Had this been a storybook, the tale would have ended there: the adventure done, the safe haven reached, the lovers settled down together in peace, for an evening at their kitchen table, a night in each other's arms. A happy ending.

But life is not a storybook, and there is no true ending to it, happy or otherwise, until death (and, based on what I know, perhaps not even then). In between every now and that terminus is nothing but a succession of moments, one following another, leading in directions we might never have anticipated. Little about our life together turned out to be what I would have expected, and the fact that it brought so many surprises should have been no surprise to me. Yet I struggled, all the same, to encompass how entirely different from anything I had ever known it was to live with someone. To love someone, daily, hourly, intimately.

The early weeks of it are a jumbled blur to me now, just like the days before the quest, and in rather the same way—full of arrangements and transactions and provisioning, absorption in endless details, mundane busyness wrapped around a core of apprehensive joy. And it had the same feel of setting off on an uncertain adventure of high risk, which seemed odd to me even then—I kept thinking this should feel like settling in, settling down.

I was kept extremely busy, of course, by learning the responsibilities of my new posting. Challenging though it was, it hardly felt like work—relaxation, rather, into routines and systems that were deeply familiar, routines not necessarily beloved by me but comfortable, easy. "Like riding a bicycle, huh?" Ray said, when I tried to explain it to him; but it was more like the way horsemanship comes back to me, when I'm astride again after a long time away from horses—a tacit certainty of the rightness of one's place, and of how to align one's will and strength with that of a power so essentially different from oneself. There was no need to negotiate my place and standing, justify my presence, withhold my authority. No fear of hearing the "Well, y'know, he's Canadian," that had been such a constant refrain during the years of exile. I knew that this couldn't last, that the dubious looks would someday return. But in the meantime I took a simple pleasure in being in a place that wanted me, and I quickly assimilated the details of new personalities and office politics.

Once work was done and I returned home, I had far more unfamiliar things to learn, and they came with considerably more effort. For all my experience in sharing quarters during cadet training, I had never lived with anyone before, not this way, and had no conception of what it would actually entail. Always before, no matter how cramped or compromised my external life—in barracks, in the consulate—I'd been able to construct a simulacrum of privacy around myself, when needed, an inner fortress barricaded by the reserve that had become second nature to me.

Even on our journey together, there had been long interludes when, one of us on skis and the other on the sled, out of earshot of each other, I'd had time to myself. But now—the moment I arrived home from work, I stepped into the total immersion of Ray's company, his energy, his questions, his stream-of-consciousness conversation, his restless attention. It was wonderful, and it was exhausting, and it was surpassingly strange to me.

Equally strange was the task of negotiating domestic logistics. The most mundane details of life—establishing who needed the car when, and whose fault it was that we were out of toilet paper, and what constituted a decent level of household cleanliness—though they seemed as simple as rowing a boat down a stream, would sometimes hit the most unexpected rocks and rapids.

After a bumpy shakedown cruise, it became apparent that we'd be best served by a from-each-according-to-his-abilities approach, rather than the strictly equal division of household duties I'd envisioned. I took chief responsibility for cleaning and tidying, and Ray became the primary cook. In the kitchen, his intuitive flair came to the fore in ways different from those I'd previously witnessed. I recall coming home one evening, early on, to find the house filled with appetizing aromas, and Ray at the stove, stirring a sizzling array of mysterious chopped-up foodstuffs in a skillet.

"What is that, Ray?"

"Um." He peered down through the rising steam. "Some of that leftover chicken, and they had a can of artichoke hearts at the store. Threw in some olives. Onions, and garlic, and some hot peppers ..."

"That sounds—very interesting. Actually, I meant what recipe is that?"

"Recipe? Fraser, this is cooking, this is art, this is improv, recipes are just, y'know, paint by numbers. Mounties, they use recipes. I don't do that." Without missing a beat in his stirring, he transferred the spatula to his other hand, stepped sideways, opened the cupboard, and flicked his fingers over an array of small jars—spices and herbs, apparently.

"Those, ah, weren't there this morning, were they?"

"Way to pick up on the details, Fraser. Nah, I bought some stuff." He seized one jar, twisted the lid off one-handed, took a sniff of the contents, considered a moment, and then shook a generous unmeasured amount of the contents over the sizzling mass.

The results, when we sat down to eat, were delicious, pungent and savory, with a bite of heat.

"How did you learn to do this?" I asked, finally, sopping up the juices with a crust of bread.

"It's not something you learn, it's something you just do. You know, you try this with that, you see if it's good or bad, if it's bad you try it with that other thing over there instead, you throw in something else, see how it turns out." He stopped his illustrative gesturing, picked up his fork and took another bite, chewing, assessing. "Not bad," he finally said.

"It's excellent, Ray. I had no idea you were such a good cook."

His forehead creased in annoyance. "Hey, it's not just a chick thing, cooking, a lot of guys do it, including the ones who get paid the big bucks for it, you know?" He jabbed his fork in my direction.

"Of course, Ray, I never meant to imply that one sex is more fitted than another for the task. My surprise was merely occasioned by my memories of how you used to eat back in Chicago."

"Oh." He paused, nodded, went back to eating. "Back when I was with Stella—see, her idea of cooking was you pick up the phone and order take-out, but we didn't have that kind of money, so I figured out how to do it. I used to cook for her a lot, back when she was in law school. But cooking just for yourself—it's a pain in the ass."

"Indeed. And I must admit I'd have no idea how to go about producing a meal like this. I don't think that's a talent I possess."

"Nothing to do with talent, you just got to pay attention to what you put in your mouth." I gave him a look at that, and he grinned. "OK, OK, I don't mean pay attention like figure out if this grew on a, on a north facing hillside in Afghanistan or something, I mean like does this taste good, does this taste not so good." He pointed at my plate. "You got to think about do I like it, do I not like it. Does it make me happy." He looked steadily at me. "That's something you're not so used to doing."

I took a breath, but, finding no words, I ended up merely nodding, and took another helping. Afterwards, I washed dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, and spent a few minutes bemusedly looking over the array of seasonings Ray had bought. I was tempted to sort them alphabetically, but I thought Ray had perhaps arranged them in a way that made some sense to him. And a man doesn't mess with another man's tools, after all.

Ray's experimental cooking continued to produce unlikely successes, and some appalling failures, and never exactly the same dish twice. Every so often I would fill in with one of the set meals whose steps I'd mastered years ago—meatloaf and baked potatoes; hash and green peas; chicken and dumplings. He'd eat them without comment, and the next night he'd produce another of his spontaneous melange of oddities.

And so the allocation of chores worked themselves out over time. Ray tended to the car, naturally enough, and I kept the rather balky plumbing in working order. Ray washed the clothes, I folded and put them them away. Somewhat to my surprise, Ray took on most of the routine aspects of caring for Dief—feeding him, brushing him, policing the yard for waste. (And yet it was not so surprising—Ray always seemed to evoke the more doglike half of Dief's nature, the playful side, whereas with me his wolflike sense of responsibility tended to be more to the fore. He was my colleague; he was Ray's dog.)

We had always worked well together, Ray and I, and the job of creating and sustaining a household was one that we mastered in time, just as we'd mastered the art of police work together, meshing our very different styles with efficiency and grace.

But the other part of our lives together—the physical part, the passionate and lustful part, the part that I always remember as taking place in darkness or half-light, even when the sun was streaming in—that was wholly new to me, to us, and at times it was a struggle. It was like jumping into deep water, a great dark river that swept us away, helpless and half-drowned, to places we'd never expected. Sometimes we swam joyously in smooth warm shallows; sometimes we found ourselves in turbulent rapids. Or it might be more accurate to say that, just as on the quest, there were times of easy sledding over smooth terrain, and times that were like negotiating a broken icefield, difficult and treacherous.

The very fact of sexual intimacy as a part of my ordinary life, something that was permitted, expected, was staggering in and of itself, and at first I could not get enough, I simply could not imagine ever sating the physical hunger I felt for his body. Sometimes, burrowing deep into some hidden shadowed furred part of him—armpit, perhaps, or groin—smelling and tasting, I would find myself growling, sensing the big veins so close to the surface, so full of life; fighting my hunger, my wild need to rip my way into him, fighting to keep my teeth gentle on his vulnerable flesh. Sometimes the feel of my growl against his skin would make him laugh, and sometimes he'd growl right back, grabbing my hair and forcing my head, my mouth, to wherever he wanted it. Afterwards, panting, he'd say "You're a fucking animal, Fraser. Jeez, who knew?"

Those words would trouble me, once I'd come back to myself. Because, after all, I am not an animal, no matter how I might behave like one at times. Were I one, I would know, it would be encoded in my genes and reinforced by my upbringing, when and where and how to touch; the appropriateness and significance of each nuzzle and nip would be unambiguous.

But I'm a man, a human raised with very little schooling in the ways of human touch, and I was continually at a loss—how much was appropriate, or too little, or too much? I would watch Ray cook, feeling a desire to come up behind him and kiss his neck, stroke his shoulders, and I'd think—would that be intrusive? Greedy? When we sat on the sofa after dinner, would the natural thing be for me to sit close against him, put an arm around him, or would that be excessive? If I were tired and simply put my head in his lap and rested, as I sometimes wanted to do, would it convey a sexual overture? Would it seem too needy, too demanding? If I wanted to just sit quietly on my own and read, would it signal rejection?

I wondered mightily (it being a topic I'd never considered before) just what the expectation is, between couples who share a home—is sex assumed to be a daily thing, like meals and dishes? A treat for special times, like ice cream? That first week, during a lunch break, I went on-line and surreptitiously researched statistics on frequency of intercourse in married couples, until I reflected that after all very little about Ray and I was likely to fit any statistical norms, and I went back to work. But the questions remained.

I had assumed that Ray, with his experience of the married state, would have a better grip on these matters than I and would give a lead, but he often seemed as baffled as I was. He'd always had a careless ease about touching me, but our entering a sexual relationship seemed to bring that back to some sort of starting line, and he had to begin over, with awkward self-consciousness. Sometimes he'd put a hand on my shoulder, casually, and then suddenly pull it back again. Sometimes he'd push me away, when I'd attempt to caress him, with a scowl, and then turn back a minute later and grab me, and move things along to bed with a speed and intensity that left us both exhausted, and left me at least as perplexed as before.

It was nothing really new, of course, just the same mercurial unpredictability that had captured and confounded me from the day I'd met him, the volatility that so often left me feeling like I was plodding along far behind and in the wrong direction. But still I felt that this was different somehow; that the stakes were higher now, and any distances between us more dangerous.

I remember getting home one evening, only days after we'd taken possession of the house, to find Ray out of sorts, complaining about the limitations of the local radio stations; he was missing his music, I believe. After dinner, I'd made some clumsy attempts to comfort him physically; he'd borne them for a while, and then pushed me away and stalked off to bed, early for him, to lie wrapped up in blankets facing the wall. When I'd joined him, apprehensively, I could tell he wasn't asleep, and after a minute I'd ventured, "Ray? Are you angry with me?"

He made an exasperated growling sound and burrowed deeper into the blankets, curling in on himself; but after a moment I could hear a muffled sigh, and then he rolled over on his back and squinted up at me. "With you, Fraser, no. You're good, we're fine, no problem, don't worry."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, of course, but you do seem upset, and that causes me some—"

"I said don't worry. Nothing you can do about it. Nothing's wrong, it's just..." He pulled the blanket up under his chin and lay staring at the ceiling for a while. "It's—y'know—kind of a lot to get a grip on. This whole deal."

I nodded, folding my hands to keep my own grip on the urge to reach over and touch him. He was wrapped mummy-tight in the bedcovers, as if he needed some shield between himself and the rest of the world, with only his rumpled head poking out.

"It's like—being Vecchio, OK, no problem, I knew how to do that. Different name, different division, but, y'know, same old song. I knew the job, I knew the city, I knew—at least most of the time, I knew who the hell I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be doing. But this ..." He pulled an arm loose from under the blankets, and made a comprehensive sweeping gesture. "It's like, if you take all that stuff away, then ..." He stopped, gazing up into the dimness, and then went on, talking fast. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know a single fucking thing about anything anymore. Starting with me, and, y'know, moving on out from there in all directions."

"Well, you know me. That much, at least, shouldn't be strange to you."

He turned and stared at me. In the half-light, his pupils looked enormous. "You, Fraser, that's the weirdest thing of all. You, and me, and this." This time his gesture was much smaller, more intimate, taking in the two of us, our bodies there on the bed, the small space between us.

"I'm the same person I've always been, Ray. You can count on that." I said it in all seriousness, but the moment the words left my mouth, I felt a twinge of doubt, tasted some measure of falsehood in them. I set that aside for later reflection, and, hearing toenails click in the hallway, added brightly, "And then there's Diefenbaker, who should certainly be a known quantity to you by now, though how reassuring you'll find that I'm not certain."

"Yeah, I don't know that Dief's the one I'd be going to for my reality check," Ray said, but he sounded more upbeat, more like himself, and then I began some long pointless reminiscence about Dief's misdeeds during our early days in Chicago, and so the moment passed.

But it compelled me to face some uncomfortable issues that, in the flurry of getting settled, I'd allowed myself to overlook. As astonishing as it still sometimes seemed to me, Ray was here, indubitably, in my life, in our household, in Inuvik, but despite his apparent determination to remain, there were still a number of ambiguities about his standing.

I'd taken steps, even before we set off on our adventure, to rectify the extreme irregularity of his manner of arrival in Canada, and to make sure he had the usual six-month temporary resident status. I had no concern about being able to get that extended, when needed; but such a status did not bring with it authorization to seek paid employment, and I was uneasily aware of Ray's fierce resistance to financial dependency.

He had immediately instituted a rough system of household bookkeeping, in the form of a whiteboard attached to the refrigerator upon which we were both to jot down household expenditures, which would then be reconciled at month's end. I offered to set up a better-organized system (Ray's notations were often along the lines of "Stuff from Northern Store—$10+change," and they got smudged at times when he would brush against the whiteboard), but that led to so much cheerful mockery ("Hey, Fraser, while you're at it, how about you figure in the depreciation on the sofa cushions?") that I finally gave up and let him handle it. More germane, in any event, was the question of just how long his savings would allow him to sustain this arrangement, a question which felt too potentially fraught to raise at the time.

But money wasn't the only issue—more immediately pressing was the fact that, without a job, there was little for him to do here. Ray had spent his adult life engaged in difficult, demanding, consuming work, and he was active by temperament, a doer; his restless energy sorely needed some object to focus upon, lest it flare up out of control.

While we'd been travelling, of course, I'd assumed he'd be returning to Chicago and his work there, the police work that he'd once claimed to dislike even though he clearly loved it. But his decision to stay brought with it a host of new decisions, new questions that I felt some responsibility to help resolve. We were, after all, on my home turf now; it was my turn to take on the job of helping him find his place here, just as he and Ray Vecchio had done for me.

I was, perhaps, too accustomed to the sort of accommodation that the Chicago PD had given to the peculiarities of my own role. I was, certainly, too naïve. But I had hoped I could broker an arrangement that would give Ray some quasi-official status with the detachment, something that would allow him to use his skills and experience—a consultancy, perhaps, a liaison, even if only part-time. An arrangement, of whatever kind, that would bear the scrutiny of HRDC, and would allow us to continue working as partners.

With this plan in mind, I requested an interview with Sergeant Gammell. I had drawn up several documents in preparation—a precis of Ray's professional experience and qualifications, with notes on his commendations; a draft job description, indicating where Ray might fit in the detachment's work flow and chain of command; a tentative revision of the budget, with enough funds diverted from nonessentials (including a portion of my own salary, which was pegged at a level ridiculously in excess of my needs) to provide him with at least a stipend.

At the appointed time, I laid the documents out in front of the sergeant and launched my appeal. As sometimes happens, I got rather caught up in my own flow of speech, and it was only near the conclusion, when I took in the set of his face, that I thought I had, perhaps, overdone it a bit.

"Well, Constable. A most impressive display of initiative, for someone so new to a posting, and clearly you have administrative capacities I should keep in mind." I winced inwardly. "I must say, though, that I don't understand what's behind this. There isn't enough crime in Chicago to keep him busy, perhaps?" He said this with heavy irony, and I gave a dutiful little laugh. "Or—is it perhaps that he thinks we need a little help up here? Just a bunch of Canuck hicks, eh? We need some fellow from the states to come up here and show us the ropes?"

"I can assure you, that's not the case at all. Ray has the highest respect for the professional skills of the RCMP, and for the people of Canada." I gestured at the file. "He has successfully liaised with us in the past, most recently in the arrest of Holloway Muldoon, as I've summarized in the—"

"Yes, a successful piece of work, that was, although unorthodox. Strikes me that was rather a cowboy operation, in fact. Not the way I like to see an investigation conducted." He shot me a glance. "Is that how Mr. Kowalski usually works? A bit of a Dirty Harry type, perhaps?"

"Not at all, sir. The circumstances themselves were unorthodox in that case; Detective Kowalski is normally very mindful of procedure." It was in my mind to add You could ask his former supervisor for verification of that, but I thought better of it.

He shuffled the papers together, setting them aside. "Be that as it may. You should realize that there's absolutely no way we can offer him a position here as part of the detachment. That's out of the question, Constable. However they might fiddle the system down in Chicago, we don't do things that way up here. I trust you understand that."

"Sir—"

"He's not a citizen. He doesn't even have permanent resident status." He paused, pondering. "If he's enthusiastic about learning our criminal justice system from the ground up, I heard they were looking for volunteers to serve as adjunct probation officers, down in Whitehorse. That might be a way for him to get his foot in the door. Make some connections."

"That's a very kind suggestion, sir, and I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But I'm afraid it isn't—" I struggled for some safe way to phrase it. "Detective Kowalski would prefer to remain in Inuvik, if at all possible." I tried to make myself add "He's formed an attachment to the area," but the lie wouldn't come out. From the way the sergeant was looking at me, I realized that in any event it wouldn't have helped put him off the spoor he'd already scented. I should never have attempted this, I thought then, not in this way. Gossip had already travelled faster and further than I'd feared.

"Constable—may I call you Benton?" I nodded. "Benton. Use your head, my boy." He sounded both kindly and impatient—sounded, for just a moment, uncannily like my father. "You may have had to cope with highly irregular arrangements while you were in the states. You may have even gotten accustomed to them. But you're home now. We don't do things that way here. You know that, certainly." He watched me, waiting for me to nod again.

Instead I said, "Sir, with all respect, innovation is not a bad thing. Community policing was an innovation, back in 1989. It's now the foundation of our presence in Inuvik."

"You're not talking about an innovation. You're talking about bending the rules purely to indulge your personal—inclinations. Where are your priorities, Benton? Do you really think your friend has what it takes to work effectively here? Does he know the culture? The social organization, the Canadian legal system and police procedure? Does he have any experience in dealing with this climate? Do you really think that throwing him out there, with no training, no official standing, would be even in his best interests, to say nothing of the interests of the people we serve?"

What shook me weren't his words, but the realization that I would have responded the same way, would have had the same thoughts, a few years ago. "All I can say, sir, is that Detective Kowalski is an excellent officer and a quick learner." I sounded feeble, even to myself.

"And all that may well be true, but it's beside the point." He leaned back, rubbing his forehead. "Very well. If you don't wish to think about the good of the community, at least take a moment to think about your own future. Your career."

I stood silent.

"You're one of the most capable young officers I've seen, Benton. Even with this little Chicago ... hiatus, on your record. You can leave that behind. If you get yourself back on track here—straighten out and fly right—there's no limit to how high you could go." He was looking at me narrowly, speaking slowly, and I could tell he intended to convey many layers of meaning beneath the cliches.

He couldn't know, of course, that he'd played entirely the wrong card. If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that my future doesn't lead to mahogany desks and brass plaques. I know I could have taken that path; and I know that at some point I chose to step off it and onto a path of my own, one that fortuitously runs in tandem with the mission of the RCMP but which aims, not up the rungs of power's ladder, but off into the wilderness. Knowing this was like touching earth, and it gave me the strength to say, "Sir. All I'm asking is that you talk to him. Give him a hearing. Just that."

"Benton." He shook his head in a horatory manner. "This is a disappointment. Tell me this, Benton—" and he waggled a finger at me. "Just what would your father think about all this? Hm? Tell me, what would his response be?"

Again, I could sense multiple meanings in his words, his reproving look. He meant to shame me. I could hold back the flare of rage I felt, because I knew what to say, as clearly and surely as if my father himself had been standing at my shoulder, whispering into my ear. "He would say that partners stick together. They stand by each other. Surely you knew that about him. Sir."

It only stopped him for a moment, as his eyes grew hard. "Perhaps. But in any event, you are no longer Mr. Kowalski's partner. That—arrangement ended when you left the Chicago Consulate. In fact ..." He reached out for some papers, leafed through them. "I had asked Darlene to set up a meeting with you about this, but I might as well go over it with you now." He looked up at me from under his brows, then returned to his papers. "We've been authorized a new cadet position, and yesterday I selected a candidate to fill it. Cameron Sinclair, a very promising young man, graduated from Depot last June. He's been doing a tour in Regina, but he'd expressed a desire to work in the NWT."

He set the papers down on his desk and looked up at me as if expecting some response. I said nothing, and with a frown he went on. "Promising, as I said, but he's young, and could use some seasoning. I had thought that working in partnership with a more experienced officer would be of benefit to him, and that you could gain by serving as partner for a cadet and taking on some responsibility for fostering his professional development."

"Sir, it's a great honor, but I—"

He cut in, cold-voiced. "I'm hoping I'm not misguided in my expectation that you can discharge that role in a responsible and professional manner. If you feel there's some reason you couldn't handle it appropriately, of course ..."

To control myself with superior officers, control my anger, show nothing of my feelings, was a skill I'd mastered long ago. "I'm not sure I understand why you think that might present a problem, sir. I would be glad to work with Cadet Sinclair."

"Good." He scribbled a few notes on a memo pad. "He'll be arriving next Tuesday, and at that time we'll meet to discuss allocation of supervisory responsibilities. And we'll consider the rest of this conversation closed."

"Sir—"

"Thank you, constable. Dismissed." And with that he swiveled his chair away, picked up his phone and began dialing.

Ray was on the phone when I arrived home that evening, with the cord stretched out to full length as he moved restlessly around the kitchen, talking loudly, gesticulating. "No—no, all of it! ... Cause I don't want you digging through my stuff, OK? Is this so hard to understand? Just tell 'em, box it up, take it down to— ... Yeah, boxes! They're storage guys, they've gotta have boxes, right? ... OK, fine, you want to collect liquor store boxes and drag 'em over, you be my guest, just stay the hell out of my drawers, got it? Hey, Dief!" Dief had put a paw on his leg in greeting, and Ray leaned down to give him a rub behind the ears, still talking. "Yeah, just came in the door ... yeah, both of 'em." He straightened, angling the phone away from his mouth for a moment. "Frannie says hi."

"Ah. Give Francesca my warmest regards, please."

"Yeah, he says hi back. ... Look, I toldja already why not, cause it's fifteen hundred bucks round-trip, and it's not like I got cash to burn, and the next time I cross that border I'm doing it inside the plane, sitting down, with the waitress bringing me drinks—" He shot me a fast grin, spun and yanked the refrigerator door open, pulling out a beer, which he set on the counter, and a bottle of juice, which he tossed to me. "So if you just— ... what? ... Oh, yeah, right, like they give him the good-guy discount or something, doesn't work that way, Frannie, besides which he's got a job up here, y'know? That little thing called work? ... Yeah, I know you got work to do too, that why all I'm asking is, just call the guys, tell 'em what to do—" He uncapped his beer and took a drink. "Me? Don't you worry about that, I'm lookin' at some options, got some leads to follow up—" He was nodding with such energy as he spoke, talking with such confidence, that even I, for a moment, felt convinced that he was a man with limitless possibilities in this small and narrow town.

Then, as he listened to Francesca, I could see him slow and stop his restless jittering, his bravado folding in on itself as he stilled. He set his beer on the counter and stood listening, head bowed. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "Yeah. OK. Tell him—uh, tell him it was an OK job. Could've been a lot worse. Tell him I appreciate the stuff he did for me, and ... nah." He took another drink from his bottle. "Nah, forget that, just tell him I said hi. OK?" He looked up at me. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Here you go." He held out the phone to me, and I took it.

"Francesca?"

"Hey, Fraser." It warmed me to hear her voice, distant though it sounded, with that strange mispronunciation of my name she'd stubbornly held to all these years. "How are you? Are you doing OK up there? Must be nice to be home, huh?" Under the usual cheery energy, I could hear some wistfulness in her voice.

"I'm doing very well, Francesca, thank you for asking. And yes, it is indeed good to be home."

"So, you got a job up there now? That going OK for you?"

"Well, I was certainly very lucky to secure a position so quickly." I heard her snort and mutter, "Lucky, yeah, like I'm sure people're beating the doors down to freeze their—" I went on, "The detachment seems to be well organized and staffed, and I find the work enjoyable. Though certainly there are aspects of my duties—my liaison duties—in Chicago, that I miss." I stopped abruptly, feeling I might perhaps be sending the wrong signal.

But she didn't pursue it with any of the flirtatiousness I'd come to expect from her. Instead she said, "Yeah, that's good, Fraser, that's—you're happy, and Ray's OK, and you got an OK place, and—that's all OK, then. That's good, I'm happy to hear it." Happy was not precisely how she sounded, but she continued, "Well, OK then—I mean, this has got to be costing you a fortune, so I guess—I guess I should let you go, huh."

"It's good to hear your voice, Francesca. And you're doing well, I trust?"

"Who, me? Yeah, I'm fine, couldn't be better, keeping busy, y'know? What with the lieutenant being in a really, really crappy mood for like the last month, and ma having back trouble so she needs me to do everything around the house, and my dimwit brother heading off to Florida with that blonde bimbo—"

"Excuse me?"

I could hear her draw her breath in, and then pause, and then she said, low and fast, "Nothing, forget it, you didn't hear me say a thing, OK? About Ray, I mean about my brother, you didn't hear a word, right, Fraser?"

I was bewildered. "As you wish, Francesca, although I must point out that I did hear you—"

"No, Fraser, I mean it, honest to god, forget I said anything. OK? And—and take care of yourself, keep warm up there, tell Ray I'll take care of the movers and everything, that's all taken care of, and—and take care, OK? Right?"

"All right, Francesca." Clearly something was afoot with Ray Vecchio, but trying to pursue it with her seemed fruitless at this point, and I made a mental note to seek elucidation from Lieutenant Welsh. "Please give my regards to everyone there, and give your mother my best wishes for a speedy recovery."

"OK, thanks, Fraser, and—and—come visit sometime if you can, OK? I mean, I know, it's a long way and you're really busy and everything, so—not for a long time, I understand, but—we miss you. OK? Take care of yourself. G'bye." And she hung up, with a clatter.

I looked at the receiver for a moment, and then hung it up. Ray glanced up at me, from whatever he was heating up on the stove—Sunday night's stew, by the smell of it. "What's up? She got a bug up her butt about something?"

I took off my jacket and hung it up. "Well, Ray, it appears that Mrs. Vecchio is having some kind of problem with her back. And Lieutenant Welsh hasn't been in a good humor lately." All true, as far as it went, and I felt compelled to honor her request for silence on other matters, which I reflected could hardly be of interest to Ray anyway.

He, in any event, seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. "Yeah. Welsh—I kind of left him high and dry there. Which sucks. Cause he was always pretty decent to me." He poked at the stew with the wooden spoon, sniffing at it. "Of course, I guess I'd've been out of there by now anyway. Hey, I wonder how Vecchio's settling in, he's got to at least be back to riding a desk by now. Frannie say anything about that?"

He was pulling bowls out of the cupboard, not looking at me, and I ventured, "She wasn't particularly forthcoming on that topic, actually."

"Yeah. Figures, I guess, a guy goes undercover like that, you get used to not talking about him." He dished up, shoving Dief's inquisitive muzzle aside with his hip, and the topic lapsed.

It was an uncomfortable meal for me. Apart from my concern and curiosity about whatever situation Ray Vecchio had gotten into, I had two disquieting bits of news to communicate to Ray, and I wasn't sure how to proceed. My unease must have made me less talkative than usual, because Ray abruptly set down his spoon.

"Fraser. Spill."

"Excuse me?"

Ray pointed a finger at my forehead. "What's going on in there? You got something on your mind."

I raised my napkin to my mouth for a moment, then set it on the table. "It's nothing, Ray—well, not precisely nothing, but rather—some matters that arose at work today."

"Uh huh." His tone clearly conveyed that he was waiting for more, and though he tipped his chair back casually, he kept his eyes on me.

"I ... er ... I had a conversation with Sergeant Gammell."

"Mr. Warmth," Ray muttered, and then his eyes narrowed. "He giving you shit about anything?"

"No, not at all. That is—not about my work per se. Rather, I—ah—I put a staffing proposal before him, which he declined to consider."

"Oh, jeez, you probably had some big plan to reorganize the whole place, huh? After being there, what, a week? Fraser, use your head, a guy's in charge of a place, he tends to think he knows more about it than someone who just got off the dogsled. You gotta learn how to play the game."

"I wasn't proposing any wholesale scheme of reorganization, Ray, for heaven's sake. Not that it wouldn't make much more sense, mind you, to reallocate the—" He made a rude noise. "Yes, well, leaving that aside." I stood, and began gathering dishes off the table, carrying them to the kitchen. "The particular change I suggested entailed—er—providing a new position. With the detachment. On an ad-hoc and contractual basis." I set the dishes in the sink. "For you, actually."

Over the clatter of china I could hear his chair thunk to the floor. "What the hell?"

I plowed ahead, turning on the hot-water tap, adding dish soap. "So that we could continue to work as partners. It seemed an excellent idea to me, but the sergeant—"

Ray was suddenly behind me, reaching around to shut off the water, then taking me by the shoulders and spinning me around. "Forget the fucking dishes. Say that again."

Obediently, I said, "I suggested providing a new position with the detachment, on an ad-hoc—"

"Shut up." Ray's fingers dug into my shoulders, and his eyes were glittering. "And you were going to mention this bright idea to me when exactly?"

"Ray, for heaven's sake—"

"Like, maybe, 'Oh, hey, Ray, forgot to tell you, I got your life all arranged for you 'cause you clearly can't handle it yourself,' huh? Y'know, be there tomorrow morning with your lunch money and your crayons? Something like that?"

I pulled myself free of his grip, and strode back to the table. "I would, of course, have informed you immediately if there appeared to be any likelihood that the idea would bear fruit."

"Informed me. Whoa, now here's an idea, you ever think you might try, oh, say, maybe asking me? Hey, it's so wacky that it just might work, you think?" He circled the table to face me, glaring.

I had begun gathering up silverware, but set it back down on the table with a clatter. "I had simply assumed that you would—"

"Do not go making assumptions about this kind of stuff without running it by me first, OK? Is that so freakin' much to ask?"

"I merely thought—"

"My life, Fraser. My work. You check it with me first, got it?" He slammed the flat of his hand on the tabletop, to punctuate his words.

"I was only trying to be of help to you, Ray."

At that, he slammed both of his hands on the table, hard enough to rattle the silverware. "OK, get this straight, the let's-help-poor-Ray part of this scenario is over. Done-ski. That one ended out there on the icebergs, from now on, I can take care of myself, I am not some kind of a fuckin' feeb, you got that?"

"All right! All right, I acknowledge that I should have consulted you. But—I didn't want to set you up for a potential disappointment. Was I wrong in thinking that you might wish to continue our working partnership?" My throat felt tight. "I had believed you found that association rewarding enough that you might desire its continuation. Was I mistaken?"

A moment of silence, and then Ray's shoulders sagged, his belligerence subsiding. He pulled a chair around, turned it backwards, and dropped into it, folding his arms across the backrest. "Rewarding." He sounded tired. "Fuck yeah, it was rewarding. I mean, for all the demented shit you put me through, and all the times you nearly got me killed—still and all, it was the best. Best I've had." He dropped his forehead onto his folded arms for a moment, then lifted it again. "But that's over. I knew that way back at the whatsis, the camp, when you said you weren't coming back to Chicago. Knew it was time to turn the page." His voice was low, rough. "That's over, Fraser. It was golden, and now it's over, and it's not coming back. We gotta be something different now."

I didn't know what to say to that. I pulled up the other chair and sat, leaning across the table, stretching out my hand. After a moment he took it, in a tight, hard grip, and we sat for a little while like that. Then he let go, and with a quick shake of his head sat back. "So. Anyway. Guess you can get used to working solo again, huh? Be like old times for you." He picked up the can of beer he'd been drinking with dinner, and drained the last of it.

Oh, dear. I shook myself inwardly, and decided it was best to get it all out and over with at once. "Actually, Ray, that was the other thing I discussed with the sergeant today, and—ah—of which you should probably be made aware. They've hired a new cadet, a young man named Cameron Sinclair, and—" I took a breath, and forged ahead. "He's been assigned as my partner. Starting Tuesday."

Ray's face went blank. He stared at the empty can in his hand, then bent and set it on the floor. Stood, and stomped it flat, a shockingly loud noise in the silent house. Picked up the flattened can, walked to the trash bin, dropped it in. Stood staring down into the garbage for another minute, and then turned back to me, clearing his throat. When he spoke at last all he said was, "Cameron Sinclair? That what you said?"

I nodded.

"Jesus christ on rollerskates, Fraser, is there, like, some law that in Canada you only get last names? I mean, look at it, Cameron Sinclair, Sinclair Cameron. Benton Fraser, Fraser Benton. Is that or is that not what you might call, I dunno, really stupid?"

"Well, Ray—" I should not have said anything, I knew it even as the words left my mouth— "I hardly think that someone named Stanley Kowalski has any particular call to be—"

"Bite me." He stormed over, grabbed the silverware off the table, strode back, and dropped it in the soapy water with a crash. "That was not my idea, which you know perfectly well, that was my dad being cute."

"Exactly so, Ray, just as neither Cameron nor myself can be held responsible for our own nomenclature."

"Yeah, fuck him and his nomenclature too." He was breathing hard, his eyes darting around. "And he's—what'd you call him, a cadet? That's, what, like a rookie?" He barely waited for my confirming nod. "Oh, this, this is greatness, they send you out there with some fucking rookie that doesn't know his ass from his mukluk, I guess maybe that dickweed sergeant of yours does have a sense of humor after all."

"He's not wholly inexperienced, Ray, I gather he's done a tour of duty in—"

"It's like the freakin' comics, you and your little sidekick, y'know? To the Batsled, Robin!"

"Ray. You're my partner." It got me a quick look, quickly turned away again. "You always will be, whether or not we're working together. If there were any way I could—if it were within my power to circumvent the bureaucratic constraints of the RCMP—" I stopped, unsure if he was listening to me; he had the dishtowel in his hands and was twisting it over and over, into a rope, into a knot. "I'm sorry. I don't want this arrangement any more than you do. But it's not something I can change. Please—" I cleared my throat. "Please don't make this any harder than it already is."

Ray stared down at the wad of cloth in his hands. It was so silent I could hear Dief snoring on the sofa, and the faint crackle as tiny bubbles popped in the dish-soap foam. Finally Ray sighed, unwound the towel, shook it out and hung it on its hook, and turned to look me square in the eye. "OK," he said. "I'll lay off it."

"Thank you."

"But—" He pointed a finger at me. "You gotta promise me one thing. If this kid's not up to snuff, you gotta promise me you'll march your ass into the sergeant's office and tell him you want to be partnered up with someone who knows what the fuck he's doing. Deal?"

"I hardly think that's likely to be a—"

"Deal?"

"Ray, Cadet Sinclair does come highly recommended—"

Ray took a long stride forward and gripped me by my shirtfront, not gently. "Deal?"

"Very well. Deal."

He released me. "Thank you." And then he turned, went back into the kitchen, and began washing the dishes, which was not one of his usual responsibilities, and which I interpreted as a gesture of reconciliation.

Cameron turned out to be a stocky, ruddy-faced young man, deferential in manner and methodical in his habits. He sat through his initial meeting with Gammell and myself mostly silent, making careful notes, nodding from time to time, and on our first patrol together he kept a couple of steps behind me and to my left, watching and listening.

At least initially, he seemed a restful presence; placid of temper, slow of speech, disciplined and competent in his professional work. He kept his paperwork and desk meticulous; he listened with great apparent attention to my stories; he had ox-like patience in questioning suspects and witnesses. After a few initial clumsy overtures on his part, he and Dief mostly ignored each other.

He was, in short, utterly unlike Ray Kowalski, and all in all that was a relief. If I had to work with someone other than Ray, I preferred to have the slate wiped entirely clean, to have no possible basis for comparison, nothing that would remind me of how things used to be.

Ray, for his part, showed no interest in learning anything more about him, though his name inevitably cropped up in my dinner-table recounting of the day's events. I assumed that the two of them would eventually meet, one way or another, and that event came to pass about a week after Cameron's arrival in the detachment. We'd been working late, trying to follow up on a sudden outbreak of graffiti vandalism, but we'd been hampered by a mechanical malfunction in the jeep we'd been alloted, and were actually in the detachment garage, peering under the hood, when the door banged open. I assumed it was one of the other constables, and was startled to hear Ray's unmistakable "Hey."

I turned to see him standing in the doorway, holding a large paper bag. "Ray! What a pleasant surprise."

"I, uh, I called down, Darlene said you guys'd probably be stuck here a while, she said something about how you'd worked through your dinner break, so I figured—" He held the bag up, and I could catch an appetizing whiff of beef and hot grease. "Swung by Sally's, picked up some food."

"Thank you, Ray, that's a very kind thought."

He nodded, and then his eyes flicked over to my left, and I became aware that Cameron had moved around from the other side of the car and was standing behind me. I opened my mouth, about to effect an introduction, when Ray forestalled me by striding forward. "Hey. You must be Sinclair." He stopped, squared his shoulders, face set, and then stuck out a hand.

Cameron stepped forward and took it, a little warily, saying nothing, and I leapt in. "Yes, that's right, this in fact is Cameron Sinclair, and cadet, this is Ray Kowalski," deciding it would be more prudent to leave out any references to partnerships, past or present.

They shook hands briefly, and then Cameron stepped back and put his hands at his sides. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kowalski. I've heard quite a bit about you."

"Uh-huh." Ray's tone was neutral, and he was giving Cameron a quick once-over, eyebrows slightly lifted. "Hope you like burgers." Without waiting for an answer, he turned, shoved tools aside to clear the top of the workbench, and began unpacking food—a half-dozen hamburgers, a large grease-spotted bag of french fries, several cans of soda, and a small carton of milk, which he tossed to me.

Dief abruptly came bounding over, no doubt woken by the smells from his nap on a pile of tarpaulins, and shoved his nose against Ray's arm. "Hey, guy, don't worry, I brought you one too, double patty no onions, just hang on a sec, wouldja? Here, have one of these," and he tossed a french fry over his shoulder, which Dief leapt and snapped out of the air.

"It's not a good idea to feed a dog french fries, is it?" Cameron said, and Ray and Dief turned, simultaneously, like a well-rehearsed comedy team, and gave him almost identical looks of skeptical incredulity. All Ray said was, "Better not let him see you call him a dog, kid."

I moved over, quickly. "Well! This looks most appetizing, and again, thank you, Ray, it's most thoughtful of you."

"De nada," he said, and then putting his hands on the side of the workbench he made a quick lithe vault and settled himself cross-legged, with the food in front of him. "C'mon, dig in," he said, waving to us, and he tossed one burger to where Dief was waiting, picked up another for himself, and took a bite out of it.

I glanced over at Cameron, who seemed considerably taken aback that Ray was joining us, and then I pulled over a cracked wooden chair and took a hamburger for myself. Cameron finally came over and began eating, standing a long step back from the workbench and looking uncomfortable.

There was an interlude of silence, broken only by sounds of chewing; and then Ray set down his hamburger, took a swallow of soda, and launched into speech. "All right! OK, so, time for lesson numero uno, Cam, there're some things you gotta know if you're working with this guy, and—"

"People generally call me Cameron."

Ray paused, and gave him a grin which, if you knew him less well, could have been interpreted as purely friendly. "I just bet they do." He picked up a french fry, pushed it in his mouth, and went on, chewing. "If you're working with this guy, there's some things you gotta know, and first off is—" He grabbed another french fry and used it to gesticulate with. "You gotta be in charge of the meal stops. Let him run the show—" He pointed the fry at me. "—and he'll work you right through lunch, right through dinner, and basically you'll end up starving to death." He ate the french fry and paused a moment, looking Cameron up and down. "Which could take a while, of course," and he shot me just the edge of a quick private grin.

"Well, sir, Constable Fraser's dedication to duty is one of the qualities I find admirable in him," Cameron said. "Any responsible officer would find it more important to follow up a case than to stop for food."

Ray sighed, loudly, and picked up his burger. "Fraser, what're you teaching this kid?" He took a bite, chewed. "Graffiti, right? That's what you're working? Yeah, the town's trembling on the brink of chaos, I can see that for sure. Better not stop to use the can, or there'll be riots in the streets."

Cameron straightened up even more stiffly. "Vandalism is a very serious—"

"Probably some kid bored out of his skull, if you can feature that here in the metropolis. Anyway, I don't see any graffiti in here, do you, Cam?" Ray waved his burger around at the garage. "What're you guys doing here, anyway?"

I jumped in. "Our jeep is experiencing some sort of malfunction, and we thought we'd see if we could effect some repairs before—"

"Malfunction? What kind?"

"It's overheating; we replenished the coolant, but that didn't solve the problem, and so we were exploring other possible—"

"Jeez, Fraser. You, under the hood of a car, that's comedy gold." He finished his burger in one large bite, swung his legs over the side of the workbench, and stood. "Lesson number two, Cam, if you're following along here, is never let this guy dink with an engine, he knows about as much about cars as I do about caribou."

He pulled off his parka, tossed it to me without looking, strode over to the jeep, and bent, surveying the engine. "OK, right, CJ-3B with an F-head engine—runs hot pretty much all the time, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"You could just unhook the thermostat, but then you wouldn't get any heat inside, and that'd suck. Head bolts been retorqued?"

"I really couldn't say for sure."

"Right." He unclamped a hose and pulled it free, while I watched; out of the corner of my eye, I could see Cameron walk over and stand a little farther away, observing us both.

After a minute Ray straightened; I handed him a rag, and he wiped his hands. "OK. Here's the deal. What you really want to do here is put on a coolant recovery tank and a 5-7 pound pressure cap, and that should take care of 'er, but in the meantime—" He held out his hand in Cameron's direction and snapped his fingers. "Drill."

Cameron blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Drill, electric drill, you got one, right? And a one-eighth inch bit, or whatever that'd be in Canadian."

Cameron looked at me helplessly. "Sir, I don't really think that—"

"I'll get it." I moved quickly, found the drill and bit, plugged it in, and brought it back over to Ray, who took it with a nod, and bent again to his work.

"Constable Fraser," Cameron shouted over the whine of drill on metal, "this is an unauthorized modification of a detachment vehicle, and I'm not really sure that we ought to be—"

"It's all right, cadet," I called back. "He knows what he's doing." I hoped I was right about that.

Another moment, and the hellish noise ceased; Ray handed me the drill, and began reassembly, talking to me as he worked. "OK. I put a little hole in the thermostat, that'll let the water jacket fill up, and you shouldn't have any more problems for now. But you want to get someone to make sure your timing is OK and your head gaskets are sealed up like they ought to be and all that."

"You drilled a hole in the thermostat," I repeated, blankly. I could see a look of mild horror on Cameron's normally impassive face.

"These Jeeps, for some reason a lot of 'em have the overheating problem, but that usually takes care of it." He shot a glance over at Cameron. "Start 'er up, see how she goes."

After a pause, Cameron walked stiffly around to the driver's door and started the engine. I flicked on the ventilation fans, and then joined him, craning my neck to watch the temperature gauge. Ray, meanwhile, went back over to the workbench, and resumed eating french fries, tossing one occasionally to Dief.

We let it run for perhaps ten minutes, confimed that the temperature was staying exactly where it ought, and eventually Cameron shut off the engine and climbed out, casting a worried look at the engine compartment. "Sir, I don't really know that it's a good idea to have civilians doing unauthorized maintenance on RCMP vehicles. Totally apart from warranty and insurance issues—if there are further problems, we could be held accountable for—"

Just at that moment, the door banged open, Sergeant Gammell strode into the garage, and Cameron and I both guiltily jumped to attention. "Fraser! There you are. We just received word of another incident of graffiti, behind Joe Mulvaney's place. Have you got the car working yet?" Then he caught sight of Ray, and his brows drew together. "Mr. Kowalski, is it? "

Ray gave him a friendly nod. "That'd be me." He picked up the greasy bag and held it out toward Gammell. "Want some fries?"

The sergeant turned curtly away, and I jumped in. "Ah, the car is in fact working now, sir, the overheating problem seems to have been rectified, so we should perhaps proceed directly to the scene of—"

"Ah, that's good, fine work, gentlemen." He nodded approvingly.

"Sir—" Cameron sounded a little uncertain, but then he drew breath and plowed on. "Actually, sir, you should understand that it was Mr. Kowalski who did the repairs. He, ah, did the actual modification. Not us."

"Oh? Under whose authorization?" Cameron glanced over at me, and the sergeant went on, sounding testy. "Mr. Kowalski, what brings you down here anyway? This is RCMP property, not a social club."

"Just resupplying the troops," Ray said, waving a nonchalant hand at the pile of wrappers. "A guy's gotta eat, y'know. If it comes to that, I could ask why you're having two of your highly-trained certified official officers doing car repair instead of fighting crime—but hey, I don't make the staffing decisions around here, right?"

"That would be a correct assessment, Mr. Kowalski, and furthermore you appear not to grasp the fact that an RCMP officer must be an all-rounder, capable of carrying out any task that relates to his job."

"Uh-huh." Ray sounded more amused than anything; he cast a look at me, at Cameron, at the car, and then picked up a napkin and rather ostentatiously wiped automotive grease off his hands.

I ventured, "Actually, Ray, our usual mechanic suffered an unfortunate—"

"Got drunk, smashed up his snowmobile, put himself in the hospital, I heard all about it down at Sally's." He looked at Gammell. "Left you in kind of a bind, huh."

The sergeant gave him a moment's level stare, and then turned to me. "The car is now functional? Mr. Kowalski's repairs did in fact solve the problem?"

"It seems to be working perfectly, sir. Ray is very knowledgeable about and skilled at automotive mechanics." I drew breath to say more, but a whip-flick glance from Ray—Shut up, Fraser—and I restrained myself.

"Indeed." The sergeant sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and turned back to Ray. "Mr. Kowalski. I understand that you've been seeking employment, and since I do find myself short-handed at the moment—I would be willing to countenance your temporary and provisional hire as vehicle pool mechanic, until Dewayne is capable of resuming his duties."

"Yeah?" Ray scratched his jaw, giving an excellent impression of dubiousness. "I dunno, hadn't really been thinking about that—I got some other stuff in the pipeline." He let a deliberate moment pass before going on. "But what I always say is, a cop's gotta help another cop out. Right? So—OK, yeah, I'd be willing to give you a hand here, for a while."

"Sir—" Cameron stepped forward. "With all respect, isn't this going to present some legal difficulties? I assume that Mr. Kowalski has not secured permanent resident status, nor gotten a work permit. Shouldn't we—"

"For god's sake, Sinclair, let's not haul HRDC into this. All I'm trying to do is keep the motor pool operational for a few weeks in an emergency." Gammell gave Ray a narrow stare. "We could perhaps set it up as ... a short-term consultancy, with a detective from the US, terms unspecified. Is that agreeable?"

Ray shrugged. "Works for you, it works for me."

"Very good." Gammell gave a crisp nod. "Report at eight a.m. sharp tomorrow. You can see Darlene about the administrative details, and then check the maintenance log for your duties." He started to turn away, and then swung back. "Oh, and clean that mess off the workbench," and he nodded at the pile of food wrappers. "Eating's not permitted in the garage, you can take your meals in the staff canteen."

With that he turned and left. As soon as he was through the door, Ray's studied nonchalance cracked into a huge and genuine grin, and I got my arm up just in time for the vigorous high-five that he launched at me, while Cameron looked on, uneasily.

With Ray's employment, our life together began to settle into daily routines, and I found myself adapting to habits, rituals, very different from anything to which I'd previously been accustomed. For example, though my whole life long I'd been out of bed within moments of awakening, I began learning to appreciate the positive aspects of the "snooze" button. Such an inducement to sloth and procrastination had always seemed deplorable to me, but waking up in bed with Ray quickly changed my attitude. As soon as the alarm went off, he'd shoot an arm out from under the blankets and swat the button (he had remarkably good aim for someone who was still mostly asleep). Then he'd lunge over to my side of the bed and wrap his long arms and legs around me, pulling me close and burrowing us both under the covers, in a cocoon of Ray-fragrant warmth.

He often woke to speech before he'd get his eyes open, and he used to mutter jumbled sentences into my cheek or neck—fragments from dreams, mostly; sometimes a lewd suggestion that, sadly, we seldom had time to pursue; every once in a while a nearly-inaudible endearment. He was never more open, emotionally, verbally, than when half-awake, except perhaps after lovemaking, and I treasured those ten-minute interludes of simple intimacy; they were like an unguarded gap between the oblivion of sleep, and the prickly shell of truculence he often assumed for his dealings with waking life.

Once the alarm came on for the second time, he'd take a deep breath and push away from me, flopping onto his back, which allowed me to pull free of the bed's seductive comforts and go shower. From there on it was a dance we evolved to move smoothly through the morning's routine, and I quickly learned my steps in it; shower timed out to two and a half minutes so Ray would have enough hot water for his more leisurely ablutions; getting dressed, with a light shake of Ray's leg when I'd finished, to re-awaken him; then to the kitchen, water on for tea, and coffee started; Dief let out; oatmeal set to simmer; radio tuned to CBC news and weather. Eventually Ray would stumble into the kitchen, damp and squinting and pulling on the last of his layers of shirts. He would switch the radio to its cassette player function, put on music—usually something loud and propulsive—pour himself coffee, and then take his cup and stand by the front window for a minute or two, staring out silently, with a bleak look on his face.

Those interludes disturbed me, but I learned not to try to talk to him until he returned from wherever he'd been, returned to the kitchen and to me. Once he got his first cup of coffee down, his customary fierce good cheer was usually back, and it was safe to turn the music down and attempt conversation. I'd introduce a topic from the day's news, or speculate about the weather, while he'd scrounge together some odd assortment of edibles from the refrigerator.

At 7:45 we would put on parkas, boots, mittens, and head off to walk to the detachment building, Dief bounding alongside. (Ray had rather grumpily acknowledged that it wasn't worth taking the car for a four-block trip.) Once we arrived, we'd part outside the building, Ray going off to the garage, and I to my desk.

We seldom saw each other during the work day; to be honest, I kept clear of him at first, out of some desire to placate (in rather different ways) both Cameron and the sergeant. But he also seemed to take pains to keep out of my way, to avoid conversation or encounters, and it puzzled me enough that I asked him about it one morning as we walked to the detachment.

"Fraser, c'mon." He kicked at a chunk of frozen slush, sending it skittering. "You know why I steer clear of you at work."

"No, Ray, actually, I don't. I wouldn't have asked if I—"

"You don't get it?" He stopped, put a hand on my arm to halt me, studied my face. "You don't get it." He shook his head, and started walking again. "OK, let me show you something."

"What—"

"Just a little demo. You'll see." But he said nothing more until we reached the detachment building, where, contrary to his daily custom, he followed me through the door and into the main room, muttering, in response to my querying look, "Just do whatever you normally do."

Puzzled, I went to my desk and sat, and Ray followed, leaning a hip on the edge of the desk. "Now," he said in an undertone, "Take a look around."

Obediently, I surveyed the room, which was busy as always at this time of day—constables milling about fetching coffee or talking on the phone, Darlene chatting with the clerical aide. But as I looked at my colleagues, I was suddenly struck by something odd in their manner. Usually, when I first arrived, I'd get a few nods or smiles of greeting, nothing effusive, just calmly businesslike. But today ... I realized, with some surprise, that no one was looking at me, that everyone seemed in fact to be making a careful effort not to look at me, or at Ray, to keep their eyes entirely turned away from my desk, and when someone's gaze did pass across me, it was with the nervous speed and skitteriness of a horse on ice. I turned back, with some bewilderment, to Ray, who was watching me with a crooked half-smile, and—there was nothing odd about his being there, certainly, nothing inappropriate in his manner, in fact it was exactly like the countless times he'd perched on my desk or as I'd stood next to his, back in Chicago, no closer than that, yet—all at once, it was as if I was much too close to him, or much too distant from everyone else in the room. As though we were sealed into a glass case together, one that the others would prefer didn't exist.

I felt heat rise in my face, and Ray said, in a carrying voice, "OK, so c'mon, lemme show you how to work that new towbar I put on the boat trailer." He pushed away from the desk and strode off toward the door, hands jammed in his pockets; I followed, feeling, as I went, a faint chill of distance on all sides of me. (Diefenbaker stayed traitorously behind, his eye no doubt on the box of pastries Darlene had brought in.)

When we got to the garage, Ray went, without speaking, to one of the cars, pulled open the driver's door; I went to the passenger side, and we both got in and shut the doors. I sat, trying to absorb what I'd just witnessed, watching Ray's hands flex and tighten on the steering wheel. Finally I said, "I hadn't realized."

Ray blew out a little laugh. "Yeah, I figured that out. Which is weird, being as how you usually pick up on everything."

"Well, of course, I had noticed a certain—oddity, in some people's manner toward me. But I assumed it was that ... well, having been away and in such a different environment, I thought perhaps I had unknowingly picked up some urban mannerisms which possibly put them off."

"Urban mannerisms. Oh yeah." I could see the edge of a grin, as Ray stared out through the windshield, at nothing. "That nice young Constable Fraser, he goes down to the big bad city. And he comes back bent. There's a mannerism for you."

I sat silent, thinking back on some of the peculiar reactions I'd gotten from people—strangers and old friends alike—here in Inuvik, in the place I'd thought of as home, where I'd expected to finally, at last, be seen as something other than alien.

Eventually I said, "Does everyone know?"

"Everyone?" The question seemed to amuse him; he tipped his head back against the headrest and furrowed his brow, elaborately conveying deep thought. "Well, let's see. The two-year-olds down at the day care—probably not. Charlie Standish—hard to say with him, but I'm guessing no." Charlie was a well-known citizen who'd been grievously stricken with Alzheimer's and who would sometimes get out and roam the town until his family tracked him down. "Everyone else—yeah, pretty much." He looked over at me. "What, you were thinking maybe this was some kind of big secret?"

"I suppose I hadn't really given the matter much thought," I said. Which wasn't really true, I acknowledged to myself; I'd chosen not to think about it, I'd chosen to find other rationalizations for people's conduct toward me. I'd felt ready to be done with being a freak, and had simply acted as if my willing could make it so. I'd blinded myself shamefully; Ray, the stranger here, had understood this town better than I.

"Uh-huh." He turned back, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "A little clue for you here, Fraser. This is a small town. Y'know? You move with some guy into a house that everyone knows is unfurnished, you go to the store, you buy a bed—one and only one bed—and get it moved into that house, where you're living with this guy. So what happens? The store clerk tells her girlfriends about it, they tell their boyfriends, who tell all their buddies at the bar, who go home and tell their wives, who blab to everyone at the fuckin' kaffee klatsch—give it three days, and you might as well take out an ad in the paper."

"Well, that's just delightful." I was out of temper with myself, and unfairly turned it on him. "One would think that people had enough to attend to in managing their own lives without needing to engage in prurient speculation on others'."

"Yeah, right, you tell me what universe that's likely to happen in." Ray gestured with exasperation. "Not the one where I live, I'll tell you that much." He glared at me, running a hand through his hair. "And if you don't like it, maybe you shouldn't have gotten the bright idea to live in a small town. Geez, Fraser, you shouldn't need me to tell you this stuff, you're the guy who grew up here. You should've known what you were getting yourself into."

I took a breath, blew it out, nodded in acknowledgement. "All right. Point taken." I paused. "And Ray—it goes without saying that my annoyance doesn't arise out of any shame or embarrassment about our relationship. In that sense, I certainly don't care who knows. It's simply that I dislike the sense that people are putting their noses into my private affairs, uninvited."

He certainly didn't seem mollified. "You think I like it? You think I like knowing that every time I walk down the street everybody who sees me's thinking fag? Everybody's wondering about what we do together?" He banged a hand on the dashboard. "Picturing in their heads what it looks like, me down on my knees sucking your dick?"

"Ray!" I lowered my voice, glancing around nervously. "People certainly do no such thing."

"People most certainly do just that thing, Fraser."

"Why would you think that? That's a most unwarranted—"

"Why would I think that? I'll tell you why, 'cause that's just the kind of thing I used to think." Suddenly the truculence went out of him, and he slumped back in his seat, rubbing his neck. "Back when I was a uniform cop ... I'd get calls sometimes, y'know, go down to the gay bar and break up a fight. Or, domestic, couple of guys trying to carve each other up with their fucking Wusthof Trident cutlery. Whatever. And I'd work it just like any other bust, but I can tell you right now, when I looked at 'em, I'd be thinking queers, and I'd be thinking about—what do they do together, how do they do it. Picturing it." I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything he went on, jabbing a finger at me. "And that is not just me being a freak, 'cause the other guys, the other cops, they'd talk about the same things, back at the station, and they'd laugh about it, lay bets about which one'd be on top, that kind of shit. And I'd be laughing right along with 'em."

It stopped me, set me back, as Ray's honesty sometimes did, his gift for self-revelation of spiky and hurtful truths that anyone else would seek to veil. It was one of the things I most loved in him, and as always, it disarmed me. "Understood," I finally said, though I wasn't sure I understood everything he was trying to say. "But I think you may be painting with too broad a brush, Ray. Not everyone reacts to those with unconventional personal lives as a Chicago police officer would."

Ray sighed, and swiped a hand across his face. "People are people, Fraser. Even up here, I guess." He looked over at me. "Don't freak about it. Just—don't forget about it either. OK?"

I sat still, uneasily aware I should get back to my desk, and yet unwilling to leave matters at that. Finally I said, "Does this ... are you upset by this, Ray? We could, I suppose, purchase another bed, or—"

He gave a short laugh. "Three words, Fraser, horse, barn, out." He leaned over the steering wheel, stretching his back, rolling his neck. "We deal with it. We can deal with shit, right? It's just—be careful, is all. That's not exactly like the national convention of PFLAG in there." He jerked his head back toward the office.

I nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement, and reached for the door handle. "I suppose I should be—"

"Getting to work, yeah." We climbed out of our opposite sides of the car and stood for a moment, staring across the roof at each other; then he said "See you tonight," and turned away, and I returned to my desk, pondering.

I recall something that settled into ritual from the earliest days: we would lie together in bed, after lovemaking, briefly at peace with each other and the world. You liked to slide down just far enough so your forehead rested against my mouth, your eyes out of my sight, nose tucked under my chin. Our legs would tangle together, and sometimes you would stroke my calf with the arch of your foot. You loved to have your back scratched, in those moments, and it was one thing that I knew would always give you pleasure, long slow rasp of fingernails across your skin.

It was almost perfect. Except that . . . well, I had always loved the image of lovers lying in each other's arms, clasped together, bodies perfectly melded. I had dreamed I might have that someday, without much actual hope it would happen. But with you I came to realize that, as sweet a dream as it is, logistically it has some strikes against it. Recumbent bodies don't actually fit together that way, not without some major problems of compromised blood flow to one arm at least.

The arm I lay on I always slid under your neck, holding your head cradled, close against me. Which meant that the arm you lay on you always perforce curled up so it lay between us, between our bellies. A barrier, a roadblock. You were not, I'm certain, intending to barricade yourself against me, at least not at first. It was merely ... what it should have been was a reminder to me, that when dreams and fantasy collide with reality, reality wins out. A reminder I should not have needed, and should certainly have heeded, far more than I did.

We bought a computer, early on, a castoff from the library, and I arranged for internet access through a local ISP. I knew Ray would feel cut off up here from most of the familiar elements of his former reality, and I wanted him to have a way to keep up on things, to communicate and connect in whatever way was possible in this remote locale.

I chose an e-mail address for our account in some haste—bfrk@permafrost.com—and when Ray saw it on the print-out he snorted. "You get top billing, huh?"

I hadn't even thought of that. "I'm sorry, Ray, of course we can make any changes that you'd like."

"Nah, that's good, except for one thing, Dief's gonna feel hurt if you leave him out."

"Ray, he's a wolf. He doesn't receive e-mail."

"Hey, he's family, right? But, see, the thing is—" He took the piece of paper from my hand, grabbed a pencil, and printed "bfrkd@permafrost.com." Then he looked up at me. "See? Be-freaked. That's us, for sure." He was grinning. "Anyone writing to us, that's just exactly what they'll be. Freaked."

I stared at him. He seemed amused, but I sensed an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice.

"Ray," I said slowly, "do you think this is—freakish?"

He moved a shoulder. "Wasn't talking about me, Fraser."

"Well, I am, now. Do you?"

He put the pencil and paper down with unnecessary force. "I don't know. I mean—freaky, sure, I guess, some ways. You've always been a freak, y'know, so maybe I just caught it from you." He was working to keep it a joke, but I didn't feel like playing along.

"Ray, please tell me, is this wrong for you?"

"Chrissake." He stood, threw his hands out, paced one tight exasperated circle around the room and stopped, facing me. "Look, OK, so we're freaky, there's good freaky, there's bad freaky, there's all mixed up Heinz 57 freaky, and where the hell is this all coming from anyway, Fraser?"

The pencil had rolled off the desk onto the floor; I bent and picked it up. "It's coming from my fear that I'm pushing you into something that's not right for you."

"Pushing me. You think you can push me that easy? Do I look like a pushover to you?"

In fact he looked dangerous at that moment, scowling in a way that brought back bad memories of an argument beside a lake, a fight seemed like years ago and yet all too close. I rolled the pencil in my fingers, looking down at it. "All right then, pushing is perhaps the wrong word ... luring, maybe. Enticing. Leading you astray."

He made some muffled sound, and I looked up. He was staring at me bright-eyed, clearly trying to suppress mirth, his mood suddenly swung around. "Enticing." Giving up the battle, he flopped into the chair and laughed out loud. "Yeah, Fraser, you're one of those great femme fatale types, you and, uh, whoever, leading guys to their doom, shit, what's her name, who was that—"

Victoria. The name rang in my head, and to silence it I talked, too fast, too loud. "I don't want to hurt you, Ray. I don't want to damage your life, not in any way, I don't want to cause you trouble with the people who love you, I don't want to—to lead you to do things you wouldn't otherwise do, to go against your nature or your principles, I don't want you to feel ashamed—" I ran out of breath; he was watching me oddly, no longer laughing.

"Fraser. It's OK." He made a little calming gesture in the air. "I mean, some of that stuff it's already a little late for, that things-I-wouldn't-otherwise-do-stuff, like freezing my ass off chasing a bunch of mutts across the Arctic Circle. Can't think of anyone else offhand I'd do that for. And for the rest of it..." He looked away, for a moment; I jabbed the pencil point into my finger, compulsively, over and over. "The rest of it—I wouldn't do this with anyone else, Fraser. With, I said." He gave me a sharp look. "Not for. I'm doing this for me, not for you, not for anyone else. Whatever anyone else thinks about it, fuck 'em." His head was tilted back at a defiant angle.

Hesitantly, I put out a hand, touched his hair, almost expecting to feel sparks leaping off it. He made a little sound, pushing his head up against my palm. "So...Ray." My voice sounded rusty. "Does this qualify as good freaky?"

Though I couldn't see his face, I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. "Heinz 57. Definitely. But it's got its good parts." He reached out and wrapped his arms around my hips, pulling me close and burying his face in my belly. I felt his lips move before I deciphered his words. "This is a good part." I slid my other hand around his shoulders, holding him tight.

We stood a moment, locked together like that. I love you, I thought, and I wished I could say it, but instead I moved my hand gently over the nape of his neck, feeling the tender skin there, and the prickly margins of hair. Finally he pushed away, freeing himself.

"And as for the rest of that shit ... is this working yet?" He gestured toward the piece of paper.

"They told me the account would be initiated right away." I took a step back, trying to regain my equilibrium in the ever-changing rapids of his mood.

"OK, then." He pivoted in the chair, pressed the button to turn the computer on. "Watch this one, Fraser. Here's me, here's me on the computer, here's me writing a letter to mom and dad giving them the scoop on what's up in little Stanley's life."

He stared at the screen, watching the computer blink on. He jiggled the mouse around, clicked a few icons, grabbed the printout from the ISP, and spent the next half-hour muttering and fiddling, while I fiddled with makework in the kitchen, knowing better than to interfere. Finally I heard him say, "OK, Fraser, they tell you how to get this thing going?"

Between us we eventually got the e-mail application operating, and I retreated again with a book, listening to the sporadic flurries of key-clicks, starting fast, trailing off, then starting up again. During one protracted silence I ventured, "I didn't know your parents used the internet, Ray."

He was gazing at the screen, leaning on his elbows with his hands folded over his mouth. He unwrapped them long enough to say, "My mom, she kept saying she didn't know why my dad bothered to get the computer, they were both too old to learn new tricks, blah blah blah. Then one day a friend of hers turned her on to eBay, and that's all she wrote. My dad says he wishes now he never bought the damn thing."

I nodded, although he wasn't looking at me, and tried to go back to my book. The silence continued; I could feel tension building across the room from me; and finally Ray exploded up out of his chair, smacking his hand on the tabletop.

"Damn it." He had pushed his chair back so hard it tipped over, waking Dief, who scrambled to his feet, barking. "Dief, shut up, it's OK, settle down, jeez." He stomped into the kitchen, pulled a beer from the refrigerator, and took a deep swallow before he turned back and saw me watching him. "I just—" He gestured at the computer, slopping a little beer onto the carpet. "I know what I want to say, sort of, but when I try to—it just—ah, shit." He stared at the computer as if it were a recalcitrant witness in the interrogation room, one who was refusing to give up his secrets.

"Would you mind if I, ah...not that I have any desire to intrude of course, but—"

He walked back over to the chair, righted it, dropped down into it, and made an eloquent gesture of disgust at the monitor. "Knock yourself out, Fraser."

I came up behind him, looking over his shoulder at the screen, and for a moment it was like the old days, at the station, applying our joint intelligence to some vexing problem. What I read was:

Hi mom, hi dad—Actually, mom, I guess you'll have to tell dad hi from me, since I know he doesn't use this. Well, anyway, here I am in Inuvik, Northwest Territories, Canada. If you go to www.mapquest.com, and type in 217 Dolphin Street, Inuvik, it'll show you exactly where we are, me and Fraser, that is. It's a pretty cool website, if you haven't used it before. Maybe dad could use it to figure routes, when you go on your trips, and then he'd think the computer wasn't such a bad deal. Ha ha.

Anyway, we're way up north here, and even though it's supposed to be April, you'd never know it. It's cold, but I guess that's no surprise. We got down to -27 the other night. Tell dad all the cars have block heaters in them here, otherwise they'd never start. Probably it's a good thing I don't have the GTO here. Tell him to be sure to remember it's got winter weight oil in it now and when it gets warm he'll have to switch. Yeah, I know he's probably done that already.

I'm going to be staying here for a while. Like I told you on the phone, me and Fraser made it through that dogsled trip OK, so don't worry about that any more. The dogs were great, and Fraser really knows what he's doing with all this. He grew up here, and everything. Don't worry, because we're done with that part, and Inuvik is an OK town, no Chicago, but we're staying in a house with heat and plumbing and everything. He's got a job here now, with the local division, being a Mountie, and I'm looking at some possibilities. Nothing solid yet, though. Tell dad I sent in my resignation from the CPD, that should make him happy.

Maybe you're wondering why I'm staying, and if I was you I'd be wondering the same thing, since I was never much for camping trips and Boy Scouts and so on. Some stuff has changed for me lately, and I probably should have told you about it before, but anyway, I figured I'd tell you now. Like I told you before, Fraser's been a really good friend to me, all the time we were working together, and even though we're not working together now, we're still really good friends. But like I was saying, some stuff has changed lately, and

The letter stopped there, and Ray stared at it. "Does that suck or what."

He sounded defeated, and I patted his shoulder. "It seems perfectly straightforward so far, Ray."

"Sounds like a ten-year-old at summer camp." He touched the keys, then took his fingers off them again. "I just...I don't know how to say it."

I moved around, alongside him. "Do you mind if I—"

He got up from the chair. "Like I said, Fraser, knock yourself out."

I seated myself, pulled the keyboard toward me, and began typing, Ray watching the words materialize on the screen.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski,

Benton Fraser here. I apologize for this intrusion into your son's letter, but he felt some uncertainty as to how to proceed in communicating news that I believe he fears may upset you.

At the conclusion of our dogsledding expedition, Ray made a decision to stay in Canada with me, as he told you. Although in some respects it would be easier to be able to tell you that this decision proceeded purely from an acquired taste for my home country, I must say that his motivations, so far as I'm aware, are more personal.

I hesitated, very aware of Ray looming over me, reading over my shoulder, and then pushed on.

Over the past year, my own feelings for Ray, grounded in partnership and friendship, have deepened, expanding in scope and changing in nature. Though I was initially unwilling to disclose this to him, I discovered, once we had arrived in Inuvik,

I paused, rubbing my fingers together unnecessarily, feeling the dampness in my palms, and then kept typing, more slowly:

that his feelings mirrored mine, that the relationship we both desire transcends friendship, and that in fact we love each other. Ray made the decision to stay here, to live with me as my partner, in a domestic rather than a professional sense, and my hope is that this relationship will continue on a permanent and committed basis.

Terrifying, to see that up on the monitor, in black and white. I was rigid with tension, waiting for some response from Ray, some protest, but he was silent. I could feel his breath, faintly, on my neck.

I most sincerely hope that this news will not upset you unduly. I'm sure it must be startling, given Ray's previous heterosexual experience and marriage. Believe me when I say that I was as surprised as you must be. I want to assure you that my chief concern in all of this has been Ray's happiness and well-being, and I would not have entered into this arrangement, nor allowed it to continue, if I felt that those were being significantly compromised.

I stopped again, feeling as stuck as Ray had been, before I plunged ahead, fumbling a word here and there, backspacing and retyping.

I can only hope that you will extend a degree of tolerance and understanding toward your son's life choices, and will comprehend that, just as you love him and wish him only the best in life, so do I. I don't delude myself, nor would I wish to delude you, into thinking that his choices will take him on an easy path, but I am committed to honoring those choices, whatever they may be and wherever they may lead him, and I hope that you will find it in your hearts to do the same. I know how much he loves you both, and he felt, as do I, that you deserve nothing less than honesty and truth. And though it may be premature of me, I would take pleasure in welcoming you to our home, at some future date, and showing you the country where Ray has chosen to cast his lot.

With all good wishes,

Benton Fraser

I took my hands from the keyboard and folded them tight in my lap, waiting for some reaction. The silence stretched on, unnervingly long, but there was nothing more I could say; it was all up there. Finally Ray said, "You mean that."

"Every word."

"Yeah. Um. Wow." Without taking his eyes from the screen, he put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a hard squeeze. Then he nudged me with his hip, and I slid out of the chair, letting him sit. He reread the letter several times, scrolling up and down, while I went back and pretended to read my book. Finally I heard a few more keystrokes, and then the sound of the computer powering down.

I looked up. "You sent it?"

"Well, uh..." He pushed his chair back and stood, stretching. "Thought I'd hang on to it a little longer, y'know, look it over in the morning. I think there's something more I wanted to tell dad about the car. Can't remember what now." His tone was elaborately casual, and I let the matter drop.

Several times, over the next few days and weeks, I surreptitiously checked the e-mail application, but the letter never made it out of the "drafts" folder and into "sent mail." I know he did eventually write to his parents, short notes that touched on the details of his life here without ever going below the surface. He never threw our joint letter away, though, and I tried to take comfort from that.

Ray ended up not using the computer much, as it turned out; I think it reminded him unpleasantly of report writing (his least favorite part of police work), or perhaps of school, and the effort to order his quicksilver flow of language into written sentences seemed to always leave him feeling hobbled and inept. I used it more than he, to check news, and sometimes I would give him an update on current events in Chicago or the status of the White Sox, but he showed less interest in these matters than I would have expected.

It did disturb him, I think, that we heard little from our former colleagues in Chicago, at the 27th. Francesca sent chatty e-mails from time to time, having apparently mastered the computer at last, and we did get one letter via conventional mail from Lieutenant Welsh, typed out from force of habit in the form of a memo, on the ramshackle Olivetti he'd annexed for his own use when the computers were installed:

TO: Ray Kowalski, Benton Fraser

FROM: Lt. Harding Welsh, 27th Division, Chicago Police Department

Gentlemen:

I trust you are surviving the Arctic winter unscathed, and that the pemmican supply is holding up. Everything here is remarkably much the same as when you left it. Chicago's supply of lowlifes appears inexhaustible, and since you, Kowalski, along with Vecchio, Huey, and Dewey, were replaced by an assortment of lackwit newcomers, the nature of the aggravation around here changes but the quantity stays the same.

Kowalski, your separation papers have been formally placed on file, and Maureen will contact you about any remaining financial or bureaucratic details. Should you decide at some future point that you've had enough of politeness and feel a desire to reimmerse yourself in the urban cesspool, not that I can see why you should, I could find it in the generosity of my heart to reconsider you for a detective position here. My brain must be softening with age and overwork.

Constable, I gather that congratulations are in order on your new posting. The tundra's gain is Chicago's loss. Try not to get shot chasing down any caribou rustlers, and convey my sincere and sympathetic regards to your new supervisor.

My best to you both, gentlemen. Oh, and Kowalski, I gather from the Weather Channel that your neck of the woods might get up into the vicinity of ten below this weekend. The tulips are in full bloom here.

And then his signature at the bottom, a thick abrupt scrawl.

Ray clearly enjoyed the letter, and kept it in a desk drawer, but after that there was nothing. He didn't say anything about that for some time, and when he finally mentioned it—"Guess they forgot all about us down there, huh?"—it was with a show of bravado that failed to hide his hurt.

I was more equable; I realize that the imperative of a police officer's life is to pursue one's larger duty, to keep going, in the knowledge that some of those around you might not be going on with you. I remembered well the difficulty I had had, in spite of everything, dealing with the obliviousness all around me had shown to Ray Vecchio's disappearance, the fact that no one seemed particularly upset by it except me. Perhaps that experience helped me in the present case. Though I might have been wrong, I told myself that the silence was nothing personal, nothing to do with me and Ray and the life we'd chosen—just how things are, in police work. But still, it was odd to feel the traces of my past life, and Ray's, our work together in Chicago, being so easily erased in such a short time.

One Saturday in early May, I'd gone down to the detachment to catch up on paperwork, and when I left, I stopped by the post office to pick up the mail, an errand that Ray usually forgot.

Gene, the postmaster, nodded to me in greeting. "Hey, Benton. Mr. Kowalski stopped in just a minute ago to pick up the boxes that arrived, but he forgot to get the rest of the mail, I guess."

"Boxes?" I unlocked our mail slot and pulled out a few envelopes.

"Big ones. From the states. He seemed pretty excited about them."

"Ah. Thank you, Gene." I leafed through the mail—the usual assortment of charitable solicitations addressed to me, credit card offers addressed to Ray, advertising circulars addressed to nobody in particular, along with the telephone bill, and a plain white envelope, of good quality rag-bond stock, with Ray's name and our address typed on the front. There was no name in the upper left corner, merely a return address in Boca Raton, Florida.

I puzzled over it a minute, and then trudged on home against the stinging wind. Once inside, I found Ray sitting amidst an array of packing boxes, as gleeful as though it were Christmas morning.

"Hey! Fraser!" He pumped a fist in greeting. "Hey, Frannie came through! I was sure, I was positive she'd managed to screw up and ship everything to Siberia or someplace."

"That's most unfair, Ray, she's a very competent young woman."

"Yeah, right." He picked up a knife he'd apparently brought from the kitchen and began recklessly slicing through strapping tape.

"Do be careful, Ray. Are those some of your belongings?"

He pulled back the flaps with a rending sound, dug out a quantity of styrofoam packing peanuts (which Dief immediately began sniffing and whuffling all around the floor), and beamed down into the open box. "Stereo. Oh yeah. CDs. Tunes, Fraser, we got tunes!" He grinned up at me, almost jiggling with happiness where he sat, and then peered back down. "OK, nothing looks wrecked so far." He reached into the box and carefully lifted out a piece of audio equipment. "Oh yeah," he crooned, holding it up to his face. "Good to see you again, babe, you miss me?"

I took my coat off and, reminded by the crackle of paper, pulled the mail out of the pocket and set it on the table. "You have a letter, Ray, from Florida, apparently."

He made a face, already busy slicing into another box. "Aunt Ginny, probably, she writes me sometimes to ask when I'm getting back together with Stella. Hey, you want to give me a hand here?"

Between us we got all the equipment unpacked, along with multifarious bundles of cord and cable, and an astonishing number of compact discs. Then Ray unceremoniously cleared one shelf free of my books and began setting the system up, while I flattened and bundled the boxes and tried to gather up all the bits of styrofoam (which ultimately entailed bribing Dief with some pemmican to stay in the kitchen, out of the way). It soon became clear that more storage space was needed, so we made a trip to the lumberyard, hammered together another set of shelves, and by the time we sat down to a belated dinner, to the accompaniment of some raucous bass-heavy music, I was exhausted. Ray, on the other hand, seemed full of energy, barely taking time to bolt down his food before racing back to continue sorting and organizing his compact discs.

I washed the dishes, yawning, then picked up a book and tapped Ray on the shoulder. "I'm going to turn in, I think," I shouted at him.

He'd been crouched over, examining a case whose cover photograph depicted an emaciated young woman with black lipstick, but at my words he straightened quickly, went over and turned down the volume, and then gave me an abashed look. "Sorry. You going to bed? I'll keep it down. Or do you want me to—uh, I could turn it off, I guess."

"No, that's all right, I'll just keep the door shut." I paused a moment, enjoying the sense of happy energy that seemed to vibrate off him, in rhythm with the music. "I'm very glad you have your recordings back, Ray, and a little noise won't bother me. Just try not to wake the neighborhood."

"OK. Uh, thanks." He slung an arm around my neck and gave me a quick hug, and I took my book and went to bed. Tired as I was, I could only manage a page or two before falling asleep, with Ray's music thumping softly on the other side of the door.

I woke abruptly, alone, in darkness, to the sound of something crashing in the other room; my first thought was that Dief had knocked something over, and my second was that Ray's dancing had gotten out of hand and he had knocked something over. Then I heard, not music, but Ray's voice—loud, harsh, unmistakably angry, though I couldn't make out his words—and I staggered up out of bed and into the living room, blinking in the light, to find Ray shouting into the telephone, a piece of paper clenched up in his fist.

"—I don't give a shit what time it is there ... Oh yeah, like you got to get up early, crack of dawn, to open up the fucking bowling alley ... No, you listen to me for once in your life, I got three things to say, and— ... god damn it, don't you, do not let him take that phone away from you, he does that and I'm on the next plane to Florida and I'm gonna rip his fucking arm off and beat him to death with the wet end—"

"Ray. Ray. What in the world—" I took a few steps toward him.

He waved me off, violently, turning his back and flinging the wad of paper toward the wastebasket. "Two minutes, that's all I'm asking, we were married thirteen years, you're at least gonna give me two minutes here—"

"Ray, is that Stella? What in god's name is going on?"

He ignored me. "—and I don't care if you never want to talk to me again after this, you're gonna hear me out ... OK! OK, so first off, what the fuck? A bowling alley? Stella, how fucking many years did you spend in law school, you want to tell me that? How many asses did you have to kiss to get your job? And now you're gonna throw it all in the crapper so you can fuck off to Florida and run a bowling alley? Does that make any fucking kind of sense whatsoever? OK, so that's one, and then, b, so you want to hook up with another guy, fine, no problem, I can deal with that, but—Vecchio?"

Vecchio? I had been following Ray as he paced wildly around the kitchen, trying to catch his eye, but at that name I froze—what in heaven's name ... and then I remembered, hearing Frannie's distant voice in my head—and my dimwit brother heading off to Florida with that blonde bimbo ... oh dear God. It couldn't be. There was a torn envelope lying on the floor, and I mechanically bent and picked it up. The envelope from Florida.

Ray was snarling into the phone, gripping it hard with one hand and the counter with the other, white-knuckled. "No, this is not some kind of a jealousy thing, Stella, I know you need to move on, you're gonna find another guy, fine, I'm cool with that, I got past that, y'know? but—Stella, remember one thing, OK? Vecchio—I know that guy. Shit, I had to be that guy, I know him better'n his own mother, and I know that he is not the kind of guy you want to— ... Well, no shit, of course Fraser thinks he's aces, Fraser thinks everyone's a fucking prince right up to the minute they shit in his oatmeal—"

"Ray. Ray. Ray. This is not wise, please allow me to—" I reached for the phone, but he shoved my hand away and strode to the other side of the kitchen, pulling the cord so tight it quivered.

"Yeah, well, you just do this one thing for me, Stel, you just take a minute and think about how he interrogated Guy Rankin, OK? You do that for me? You think about that, and then you ask him about the nine kilos of heroin, you got it? ... Don't you fucking dare hang up on me, Stella, you owe me, I gave you my fucking life, you owe me one more minute of your time—"

I made one more effort. "Ray, I beg of you, whatever is going on, please defer this conversation until you're calmer."

He gave me a scalding glare, and went on. "OK, one more thing, I got one more thing to say and then I'll shut up. It's just that—Jesus, Stella, where's your fucking brain? Huh? Y'know?" His voice softened a little, took on a pleading edge. "You're the smart one. You don't pull the crazy-ass stunts, that's my job. I mean, I always figured you had it together, like maybe I'm a total fuck-up, what'd you expect from me anyway, but you'd at least be ... oh, fuck, Stella, this is not about me, this is about you pissing your life away, and ... No, Stella, wait wait wait, hang on, do not let him—do not put that jerk on the—" And then he abruptly straightened, stiffened, hardening all over. "I'm not talking to you, asshole. You got something you wanna say to me, write a fucking letter and then stick it up your— ... screw that, you wanna talk to Fraser, you do it on your own dime, capiche? ... Yeah, well, fuck you!" That last was at top volume, and then he spun and slammed the phone into its cradle, and at the same moment I heard a soft thumping on the wall—the neighbors, registering a complaint about the noise. I'd have to apologize to them tomorrow.

Ray stood slumped over the phone, breathing heavily; after a moment he pushed away and stumbled into the living room. He paused in front of the sofa, staring down at it. "Fuck," he said, in a clear, calm voice, and then he abruptly threw a punch into the cushions, crouching, driving with his whole body. "Fuck it all to hell," and another punch, and then he was pummeling wildly, fast vicious blows, sending clouds of dust and Dief-fur flying into the air. I stood by and watched as he punched out his rage, red-faced and sweating, jaw clenched. When the blows finally began coming more slowly, clumsily, I went back to the kitchen and filled a glass with cold water.

I came back in time to see him stop, and bend over, resting his fists on the cushions. Then he turned and collapsed onto the abused sofa, panting, letting his head fall back, eyes shut, hands lax on his thighs. His t-shirt was dark with sweat.

I sat down beside him and nudged his hand with the glass. Without opening his eyes, he took it, drained it—I watched the tendons move in his throat as he swallowed, a stray drop trickling down his jaw and neck—and then he handed it back to me. I set it on the table, and then reached over and put a hand on his arm.

At last he spoke, in a raspy near-whisper. "OK, I know. Let me do the honors here. I was stupid, I was non-polite, I used bad language, I scared the neighbors, I should've waited till I cooled down. You don't have to tell me."

"I had no plans to say anything of the kind, Ray." I gripped his arm a little more firmly. "Are you all right?"

He swallowed again. His breathing had slowed, but the vein in his forehead was still pulsing angrily. "Do you get this, Fraser? Does anything about this make any kind of sense to you?"

"Well, I'm often mystified by people's behavior, so my reactions are hardly a useful gauge. But still, if I'm deducing Stella's and Ray's actions correctly from what I overheard, it seems—odd."

"Odd. Uh-huh." He let out a soft snort. "You probably think I freaked 'cause I'm jealous of her, right?"

"I don't know, Ray. Certainly in your more recent interactions with her you haven't exhibited any undue—"

He went on as if he hadn't heard me. "Cause that's not it. I mean, I can't believe she hooked up with Vecchio—" He lifted one hand off his leg, forestallingly, and let it drop again. "S'okay, I'm not gonna rip him, he's your buddy, I got that. But whatever, she's got a new guy, so what the hell, I figured that'd happen eventually. It's just that ..."

He lay there a moment longer, and then sat up, shaking my hand off, putting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. "I just ... I can't believe that she's as fucked up as I am."

"What do you mean?"

"I knew her almost her whole life, OK? I mean, since she was twelve I've known her, and if there's one thing I always knew about her, it's that she'd always do the smart thing. Whatever it was, any situation, she'd do whatever was best for Stella. She used her head, y'know?" He stopped. "Except for, uh, when she married me, which I guess that punches a big hole in my theory, come to think of it."

"Ray—"

"Apart from that, I mean, she always had good sense. Y'know? That was one thing, one thing, in the entire whacked-out universe I could count on." He picked up the empty glass from the table, rolling it between his palms. "So now, out of nowhere, all of a sudden she flushes her career, which she worked like hell to get—she dumps it, and she hooks up with a guy she hardly knows, and she fucks off to Florida to run a bowling alley. That make any sense to you?"

"Well, it certainly seems uncharacteristic, but—"

"That's—I mean, that's almost as loony as me ending up here, right?"

I stared at him, then shifted forward on the sofa, trying to catch his eye. "Ray. Do you really feel the two cases are analogous?"

He stared down at the glass, not looking at me, not replying. I took the glass from him and set it on the table, and then took his hands in mine. They were reddened, swollen, abraded, and I held them gently.

Finally he shook his head, cleared his throat. "I don't know. I mean, I'm just ... like ... lost at sea here, Fraser. Maybe I never knew who she was. Or who I am. Or anything." His voice dropped to a rough whisper. "I don't know. I don't know."

I sat quiet for a while, listening to the rasp of his breathing and the ticking of the clock. Finally I said, "People change, Ray. Their aspirations, their habits, their beliefs. It's the way life is." I was thinking, as I spoke, about Ray Vecchio—my old partner, my beloved friend, now more sundered from me than ever. Despite the pain his actions had caused Ray, there was no anger in me at all toward him; I knew how deeply, behind his bluster, he'd yearned for true love, true tenderness, of a sort that he could let in, and I urgently hoped he had found it. Knowing, even as I hoped it, that that hope was something I could never voice to the man who sat so close beside me, his hands resting in mine; and I felt that as a wall between us, invisible, gossamer-thin, unbreachable.

Ray Vecchio had taken a great leap, he and Stella both; just as I had, just as Ray had, and I wished them well as much as I did us. I hoped we had all leapt in the right direction; I hoped we could all come to believe that we had done so. Ray's pessimism, his apparent belief that we were all acting like lunatics, disturbed me. I wanted to dispute it, but it was yet another topic I felt wary of opening with him, another thing lying between us unsaid.

In any event, Ray hadn't hadn't given any indication that he heard or heeded what I had said, and I after a while I spoke again. "People change, and when they do, they—well, they move on, and the process can be ...disconcerting, and painful. But it's the way things are. Nothing's permanent.." I stopped suddenly, hearing my father's voice again—nothing's permanent, son. I looked over at Ray; I couldn't tell if he was listening or not, and his eyes were half-closed, head sagging, the fight gone out of him. "In any event, you're exhausted, Ray. You need to rest. Come on, let's go to bed."

I hooked an arm around his waist and helped him to his feet, as he swayed against me. Once we were undressed and in bed, I held him through the rest of that night as he slept fitfully, twitching, sighing, clutching at his pillow. I slept little myself, but lay staring into the darkness, thinking about Ray's words, and my father's, and my own.

Only a few days after Ray's parcel arrived from Chicago, I received a shipment of my own—the belongings I'd left at the Consulate. I was surprised at the size of the box, but when I opened it, I realized that Turnbull, of course, had done the packing, and of course he had swathed every item in multiple layers of tissue, then bedded each separately in an extravagant nest of shredded excelsior. A ludicrous waste of time and material, because nothing I owned was breakable—except for the photograph of my family, which I placed on top of the bookcase, next to a stack of Ray's CDs. I dug through the box, uncovering clothing, hiking boots, books, Dief's food and water dishes, my knife, and finally, at the bottom, my father's journals.

All the other items I put away, but I left the journals in a pile on the coffee table, and then made myself some tea and sat and drank it while contemplating them. I had an unaccountable impulse to simply dispose of them; to let my father complete his departure from my life, let him and his words be buried once and for all.

I didn't do so, of course. Instead I sorted the volumes into chronological order; then I carried them to the bedroom, and put them in my dresser drawer, alongside my folded undershirts. I started to close the drawer, hesitated, and then pulled out the top volume—the first, the oldest—took it back to the living room, and settling down with my tea, opened it and started reading at the first page.

Sept. 28, 1960 — I've never kept a journal, believing that a life of duty keeps a man busy enough living it, without taking the time to scribble about it as well. However, with the birth of my son, I've decided that it's worth the time to chronicle my work, and perhaps some reflections on the nature of a life rightly lived. Not for myself—my memory's not defective—but for Benton. A boy needs guidance as he grows into manhood, and though I fully intend to provide such guidance myself, it's always possible, given the nature of my work, that I might not be around to do that.

I wasn't able to be present for his birth last week, but when I got home Caroline laid him in my arms, before I'd even gotten my boots off, and as I looked down at him I knew that some things in my life had changed forever. He felt far heavier than his eight pounds.

Benton, if you are reading this—and I hope you will, and will pass it along to your own son in turn—know that you are welcomed. Your mother and I will do our best by you, in our own ways, to help make you a man that we can be proud of.

I'll be off tomorrow at dawn for Rat River, where there have been reports of poachers. Caroline's none too pleased at my leaving again so soon, but the cabin's finished and chinked, she's well supplied with food and firewood, and the McPhersons are only two miles away if she needs help. Lord knows the place seems amply stocked with baby equipment; a man can hardly turn around in here now without running into a diaper or a bassinet. I assured her I would return as soon as my duties would let me. In the meanwhile, I'll try to get the hang of this journal-keeping.

I closed the book, keeping a finger in to mark my place, feeling a faint prickle at the back of my neck. In the silence of the house, I could have sworn I heard my father's voice speaking the words, his familiar tone of bluff jocularity not quite hiding his emotions. I actually glanced around superstitiously before I caught myself, reminded myself that he was gone. But still I wished Ray and Dief would hurry back from their walk.

The worn volume weighed heavy in my hands. When I'd read these journals for the first time, back in Chicago, I'd been embarked on a search that seemed at the time no less hopeless than the search for Franklin—the quest to discover the truth of this man, this familiar stranger. When he'd made his outlandish reappearance in my life, I'd largely set the journals aside, finding it too confusing to reconcile the words from the past with the actual (well, phantasmal, I suppose) man himself.

I had thought that by now I knew him as well as I ever would. But perhaps these journals had something more, something different, to teach me; I was a different person now than I was when I'd first read them, and my life had gone in some directions I'd never expected back then. My father had, after all, managed to sustain a marriage, while also pursuing duties that often took him away from it. In the past, no matter how much I'd respected his success in the latter, I'd felt he performed less than admirably at the former. But now—well, I was already beginning to suspect that I might have my own shortcomings in that area, and that, as reluctant as I was to admit it, I might still have a few lessons to gain from my him.

I bent my head, re-opened the volume, and returned to my reading.

It must have been sometime around then—the first time I asked Ray to ...

No. I realize I can't, even in my own head, find the right word, still less use his casual and profane term for what we enacted together. I can say the word "fuck," of course; despite what most who know me think, I'm no prude. But in my growing-up among rough men and fellow cadets, I'd learned that word as a marker of anger, or contempt, and my mind is too attached to its categorizations to let me simply reclass it as a verb signifiying acts of sexual love. (I have little vocabulary for intimacy in any event, whether sexual or emotional; it's an acquired language for me, one that came with far more difficulty than Mandarin.)

In any event, the first time I asked Ray to make love to me, he didn't understand what I meant, glancing up rather irritably from my groin. "What the hell d'you think I'm doing?"

When I finally managed to get across to him what I had in mind, he pushed away from me, sitting back on his heels.

"No!" he said, and then immediately, "I mean—jeez. You saying you want that?"

"I believe that's what I said, yes."

He stared at me. "I don't believe you."

"Ray—"

"I mean—that's .. it's gonna hurt, and ... Fraser, no, forget it, you don't want that."

His quick dismissal annoyed me, given the amount of nerving-up it had taken me to make the request in the first place. "Might I ask that you refrain from telling me what I do and do not want?"

His mouth twitched in a nervous smile. "OK, I guess that is you in there after all. I was wondering." But his face was still wary, full of disbelief; I could see him thinking it over, holding himself back, and I didn't want that; I wanted his passion, his drive, I needed that to carry us through this.

"Ray, I seem to recall you once saying something to the effect of 'we can do this or we can talk about it,' and at the time you certainly seemed to favor action over conversation."

"Uh. Yeah. But—I mean—" His eyes were moving over my body now, sprawled before him; I had never felt more naked in my life, and I kept myself relaxed, fought down the sudden lurching urge to pull the sheets up and cover myself.

"Please," I said. He shivered once, hard, as if chilled, but I could sense the heat of arousal kindling in him.

"OK, OK." He ran his hands through his hair, glancing wildly around the room. "Shit. Uh, we don't have any—y'know—"

"Top dresser drawer," I told him. "Left-hand side."

He gave me a look of sheer disbelief, and then went over to the dresser, and I shut my eyes, steadying myself, setting aside apprehension, reminding myself of my absolute trust in Ray, in his love and care and skill.

I remember how incredibly long it seemed to take for him to ready himself, far longer than it took me to be ready. I remember how he shook, all of him—his hands, as they smoothed over and over my back; his thighs, braced between mine; his voice, as he asked again and again for assurance that I was all right, that this was OK.

And I remember, inconsequentially, that it did hurt at first, quite a bit, actually, though I didn't let him see that. The pleasure came with time, all the more intense for its strangeness, its unexpectedness; but I hadn't asked for this in the first place for the prospect of physical pleasure.

No, it was because I wanted to ... as foolish as it sounds, I wanted to give him a home. A place where he could, in the most embarrassingly literal sense, take root, dig in. I wanted to let him know that he was welcome, more than welcome, to take my body, to have it, make it his, do whatever he wanted with it, as long as he could feel he belonged, that he was part of something, joined with me in some way.

Perhaps I already knew that there were too many parts of myself I couldn't open up to him, too many rooms forever off-limits. I gave him what I could, and any physical pleasure I derived was a side benefit (though a delightful one). Above all, I wanted him to have a home.

Home.

You told me once how much that meant to you; how much you'd loved the house you shared with Stella, the little bungalow you'd bought with such pride, sold with such pain. Home to you was bed, sofa, food, music, warmth, and someone to share it all with; but it was also ownership, mastery, a place on the earth where a man could plant his feet and make his mark. It was a lesson that I believe you'd absorbed from birth, from your handyman father—that part of a man's duty in this life is to establish his household, erect the fences that mark off his little piece of land, maintain the bricks and plaster and shingles that shelter his hearth-fire.

I didn't realize until I lived with you how different were the lessons I'd learned: that buildings, houses, are transient; that to become attached to them is a fool's error; that true home is found, not by raising walls and closing the door, but by opening the door and stepping outside. My home is an angle of light, smell of wind, lay of land; the way the seasons shift, the way the snow tastes, the vegetation and the animals and the constellations. The aurora borealis is my hearth-fire; I'd learned the hard way to cling to nothing smaller.

Though you never said as much, I know you believed, all the way down to your bones, that a marriage needs a home, a place where two people can take refuge from the world's harsh dangers and find solace and safety together. You wanted that for us; you tried so hard to make a home of that squat little box on the tundra, that bit of RCMP property that could never truly be ours. I know now how often I failed to understand what it meant to you, how little regard I showed toward your need for it. It was, to be sure, a need that you were shy of showing to me, feeling it to be—womanish, perhaps? A weakness in you? And yet, had you asked, had I taken the trouble to think, I would have acknowleged that for me, there could be no greater act of courage than to accept the limits of four bounded walls, to let a narrow roof shut me off from the wide sky, to take off my jacket and boots and let the warmth in. That I never truly did feel at home in that house was all my failing, and never yours.

On a quiet Thursday afternoon, I was at my desk, writing up an arrest report, when I heard angry voices in the hallway. I turned to look, then leapt to my feet. Ray was striding into the room, with Constable Swillins at his side, gripping him by the arm, both with set angry faces. Ray had a split lip, blood trickling down his chin and blood on his shirt. I called his name, but he didn't flick a glance at me, at anyone, as Swillins led him to Sergeant Gammell's office and pushed him through the door. I hurried after, paused a moment in the doorway at the sight of Ray and the sergeant, staring each other down in silence, and then stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

"Constable Fraser." Gammell didn't look over at me. "If you have some business with me, this is not a good time. Please wait outside and I'll let you know when I'm free."

I disregarded him. "Ray—"

"Fraser, get out of here." A drop of blood fell from his chin, onto the linoleum floor.

"You're hurt." I angled myself a little, so I could see his face, see the place where a bruise was starting to come up around one eye. My hands were clenching into fists. "What happened, Ray?"

"None of your business." He was staring off into a corner of the room, a hard unblinking stare. The act of speech made fresh blood well up in his lip. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Ray—" I began, but he gestured swiftly at me with one hand, the familiar Let me do the talking here motion that I'd learned to honor. I reached into my pocket, handed him a hankerchief. He took it without looking at me, and blotted away the blood from his mouth and chin.

Gammell was watching both of us, eyes going back and forth. "On second thought, perhaps you should stay, Constable Fraser. Perhaps you might have something to contribute. Or to learn." He leaned forward across his desk. "Kowalski. I'd like your account of what happened."

"Nothing happened."

"Nothing." Gammell narrowed his eyes. "A brawl breaks out in the motor pool, in the middle of a work day, but apparently that's nothing to you. All in a day's work. Perhaps that's routine for Chicago, but not here, as I hope you'll learn. Now. What happened?"

Ray was staring at a point on the wall. "I let a word get to me. It was stupid. It won't happen again."

I couldn't stop myself from speaking. "Ray, who did this to you?"

He ignored me, but the sergeant gave me a measuring look, and then was back at Ray. "Indeed. I'd like to know who else besides yourself is responsible for this imbroglio."

"I couldn't say. Sir."

"Kowalski, I warn you I'm in no mood for—"

Ray put his chin up at an angle, a familiar angle to me if not to Gammell, and I sighed inwardly. "I couldn't say."

Gammell stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. "Very well. If you were a regular employee, I'd put a warning in your file. As it is—well, you're only here for two more weeks in any event, but one more incident like this and you're out immediately. We don't resolve disagreements with fists, not in this detachment." Another hard look at me, clearly a look of warning. "And we don't allow personal—issues, to affect our work. That's not how things are done here." He paused, seeming to wait for some reply. Ray stood mute, gripping the bloodied handkerchief in one hand. Finally Gammell sighed. "Go home and get cleane