisters I'd wanted. I don't mean that. Yes, I do.
        "Oh, no, provided you are indeed larger than life and more than capable of taking on the entire Chicago crime scene," she said, laughing. It was a nice laugh, the first really happy sound I'd heard since – April, maybe? "We know Corporal Fraser never lies, but we also know how he idealizes people. I imagine you are most likely a good man, but you don't walk on water."
        "Not before lunch," I said. "Look, I hate to chat and go, but I really ought to go see Benny, so if you can just tell me which way to his place, I'd –"
        "Oh, he's not there, Mr. Vecchio –"
        "Ray."
        "Ray. Oh! How rude you must think me! I'm Peggy Bluemountain," she said, and we formally shook hands as she blushed.
        "It's a pleasure. But even if he's not home, I'm sure he won't mind if I wait –"
        "He's on patrol," Peggy said. "Three-day stints in the field, then back for three. This is the third day, but I don't think he'll be back any before seven or so, that's normal. He usually stops by to say hello before heading out to his home, so if you care to stay –"
        "Thank you kindly," I said, hoping for the Benny touch, "But like I say, he won't mind me going out there –"
        "I'm sure he wouldn't, but his neighbors might. We've had some trouble with squatters lately, and some of the citizens are jumpy. And it is hunting season. It's really best that you not go out there without an escort, someone the neighbors will believe before shooting at. I'd go myself," she said, and pointed back at the desk, "But I have to stay here and watch the phone, at least until Dad comes back."
        "Yeah, I can see that," I said, finally feeling like I had some answers, or at least some straight talk. "You know, one of these days, I'm going to come visit and not have someone shooting at me."
        She laughed, covering her mouth and trying to look mortified. "I should tell you Canada isn't like that, but you wouldn't believe me. You're just as Ben describes you," she said, going over to her desk. "I'm going to call the RCMP outpost and have them get in touch with him. Maybe they can call him in."
        She was on the phone before I was done thanking her. Now, this is the Canada Benny talks about, I thought. If I could just get the scoop on what was biting Kowalski's ass, I'd – well, my life would still be a mess, but at least I would have been able to concentrate on that, on my life, and not have to think about everyone else's messes. I couldn't even figure out why Stanley was still up here. If Benny had transferred here, well, he'd stopped looking for whatever the hell that hand thing was.
        "It's ringing," she told me, in that soft voice people always use when talking to you while they're on the phone with someone else. "Tell you what - even if they call him in, he's still going to be an hour or so. Stay for lunch?"
        "Sure, best offer I've had all –"
        "Rick? It's Peggy," she said, and I shut up. "Fine, how are – yes, I'll hold. Ray, if you want, go on in through there," she said to me, pointing to a door that in the wall that connected the duplexes. "Washroom's off to the right, and the kitchen's past it – well, it's a house, how lost can you get? Oh, hi, Rick. We've got a situation here. No, no problems. An old friend of Ben's is here from Chicago, Ray Vecchio – exactly," she said, laughing.
        Nupiak being a small town, maybe Benny was the closest they had to TV around here. Peggy waved me through the door.
        "He's where?"
        I stopped, looking back.
        "Nokot Crest. I see. Well, can he come back early? No, I understand. Right. Can you tell him to come by? Thanks, Rick."
        "I take it we won't see him for a few hours?"
        Peggy shrugged. "Hard to say. Nokot Crest is only about fifty miles from here, but he's in the middle of a dispute over traplines. Rick said he'd call him, but you know Corporal Fraser, he's not going to let personal pleasure interfere with his job."
        "That's our Benny," I said with a smile. And then I heard what she'd been saying. "Corporal Fraser? When did that happen?"
        "I don't know," Peggy said. "He transferred in at that rank. He's second in command at the post."
        Good for you, Benny, I said inside. Good for you. I didn't know anyone more deserving of about five promotions, but this was a start. But… I don't know, something didn't feel right. Hunch, cop instinct, call it what you want, but you can't be a detective without it. Or even a former detective.
        I looked up and saw Peggy staring at me, a little different look than before. Not a stare you want to get from a lady, and frankly, not a stare you want from a cop. She realized she was caught, but her response was to stand straighter and keep her eyes on me. The two of us stared, taking each other's measure.
        "What's going on, Peggy?" I asked softly.
        She sighed, tilting her head. "Has Benton told you much of our legends?"
        "Enough to choke a caribou. What's going on?"
        "I think my father would say you were sent by the Raven."
        "I'm some sort of a death figure, so you want to keep me from Benny?" I asked. I'd just about had it.
        "Not death, white man," she said, but she smiled, taking out any insult. "You're thinking Edgar Allen Poe. To us, the Raven is a trickster, someone who … upsets the applecart, as it were. You've come at an unusual time. I'd like to tell you about that, if I am permitted, or my father might be better able to tell you. And there is enough time before Ben is off duty to answer your questions. But Ray, I'm warning you: you may not come away satisfied."
        "You're going to talk to me, though, right?" I asked. "Answer questions?"
        She nodded.
        "About Benny?"
        Again, she nodded. "And about Ray as well."
        "Who cares about Kowalski?" I asked. She looked shocked, so I started talking again. I never claimed to be Mountie-style polite. "I'm kidding. Friend of Benny's, I'm sure he's a nice guy."
        "And their stories are intertwined, to a great extent," Peggy said. "But I'm hoping we can talk about you. We've heard Ben's stories, so I almost feel I know you already. I'd like to see how close I am to the real Ray Vecchio."
        "Peggy, I'd like that a lot. But I really hate eating with someone, no matter how beautiful, if I don't feel I've got all the answers." That's right, Ray, keep flirting, I was thinking; Benny scratches his eyebrow, and you flirt.
        Her smile bloomed at my compliment, and I was hard-pressed to keep my cop guard up. No, I wasn't really flirting, and she wasn't responding that way. But Peggy Bluemountain's smile is something that Canadian tour guides should mention. Friendly and open, welcome to beautiful British Columbia, we're happy to see you.
        "Well, let's get some lunch. Maybe some answers will be sitting on the table," she said and began to lead me through to her home. We were stopped by the figure coming in the front door. It was Loomis; I recognized him from the general store.
        "Hey, Peggy! Ray's chopping wood again! You need any?" he boomed.
        Peggy laughed, shaking her head. "That Ray. Yeah, I may as well. When Dad gets home, I'll take over a truckload, if he's still at it. Where is he?"
        "My yard! Dumb fuck just came in, picked up an ax and got to work!"
        "On the oak?" Peggy asked, eyes wide. She burst out laughing again. "Don't be mean, John, he'll do the cord if you let him."
        "There's only about a rick left – I was gonna do it this weekend, but I don't mind him taking it all," Loomis said, still laughing as he left.
        I looked at Peggy. I could have sworn she was giving me the Big-eyed Inuit Look. That let me know I was sunk, no chance of leaving now.
        "I can give you answers, Ray, but I'd like you to see something first," she said, and led me into her living room to the far window. The room was dark, dark woods and lace curtains letting in just enough light to let me know we were on the shadow side of the house.
        I looked out a window as she pulled the curtain back. The view was of mountains in the distance. Nearer, we had a dirt road about thirty feet away. And Ray Kowalski, on the other side of the road, in someone's backyard, chopping logs into firewood.
        His anger and his energy were both apparent in the wild swings that still managed to connect. His solid chops split the wood like atoms. A few men were standing around, just watching him. Loomis came into view and one of them began helping Loomis load the split pieces into the back of a truck.
        "He does this when he's mad," Peggy said. "He'll keep at it until he passes out or pulls a muscle. Then he'll sleep for twelve or fourteen hours."
        "And you let him do this?" I asked, angry myself. On Kowalski's behalf, too, who'd have seen that coming? But this was cruel, even to me. "Why not find out what's bothering him and get the dumb shit to deal with it?"
        "Well, Ray, we know what he's angry at," she said in a reasonable tone that sounded exactly like Benny. Apparently it's as Canadian as the Hmm's and Ahh's. "He's angry at you. But if we did as you suggest, we'd all be chopping more wood and he'd still be mad. This way, he gets the worst of the anger out, and we get firewood."
        "At me? What did I do? Sorry if I spoiled his alone time with Benny, I wanted some of that myself. But –"
        "Ray hasn't seen Ben in twenty-seven days," Peggy interrupted. That got my undivided attention. "Ray is to be married to someone in this town. Both parties have agreed to a Salish ceremony."
        She turned and walked towards what I thought might be the kitchen, and sure enough, I was right. The place smelled good: food smells, like the bread cooling on the sideboard, and the pot on the stove was promising. We both washed up at the kitchen sink with a bar of Ivory soap, and then she took the lid off the pot, filling the air with an incredible aroma. Some sort of stew. I hoped it was lunch.
        "Married? Well, congratulations, Stanley Kowalski," I said, grinning as cool ripple of relief went through my knees. At least I didn't have to worry about Stella running back to him. "What's a Salish ceremony? That some sort of Inuit thing?"
        "We're not Inuit over here, Ray. In this area, most of us are Salish. I thought Ben had told you about Canada."
        "Yeah, well, I usually tuned him out."
        Peggy laughed at that, giggling and putting down her ladle. Then she took a deep breath and continued dishing up and talking.
        "Well, if you're listening, the Salish is one of the First Nations." She had a tone when she said that, proud. Strong. Benny had said First Nations at some point, but when Peggy said it, well, it was heritage, not history. God, you start hanging around a Mountie, you sound like a book.
        "But to answer your real question," she said, "a betrothal period has been set, during which certain conditions must be met. One of the conditions is that the two parties do not meet for one month. They must also avoid discussion of the other, and people who may necessitate discussion."
        "And I would do that?" I asked, sitting at the lace-covered table in the large kitchen. We'd passed the dining room portion of the living room, with its big, formal table. This was obviously the more common and casual place to eat. But the lace gave me some pause, I gotta be honest. Something made me think of Benny, and manners. The lace made me want to behave. It only takes a few minutes to be courteous…
        "Wouldn't you?" she countered. She placed a dish of the stew in front of me with a spoon, and sliced huge wedges off the loaf of bread. "You see an acquaintance from your own city, and even if you're not close, you're almost obliged to ask about him, aren't you? 'Hello, Ray, what brings you to Nupiak?'"
        "OK, I see your point," I mumbled, taking a bite. Suddenly, lunch had my undivided attention.
        "Is the stew all right?" she asked.
        "It's fantastic!" I said. "How long has it been cooking?"
        "Only since yesterday. I was afraid it was too mild."
        "Nah, it's great. My ma'd be happy to know I got a decent meal up here."
        Peggy laughed. "I've heard about Mrs. Vecchio. Ben's stories had me worried you would hate my cooking."
        "Oh, you're willing to believe he embellished me, but my ma –"
        "– is a saint, except in the kitchen, where she's a combination of Julia Child and God," Peggy finished. Then a thought seemed to occur to her. "Ray said he'd understand if – oh, he's a good man!"
        "What? What did he mean by that?" I asked. Finally, some answers were going to appear. I used a heel of bread to get the sops. I wasn't sure if it was polite in Canada to lick the bowl. I was kind of shocked to see how fast I'd eaten, but then, breakfast had been… six hours ago? I was lucky I hadn't fainted.
        "The task Ray is doing is to last twenty-eight days, a lunar month," Peggy said, bringing over the pot and a trivet and dishing me up again. "Ray has not made contact for twenty-seven. But if something breaks the month, he has to start again."
        My spoon paused halfway between the bowl and my mouth. I raised my eyes to look at Peggy in disbelief.
        "And that meeting at the store ruined it?" I asked. "It was an accident! That's bullshit!"
        "No, that's a judgment call," she said. "As I said, the Raven's a trickster. Your presence at this time is quite interesting. I'm curious as to how Dad will interpret this."
        "Why your dad? Who is he?"
        She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "My father is a tribal elder. He's the… it's hard to explain. He's acting as a spiritual advisor in this matter."
        "Like a shaman?"
        "Let me guess: 'Dances with Wolves' is your only point of reference for anything I say, isn't it?" Peggy asked, snickering.
        "Sure," I answered back, "It's only three hours. Benny takes that long to get warmed up."
        Peggy Bluemountain's laugh had about eight different settings, I'd noticed over the last few minutes. This one was over the top, gut-splitting, a series of high, giggly shrieks, and she really shouldn't have attempted it without a doctor nearby.
        "OK, he's not a shaman, fine," I said when she began to settle down. "So what's the deal?"
         "He's the one who's setting the tasks, like the silent month," Peggy said, sighing a little as she came down from her fit. She took a deep breath, giggled, and then went on. "Dad'll want to talk with you before he can make a decision to see if your visit affects the timing."
        Finally, she sat down as well, bringing her own bowl and a plate of sliced apples.
        "But Ray, isn't it great that Ray said he'd understand if this created a delay?"
        "What, that seeing me meant he had to wait another month to – to what, exactly?"
        "To end the task, of course. I think he's learned a hell of a lot about acceptance and patience, don't you?" she asked, and took a bite of her stew. Her smile returned, closed mouth, but still pretty. "Mmm, and people said I couldn't cook possum like my Auntie Irma."
        The blood left my face before I caught the look in her eyes.
        "Tell me this is moose, or at least something bigger than a damn rat, OK?" I hissed.
        "Ooh, you leave yourself wide open for teasing. You'd better stay a while – it's been dull around here," she said, laughing again.
        "Always glad to oblige a lady," I answered, polite as can be, except for the glare. It just made her laugh more. I liked Peggy.
        The front door opened, and we both turned at the sound. Benny, I hoped, but it was not to be.
        "Peggy?"
        "In here, Dad," she called. I wiped my mouth on a paper napkin and stood.
        "I see another forest is being cleared," said the same voice, and then the owner came through the swinging kitchen door. Peggy's father was about fifty-five, his thinning silver hair pulled back into a braid. Bushy eyebrows over tired eyes and a lined face. Peggy favored her mother, I decided.
        "Ray Vecchio!" the man exclaimed, his eyes suddenly awake and echoing his smile. "No wonder Ray's chopping up Loomis's scrub oak."
        I've always wanted to be on TV and have people interested in me. I now had the feeling that I'd got my wish through Benny. And I suddenly understood why people said to be careful what you wished for.
        "How'd he look?" Peggy asked. "Because I think that alder is cured enough."
        "That oak is gonna take the vinegar out of him, but… the alder will be a good way for him to cool down," the man said, nodding. "Yeah. Take him about twenty, get him to stop and take a break. I need to talk with him. Mr. Vecchio – or should I say Detective Vecchio? It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Mike Bluemountain, not that my daughter will introduce me, or show me the respect I deserve."
        "I got that ugly old moose you killed to give me a tasty stew, Dad. Actions speak louder than words," she said. It sounded like the Salish version of Casa Vecchio. I couldn't help smiling as I shook the older man's hand.
        "Mr. Bluemountain –"
        "Mike. Or Elder Bluemountain, if you piss me off."
        "I'll try for Mike and keep Elder as a fallback. But I'm not a detective any more. I'm retired."
        "Retired? No." Mike's words hung in the air, awkward and heavy.
        "Umm, yes, I – I got shot, and it was severe enough that they offered me my pension."
        "And now?" he asked, looking at me like Peggy had, in the office. Like Dief used to. But Mike Bluemountain's was stronger than the other two combined.
        I always felt that as a cop, I had a good "edge," that rough and dangerous aura perps respected. Benny never saw it, of course. Constable "How Dense Can One Guy Be?" Fraser would just keep talking, never played good cop/bad cop. But ask anyone else, they'd say that Ray Vecchio had an edge.
        But three seconds under Mike's stare and I felt like a first time purse snatcher sitting in Interview One. I felt my face grow red.
        "I run a bowling alley in Florida."
        "Sell it," Mike said. "It's not what you should be doing."
        That put the edge back in place. My ma is the only one who could use that tone on me and get a polite reply.
        "Excuse me, I hate to yell at an Elder," I said, "but what do you know about my life? I'm more than just some stories the Mountie told you, I hope you realize that."
        "I know that men who are happy running bowling alleys don't cross the continent without calling ahead. Especially if it's a new business, which it would have to be – how long you been running it? Six months?"
        "I came up to see an old friend," I said, not backing down. I've kept doughnuts away from a wolf, I can stare down an old man. "Suddenly I'm told, oh, no, you can't go to his place, Ray, he's not there. And you can't talk to the Polack, not that I'd want to, he's chopping wood so he doesn't talk to his fiancée. And now you have the nerve to tell me I should go back to being a cop? Hello? I've had enough lead therapy for one lifetime! Thanks, Elder Bluemountain, I think I'll stick with my current career counselor."
        Mike shrugged. "You've answered your own question on that score, Ray. You feel you've been mistreated and you're angry and confused."
        "Yeah? So?" I asked in the silence as Mike dipped a slice of bread in the stew pot. I felt churlish – why? What business was it of his?
        "Detectives want answers. And they want to know why people say certain things, and don't say others. If you weren't a detective, you'd have either gone up to Ben Fraser's home, or you'd have left town, or just gone over to the diner and not stayed to talk more with my daughter. As it is, you're curious enough about what she told you – and what she didn't tell you – to stick around and see what else she'll say."
        The three of us sat in silence while I thought about this.
        "Well," Peggy finally said, getting up and putting her bowl in the sink. "I've got some logs to haul twenty yards. Dad?" She added something in Salish (I guess). He grunted.
        "Ray, I'm sure I'll see you later, so I won't say goodbye. Don't let Dad frighten you," she finished, kissing her father's cheek as she left through the kitchen door. The two of us stayed quiet a little longer, then Mike took a deep breath.
        "Coffee?"
        "Please," I answered. I'd seen a French press next to the stove when I first came in, and wasn't disappointed when the old man put a pot of water on to boil.
        "Who is Kowalski marrying?" I asked. "Peggy didn't get around to telling me. Not that I'd know any more than I do now, but –"
        "Actually, Ray, you would know quite a bit more than you do now."
        "Not really," I said. "Seeing as how I don't know anyone in town except for –"
        "Ray Kowalski is engaged to Benton Fraser," Mike said, his voice the sound of something carved in stone. He didn't look at me. Instead, he watched the pot, waiting for it to boil. It took a moment for what he said to hit me.
        "Don't even joke about that," I said. My voice started to go up, and my throat felt tight, like I was trying not to throw up. Which was true.
        Mike didn't answer. I waited for some sign, some reaction. I waited to see him grin the way his daughter had when she was kidding about the stew. I knew he was joking, there was no way he could be serious.
        He still didn't answer. Oh, shit, I thought. Cold sweat on my face now caught a breeze, and yet the kitchen suddenly felt too small. The light was fading. My legs seemed weak, but my arm braced on the table wasn't helping, so I sat down, hard.
        Mike still didn't look over. He kept staring at the white kettle on the white stove. Jesus. It wasn't true. No. Kowalski – no. Stella would have said that. With everything else she'd told me about the Polack, she would have mentioned that.
        And Fraser? No.
        My gut was sandbagged by two bowls of stew. It had tasted good a few minutes ago; now I could taste was sourness. I wiped my mouth with the back of my cold, shaking hand.
        No.
        "Have some apple slices, Ray," Mike said. "But don't eat the skin if you're nauseous. While the flesh will help settle your stomach, the pectin in the skin can be irritating to the lining."
        "Don't even joke that my best friend is a fucking queer. Do you hear me? Are you listening?"
        I kept talking. I told Mike that this bullshit was pissing me off, but he just got some beans out of the refrigerator and put them in the grinder. Didn't even wait for me to finish before pressing the lid. He wasn't listening. Benny used to do that. He'd let me talk, but he'd do his own thing. I'd thought at first it was Benny, and then when I met Turnbull and the Dragon Lady, I thought it was a Mountie thing. Apparently, it's Canadian. So I shut up and waited. It's the only thing that ever worked, anyway.
        "I never joke about love, Ray. Ben and Ray share one of the surest, steadiest loves I have been asked to witness." Mike turned and looked me squarely in the eye. "And you have power to destroy it, if you choose. Ben would listen to you. He loves you as the brother he never had and as a friend he'd not expected to find in a strange city. He would listen to you, if you told him he was wrong for doing this."
        There was a window on the far wall, the same wall I'd watched Kowalski chop wood. I got up, suddenly needing to move. I could still see Kowalski. His shirt was off, and he was sweating like – well, like a guy who'd been chopping wood for a while. Scrawny, wiry – queer? Had to be. Couldn't be. What the fuck had he done to the Mountie? And Benny – well, whatever was going on, if he'd agreed to this – what the hell was going on?
        And why was I talking like this was a possibility? It wasn't true!
        "Do you really think he'd listen?" I asked. Oh, Jesus, I'm buying this, I thought. I was having a nightmare, and believing it. But from what Mike said, there was a way out. It seemed like my only hope. It was strange: Mike had said they were in love (which wasn't true. It was impossible). But at the same time, he was whispering to me that I could help Benny, get him out of this.
        "He would. Of course, it would be at the cost of your friendship," Mike said, and his voice had returned to that tone he'd used when he said I should be a detective. No arguing with that voice.
        "What's that supposed to mean?" I snapped. I felt I was talking to someone long distance, with a delay between his words and my comprehension.
        "Ben Fraser is simple in his beliefs, Detective. He believes there is right and wrong, and very few gray areas between them. He uses his head to think and his heart to love. Would you agree with that assessment?"
        "Sure," I said, shrugging.
        "Love is not a matter of logic," he continued. "If you tell Ben to leave Ray, he will. On your command, based upon your logical explanations of why he should not be with him. Or any man, since that appears to be a great part of your objection."
        "OK, then, let me talk to him," I said, but Mike went on as if I hadn't opened my mouth. Canadian.
        "Of course, it will tear his heart out. And he will no longer have the ability to love another, not even a friend," he said. Steam was shooting from the spout of the kettle.
        Mike poured the ground beans into the press and added the water. He pulled down two mugs from a tree. We watched the grounds swirl, then settle. He waited another minute to depress the plunger.
        "Do you take anything in your coffee?"
        I shook my head. He got out some milk and splashed it into one of the mugs.
        "You really have only a few choices, Ray," he continued. "You can leave now, and when Ben contacts you, tell him you're no longer friends. This will hurt him; he talks about you often. But he has other friends. The blow will be cushioned. Or you can tell him to leave Ray Kowalski, and he will. You will still lose his friendship. Or you can stay and find some way to be happy for him. That's the closest you will come to anything like a win-win situation. If that's what you want."
        Mike poured the coffee.
        "What I want is what's best for Benny," I said slowly. Yes, I realized, that was true. No matter what, I had always wanted Benny's best interests. I never meant to shoot him, but it did get him away from Victoria. I might have lost him then, but I didn't. Would I have pulled the trigger if our friendship had been on the line? Why was this different? Damn it, Benny, I am tired of following you into danger!
        "And what is best for him?" Mike asked. I didn't answer.
        "I don't understand how this could have happened," I said slowly. "He was straight when I knew him. And Kowalski – well, of all the shit that Stella has said about him, she's never said he was a fa – that he was that way. I would have remembered that."
        "So you've met Stella Kowalski?" Mike asked. Figures he'd have heard of her. Yeah, Benny made a great substitute for television. A regular Aaron Spelling production.
        "I married her!" I shouted. I took a breath, trying to calm down again. "Benny – wait. If you didn't know I married her, that means he doesn't know that, right? And Ray doesn't either, I guess. Oh, Jesus. This just gets weirder and weirder."
        "Ray? May I ask why you came up here?" Mike asked.
        Right. "Yeah, that's a whole other story," I muttered. I sat back down with my coffee, stretching my legs under the table.
        "I wanted to talk with Benny about my marriage. We're having trouble."
        "Why? Ben's never been married."
        "No, but he's always been Benny," I said.
        Mike thought about what I said, and chuckled. He got it.
        I have never known anyone who's been as consistent as Fraser. Stella had been an independent girl, a married woman, and forceful attorney. I'd been Armando for so long, I had needed help being Ray again, and the Polack, well, he'd done so many undercover jobs he made me look steady. Only the Mountie was the same man, no matter the time or place. In jeans and a flannel shirt, the red serge still came up from his skin like aniline dye.
        But that was before I found out he was… Jesus, Mary and Joseph. A queer.
        "He'd bring it back to you," Mike said. "Ask about what you'd done, not what your wife had said."
        I nodded. Mike raised an eyebrow.
        "You do realize that you've been given a lagniappe, don't you?"
        "A what?" I asked.
        "A gift," he said, "an extra –"
        "I know what the word means. My ma doesn't call me Raimondo because she's being cute," I said. "But what's the bonus here? My marriage is in trouble, my business is going down the drain, and now good old unchanging Benny is – sorry. Just tell me what the lagniappe is here, Mike, I'm a little slow today."
        "Must be jet lag," Mike said. "Ben hasn't changed. He loves as honestly as he does everything else and with the same convictions. He would indeed be able to see what you may have done to endanger your marriage. But Ray Kowalski would tell you how to talk with Stella."
        "Oh, right. I am not talking to that skinny bag-lady about his ex-wife," I said, grinning fiercely. "The guy is sleeping with a guy after his wife dumped him, and you really think he's an authority on the subject of Stella? Besides, he and I don't get along well enough on an ordinary day, and this is not an ordinary day."
        "No, but it's the day you're going to talk with Ray," Mike said, standing up.
        "What? Oh, no, he's pissed enough as it is," I said, panicked. "And he's got an ax."
        "If I loan you one of mine, will you chop along side him?"
        It occurred to me Kowalski had been at it a long time. Damn, that's stamina, I thought, I had to give him that. We could hear the muffled explosions of wood flying.
        "He'll go on all night if he doesn't faint," Mike said, looking out the window. "We keep someone watching him, just in case."
        "He's done this before? How many times?" I asked, interested against my will. And stalling, I'll admit it. The chopping stopped.
        Mike shrugged. "A couple. He's not good with anger. More coffee?"
        I looked at him, about to argue, feeling like I was back in Miami, trying to figure out how to swim in the ocean. Rule Number One: You can't fight waves. They don't care if you're strong, they don't even see you as an obstacle. Mike Bluemountain was an ocean. He didn't get cocky, he didn't get angry, but there was nothing to fight and he just kept coming.
        "If you will not agree to talk with Ray Kowalski," he said in the same tone he used to offer me coffee, "you will not be allowed to talk with Benton Fraser."
        "And what's gonna stop me?" I asked, hoping he didn't know I was bluffing. Frankly, he didn't seem to care.
        "People around here know what he and Ray are doing. If I tell Benton to leave town, he will, without question, and no one around here will help you find him. It's your choice, Ray."
        The chopping started up again.
        "You're probably tired. Why don't you go wash your face and lay down on the couch for a while? I'll come get you later."
        I sighed and started to swim with the waves to the shore.
        "Yeah, a nap is probably a good idea. But I'm going to need another cup of coffee later before I have to be friendly with him. Wait – do I have to be friendly?"
        Mike smiled.


Chapter 2: A Couple of White Guys and Not One Damn Inuit Story


        I'm past the first pain threshold. Way past it. Now I got a rhythm going on, and my arms are loose. I'm sweating like a horse, I got rivers pouring down me. Mary Loomis was checking me out when she brought me some water. I stripped off my t-shirt, 'cause I figured that was more of a treat than John Loomis was ever gonna give her.
        Being pissed off at Loomis, that only warms your heart for an hour, maybe two.
        "Hey Ray, what day is it?"
        OK, maybe three hours.
        I'd call him an asshole, or a frigging cocksucker, which used to be two of my favorite insults, but that's just one of the changes in my life these days. Those just aren't insults any more. Oh – that, and I don't talk shit to people as much. Some, sure, gotta keep my hand in, and I ain't trying for perfection. But still, hanging around Benton for this long (and the past eight months of which have been some serious hanging around) tends to clean a person up inside. I don't slouch as much, either.
        Make no mistake: I will wake up sore tomorrow. But who's gonna care? I was less than two days away from the finish line, and the Style Pig pushes it back another month. Another fucking month. Another month of not fucking.
        And let's face it, even if I've cut back on the insults, Ray "Detective Armani" Vecchio makes a nice exception. The anger I'm feeling towards him right now, now, that's a real anger. That's a rage I got going on there. A long-burning pile of Kingsford charcoal briquettes. Loomis? Gone. Vecchio? Now, that's staying power. That'll last a month. At least.
        But now Benton is in my mind, cupping my face in his right hand.
        "He's my friend, Ray," he told me in our tent, on our adventure. Our honeymoon, if you want to do chickspeak, and if camping on icefields is your idea of a honeymoon. It's not for everyone. I had the advantage of a real warm Mountie, but, still, I'm not saying I'm hungry for winter to come back just so I can go camping. "I'll always call him my friend. And if he hadn't gone undercover –"
        "We wouldn't have met?" I said, shaking my head. "Nah, it would have happened. I was looking for a transfer anyway, and the two-seven had a slot."
        "Mm, so we would have met, and perhaps we'd have become lovers sooner. I would have chased after you without any brakes," he said, his grin looking a little too much like Dief's when he spots an unguarded pizza. I remember getting hard at that moment, just from the thought of Benton "chasing" me.
        "But would we have stayed together, do you think?" he asked me then. And he was serious.
        Of course, I thought, of course. After all, I'd just been handed my papers by my one true love, I was doing undercover just to prove I had the balls, my old man still hadn't forgiven me for being a cop, my mom was sighing about no little Stanleys running around (and still tight with my ex). Sure, I was ready for a death-do-us-part scene with a guy who wore a red coat and big hat. Of course.
        And Fraser, hell, that he could look anyone in the eye after that whole Victoria thing went down showed a lot more self-forgiveness (I'd say balls) than I ever had. He was working in the RCMP version of Siberia for a CO slightly more user-friendly than a busted ATM. Virtuous in a world that didn't play by the rules. And oh, yeah – orphan. That was just the cherry on the sundae.
        "Stayed lovers? We wouldn't have been lovers, Benton," I corrected him, stroking his cheek and feeling the tiny bit of stubble he'd produced in three days. I was a carpet. He was fine grade sandpaper. "We'd have been using each other to keep the demons away."
        "And demons always come back, Ray."
        "Right." I nodded.
        And I nodded again, just now, remembering that. Damn it. I can't be thinking about him. I cannot be doing this.
        I don't know how long Peggy's been standing here. I only see her when I finish the oak. I pull my shirt up from where I'd stuffed a sleeve into a back pocket and wipe my face. She tilts her head to point to a stack of bucked logs, gray-green-white bark.
        "Alder?" I ask. She nods.
        "It grows fast, even up here. It's almost a junk wood, but it has its uses. Good for kindling, for one thing."
        "Kindling, huh," I grunt, my hand reaching automatically for the keys she tosses me. I feel the sudden motion, different from the ax swing, and, oh yeah, tomorrow's gonna be a bitch on the muscles. The two guys they got watching me, Loomis and Kenny Royston, laugh at my wince. Not gonna give them shit, though. It's not the first time I've had baby-sitters around to make sure I don't kill myself with one chop.
        "Cut them small – it won't take you long – then stack them outside my kitchen. When you're done, get cleaned up and come up to my room. Dad's gonna want to see you again."
        "But I'm to go to your room," I confirm. She nodded and looked down the road that separated the Bluemountain yard from the Loomis yard.
        "Yeah, he's talking with someone. We shouldn't disturb them."
        She's said that before when I've called to talk with Mike. It usually means Benton's there, but not this time. This time it's Ray goddamn Vecchio.
        But I don't say any of this out loud, I just nod and wipe my face again before getting back to work. She's right – alder practically falls to toothpicks when you split it, so it's only an hour later that I'm walking home, having stacked enough kindling to last the Bluemountain household until 2098, and put Peggy's truck back in the garage. Loomis and Royston split after we unloaded the truck. A different day and I might have gone with them to Sled Dog Dave's for a beer or seven.
        My shoulders are throbbing. They don't hurt yet. And what is home these days is the trailer the Wanamakers live in. They've adopted me - unofficially, of course, although when I head to the States to drop a bombshell on Mom and Dad Kowalski, the Wanamakers, bless their hearts, just might get the chance to adopt me for real.
        I'm staying with them and not at our house. Not until the month (hah! Which month?) is over. Benton's in town, too. His half-sister, Maggie, she's staying out there, house-sitting while she collects her thoughts. She's like her bro – only takes vacation days as a way to track down miscreants. Sort of a hobby for the children of Bob Fraser, you get the idea. So anyway, she's got about six months of Mountie down time she's whittling away at. Glad we could help out, there, Maggie.
        I've been out there a few times since this started. I have to call Peggy, and she calls Maggie, and if Benton's not out there, I can go. Two weeks ago the fixtures finally came in, so we could finish the bathroom. Washroom. Whatever. Sam says watercloset. Anyway, the three of us finished all that, but I told Maggie not to tell "someone" it was done. I wanted it to be a surprise.
        Oh, wait, I gotta say this – that was the day I killed my first caribou. Dumb lunk wandered into the yard. You get over the Bambi Syndrome pretty quick out here, especially when you see the food prices in winter. I'd helped Benton and some of the guys with dressing a few, but this was the first time I was in charge. Maggie cooked up the liver after we finished all the hard work. She said it was tradition. Not an organ meats kinda guy, but hell, it was good with onions, and either she was yanking my chain or she wasn't, either way, it was good. Until I saw she'd put some in some foil and said she'd save it, maybe take it into town later, that "someone" would love a piece of liver.
        And the big, brave hunter, having spent a day hauling porcelain and cutting Bambi into serving-sized chunks, had to go outside and chop firewood before he started to bawl over the Mountie not being there.
        We can't live together during this, but we can't be too far away, either. We have to be able to go about our daily business without each other. No talking to or about him. No touching, obviously. No "coincidental" meetings at the laundry. And no going far enough away that the temptation is removed.
        It's hell. When Mike first gave us the test, I thought, great, I'll go pack up my apartment, figure out quarantine rules for my turtle, get Goodwill to come pick up – what? Here? With him so close and I can't – oh, shit. Not good. I'm gonna suck at this. One more thing I'm gonna suck at. Yeah, Mike, I needed something to fuck with my head, since I appear to be fairly cool now with the whole loving-a-guy story. Thanks.
        And I do suck at this. I do. I'm surly, even by my standards. I want to hit Loomis (though this does not separate me from the mainstream, most days), and whenever I see Dief, I want to cry. We've been at this fifty-seven days, twelve hours and change.
        After five days without Benton, I tracked him down, had my way. Made sure he had his way too, since he's got some pretty inventive ways. The next time it happened (twenty-five days later), he's the one who jumped the fence. As we raided the Wanamaker fridge after three hours of nonstop fucking, he lorded it over me that he had better control 'cause he'd held out longer. That got him another three hours during which he admitted (grunted) he couldn't live without me.
        But here I am, over all the bullshit. I've done this long enough that I've been able to see what Mike's going for, that we needed to know that while life is possible alone, the best it can be is bittersweet. No, scratch that. The best life can be is fucked up but doable. Yeah. I get a good warm feeling thinking about Benton lately. I can go a month alone, I can do anything for him and take any amount of shit life wants to give me, because of the Mountie living in my heart. Got the lesson, Mike. Understood, done, ready to go on to the next test, I can do it.
        I'm just real glad it's over in a few days. Or I was until the Style Pig showed up. Mentally, at that moment when I heard his voice, you know where I was at? Aside from thinking Loomis would look good with a boot print on his skull, I mean. Inside, I was kneeling down and thanking whatever force or god or chance that put Benton and me together, because I doubted all the shit would be worth it for anyone else. (I had another image too, but that involved me kneeling down for other reasons, but that one's a standard. You gotta expect to see sex thoughts in a guy's head, any day, any time.) And who shows up in town?
        "Stanley Kowalski?"
        Oh, he's not my rival. I get that now. Got it a long time ago. Benton's always thought of Vecchio as a friend. Don't know why, but that's our favorite Mountie for you. And to his credit, Vecchio came through for him, time and time again. I admit, I was jealous at first, because I was meeting Ray the Legend, who knew Benton way back when. Or at least back when. And Ray was his first friend in town. The one who drove him to work, the one he used to endanger. The one who called him Benny, that was news to me. And even if Vecchio didn't know about Benton and me (does he now? Oh, shit. Well, it was gonna happen, right? Don't get sidetracked), he knew I was the New Man.
        We made a truce, an unspoken one (we're cops and we're guys, all right? If we could get away with two snorts, a grunt and a ball scratch, we'd have all the conversation we'd need for a lifetime), over "our" desk, over the Mountie. We had a job to do, cops against bad guys, same old story. And as long as we had that, we got along.
        Then he got shot. Not the first time, around Fraser. Taking a long view, working with Benton means someone's gonna get hurt. That was, what? Vecchio's third trip to the hospital?
        And now he's here. Last I heard, he'd been up and intimidating thugs into giving up evidence, which is how the Ice Queen and Frobisher knew to go to Franklin Bay. And that was cool, Vecchio solving the case from that end, us fighting the evildoers up here.
        Once we'd done the obligatory paperwork and cheering, I arranged a three-month leave of absence. I figured at the end of three months, we'd either be near a phone, so I could go for another three months, or back in Chicago, having realized Kowalskis were not made for polar bear country. But I had a hunch Chicago wasn't going to be my home any more. Hell, Benton put up with my jungle, I figured I could deal with his for a while.
        Jesus. Sometimes it hits me – I'm in love with a guy. And not just any guy, not just some guy, oh, no, I'm throwing my lot in with Sergeant York of the Yukon. I wonder what Stella's gonna think. I don't know if I want the wind blown out of her sails or what. At any rate, it's gonna be a while before she knows, since we can't go back to Chicago until I get through one god-damned month of no Benton. It's gonna be winter by then, at the rate we're going.
        Of course, if Vecchio is wise to all this, well, then I guess I've got about three minutes between his shock and the phone call to the two-seven. One flip of someone's rolodex, and Stella's – well, who knows? Could be funny. Wish I could see it.
        Not that it matters, any of it, in the long run. We put running water in already, and we got standing in the community (I'm the token American). And I figure my part in the whole Muldoon affair has got to earn me some major brownie points with the immigration people up here. I may leave off the part about "Marrying a Mountie" on the section of the form where it asks why I wanna leave the states for the provinces. "Like snow. A lot." Yeah, that's better.
        By the time I get cleaned up, I'm starving. I grab a bag of chips and a bag of M&M's – no, they're called Smarties up here (and I have no idea what they call those little sour-fruity things we called Smarties in Chicago) – and head over to Peggy's. It's 3:30, and she and I got a thing for Bob Newhart reruns and junk food.
        Peggy's good people. She's got this really beautiful black hair, and a killer bod. In Chicago, the Gold Coast types would say she's fat, got about 30 pounds to lose. But she's not fat, she's lush, and only an idiot would not find her mouth-watering. Stella was thin and pretty; it looked good on her to be thin. Peg's got some cush and curves, and she smells good, too. It looks good on her to be cushy. Ask anyone but Benton, and they'll tell you I'm never gonna be as nice to squeeze as Peggy Bluemountain.
        And besides, up here, I'm the one with the weight problem. Soon as he sees me, Benton's gonna ride me about eating more, but I don't know if it'll do any good, I burn fat too fast. Like throwing butter at the sun. So I'm colder in winter – just means I get to snuggle closer to the Mountie. We all win.
        It's a good episode, the one where the guys all get drunk on Thanksgiving. Peggy impresses me by naming all the buildings in the opening credits.
        "Guess I talk about them too much," I say sheepishly, reaching for another handful of chips.
        "Do you miss it there?" she asks all of the sudden. I look at her, hard. This is … dangerous territory. It could be a test. But she doesn't back down.
        "When I go back to pack up my apartment, it'll be nice to see the old places," I say carefully, feeling my way, just in case she talks with her dad about it later. "It'll be nice to visit Chicago. But home has more to do with how you feel when you're there, rather than where you are." I smile. I like my answer. "Besides, it's just kind of a thrill to see on TV places you see all the time. Probably no big deal if you live in New York or LA, but it meant something to us, as kids, you know?"
        "I guess," Peggy says. "We get on television when something bad happens, like a tourist gets killed in the woods by walking around in camouflage during hunting season. Makes you glad not to see your home on the news."
        "I can get behind that," I say, pursing my lips and nodding.
        We both laugh, I'm not sure why. But it felt good. Clean. Ever since I saw Vecchio, I'd had a low-grade tension with my high-grade rage. Most of the rage had been chopped away, but the tension hadn't budged until now. My laughter starts to run clean, real clean, then, suddenly, I'm almost crying. No, not suddenly, gradually, but I gotta work hard to stop before there's anything more than some wet eyes.
        You know, if I'd woke up this morning and said I needed to fuck a Mountie, I could be with Benton right now, and everyone would just laugh because I'd screwed up another month. And they wouldn't care. But this wasn't my itchy pants, and it wasn't Fraser that fucked things up, it was the Style Pig, and I really hate that some pencil-necked pencil-dick could fuck things up like this. Could work me into a "not gonna cry" headache of migraine proportions.
        I never understand why they say laughter is near crying in your head. Benton would. God, I miss him.
        I'm rocking back and forth while Peggy's arms come around me, and the two of us rock, sitting on her floor in front of the couch. She didn't ask me to talk about it – no need, and it was just a temptation, anyway. I pinch the bridge of my nose while I rock, and try to breathe normally.
        "All better now?" she whispers.
        "Oh, yeah," I rasp, "I'm golden. I got some issues, but nothing that won't work out in time."
        Peggy chuckles at that, gives me a squeeze.
        "As soon as we get my marital status in order, we're finding you a husband," I tell her as I stand up, stretch, and head for her bathroom.
        "Right. You're the kind of guy who hated matchmakers, weren't you?" she says. "And now, it's all 'Come to the dark side, Peg.'"
        I wash my face. Downstairs, this house is half house and half office for the tribe. Upstairs is where Peggy and her dad live, ever since she came home from college in Alberta. Now she handles contracts between the tribe and outside business enterprises while her dad pretty much runs the council of tribal elders, and sits on the city council, too.
        Mike Bluemountain's a good guy, everyone thinks so. People put a lot of stock in what he says. I think if he'd been against Benton and me, this town would be a lot colder. As it is, no one bats an eye. Of course, today I wish someone would bat an eye, 'cause I'm spoiling for a fight. Gotta do something, wanna do something, even if my arms are starting to ache. Shit.
        "Peggy? I'm stealing some aspirin," I call out.
        "Headache?"
        "Yeah, a little. It's more my arms, some kind of reminder that they're gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow. Pre-game entertainment."
        "There's some Ben Gay in the medicine cabinet," she says.
        "You're the best, Peg. Gonna get you on the dark side real soon."
        Benton uses some liniment he makes himself. An old Inuit formula he learned in Inuvik. It stinks, but it works. Peggy uses Ben Gay. Better stink to it. But that's my self-made man, I think as I put my shirt back on.
        When I come back out, Mike and Peggy are in the hallway.
        "Thanks for the kindling," Mike says. His eyes are serious, which is how I know he's laughing at me. Best deadpan around.
        "Yeah, well, you're old, I figure you could use some help," I tell him. That gets me a smile, a little one, just one corner pulled up. But he likes that I don't look at him as some sort of movie Indian, like tourists do when they meet him. I respect him, a lot, but I'm of the opinion that if I can't slang him a little, why should I listen to him? Who wants the advice of a guy with a dead bug up his ass?
        "I want you to talk to Ray Vecchio," he says, speaking of a guys with dead bugs up their asses. I try not to look like my stomach's been kicked all the way back to my spine. "He has some questions and I think you're better equipped to answer them."
        "We have something in common," I say, still couching my words. Just in case the month hasn't been blown. (If it has, I'm sneaking into the RCMP outpost and jumping a Mountie. There is an upside to all this, even if it's short-term.) "I'm not certain we can talk without bringing it up."
        "I can think of several things you have in common," Mike answers easily. "Most likely I can think of more things than you can. But if you are thinking of Benton, Ray Vecchio is aware of your situation."
        No, wait, this is what being kicked in the gut feels like.
        "I realize it's up to you and Benton to make such statements," Mike says as apology. "But in this case, I had reason to believe it was necessary."
        "What did he say?"
        Let's face it – the band-aid was gonna be ripped off one way or another, Mike had just done it the quick way.
        "You'll have to ask him," he answers. "He's down in the living room. We'll try to stay out of your way. Be done by six-thirty and we'll all have dinner."
        "And – if certain … subjects come up?" I ask.
        "If Ray Vecchio brings up certain subjects, feel free. But play nice," Mike warns me, wagging a finger.
        "Mike? Why me? Why not –? Why not –" I still don't know if it's safe to say his name, or if I'm gonna blow it. Come to think of it, I don't have Mike's word that I'm gonna get to see Benton in a day or not. I'm free to talk about him? And what else, Mike? Free to go another month without him? Great freedom.
        "He thinks he needs to talk with Benton," Mike says. "But really he needs to speak with you. You'll be more help. And he'll get to talk with Ben tonight."
        The Style Pig gets to see the Mountie. I don't. Yet another example of Life not playing by the rules.
        "Ray?"
        I turn to Peggy, leaning on the door sill of her room. I can see my almost completely empty bag of Smarties by the couch behind her.
        "You'll do fine," she says, and her brilliant smile is greatness. I can do this. I can talk to the Style Pig and not beat his face in. Benton will be pleased.
        
        Ray Vecchio. Style Pig, even in what I suppose are casual clothes for him. His khakis have not been out of the store for more than a week. And he's tan, too, which makes his eyes even greener. If I were still jealous of his friendship with Benton, and I worried there was more than just friendship, it's his eyes that would be my proof. Don't look at too many guys, don't want anyone at all outside of Benton, but those are some pretty eyes on that Italian.
        I talk about his eyes because he's facing me when I come in, waiting for me. This doesn't get to be one of those character studies where you first see the person without them seeing you, so you can build up an image before they speak. But even as we stare at each other, him on the couch, me at the kitchen door, neither of us says a word. I can see the color of his eyes, but I can't read his expression. I wonder if he can read mine. I wonder what I'm thinking.
        Finally, I realize it doesn't need to be a staring contest and I don't need to win. After all, once I get another moon of no fucking under my belt, my life will be jim dandy and peachy keen.
        "So, someone's been getting some sun," I say.
        "And someone's been sucking Mountie dick," he snaps back. The expression is really easy to read now. After all, I do have more than a passing acquaintance with rage. Maybe that's why mine dissipated with less than a quarter cord of wood - there was another user in town siphoning off all the anger. Another thought occurs to me in that split-second: Mike said I could talk freely, if the Style Pig brought up anything Benton-related.
        "That would be me," I reply, polite as can be, and I let a smile settle on me. Remember, I said "asshole" and "cocksucker" are no longer my favorite insults. My problem at the moment is not 'oh, jeez, Ray knows!' but telling my dick to go back to sleep, it's not gonna get any for a while.
        "I can't believe you'd do that to Benny!" he says.
        I gotta laugh. "He's not unhappy with the arrangement."
        "Did they know when they put you in as my cover that you were queer?" Vecchio asks. "Let me guess: 'Hey Frase,'" he says, screwing up his face and doing what I guess is supposed to be an impersonation of me, "'Let me blow ya and I'll keep yer friend's name outta da morgue!'"
        "All right, that's it!" I shout, and no matter how my arms felt (better, thanks, but still sore) I really, really want to hit him. Play nice? Sorry, gloves are comin' off.
        "Let me tell you a few things, Vecchio. No, wait, since Benton's not here, let me apprise you of certain facts. First, what's going on with me and the Mountie is completely mutual. He loves me, I love him. Equal partners, OK? And because he still thinks of you as his best friend, he'd do just about anything for you, unless you asked him to hurt me or Maggie. Or Dief. But then, Dief's always in his own class, ya know?"
        "Yeah, sure," he says, not even interested in the mutt, which moves him up the list of people I don't need to give a shit about. "Who's Maggie?"
        "Oh, that's right – you weren't around for that," I say, and he winces. Round One to Kowalski. Cheap, I know, but it feels so good. "He found out he's got this half-sister. Seems Sergeant Bob Fraser sowed an oat after Benton's mom was killed. Anyway, you're still his best friend.
        "Last thing, Detective Armani," I finish, forestalling his questions, "It looks like Benton and I felt the same way about each other from Day One, but we didn't talk for close to a year, and we didn't do anything until you were done with the undercover."
        At that, Vecchio's eyes popped.
        "You – you waited –"
        "When Fraser blew your cover, you were still in character. And then we had to haul ass to Franklin Bay, but if you want that story, ask Benton, since I was just trying not to die of hypothermia. And after that, we had to make the world safe for idealistic Mounties." I sigh, amazed at how slow life's been lately. Love every moment of it, too. Rather die of boredom than a bullet, and that's the truth.
        "We heard you were back on the job when I called to tell Welsh I was taking some leave time to go on an adventure. And then, and only then, did Benton and I start talking seriously about how we felt." My throat is dry, so I go into the kitchen.
        "Hey, Pegs, d'ya think Mike would mind if I took Vecchio out for a drink? I'm thirsty, and it's not like he'd try anything in the middle of Sled Dog Dave's."
        Peggy, who's chopping carrots, grins and shakes her head no.
        "There's some soda pop in the fridge. Why don't you just replace whatever you take tomorrow?"
        "You're a lifesaver, Peggy," I say, snaking a sixer of cola from the bottom shelf. There are also some amber ales, but those were from Dave's brew that he does for locals, and those are a) Mike's and 2) way too good for the Style Pig.
        But I find I'm angry, not any more. He could insult me six different ways, and I still won't feel mad. Either he's wrong, or he's just calling me names. Doesn't seem to affect me either way. I tell him that, putting the ring of cans between us on the table.
        "The only thing that offends me is that you think I'd put a cop in danger," I say. "You think I'd risk you coming home in a bag for a quick fuck? I don't care what you think about me, Vecchio, but you honestly think I'd do that to your family? Not cool."
        Vecchio has the decency to blush and look away. "OK, that was uncalled for," he mutters. His "sorry" is even quieter, and covered with his first sip.
        "Accepted," I say. Just to piss him off. Hey – I'm not angry. Doesn't mean I love him like a brother or anything. We sit quiet, him on the couch, me in a chair by the window. It's quiet out, finally dark. I wonder if Mike would be mad if I saw Benton walk by, since I'm talking about him anyway. Best not to risk it, I guess.
        "Mike said I had the power to make Benny leave you," Vecchio says after a few seconds. Well, that's not too troubling a thought, now is it? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I decide to treat it like a test, since it came from Mike.
        "Because you're his best friend," I say. He nods.
        "Best friends have the responsibility to look out for each other," he says. "Even if they don't want to."
        "But you want to," I say. He looks me in the eyes now. Cop stare, with some extra schooling from Dief and the mob. I can see where it would work on others, but this is the Dominion of Canada, and I've been bribing that wolf with Hostess products for a long time now. Vecchio keeps it up. OK, he's good.
        "Yeah," he says. "I'd do anything to keep Benny safe. And screwing around with you? Not safe. I got him out the last time he fucked up, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. He might be unhappy for a while, but he'd understand that I was helping him. And Kowalski?" he leans in, turns on the stare full force. He's very good. "I want to get him away from you."
        He slowly sits back and drinks from the can, still staring at me. And then he breaks it off on his own. It's a good trick, kinda casual. Lets a perp know you don't need to win a staring match to prove who's in charge.
        I take a sip myself, and a nice deep breath. I'm not really affected, not deep down. Like when you get off a rollercoaster. Your body's shaky, but inside, you know you were never in danger. My arms are hurting, and my stomach's in knots because this test might not be over and I just got nailed a Chicago cop stare (best in the business) right between the eyes.
        But Benton Fraser loves me. I'm not Victoria, I'm not a threat, I'm just the guy who's crazy enough to want an unhinged Mountie, and when this conversation is over, I'll get off the ride and laugh at myself for feeling worried.
        "Yeah," I say, and I put some husk in it, that sad sound you make when someone else is right, because Vecchio's not the only one who's talked a perp into giving it up. Oh, and he's buying it! "You could get him out of here, or make him send me away. It's possible. He'd listen to you, wouldn't he?"
        I break off, start to take a drink as I stare into the space behind his left ear. Just when I see him start to speak, I looking him in the eye and start talking again.
        "You could make him listen, and make him willing to go along with your plan, and he'd still do his Mountie best at everything," I said, my voice stronger. Hook, line and Vecchio! I go on. "But he wouldn't be happy again. He'd just put happiness to one side, something that interferes with work, since it would just about kill him to think about it. So, for the rest of your life, Vecchio, you'd have to accept the responsibility for making him feel bad. And you'd never trust him, anyway, because he'd start being friends with someone besides your royal highness and you'd wonder if he was boffing him, too." I smile. "Or maybe just still thinking of me."
        I finish the last third of the can. His mouth is catching flies. Oh, yeah, ride over, please exit to your left.
        "On the other hand," I say after a polite belch, "If you were to come back next year when the damn wedding is supposed to take place, you'd find you do have the power to make him happy. You know, for generic crap, this isn't that bad. You want another?"
        "Did Mike tell you that?" he asks. I shake my head.
        "I know Benton real well now. He's like me in a few things. One is that we're both the type to mate for life. I didn't understand Stella throwing me out, 'cause I thought that was that, you know? You get married, that's it. I don't know, maybe for her, too, but she knew sooner than me that I wasn't her guy for life. I hope she finds that guy," I sigh, blowing out my breath with a click. "She deserves a good guy. How did I get to the topic of the Stella? Oh, yeah – Benton's the type to do or die, right. So if you told him to leave me, convinced him it was for the best, he'd leave me, but he'd leave his heart, too."
        "But you just said you'd found love again, after Stella," Vecchio says, sitting up at the flaw in the argument. Yeah, that was a flaw, wasn't it? And then I laugh.
        "I guess he could, too, huh? Well, that's a relief! If I die before him, he'd probably find someone. That's good. Great."
        "Yeah, but –"
        "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say, waving it all away, all his wanting to prove whatever the hell it is he wants to prove. I'm just happy to know Fraser won't ever have to worry about being alone. "The truth is, Ray, is Benton's happy, really, truly happy, and he doesn't have to wonder if this is right. And, as happy as I thought I was with Stella, it's not one percent as good as I feel around Benton Fraser. When he tells me how much he loves me, I don't even have to stop and remind myself that the Mountie doesn't lie."
        God, I feel so good! I'm gonna hafta tell Mike how incredible it is to talk about Benton. It might add days on this goddamn trial, but the upside is this incredible rush of love. Like a fucking tide washing over me. Is that chick talk? Who cares? It's great! Come out to all of Chicago? Where's the phone? I'm ready. And Vecchio, he's just stunned. Don't know what he expected, don't care at all. Then I remember something.
        "Hey – Mike said you wanted to talk to Benton about something, but he said I'd be more help. What was he talking about, do you know?"
        Vecchio flushed, and I saw again how tan he was, darker than what I remember from a year ago, and he'd just spent a year in Vegas, or Reno, one of those places.
        "I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're not contemplating being a lesion at the American Consulate in Toronto."
        "That's liaison, you dumb Polack."
        "Yeah, I know," I tell him. "I'm not big on French, which means I'll get along with most of Canada. So what's the deal?"
        He looks away again, looks at his hands, and shakes his head, putting the soda on the table.
        "I've been in Miami for the past six months," he finally says. "I met someone after I got out of the hospital, and from the first moment I saw her, I was in love." He flicks me this glance. "Too bad I wasn't undercover like you were, and have to be in a holding pattern for a while."
        "It did have some benefits," I agree.
        "Yeah. Anyway, we got married." He stops again and looks at me with some sort of meaning, and I wait for an explanation. "We quit our jobs and moved to Florida to open a bowling alley."
        And again with the look. Am I supposed to have some sort of response?
        "You… don't seem like a bowler," I say, more like ask, because I'm really needing a few more conversational clues.
        "You don't know, do you?" he asks.
        "I know what you've told me," I say, "Which so far hasn't included a name."
        "Let me ask you, Stanley –"
        "OK, I will have to de-spine you if you call me that again."
        "Fine. Have you talked to anyone in Chicago in the past six months?" he asks me.
        "Sure. I told Welsh I was going on leave, that was after we got Muldoon cuffed. And then I told him I was extending the leave, that was… what, about three months ago? Told my folks I was gonna hang out up here for a while, see how things went. Mike told you about the stuff Benton and I are doing, right?"
        "Right, but –"
        "So I haven't been in touch for the past couple of months, 'cause it's kinda hard to talk with people who aren't from around here. Even my parents ask how the Mountie is doing."
        Damn. Nothing like the thought of this dragging on and on to put the glum look on a face. Hopefully it would be over in a few days, and not four more weeks.
        "Hope it's not another month before I can call my folks," I say, giving in to the sad thoughts for a second.
        "Why? Because of this conversation?" Vecchio asks. I nod.
        "Mike said if you brought up Benton, I could talk about him, but… he didn't say whether it would change things or not. I figure, either way, I'm stuck. Oh, hell, we already fucked up twice, we'll get through this."
        Vecchio stares at me before coming to some resolution. Resolution. Jesus. They're gonna bury me in serge.
        "Gotta focus. Ray," he says, his voice full of serious talk. "I guess you didn't hear about this from anyone. I'm a little shocked, but hell, after the atom bomb I got hit with today… Ray, I married Stella."
        "Stella," I repeat, and I'm waiting for the last name – oh, fuck.
        "YOU MARRIED STELLA?" I yell. "WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? WHAT THE HELL –"
        "Oh, excuse me, Mister I-Mate-for-Life," he retorts, pushing me out of his face, which is when I notice I'd gotten up out of my chair. "You don't get a choice in who she marries. But she still talks to your ma, a little uncomfortable for me, but Stella's happy with it. So I would think your own mother would have said something, or Welsh might have –"
        I hold up my hand, looking down while trying to bring my heart back from hummingbird land. "Let's just go to our corners for a second, OK, Vecchio? Let's just – just shut up for a minute," I say, and happily, he agrees without one word. We glare, we breathe loud through our noses (notice how polite I am about not bringing up certain physical defects of certain visitors to Nupiak), and we do our own thing. He sits back, crosses his legs and stares at the window. Don't think he's looking out, just at.
        OK, back to me. Regroup. Think. Let it out, I say to myself, pacing, stopping, pacing again. Breathe in, think again, let it out slowly. Deep breath.
        OK. He's got a point, several of them. Jesus. Married to Stella. Let's take a quick look at the time line: Stella and me get married. Fast forward. Life sucks, only I'd rather not look at that 'cause I'm married to my Gold Coast girl. She puts my stuff in the hall, then she divorces my scrawny ass. Vecchio goes to deep cover as Armando something-or-other, some name that reminds me of shrimp. Hey, Kowalski, wanna cover for a cop? Eat, sleep, and work as someone else? Get out of your miserable life for a while?
        Which all leads directly into my falling so head over heels for a guy. A guy in a red suit and a big hat who licks things. Which leads to poring over Ray Vecchio's files and tossing his bedroom, praying for some small scrap of evidence that he might consider dating within the gender boundary (not that I'd ever slept with a guy, so what I'd've done with the information besides run scared, I have no idea). Which leads to an incredibly painful case of keeping my mouth shut at all costs 'cause it wasn't gonna happen.
        "Ray –"
        "Shut up and let me think," I whisper. Oh, right - forgot to put in the tortured nights of wondering how I could have the hots for a guy, especially after I realized it wasn't just some sort of rebound weirdness.
        And then it hits me – I went undercover and fell in love with Vecchio's old partner. Vecchio comes up from cover and falls in love with my ex-wife. I start laughing.
        "What? What is it?" Vecchio asks, all on the defensive.
        "You and me, Ray, we got some weird karmic shit goin' on," I say, trying not to bust a gut.
        He stares at me as if I'm unhinged (oh, like that's even an issue any more), then he glares at me. Jeez, was he going to stop blushing at any point in the near future?
        "Oh, come on, lighten up!" I tell him. "You gotta admit, it's straight outta Bizarro World."
        "Yeah, whatever," he says. "How is it no one told you? It's been six months, for Christ's sake!"
        "Good question. Why would people be reluctant to tell a guy who is known for keeping the lovelight burning for the Stella that said Stella has remarried, and oh, by the way, did we mention she married the guy whose ass you helped keep alive while he was playing Big Mafia Guy on Campus?"
        "Yeah, I see what you mean. Not exactly a phone call, is it?" he says, nodding. We're both quiet again.
        "Hey – what's the problem?" I ask, trying to fit this all in with Vecchio's appearance in the north country. "You wanted to talk with Benton about this –"
        "How can you call him Benton? The man gets saddled with two last names and you pick the weirder one to call him?"
        I sit down again and relax. The man is so not a threat. "He likes the name. He likes me calling him that. I call him Ben, too, Frase slips out a lot. But Benton's what really turns his crank." I smile a little, just to see how he reacts. Yep. He takes it as innuendo, and looks away, glaring at the window again.
        "So come on, spill already."
        He takes a deep breath and lets it out. I copy him, like it's a reflex. You ever notice that you do that? Someone talks about breathing, all of a sudden it's like your lungs want attention.
        "Like I say, maybe we should have been forced not to do anything for a while," he sighs, rubbing his face. He's not wearing a ring.
        "You got divorced already?" I ask. Part of me is elated, the rest wants to kick him in the head for hurting my Stella. Don't care who she sees or what she says, if someone hurts her, she's my Stella and I'll pound the shit out of the bastard.
        "What? No!" he says, pissed off. I wiggle my ring finger.
        "Oh, that. We don't wear them. We know we're married, we don't need any –"
        "Bullshit. Get the ring, put it on," I say, my jaw set. "What else?"
        His eyes glitter as he debates talking more. When it comes out, it's like he's got bamboo under his fingernails. I wonder what Mike said to him, that Vecchio is actually still talking with me. It's not his own deal, that's obvious.
        "We screwed up. We should have waited, we should have stayed in Chicago. But we didn't, and she's been talking to the DA's office in Miami, as well as some of the law firms, and she's said I either have to get serious or get out."
        I wait. Patiently, I might add. Or maybe not. Not a good judge.
        "And you being here…"
        "Is me looking to talk with Benny," Ray says, his voice firm, which is his way of saying the conversation is now over. Well, it may be over for him.
        "Do you love her?" I ask. I keep going before that bristling look becomes vocalized. "Could you love her when you're just not on the same wavelength for a few days? Could you love her when she works late and is frustrated when some perp gets a hung jury? When she gets bitchy with you 'cause she can't touch the perp? And when she wants to do over the guest room in –"
        "Dusty Rose."
        "Oh, man, it was Norwegian Sunset when we were together," I groan, grinning. "Dusty Rose sounds –"
        "Like shit."
        "Yeah, but if it's what Stella wants, can you go with it?" I ask. "If you can put up with Dusty Rose, the rest will be easy. But she'd be a better mom than she knows, so I hope she hears that womb-clock one of these days."
        "Yeah," he says softly. "Me, too."
        With a pang, I realize he might not get that wish either, and (not that I'm joining the Ray Vecchio fan club or anything) I'm sorry for him.
        "If you really love her, Vecchio, and think you can mate for life, then do it, and shut up with all the mistakes. Go back to Chicago, that sun is gonna kill one or the both of you. Get Stella back to the Gold Coast and put a damn ring on her finger if you want to make her happy!"
        "There are those," Ray says, "who would say that the ex-husband who's now bending over for a guy is not exactly an expert."
        "There are those who would be wrong," I answer, my voice steady and my eyes holding his. He looks away, embarrassed. I win!
        "OK, I was out of line –"
        "Damn right you were," I agree. "But if you think I'm ever going to be embarrassed about Benton, or what we do, then you're not only out of line, but also way wrong. And if you're not careful, I'll up the ante and tell you that the only thing that feels as good as getting fucked by Benton is fucking –"
        "Shut up!" he shouts. Wow. I do believe I got his attention. He jumps up and heads for the can. Well, I played as fair as I could, to my way of thinking. Time for another cola? Yeah, why not?
        Ray comes back into the living room.
        "All right," he says, sitting down again. He swipes his hand over his face, and I realize he splashed water on his head. He's pasty, too, but he wasn't gone long enough to puke or anything. Fuck it. I was playing fair. "I've been out of line. I apologize."
        "Apology accepted, water over the dam," I say.
        "This is not my day," he sighs, looking at the lace curtains. I had to laugh.
        "No, Vecchio, I guess not. But it hasn't been my day for the past 57 days."
        "Yeah, well, I'll do you one better and say it hasn't been my day ever since the bowling alley started tanking."
        "Which was…"
        "About five minutes after we bought it," Vecchio says, and we both laugh, that sort of wounded guy laugh that says sorry you're in trouble, pal, glad I'm not you. It's as close as we're ever gonna get to bonding.
        "Let me ask you, Kowalski," he says as he grabs another pop. "Did you ever – I mean, before Benny?"
        I sigh, never having a really great answer for that. "Not really."
        "'Not really' is not an answer, Stanley."
        "And Stella would make a nice looking widow, Raimondo."
        "Answer the question already."
        I take a long drink first. "If I push myself, I can say there were moments I didn't want to notice that I was noticing guys. But there was never anyone I wanted. Someone might look OK, but I'm wired for a lot more emotions, don't know why. I need to feel some connection, you know? It was why it was so hard to let go of Stella, I think. I can't separate my feelings from my body."
        "You sure you're a guy?" Ray grins, a little snide. Snide enough? Yyyyyes. Just enough. I look him in the eye and lean forward.
        "Ask the Mountie if I'm a guy, Vecchio," I purr, and get that red face I was hoping for. I laugh at that, which, for some reason, doesn't help. Hey, am I Vecchio's keeper?
        "You looking to get your face pounded, Kowalski?"
        "No, I'm just answering your questions, you dumbshit," I say, still laughing. Ah, I gotta let him off the hook, it'll make Benton happy. "So I see Fraser, and I … notice him."
        "Like you'd pretended not to notice how you'd noticed guys before."
        "Wasn't a long list, Vecchio," I mutter, because, well, hell, it's the truth, and once I really had Stella, I stopped thinking about it. Saw guys, saw chicks, wanted Stella. "Anyway, I see him, and damn! He was way too good-looking, all these chicks were hanging off him. I remember hoping he was an asshole, or I was gonna fall far and fast, you know?"
        "And Benny's not an asshole," Ray said.
        "Nope. A regular good guy, except for the all the weirdness factors."
        "Eating dirt."
        "Jumping out of planes."
        "Knowing about larva."
        "Knowing which way champagne wire is wrapped."
        "Eating dirt."
        "You said that one already," I say. He shrugs.
        "Still bugs me."
        "Does it bug you more than the way he'd walk up to thugs with guns and –"
        "And expect you to know he's got a plan?" Vecchio finishes, rolling his eyes. "I never got used to that! And you wanted him?"
        "Hey! I thought it was some weird divorce/rebound shit!" I say. "I wasn't looking for love." And I wasn't. I'd just wanted a nice quiet bit of undercover as a cop. Just get called Vecchio a few times to keep the heat off Armando.
        "But you found it, huh?" Ray asks, or rather, he says, softly, staring at the wall behind me. I can't really read him.
        "He grew on me," I say, scratching my stubble. Always liked that sound. "The first day, I knew I'd have jumped him if I'd been the kind of guy who jumps people. A couple months later, I realized this was a lot more solid than I'd planned. And I started getting mad at the women around the copshop, and at the Ice Queen. And I was getting really mad at you, Vecchio."
        "Me? I never touched the guy!"
        "Yeah, I know." I glare at him. "You never touched any guy. I searched all your files, but there was nothing in 'em to suggest you'd date anything less than a D-cup."
        "I'm sure you'll understand if I don't take offense at that," he retorts. He winces, swallows some air. "How can you say I'm his best friend? I never knew he was into guys."
        "If you'd been around when he discovered how he felt about me, I'm certain you'd have been consulted," I say. "And when you do talk to him, don't be surprised if he goes into some Inuit story about being two-spirited."
        Vecchio stared at me.
        "It's something about being bi, I think. To be honest, I tune out a lot of those stories –"
        "He's still telling them? You're surrounded by Inuit and he's telling you Inuit stories?"
        "Nah, we're surrounded by Salish and he's telling me Inuit stories."
        We both laugh at that. It's a pretty good laugh, too. Not greatness, but we're good. Maybe he wasn't the worst thing to happen today, who knows? And it seems, when I catch his eye, that he might feel the same way.
        "Hey – how long are you gonna stay around?" I ask. "Because if Mike extends this test, that's a whole month you can't talk to Benton, you know."
        "What if he doesn't extend it? When would it end?" he asks.
        "Tomorrow's the last day. If we pass, I'll see the Mountie the day after tomorrow."
        "So, I could rag him for being queer in two days?" he says, grinning. Vecchio's getting way too OK with this. Time to mess him up a little, as my reward for playing so nice. I shake my head.
        "He won't be talking to anyone in two days, if this ends," I say, and give a look that, if we were playing charades, would be interpreted as "Fuck Like Rabbits, Fuck Like Wolves, then Fuck Like Rabbits some More." Vecchio loses color again. Oh, hell, gotta play fair.
        "Still, if you're here for any length of time, you oughtta go stay out at our place. Maggie's out there, keeping an eye on the place. You'd like her. She's a Mountie, too, so Stella wouldn't have to feel worried about you staying out there with her."
        "How far from the house to the can?" he asks.
        "Closer than that shack of his dad's had. Nice job you did renovating, by the way," I say, then go on before that glare gets worse. "You want me to call Maggie?"
        "Well, I bought a return ticket, but it's open-ended," Vecchio says, thinking over his options. He looks up at me. "Are you planning on telling Stella about you and Benny?"
        "What? You didn't call her already? Yeah, I'll tell her," I say, sighing. Like that wasn't gonna be a weird enough phone call before finding out about Vecchio. "I figure once my folks know, she's next on the list."
        "What about Welsh?"
        I nod. "I think he's due an explanation when I give him my badge. He's not the only lieu I had, but he was the best, that's for damn sure."
        "Got that right."
        "Frannie's gonna be tough," I say, scratching my chin. "But I think she's more on Benton's list, since she's a Vecchio."
        "Yeah, let's leave that one alone right now, OK?" Ray asks, wincing. He sees my face and the change is quick. "No, that's not what I mean. It's just – the only person who didn't get the fact that Benny wasn't Frannie's was Frannie. But she's still my sis, and I'm sorry she's going to get hurt."
        "I'm all over that. Frannie's good people, no matter what."
        " Ray? Do you want me to tell Stella?" he asks.
        I think about that, and then think about it again. "If I tell her, most likely it won't happen until Benton and I past this whole month of silence deal. Maybe when we're in Chicago. I didn't wanna do it over the phone, but we're not gonna take a side-trip to Florida. Which means Stella's gonna jump Bogart on you for not telling her sooner."
        "That could happen," he agrees.
        We both think about it. And repeat.
        "Let's drop back and punt," I say. "Ask Mike. I don't want you to get in trouble, but I sure as hell don't want to screw up my stuff, you know?"
        "You know, Kowalski, if it was me, I don't know that I'd want Ange to know."
        "Like I said, Vecchio, I'm not ashamed of being with the Mountie. I'm not looking forward to talking with my folks about it, but I'm not going to hide, either. And Stella's a big girl, she'll either be cool with it and show up at the wedding or scream and cry and never speak to me again. I got no control over –"
        "Everyone still breathing?" Mike's voice cuts me off. He's leaning out the kitchen door. "I think you boys have talked enough. Come eat."
        Peggy always makes these great stews, and we devour one for dinner. Vecchio had it for lunch, apparently, but he's just as happy to have more. He doesn't have to say it, but Stella's no cook, not like Ma Vecchio. I'm thinking it's been a while since he's looked at a soup bowl with enthusiasm.
        Peggy and Mike keep after Vecchio with questions about Benton and Chicago, which is good, because I'm starting to get really sore. No more words, just get me to bed, if I'm not gonna be seeing the Mountie.
        And then the office doorbell rings. Vecchio sits up. He knows as well as I do what happens next.