Author's website: http://members.aol.com/clfinn5/cove.htm

Disclaimer: I disclaim, I disclaim!

Author's Notes: Thanks to Beth for suffering through this with me, Kellie for helping me over a hump, and AuKestrel for the final polish.

Story Notes: This began life as a vignette I wrote for the Lyric Wheel, inspired by the Headstones' song, Anything. It grew up and graduated as this.

Ray is asleep. His temple is resting against the window, a cloud of condensation expanding and contracting with his breath. He has finally succumbed to his exhaustion, despite vociferous protestations that he was fit to drive and none too flattering comments about my driving skills. He kept up a running commentary on said skills as we made our way through the late night streets of Chicago, but as soon as we hit the Interstate he reluctantly slid down in the seat and closed his eyes. Although finally asleep, he is not truly relaxed, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he's cold. I reach forward and turn the heat in the car up a notch.

I don't think Ray has slept for several days. I know for a fact he hasn't slept for at least two, not since our visit to Beth Botrelle on Death Row, but I suspect he hadn't been sleeping well before that. In truth, I haven't had much more sleep than him, but the coffee Ray pressed on me at the service station and my training will keep me alert to get us safely to our destination.

Ray should be asleep at home in his bed right now, and he likely would be if not for the fact that his main duty is to ensure the safety of another Ray, in another state altogether. Beth Botrelle was Ray Kowalski's case, but her name was cleared by a man calling himself Ray Vecchio. Because of this, Lieutenant Welsh met us when we returned to the precinct to book Sam Franklin, and gave us both strict orders to get out of town for a few days until the media frenzy calmed down. He had already cleared my leave with Inspector Thatcher and handed off Ray's open cases to Huey and Dewey.

Garrison Keillor is just wrapping up his show on NPR when I turn the radio down and stretch my back as much as I can in the seat. Diefenbaker snuffles in the back seat and moves into a more comfortable sprawl. The car feels strangely still, but it is not an entirely peaceful stillness.

Ray solved his case. He stopped Beth Botrelle's execution and he arrested the man who had covered up the evidence that would have prevented her conviction. But it is apparent to me that this case is far from dotted, filed, or stuck in a box for Ray. His normal pleasure at closing a case, his usual euphoric energy, is not in evidence. Instead, a permanent frown seems to have creased his face. I hope that the next four days of camping at a state park will help him.

I am reluctant to do so, but I wake Ray when we near our destination. He is the one who knows where we are going; indeed it was his suggestion. Rubbing his eyes and groaning at the crick in his neck, he sits up straight and directs me onto a dirt road. It takes us about half an hour and some back-tracking to find the turn-off that he is looking for, and dawn is starting to lighten the sky.

"Ray, are you sure you know where this site is?" I ask.

"Yeah, of course," he answers quickly. "Well, pretty sure. It's ten years since I've been out here. But it... hasn't changed that much."

"Ten years?"

He nods as he continues to peer out the windows. "Dad used to bring us out here... long time ago. Brought Stella once but... there it is!" he yells suddenly, pointing out a narrow turn-off that was nearly obscured by bushes from the other direction. It's no wonder we missed it the first time. "Take it slow, Frase. The GTO ain't exactly an SUV." He finishes with a roll of his eyes, "Look who I'm talking to,".

I simply smile and ease off on the gas even more. The road, it turns out, is not as bad as Ray feared. It has been a dry autumn and the road is hard-packed, although uneven. Diefenbaker is awake now and sitting up behind me, peering out the window. His breath is hot on the back of my neck and I reach up to push him away. He makes a snort of annoyance and moves over to sit behind Ray.

After about six miles, the road widens into a small clearing and dead ends. Felled trees surround the parking area and a path leads off the road down to what I imagine is the camp site.

"Thank God, no one's here." Ray gets out of the car, letting Dief out behind him before slamming the car door shut. I get out and stretch until I feel my vertebrae snap back into place, taking a deep breath of the forest around me. Much of the tension in my body seems to drain out of me with the almost-clean air and the scent of oak, maple, and birch trees. It doesn't truly smell like home, but it is much cleaner than the scent of Chicago.

Diefenbaker has already disappeared into the trees with a joyous yip and I imagine that we will see him only sporadically over the next few days.

"Keys, Frase." Ray snaps me out of my reverie with a tap on the roof of the car. Tossing them to him, I pull my pack out of the back seat while he opens the trunk. Walking back to help him, I am once again mystified by the amount of gear he considers to be "just the necessities." Handing me the cooler, he grabs his sleeping-bag, the pillow he took off his bed, and his tent. He leaves his own pack and the fishing gear behind, planning, I imagine, to fetch them later when needed.

"Ray, we really don't need a tent. The forecast is clear and fairly warm for the next few days."

"You can do what you want, Fraser, but I plan on sleeping for the first ten hours of this vacation and I prefer to do it without the bed-bugs." He punctuates his statement by slamming the trunk shut. "Let's go."

Ray heads off down the trail quickly and I follow him. The campsite is only about 25 yards through the trees, but far enough to feel isolated from the parking area. It's a small clearing, with a well-used fire-pit. I can hear the sound of water not far off, but cannot see the creek from here. A very pleasant spot, all in all.

It doesn't take us long to set up Ray's tent, which seems surprisingly new, as does the expensive fishing rod and full tackle-box he also pulled out of his closet when he was packing to leave last night. I would hazard a guess that they have never been used, and I ask Ray as much.

"Bought it all after the divorce on a whim," he shrugs while tying off the last corner. "Just never got around to using it."

"I thought you developed a rash outside of the city?"

Ray looks up at me in surprise and then flashes a quick grin. "I also told you my name was Vecchio. You believe everything people tell you?"

"Only until proven otherwise, Ray."

Ray snorts a half-laugh and shakes his head. He grabs his sleeping bag and pillow and tosses them into the tent, crawling in after them. I consider my options for a moment-- sleep outside and prove a point, or take advantage of the roomy two-man tent-- but only for a moment, and then crawl in after Ray. He already has his bag unrolled and his boots and jacket off, and is pulling off his sweater. He's left plenty of room in the other half of the tent for me, and I'm grateful that he manages to resist what I'm sure is a considerable temptation to make a crack about my choice. I make quick work of my own roll and strip down to my t-shirt and jeans as he gets comfortable.

"Jesus, I'm exhausted," he says with a sigh, closing his eyes. Before I can even respond, he appears to be out. I make myself comfortable, and it doesn't take any time at all before my own body is relaxing into sleep.

The sun is high in the sky when I wake and I am surprised to find that I have slept for about six hours. My body clearly needed the sleep, but it is rare that I am able to sleep for very long during the day. Ray is still fast asleep, and is snoring lightly, curled on his side with his face crushed down into his pillow. He would appear at peace if not for the dark circles under his eyes and the ghost of a scowl.

Dief pokes his head into the tent, his tongue lolling happily and his snout dusted with mud. He's been busy while I slept.

"Out," I whisper to him and get up carefully, grabbing my boots on the way out of the tent. I intend to allow Ray to get as much rest as possible.

I pull the tent flap shut behind me and sit down on a log to pull on my boots. The sun is shining down into our little clearing and it's warm on my bare arms. We are in the midst of an Indian Summer, the days hovering in the lower seventies, and it should make camping very pleasant for Ray. I can't help yearning for winter, however pleasant this weather may be.

Diefenbaker is circling me as if to entice me into a hike. It's an alluring prospect, but food is just as tempting, and I know Ray will want coffee when he wakes. I give Dief a few pieces of pemmican and he is content for the time being.

It doesn't take long to get a small fire built in the pit and some water on to boil. A noise, like a muffled shout surprises me, and I poke my head into the tent. Ray is sitting up, looking around, his eyes wide but vacant.

"Ray?" He blinks a few times and then focuses on me.

"Are you all right?" I ask, and he takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Um... yeah. Yeah, just... dream or something."

A nightmare, I suspect, considering the state of mind he's been in for the last few days. But I resist asking. One thing I know about Ray is that if he wants to talk about something, he will initiate the conversation, an ability that I do not possess. It is one of the many things that makes our friendship such a good match... a duet, as he would call it. Ray is willing to talk when he needs to and I am proficient at listening.

"Time is it?" he asks, crawling out of his sleeping bag and pulling on his boots.

"About 11:30. I've put some water on for coffee and we can put together some breakfast from the food we brought."

"That's what the donuts are for, Fraser," he says, pushing past me.

"Ray, you've been living on coffee and sugar for the past several days. Your body needs more nutrition than that."

"Uh huh... whatever." He waves in the general direction of the ice-chest and then heads off toward the trees. "You wanna cook, knock yourself out."

We came well-stocked with food, so it is simple to whip up some scrambled eggs and cook a couple of the Polish sausages. Ray returns as I'm pouring boiling water over his instant coffee and I hand it over to him as he flops down in front of the log near me. He grunts in appreciation, then reaches over to dig sugar out of the ice-chest, of which he pours an appalling amount into his mug. When the eggs and sausages are done, I dish equal portions onto two plates and hand his over.

"Good," Ray says, nodding enthusiastically after his first bite.

"And far more nutritious than powdered-sugar donuts," I reply primly, trying, I admit, to provoke him. He is far too contained, too quiet.

He just smiles around a mouthful of eggs and says, "Uh huh," skeptically.

Provocation unsuccessful, I turn to my own food and tuck in. I admit, I am quite hungry after a dinner of snack-food picked up at the mini-mart where we got gas just before midnight. It takes only a few moments to clean my plate, and Ray is already finished when I set my plate aside. Reaching over into our bag of food, he pulls out the donuts with a grin and takes three out of the package.

"Can't forget dessert," he says and bites off nearly half of one donut. His grin is covered in white sugar and he hands me one of the donuts. Taking a bite, I grimace at the too-sweet dough.

"What is our plan today?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I dunno. You're nature boy... you do the planning."

"I would like to get Diefenbaker out into the woods and exercise him. He's gotten woefully lazy in the city."

In response, Ray hands the last bite of his donuts to the wolf in question, who has taken up residence at his feet. "You gonna take that, boy?" he asks Dief, who happily yips back at him and then gives me a dirty look over his shoulder.

"Oh yes, foraging for donuts is a useful skill in the wild."

Ray snorts at that and shakes his head, then stands and begins to collect the dishes from breakfast. I join him in the clean-up and we rinse out the plates and coffee mugs with the leftover hot water and secure the food in the cooler. I throw some dirt over the fire and ensure that it is out while Ray pulls on his sweater.

"So come on, Mountie. Let's go work off the donuts."

We head off into the woods and I quickly lead us off the main trail. We spend the next few hours hiking, and occasionally running through the woods as I put Dief to various tasks. Ray keeps up surprisingly well. His stamina is excellent, although he has problems with the uneven ground and under-growth. He trips several times in the beginning, until he gets the hang of watching the ground as he watches where he's going.

Aside from the occasional bon mot at my expense, or Dief's, he remains quiet and withdrawn. The dark circles of exhaustion have begun to fade somewhat, but the lines of his face are still set in a frown. He seems lost in his own head and I decide not to disturb whatever thoughts are keeping him there.

We spend the late afternoon at the creek, fishing. His gear is high quality and it doesn't take me long to lose myself in the pleasure of the motions of casting and reeling. Ray takes a more relaxed approach and perches himself on a large boulder which has fallen into the creek, forcing the water to divert around it. We spend the time primarily in silence, punctuated by comments on the bait or the fish seen swimming right by our hooks. Happily toward evening, we have some luck and catch a total of three nice-sized trout, one of them Ray's and the other two my own.

Ray offers to cook after I clean the fish and he whips up a delightful corn-bread batter and fries up the filets. The fish and a couple of potatoes baked in the coals make for a filling meal and we both settle back around the fire to enjoy the night sounds of the forest.

"Fraser, you ever think about time?"

Ray is slouched against a log across the fire from me, and I can't see him clearly as I set a pot of water on the fire to boil. I'm not entirely sure I understand the question.

"Of course, Ray. The nature of Time is one of the mysteries that philosophers and scientists have been studying for centuries. I've often wondered whether..."

"No, no... not like that," he interrupts me, sitting up. "I mean... like how much can change in just a few minutes. Things you can't take back."

Ah. Now I have an idea of where this discussion is headed.

"I believe that is something that all humans contemplate, Ray."

"Like..." he continues as if I haven't spoken. "If I'd taken a minute to read that damn note. Or... if it had taken us three more minutes to nail Sam."

"But it didn't, Ray. We caught him and the execution was stopped. I imagine she has already been released from prison."

"No, no, no," he says, shaking head. He rubs his face, runs his hands through his hair, finally clasping them together behind his bowed head. "The needle was in her arm, Fraser. Another three minutes and I would have been a killer."

"Ray, it was not..."

"Fraser, do not say that."

"Say what?"

"That it's not my fault. That I was just a rookie. Whatever else you were gonna say like that."

"But..."

"No!" Ray yells, jumping up and moving around the fire to stand over me, his fists clenched. "Dammit, you told me yourself that you never made that kind of mistake. And you wouldn't have. I know that. You know that. So just don't. Don't give me any of that bullshit. I know we can't all be perfect like you... but do not sit there and grant me absolution. Jesus." And with that he turns, kicking the ice chest and sending it perilously close to the fire, then strides off into the trees toward the creek.

I'd follow him if I could move. Perfect? I am stunned, but somehow I know I shouldn't be. I know that my actions tend to encourage certain mistaken assumptions. But Ray... I thought Ray understood. I thought he knew me.

I am methodical. I am over-reliant on rules and procedure. And for those reasons, I am not likely to improperly handle a piece of evidence at a crime scene. But Ray's tiny part in the process that nearly sent Beth Botrelle to her death is so minuscule in comparison to the monumental mistakes I have made. Dear God, if he only knew.

I stare into the fire, considering that thought. As always when I find my thoughts turn toward dark hair and cold eyes, I am filled with shame. And an echo of longing. The feeling is still there, muted by distance, by the memory of physical pain, and by the shame that always accompanies it. How can I believe that Ray knows me if he does not know this part of me? It is not something I have shared with him.

Perhaps it is time that he knew.

The water on the fire begins to boil, so I take it off and pour it into Ray's thermos, dropping in a few tea-bags and closing it tight. I right the ice-chest, making sure it is securely closed, and walk down towards the water. I don't have to go far to find Ray, though only his outline is visible in the moonlight. He is perched on the large boulder, his arms wrapped around his drawn up knees. He glances at me as I step carefully across the stones in the water, then turns back to his view. I climb up and sit down on the rock next to him, but say nothing.

"Sorry, Fraser," he says softly after a few seconds.

"Perfectly all right, Ray. I understand."

"Do you?" he asks.

"I believe I do." Ray is right. I cannot forgive him for something which I would not forgive in myself. It is not the first time Ray has demanded equality in this partnership, but it is finally becoming easier for me to offer it.

He nods once and makes a satisfied grunt before turning away again. The coldness of the stone beneath us begins to seep through my jeans, so I hand him the thermos of tea. He opens it and takes a sip, then makes a face and tries to hand it back to me.

"No sugar." Smiling, I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a handful of sugar packets which I picked up at the mini-mart. I can see the flash of teeth in the dark as he grins, then proceeds to rip open four packages and dump them into the thermos. He closes it and shakes it up, then tries another taste. "Better," he says, taking another drink, then handing it back to me.

It takes so little effort to make things right with Ray. Or perhaps it is more honest to say that it takes so little effort to be with Ray. And that is a pleasure beyond belief for me. It is even worth the now sickly sweet taste of the tea.

We sit in silence for a while, passing the thermos back and forth between us, listening to the sounds of the woods. Diefenbaker is not far away, snuffling and rustling through the underbrush in search of prey. The water gurgles and splashes against the rocks beneath us, joining the music of insects and a few distant birds. It is peaceful, but I find myself becoming more tense as I try to find the words I need to share this thing with Ray. I remember the words of one of my instructors at the Depot. "Always begin with the basics." Right... the basics.

"I was in love once." My voice seems too loud in the silence, and I immediately wish I could take the words back. Ray turns his head and squints at me in the dark, but I keep my eyes on the outline of trees across the river. I think I am glad he does not have his glasses out here.

"Only once?" he asks, obviously amused by the non sequitur. In my mind I form a long treatise on the many forms love can take in one's life, and just as quickly dismiss it for what it is --irrelevant.

"For the purposes of this story, yes. She was..." I can't find the words to describe her. "I thought..." I hesitate again and wonder if my father will show up to scold me for not completing my sentences.

"Are there caribou in this story?"

"No," I answer quickly, exasperated with his interruptions and my inability to speak. "No caribou and no Inuit." I attempt to forestall his next question. He seems to sense the seriousness of the conversation now and falls silent, setting the thermos down on the rock next to him and leaning back to rest on his hands.

"I believed that... well, it doesn't matter what I believed. Only what I did. I loved this woman, and because of that love I was prepared to throw aside everything I believed in. If someone had not intervened, I would have run away with her, let my best friend lose his house and quite possibly his career. As it is, she has gotten away with murder."

Ray is silent, but I can feel his eyes on me. My heart is pounding, waiting for his response. Finally, he sits up and wipes his hands against his jeans.

"Doesn't count, Fraser."

"What? But I..."

"Don't," he says softly, grabbing my forearm. "I know the story. Read the file, between the lines and all." He kicks his heels against the rock and sighs explosively. "All bets are off in love, Fraser. It's not the same thing."

"That's right, Ray, it's not," I insist. "Making an innocent mistake with a piece of evidence is not the same thing as betraying my duty and a friend."

"Not gonna argue with you about this, 'cause you're never going to believe me. Just like nothing you say is gonna wipe away my responsibility for Beth Botrelle. But I get what you did with Metcalf. I'm not gonna tell you it's no big deal. But I don't blame you for it. I don't think less of you. Hell, I know that kind of love. I'd've done anything for Stella once upon a time. Given her anything. Any damn thing," he says, distant pain coloring his voice.

"Ray..."

"No, shut up. Listen to me. When I said perfect," he raises his hands and makes quotations around the word in the air, "I didn't mean it... uh... literally. Hell, I know better than anyone that you're not perfect." He laughs and I can't decide if I should be offended or not. "You're stubborn and irritating... occasionally manipulative... you talk to a wolf like understands English and Inuk... uh, various other languages... oh, and you keep endangering my life as often as you can. You're a freak"

I can't help but smile at this recitation. It may be a list of my short-comings, but the fondness in Ray's voice alters it into something else entirely.

"But, whatever... you believed me when I said she was innocent. And you helped. S'what counts," he finishes with a shrug.

"Ray..."

He waves his hand to cut me off. "Just... let me be with this, okay? I gotta just get to the other side of it."

"Understood." And I do. I understand what he needs now. It seems we are more alike than I had realized. I too would be impatient with attempts by others to absolve me of guilt that I felt was warranted. Though I disagree with his interpretation of events, I know that I cannot change it. And... I can appreciate the need to lick ones wounds on occasion.

"It's fuckin' cold out here... let's go back," he says, standing up and sliding off the rock, thermos in hand. He misses several of the stepping stones, splashing into the water and cursing under his breath as he goes. He really ought to be wearing his glasses out here in the dark. Finding each stone, I follow him to shore and back to our campsite.

The next two days are pleasant, albeit quiet, as I endeavor to give Ray the space he has asked for. He takes several hikes by himself and I don't object, though I do send Diefenbaker with him. I know he is not a child and perfectly capable of finding his way back in these woods. There is little I can do to help him, but I can ensure that he is protected as he works out whatever he has to work out for himself.

When he is not off by himself, he stays close to me, but rarely initiates conversation. Growing bored with fishing very quickly, he appropriates one of the two books I stuck into my pack before leaving. Examining both books, he chooses the historical novel, an old favorite I recently found at a used book store and purchased to reread, leaving me with non-fiction. I admit that A Probabilistic Analysis of the Sacco and Vanzetti Evidence does not appeal to me on this vacation either. He spends much of the next few days buried in the book and occasionally asking for definitions.

"Frase?" he asks, looking up from his book. I am stretched out under a tree, attempting to whittle a stick into something resembling an alligator. "What's an arquebus?"

"A kind of musket, invented in the 15th century. There were portable but very heavy and had to be fired from a support." I wait to see if that is enough explanation, and apparently it is, because he says simply, "Huh," and goes back to the book.

At night, we play chess with his small travel set and talk only occasionally. He tells me a few stories of when his father would pack up the family and take them camping, how his father would talk about fishing like the Old Man and the Sea and never catch anything, how his mother would make great potato salad, and how he and his brother would invariably end up fighting and would be sent to opposite ends of the camp ground to sit on logs until they cooled off. I tell him about how my father taught me survival skills, and I tell him about Quinn who taught me to track.

Mostly, we talk about anything but Beth Botrelle and Sam Franklin. Until the last morning of our trip.

I am trying to catch a few more fish before we leave, thinking that Lieutenant Welsh would appreciate some fresh trout, and Ray is once again perched on his boulder reading. I know that he hasn't been reading for the last several minutes. I can feel him watching me, but I don't acknowledge him, allowing him to bring up the subject on his own. And I know he will, because Ray does not shy away from his emotions. He talks to work things out and I can feel that he is ready to talk.

When he speaks, his chosen topic surprises me, knocking me off-balance. "Fraser, what would you do if she came back?"

"What?" I ask, feigning ignorance, though I know exactly who he is referring to. "Who?"

"Metcalf," he says impatiently, setting the book aside. "If she came back to Chicago tomorrow, what would you do?"

"I..." I slip off the rock I have been standing on, soaking my boot and ankle in the cold water. Moving to a more solid surface, I cast my line again thinking about my answer. He waits and I can sense that my answer is important. It is a test of some kind.

I find there is really only one answer and as I put voice to it, I can feel the certainty of it.

"I would detain her until you could arrest her."

He stares at me for a few moments and I stand utterly still under his scrutiny.

"I know now...," I feel a sudden urge to fill the silence between us, "that what we had was not love. It was... well, I'm not sure what it was, but it was not love."

His face softens and he nods, apparently hearing what he wanted to hear. "Good."

And that is all. He picks up his book and lays back on the rock, returning to his reading.

I stand in the middle of the creek like an idiot and stare at him for a long time, wondering how this man can be such a mystery to me. Wondering how he can take something that has been twisted up inside me for so long, and unknot it so simply.

And I find myself silently thanking Ray Vecchio for leaving.

Eight hours later I am waiting for Ray outside Beth Botrelle's house. He received a call from her attorney on his cellular phone when we were on our way back to Chicago, requesting that he meet her here. I am unsure whether this meeting will help him or hurt him further. I am hoping Ms. Botrelle will offer him what I could not-- some measure of absolution.

He exits the house about twenty minutes after he went in, and I can tell immediately by his face and the deliberate way in which he closes the door behind himself and walks down the steps that he is holding himself together by a string. That string unravels as soon as we are in the car and Ray finally lets go of what he has been carrying inside himself for the last four days.

Faced with Ray's tears, I feel inadequate and helpless. He has already told me that this is something I cannot help him with. And he is right. But I reach out and offer what I have, what I can-- my presence, my touch, however tentative.

And then, sitting here in the dark, listening to Ray sob, feeling the heat of his neckunder my fingers, I have an epiphany. A sudden realization about myself and about this man. This man who took a bullet for me the first day we met, who is my partner and my friend, who sees me and genuinely likes me in spite of it, who demands my respect, who had the courage to face Beth Botrelle, not only here, but in prison, who trusts me not only with his life, but it seems, with so much more. I would do anything for him, give him anything within my power to give.

Any damn thing, as Ray put it.

And that... that is a terrifying thought.

But this is Ray.

Perhaps it is not quite that terrifying after all.

End Anything by C.L. Finn: clfinntoo@aol.com

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