One plan I'd made even before Ray and I embarked on our quest together was to reach out in some way to my half-sister, Maggie; seeing my mother and father shimmer away and vanish from this world forever had left me determined not to lose contact with what little family I still had. Buck Frobisher had told me that she was in Calgary, awaiting the results of administrative action from the RCMP over her unauthorized foray into the States, and had said he was doing what he could to pull strings on her behalf. I had worried about her, but, selfishly, my own concerns and adventures had pushed her affairs from the forefront of my mind, and I'd let myself believe that all would be resolved, given the positive results of her actions, however unorthodox they might have been.

Once we were settled in, I'd written to her at the Calgary address Buck had given me, letting her know of my new posting and mentioning, in as offhand a manner as I could manage, that Ray had decided to remain in Canada. She had written back, a brief letter of general welcome and enthusiasm that made no mention of her own situation, or of any prospect of her return to the NWT. After that there was nothing, and when several letters went unanswered, I stayed late at my desk one evening, surreptitiously logged into the RCMP personnel database, and pulled up her records.

Most of them I had seen previously, to be sure, back in Chicago; after the astonishing discovery that I in fact had a half-sister, I'd been unable to keep myself from tracking down all the information I could find on her, studying the bare bones of data for clues about this oddly familiar stranger who had hurtled through my life and then vanished back to the north. I had felt an almost superstitious need to verify her existence, as if my imagination and my loneliness might have conjured her up, and though ashamed of my furtive intrusion, I hadn't been able to resist the temptation to snoop. The records had been unrevealing—bare facts about her enlistment, her training dates and graduation, her assignment to the Norman Wells detachment, her promotion to constable.

I scrolled past these familiar data, and found only two more recent entries, at which I stared for some time. A statement of demotion and disciplinary actions initiated, pursuant to investigation of unauthorized activities in the U.S.; and a final line, "Resignation tendered, May 19, 1998."

Finally I logged off, and picked up the telephone. I hadn't phoned her earlier, heeding her words to me back in Chicago about how she'd call if she needed help, and wanting to give her the liberty to set the terms of our relationship. But in these circumstances—she had left her career, she might be alone, friendless, in financial straits—such niceties went by the board, and though I had no clear concept of how siblings ought to behave in all situations, I felt that I had to act more directly.

She picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Maggie? Good evening, I'm sorry to disturb you at home, and please let me know if this is an intrusion, but—"

"Who is this?"

"Ah, yes, sorry, this is Benton Fraser. Your broth—"

"Ben? Is that you?" She was clearly surprised—pleasantly or unpleasantly was hard to tell. "Gosh, it's good to hear your voice."

"Likewise."

"I guess—I really feel dumb, I should have called you long ago. I'm sorry. I've been meaning to, but things have been kind of busy. You know how that goes." Her laugh sounded strained.

"Maggie, please don't give that a moment's thought."

"No, but after you wrote me, I truly meant to, it's just that things have...gotten away from me a little, I guess, and ..." She trailed off, and for a moment there was just the faint hum of distance.

"I have something to confess, Maggie," I said abruptly. "I was concerned about you, and although I suppose it was none of my business, I—I checked your records. I saw that you'd resigned, and—"

"Yeah." Her voice was soft. "Kind of a chicken thing to do, I suppose."

"Not at all. To change the course of one's life in midstream can be an act of great courage. But I was concerned about you. I have no wish to meddle in your life, but let me ask—are you all right? Is there any way I can be of help to you?"

A pause. I could hear her clearing her throat, and then she said, with a brave attempt at a bantering tone, "You'd come down here and patch my roof, maybe? If it needed it?"

"That, and more." I wished I could see her face, could see if she needed to keep this light. I didn't feel like joking. "Maggie—I made some promises to you, in Chicago, and I stand by those. Please let me help you, if I can."

"Oh, Ben." And there it was, in her voice, the simple warmth that I remembered more clearly than anything else about her. "That's so good of you. Honestly—I'm all right. Things are a little complicated, but I'm doing well."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"And in fact—this is really what I meant to write you about, I'm going to be going up to Norman Wells in a couple of weeks, to get some of my things out of storage. But I thought—maybe we could swing up and see you, while we're up that way."

"We?"

She chuckled. "Greg and I. That's one of the complicated things. I'm engaged."

"You are?" I realized, too late, that I'd sounded almost accusatory, and I quickly adjusted my tone. "That's wonderful, Maggie, I'm delighted for you. Many congratulations."

"Thanks, Ben." She cleared her throat. "I know it must seem kind of—sudden. But it was—that is, after I got back here, I was—oh, heck, let's talk about it when we meet, OK?"

"That's fine, Maggie. We'll be looking forward to seeing you, and meeting Greg."

A pause, and then she said, "We?"

"Ray and I, that is."

"Ah. He's still staying there, then? He didn't strike me as the kind who'd really want to stick around in Inuvik."

I couldn't help smiling. "It's another one of those—complicated things, Maggie."

"I see." Silence again, and this time the hum of distance was heavy with the weight of things not being said. "Well, all right, then, I'll let you know the dates as soon as I get them figured out."

"That sounds good. Take care of yourself, and give my regards to Greg."

"I will. And, uh ... give my best to Ray, will you?" She sounded a little hesitant.

"I shall," I said, and we rang off.

They arrived, in fact, two and a half weeks later—an interlude that was filled with effort on my part to get Ray reconciled to the idea. When I'd first told him of the impending visit, he'd been incredulous.

"You did what?"

"I said, I invited Maggie and this fellow Greg, to whom she is apparently engaged—"

"I heard what you said, Fraser, there's nothing wrong with my ears any more'n there is with yours, although apparently there's something wrong with your brain, if you think that this rates as some kind of bright idea on your part."

"I fail to see what's wrong with inviting a member of my family, someone whom if I'm recalling correctly you feel warmly towards, to visit us, and to—"

"Ohh, this, this is rich, this is classic, this is Constable Benton Fucking Oblivious Fraser at his finest. OK, so you don't get it? Allow me to spell it out for you here." He'd been pacing around the living room, waving his arms, and now he stopped and took a deliberate stance, legs parted and arms held wide, a hideous parody of a smile on his face. "Why hello there! It's the lovely Maggie Mackenzie, Fraser's sister who the one time I met her I acted like a complete moron around, despite which I'd like to try to stay on the good side of! And Mr. Greg somebody, who I never met before in my freakin' life! Welcome to our humble abode!" He pivoted, making an gesture somewhat reminiscent of that used by game show hosts, toward the rest of the house. "Won't you come in? Wouldja like the grand tour? See, here's the gracious living room, and the lovely kitchen, and back here, back here—" He swung his arms the other way. "—is the bedroom, and—why yes, that's right, as you can see there's only the one bedroom, which, whaddaya know, has only the one bed in it, from which you may indeed deduce that I am sharin' it with your freakazoid brother, and—"

He halted momentarily to catch his breath, and I seized my opportunity. "Ray, for god's sake, what is the matter with you?"

"The matter with me? Oh, yeah, there's clearly gotta be something the matter with me, just cause I don't necessarily want someone to know I'm playing grab-ass with her brother, to say nothing of some guy I never even met before but who she's apparently getting married to, and—" He paused for an instant. "What the hell's she doing getting married to some guy, didn't she have a husband who just got whacked like a few months ago? Isn't she supposed to—y'know, be in mourning, or something?"

"I don't know, Ray, we didn't get into that. But that's not—"

"Oh, sure, that'd be too personal for you two to talk about, I got that."

"I look forward to hearing more about it all, when they're here." I let myself put just a little stress on that when.

"Uh-huh. And I'd guess you didn't tell her about—" He flicked a hand back and forth between us. "This. Either. Did you?"

I turned away. "The subject didn't arise, no."

"Right! Bingo! Exactly!" He circled around, getting up in my face, jabbing a finger.

"Exactly what, Ray? Are you attempting to make a point here?"

"The point I'm making, and don't you try to slide out of this one, Fraser, the point is that I'm not the only one who's a little weirded out by this, and don't try to act like you're not."

"The only point here is that I greatly dislike attempting to conduct emotionally significant conversations by telephone. As you well know."

He made a loud and intensely annoying bzzzzt sound. "Sorry, wrong answer, but thanks for playing along."

"Ray, please do not try to tell me what I do and do not—"

"Shut up a sec. Let me think." He took a few long-legged strides up and down the living room, brow creased, and then stopped and smacked his hands together. "OK, here's how we'll work it. I'll get a room in town while they're here, get my stuff out of the closet, and—"

"Absolutely not. Out of the question." He glared at me, but before he could say anything I went on, "May I ask just what exactly about this is getting you so agitated? Because after all, Ray, it's not as if this—our relationship—" I was doing a little arm-waving myself, by then. "—is in any sense a secret. You of all people aren't laboring under any illusion that the entire town doesn't know about it."

"The entire town, who cares about what they know. Fuck 'em. They don't matter." Despite the bravado of his words, he seemed to deflate a bit. He perched on the arm of the sofa, head bowed, and rubbed fiercely at the back of his neck. "Maggie, she matters."

I took a few cautious steps closer to him. "I understand that. She matters to me as well. That's why I want her to know me better. To know everything about me. I'd like for her to be part of our life. I won't lie to her, and I see no purpose in trying to keep secrets from her."

He slid sideways, in some unlikely-looking manner, and ended up sprawled on the sofa. "Total, complete, one hundred percent board-certified freak. You're making some big assumptions here, Fraser, like for one that she's gonna be just A-OK with this situation. And you know what they say, an assumption makes an ass out of, uh, you and umption."

"Well, if so, Ray, you're being as much of an ass as I, given that you apparently assume that she'll be unable to accept this."

He sighed. "Got the percentages on my side."

"I doubt that Maggie plays by the percentages, as you put it, that she adheres to the statistical norms of conventional social bias and prejudice."

"You don't know her that well, Fraser."

"I know her well enough to believe that. To trust her." I paused. "I honestly thought you did as well. That you liked her."

He put the heels of his hands against his eyes and rubbed hard. "Oh yeah. I like her. That part you got right."

"But then—"

"And see, that's another thing you just don't get. Let's say a guy meets a woman, he likes the woman, the woman turns him down like a bedspread. So he doesn't see her for a while, and then when he sees her again—what he does not want to hit her with, first shot out of the gate, is 'Well, hi there, and guess what, all of a sudden I'm queer!' Y'know?" There was a pleading tone beneath his belligerence. "Can you get that, Fraser?"

It boggled me at first, and then as I studied his words I could feel my stomach start to twist. I turned away from him, to the bookshelf, and began blindly straightening the volumes, lining them up neatly.

"Fraser? You with me?"

"Are you—" I had to stop and clear my throat. "Are you implying that you have—feelings, for Maggie? That you don't want her to know about us because you, perhaps, have designs on—that you're still cherishing hopes of—"

I heard the sofa creak loudly, and then all of a sudden he was behind me, his hands on my shoulders, squeezing. "Ah, shit. I should've known you wouldn't get that one." He shook me. "It's just—one of those normal guy things that you never got the clue book for. Designs, why the hell would I be having designs on her, I mean, after all, she's already got some guy, right? She went for door number three."

I let my hands rest on the books. "But if she hadn't—"

"So even if she hadn't, I still wouldn't be—" I could feel his fingers working restlessly over my shoulders as he sought words, and then he sighed, his breath warm on my nape. "Fraser. Look. I got what I want, I want what I got. You got it?" He gave me a fast kiss on the back of my neck. "I just—it's, like, I don't want her to think I'm having some kind of a weird rebound thing. Y'know, I'm doing this cause I can't cut it with chicks or something. 'Cause I really acted like a doof with her."

It still didn't make much sense to me, but I had to remind myself that Ray's pride, Ray's sense of manhood, were rather differently constituted than my own. "I doubt she'd think that, Ray. She did tell me once, before she left Chicago, that she thought you were charming."

"Charming." He snorted, and I knew that once again I'd fallen a bit short in reassuring him. "Yeah, whatever." He kissed my neck again, more lingeringly, and slid his arms around me. "OK. So, they're coming, we'll deal. But—I still think you're being maybe a little rose-colored about the whole thing. And I still think that maybe it'd be a good idea for me to get a room while they're here."

"No." I leaned back against him, feeling his warmth. "She accepts us as we are, or not at all."

He sighed and let his head drop onto my shoulder. But he stopped arguing, for a little while at least.

When the day of their arrival came, I picked them up at the airport. Maggie, when she stepped off the plane, was instantly recognizable, and yet strangely unfamiliar—she'd cut her hair, so that it hung in a short bob around her face, and it made her look more urban, a little older. She gave me a hug, and then introduced me to Greg, who was also something of a surprise—a short man, shorter than her by an inch or two, not fat but rounded and compact, with frizzy black hair receding from his forehead, and wire-rimmed glasses. He shook my hand—his hand, though small, was solid and strong—and tipped his head back to look me in the eye. I was accustomed to the way people usually looked at me, the way their eyes would take in the surface—uniform, physical appearance—and stop there. But he seemed to go right past those externals, and to be taking in some part of me not immediately apparent, with a genial interest. It was both unsettling and warming.

As we drove into town, Maggie seemed content to let Greg do most of the talking, and he was full of questions, about the buildings, the way the streets were engineered to last on permafrost, the people and buildings we were passing. I did my best to keep up with him; the volatile energy of his curiosity was a little reminiscent of Ray's, but unlike Ray he seemed to take a cheerful pleasure in Inuvik and in everything he was seeing and hearing.

We pulled up in front of the house, and I ushered them through the door. Dief came bounding forward, greeting Maggie effusively, sniffing Greg thoroughly, distracting all of us for the first minute or so. Eventually Maggie gave him a final thump on the side, straightened, and saw Ray. He was standing at the far side of the living room, hands jammed deep in his pockets, shoulders tight and chin down. Before I could say anything she exclaimed, "Ray! There you are!" In a few quick strides she went to him and wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. His forehead was creased with tension, but he pulled his hands out of his pockets and hugged her back, briefly, cautiously. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then led him over to us. "Let me introduce Greg Russo, and Greg, this is Ray Kowalski."

Ray's eyes were darting everywhere, but he managed to look straight at Greg long enough to have his hand shaken and mumble a greeting. Then he was suddenly in motion, into the kitchen. "OK! Right, so would you like—can I get you something to drink, or—dinner's gonna be ready pretty soon, but—drinks, yeah, we got, uh, lots of stuff to drink, and so—uh, what can I get you, can I get you something?"

Greg was watching him, bemused but smiling. "Beer?" he said, hopefully.

"Beer! That we can do, we can definitely manage a beer—" He flung open the refrigerator and was rattling things around. "Maggie? What about you, we got, uh, juice, we got ginger ale, water, we got some wine for dinner I could open up, or, uh ..."

"Actually, you know, some tea sounds wonderful, but I don't want to put you to any trouble, Ray."

"Trouble? Do not even start with that, we got enough tea here to float a boat, all I gotta do is—" He turned, slamming the refrigerator door, darted over to push a bottle of beer into Greg's hands, and darted back, grabbing the teakettle in passing. "Water, just boil some water is all, and—"

"I can handle that, Ray." I took a step toward the kitchen.

"Fraser, for chrissake I got it covered, you go—sit on the sofa, make like a host, OK?" He turned the water on full blast and started filling the kettle, jittering in place as he stood.

It seemed best to leave him to collect himself, so I led our guests into the living room, Dief panting along happily, shoving his nose against Maggie's leg and making a nuisance of himself. I gestured for Maggie and Greg to take the sofa, and pulled around a dining chair for myself. I could hear Ray, behind me, clattering the teakettle onto a burner, and waited for him to join us, but instead he stayed in the kitchen, opening and shutting drawers, pulling down a cup and saucer and rattling them together onto the countertop. Greg, after sitting long enough to take a swallow of his beer and set it on the coffeetable, was up again, looking with interest over my modest array of books. Maggie glanced at him, over at Ray, then smiled at me and rolled her eyes.

"Hey, you've got those new Isaiah Berlin essays!" Greg pulled the volume down and began thumbing energetically through it. "I've been meaning to get this, I haven't really read him since college, but he had a big influence on me." He looked up. "You like his work? Or—I'm sorry, maybe this is Ray's?"

He asked the question without any apparent discomfort, and I said, "No, you're quite right, that's mine. And I have to admit that I read Berlin mostly as a corrective; his arguments are persuasive, and of course beautifully stated, but I confess that despite my better knowledge, I like to believe that humans are—well, if not perfectible, at least capable of creating a rational social order, guided by a unified system of morality."

His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "Hey, cool. Guess that makes sense for someone who works in criminal justice. I'd love to hear what you think about the new policies on—"

Just then Ray yelled from the kitchen, "Uh, tea coming up, but I was thinking—luggage? How about I carry that in from the car?" He started toward the door.

"No, that's all right, leave it there, Ray," Maggie called back. "We booked a room at the Finto."

Ray came around to the other side of the counter and stared at her. "You did?" He seemed, oddly, almost hurt.

"I know how small these houses are, and I didn't want to put anyone out of his bed." She was looking down at the coffeetable, sorting through the odd array of magazines—Ray's Popular Mechanics and Ring World, my Smithsonian and Maclean's. "And Greg's not as enthusiastic as I am about sleeping on floors, are you, Greg?"

Seeming to take his cue, he slid the book back into place and came over to sit beside her. "I don't mind sleeping out on the ground, when you're really out in the open, but if you're in town and you've got a bed available, well, why suffer unnecessarily, eh?" He looked over at Ray. "Am I right?"

"Amen to that!" Ray nodded with vigor, and at that moment the teakettle began shrieking.

Ray darted back into the kitchen, rattled crockery around, and eventually reappeared with teapot, cup, saucer, and spoon. He set them down in front of Maggie, and stepped back. "There you go—uh, you want sugar? Cream?"

"No thanks, Ray, this is wonderful."

"Right. Uh, right. OK, then." He retreated to the stereo cabinet, leaned a hip against it, and began picking at the label on his beer bottle. There was a brief awkward silence, which Greg broke.

"Ray, Maggie tells me you're a Chicagoan. Do you follow the Cubs, then?"

Ray gave him a glare. "Cubs suck."

I winced, but Greg seemed wholly unperturbed. "Well, sure, traditionally they do, but—oh, wait." His face lit up. "You're from the south side, right? White Sox fan?"

"Well, yeah, have been. Not really following 'em so much lately."

"See, because I've been looking for someone who could explain to me just what's the problem with that club this year. They should be doing so much better, given their talent, and—"

"Their problem, the problem with that bunch of stiffs, is that a, they got no pitching, and b, nobody's hitting, and that'll cause you some big problems right there, y'know?" Ray's voice still sounded edgy, but his face had lost a bit of tension. "Ventura's not hitting, Thomas can't hit his weight lately, which I grant you that'd be kind of a feat, but—"

"Belle's hitting, though."

"See, that's the whole thing, right there!" Ray leapt up and started waving his bottle around, pacing. "You got a team that sucks, you got nobody coming to the ballpark, so the big brains, they go out in the market for a player, and who do they bring in? They bring in a class-A jerk like Albert Belle, who proceeds to carry on like the jerk that he is, never mind if he can hit the ball, and then they wonder why people aren't comin' out by the busload and why the whole team morale's gone in the crapper."

Greg nodded, engrossed. "So you're saying how a player executes on the field is less important than—"

"What I'm saying is—" He stopped, jabbing his bottle at Greg as if to underscore his points. "Baseball, see, it's a game of character and class. That's the thing, that's the nut. Football, it doesn't matter if you act like a thug, what else do you expect anyway from those guys. But baseball, you go out there, you take your stance—" As if to illustrate, he stepped into a batting stance, holding his bottle like a bat (a little too upright for good bat speed, I thought, but perhaps he was afraid of spilling). "You stand there with some—some dignity, like you got some pride in what you're doing, you take your cuts, and whatever happens, whether you get a hit or make an out, you comport yourself with some class. 'Cause that's what it's all about." He straightened, took a swallow of beer. "And fucking Albert Belle's got all the class of a cheap street punk muggin' an old lady on the day the welfare checks come out."

Greg seemed positively aglow with interest. "That's very eloquently put, Ray, although I think it might also be important to factor in the reasons for Belle's behavior, the background influences—"

"Who gives a shit about his background? Hell, Kirby Puckett grew up in the Robert Taylor Homes, which take it from me is about as bad as it gets this side of freakin' Beirut, and that guy is a total class act. Belle, he'd've been a jerk if he grew up on Park Avenue with Mother Teresa as his nanny." Despite the vehemence of his language, Ray's temper had clearly shifted to the sort of cheerful antagonism with which he was wont to carry on debates, and Greg seemed to absorb it with good humor.

"Greg works with kids in trouble," Maggie interjected quietly. "He's a social worker. So he's probably inclined to look more at the environmental factors."

I was about to follow up with some remarks intended to steer the conversation either toward Greg's work or, at least, a more temperate discussion of nature versus nurture, but Ray leapt in, looking a little taken aback. "Hey, y'know, I didn't mean to diss your work or anything. That's—I'm sure what you're doing is important stuff, and—"

"No problem," Greg said, and he did indeed look at ease, leaning forward and beaming over at Ray. "But getting back to your main point for a second —so I'd assume that in the case of Pete Rose, you're on the side of keeping him out of the Hall of Fame?"

"No, wait, now hold on, that is a completely different situation."

"Different because?"

"Because Pete Rose was always a class act on the field, that's why!"

"Even when he ran over Ray Fosse in the '70 All-Star Game? Separated his shoulder? The guy was never the same again, you know."

"That, that was a good, hard, clean play. You don't want ballplayers to act like a bunch of pussies out there. You gotta play the game the way it's supposed to be played, Fosse knew that."

"But leaving that aside, the gambling thing—"

"There is no proof he bet on baseball, I looked at those documents, I wouldn't even try to send a case to the DA myself on evidence like that, and—"

"Ben," Maggie interrupted. "This sounds like it could go on a while. Unless you're a lot more interested in baseball than I think you are, maybe you and I could move out to the back step for a bit? I'd like to get some fresh air."

"Of course, Maggie." I stood and followed, closing the door behind us as Greg was launching into something convoluted about "the integrity of the game."

It was a gloriously still evening, fresh and mild. Maggie settled on a step, and leaned back, gazing at the sky. For a few minutes we just sat together, enjoying the air and the quiet.

Finally she said, "It's good to be back in the north."

I nodded. "I was a little surprised to hear you were in Calgary, frankly."

"My friend Ellen—we were at Depot together, she's stationed down there. She's letting me stay with her while I get things settled."

Choosing my words with care, I said, "I was very sorry to learn that your abilities have been lost to the RCMP."

She gave a short laugh at that. "Well, the RCMP maybe didn't have as high an opinion of them as you do." Then she leaned forward and patted my knee. "I'm sorry, Ben, I don't mean to sound bitter about it. They were doing what they had to do." She settled back again, leaning against a railing. "I just—it became clear to me that I had to go in a different direction with my life."

"I understand."

"You do?" She gave me a searching look, and then turned her gaze to the sky again.

"Well, of course I don't know all the details of your particular situation, Maggie. But I do know that this career can demand a great deal in the way of compromise." I paused. "In fact, I feel some—admiration, for your refusal to compromise your principles. Your willingness to take the action you felt was necessary."

She snorted. "My pigheadedness." She tucked her hair behind her ears, but it refused to stay there. "And you were every bit as willing to take action as I was. When you went down to Chicago. You were just—more willing to take the consequences. Take your lumps."

"I didn't feel I had a choice, at the time." I paused, listening to the muffled sounds from inside, Ray's voice making some emphatic point about give a guy a second chance. "And I don't regret it."

She glanced back at the house and nodded, and silence fell again. Maggie broke it at last, saying, "You must be wondering about—well, about me and Greg. Me getting engaged again so soon."

I ventured, "He seems like a fine man."

"Oh, he is. And I love him, and he loves me. It's just ... it's not what I expected." Her voice was very soft. "After I lost Casey, and then after what I learned about him—I didn't know if I could ever love anyone again. If I could ever trust a man again, or trust myself. I'd been so wrong about him. I mean—I was crazy about him, I thought he hung the moon and stars. And it turned out—he was just a crook, the whole time. And a liar. And I just—I thought it was going to kill me."

I nodded, biting down on my lip.

"But then ... there I was in Calgary, sitting out my suspension—I hadn't resigned yet—and I got a phone call one day from this man who runs a program for juvenile offenders, who said they were having a dance party for the kids. He said he was looking for someone to help with security, and that Ellen had mentioned my name to him." She shook her head. "I told him I wasn't what he was looking for, I wasn't big and strong and scary-looking, and he said—he said that was exactly what he needed, someone who wasn't scary, and who was smart enough not to try to get by on muscles."

She paused, and I said, "And that was Greg?"

She nodded. "That was Greg. And I went and worked the party, and stayed after to help clean up, and we got to talking, and .... Well, we've been talking ever since, I guess." She was looking down at her hands. "It felt all wrong at first, like it was too fast, or too soon, or something. Like I shouldn't be falling in love again so quickly. But he's such a good man. Sure, he drives me nuts sometimes, he's so enthusiastic about everything, and he'll talk your ear off. But there's no pretense in him anywhere. No lies."

"I can see that about him, Maggie."

She looked up at me. "You can? You like him? Oh, Ben, I'm so glad."

I put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. "You deserve happiness, Maggie. Happiness comes on its own timetable. It would be foolish to turn it away."

She nodded, brushing her fingers briefly over the back of my hand. "I was ... so lonely, Ben. Sometimes I feel like I've been lonely all my life. I worked hard, I did everything I was supposed to, but still ... it was like being empty, deep down inside."

I cleared my throat. "I'm not unfamiliar with that feeling." I picked up a chunk of gnawed bone that Dief had untidily left on the step, and turned it over and over in my hands, feeling her eyes on me.

After a minute, she said, "And you—you're happy now?"

It was a question I could have taken in many directions, but—this was Maggie, this was family. I gripped the bone hard, not daring to look at her, and said, "Yes, I believe so. I am. Or rather, we are, Ray and I. Very happy."

I heard her take a quick breath, and I waited, feeling my face turning red, telling myself where there is love, no shame is possible. But when she finally spoke, all she said was, "Thank you, Ben."

It startled me so much that I looked up, to see her smiling at me. "Thanks? For what?"

"For—for being honest with me. Letting me know." She was smiling now, looking a little embarrassed. "I'd wondered, you see. After we'd talked. It seemed like—like you were trying to tell me something, but it just seemed awfully unlikely, and of course it wasn't something I could ask you about, but—I'd been wondering."

"Yes, well, it is unlikely, very much so, I'll grant you that."

Just then there was a rap at the window, Ray signalling us that dinner was ready, and Maggie and I went in to the table. Ray had prepared a stew that bore some resemblance to bouillabaisse; though the fish and seafood it incorporated were of northern rather than Mediterranean origin, it was still rich with garlic and spices, and Greg and Maggie apparently relished it. Ray seemed a little put off by their compliments, ducking his head and muttering, "Hey, a lotta guys can cook, I knew how to cook a long time before I got up here, OK?" But he soon seemed to relax, under the influence of wine and good food and general conversation, and the meal went most pleasantly. It took but little prodding on my part to get Greg launched on a lengthy exposition of his and and Maggie's plans for the future.

"So many of these kids I work with—they're not really bad, see, I keep finding that a big part of the problem with them is that they're bored. Kids need a challenge, you know? They need some way to find out who they are, what they can do, they need some way to push themselves. And a lot of them—if they're not lucky enough to do well in athletics, or music, or get hooked by school, they find some other kind of challenge, something that ends up getting them in trouble." Greg looked eagerly around the table, at me, at Ray. "Right? You know what I mean?"

Ray was twirling his wineglass. "Well—boredom, that's usually not so much the problem in Chicago, but up here—yeah, I can see what you mean. Definitely."

"Right!" Greg nodded, beaming, and plunged on. "So Maggie and I—we're thinking about starting a wilderness program. Kind of like Outward Bound, you know? We'd get a group, give them some training, some conditioning programs, stuff like that, back in town, and then we'd take them out on expeditions. Put them in situations where they'd understand why they have to be responsible, where they'd have to think about what they're doing, really learn some things about themselves."

"A wonderful idea." I found myself caught up by Greg's enthusiasm. "And I can venture to say, from personal experience, that there's nothing like survival in the wilderness to let a young man test his mettle, take the measure of his powers." I nodded to Maggie. "Or her powers, in the case of a young woman, of course."

"Right, right!" Greg gestured expansively with his spoon. "You learn that you're capable of so much more than you ever thought. It gives you self-confidence, you get focused, you really start to understand who you are—"

"That's assuming, of course, that you come out OK." Ray spoke quietly, staring down into his soup plate. "'Cause if you don't..." He was tearing a slice of bread into little chunks, dropping them into his stew.

It brought me up short, but Greg leapt in. "Sure, but see, that's why you need to have really good group leaders. And that's another thing we need to start working on, getting some staff lined up, because Maggie and I won't have time to do this all ourselves. I mean, we want to start our own family soon." He reached over and squeezed her hand, smiling at her; she looked embarrassed and pleased all at once.

I was fairly confident she hadn't intended to break that piece of news in quite that way, but I said, "Well! Congratulations to both of you, prospectively of course," in a tone that I hoped conveyed my genuine happiness, and then went on, trying to steer the conversation to less intimate territory. "And certainly you will need some competent group leaders. And a funding source as well, I'd imagine. Have you had any luck in that direction?"

Greg nodded, cheerfully cracking open a crab leg and sucking out the meat. "Got a nibble from the Laidlaw Foundation, and we're getting a meeting set up with some of Hilary Weston's people."

"That sounds promising."

"Of course, we're going to need to get some more people involved besides the group leaders. More names on the letterhead. I mean, once we get the letterhead." He poured himself another glass of wine, and shot me a grin. "Hey, Ben. You want to be on a board of directors?"

I gaped at him. "Excuse me?"

"I was talking with Maggie about it the other day, and if you'd be interested—" He held his hands up in a bracketing gesture. "'Constable Benton Fraser, G Division, RCMP.' It'd look real good to the suits down in Toronto. Plus, of course, I'd value having your head in the mix, I think you'd have a hell of a lot to contribute."

"I—well of course it would be a great honor, but I'm not sure if I—"

"You wouldn't have to fly down for meetings or anything, we could teleconference you in. Think about it anyway, OK?" He took a noisy slurp of his soup, then turned to Ray. "And while I'm thinking about it—not that I want to sound like I'm up here recruiting or anything, but—Ray, I was wondering what you'd think about coming on board as a guide. Help us lead some of the groups."

Now it was Ray's turn to gape. "The fuck?"

Greg went on, unperturbed. "It wouldn't be a steady job or anything, of course, just a few weeks out of the year, although it'd be great if you could come down and help with the training too. Of course, I know you've got your construction job going, and maybe by the time we get this up and running, you'd be too busy to take the time away, but if you're interested, I could e-mail you a draft of the contract we're thinking about, and a description of—"

"Wait. Just—wait wait wait, hold on a sec." Ray was flailing, spluttering. "There are so many ways in which that is a completely stupid idea that I can't even—"

"I think it's a very interesting idea, Ray," I said. "Actually—"

He swung on me, shot a forefinger at my face. "You. Shut up. You are deranged, established fact." Then he turned back to Greg. "Despite which, if there's anyone who should be doing something like that, it's him," and he jerked his head in my direction. "Not me."

"From what Ben wrote me, it sounds like you both did a wonderful job on that trip of yours," Maggie put in.

"Yeah, well that's 'cause you don't know what it—how it—" He stopped, groping for words, hands tensed on the tabletop, and finally he went on. "That was all Fraser, I don't know shit about this survival stuff, all I know is how easy it is to end up dead."

"But, see, Ray—" Greg leaned across the table, brows knitted with earnestness. "That's the important thing to know. Understanding the nature of risk, the genuine possibility of failure—that's just what these kids don't get, they think they're bulletproof. You know better, you could get that across to them. Knowing how dangerous life can be, and going ahead, with that awareness—that's what matters. Everything else about survival is just technique, and anyone with a brain can learn technique, and you do have a brain." He paused briefly. "Even if you think Pete Rose belongs in the Hall of Fame."

"One of the best damn players who ever swung a bat," Ray retorted automatically. "But—OK, leaving all that shit aside, there's the fact I got no experience at all working with kids—"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that's true, Ray," I interjected. "In fact, I think you have exceptional rapport with troubled youth." He gave me a baffled look. "Stanley Smith? Davey Abelard? Levon Taylor?"

"Those were not kids, those were guys," he said irritably. "And besides ... OK, that's another thing you gotta be thinking about," and he turned back to Greg. "Cause, see—you need use your head about this stuff. You start up something like this, you got kids involved, you gotta think about how it's going to look if you've got someone like ... " He paused, seeming to grope for words. "A lot of people wouldn't think it was so good—y'know—having someone working with kids who's —" Finally he gave up language, gesturing at himself, at me, at our household.

Greg watched this pantomime, and then shrugged. "Well, sure, there are some people who think all gay or bisexual men are pedophiles. But a, those people are morons, and I don't waste my time paying attention to morons, and b, in any case I know you're not a pedophile, because apart from anything else, if you were, I'm sure Ben wouldn't have anything to do with you." He nodded cheerfully to me. "Right? So there's no problem." Then he turned back to Ray. "So—I mean, think it over. I'm not trying to push you or anything. But we'd be really glad to have you on board."

Ray was staring at him, blank-faced. Then he carefully moved his soup plate aside, set his hands flat on the table in front of him, side by side, and transferred his stare to them, head bent. The silence stretched on a moment longer, and I began tensing up, apprehensive that he was about to explode. But finally he raised his head, took in a breath, let it out.

"OK." He nodded, still expressionless. "OK. So, there's one thing that is now crystal clear." He raised his head, raised an arm, pointed a finger straight at Greg. "You, my friend, are officially unhinged. Just in case the jury was out before, the verdict is now in." Suddenly, he was grinning, a fierce wild grin. "Congratulations, you have qualified! For membership! In the Fraser clan of the demented!" He stood, sticking his hand across the table, and Greg half-rose and took it, pumping it heartily. "Glad to have you here! I paid my dues a while ago, and it's a pleasure to welcome you to the nuthouse!"

They both flopped back in their chairs, Greg laughing openly, Maggie smiling—even Dief came over to join in, putting his forepaws on the table and waving his tail around. "We're all bozos on this bus!" Ray shouted. "Welcome aboard!"

"Hey, glad to be here, eh?" Greg said. "Normal, who needs it?"

Ray grabbed the wine bottle, poured a healthy dollop for the three of them, and for good measure splashed some into my empty water tumbler. "A toast!" He raised his glass high. "Some are born to unhingedness—" He waved his glass at me and at Maggie. "And some, uh, acquire it."

"Contagious stuff," Greg said, nodding seriously.

"Contact high," Ray replied, with equal seriousness.

"Here's to family!" Maggie called out, and we all drained our glasses.

In my gladness, on that extraordinary evening, I went against my longstanding habit, had not only that glass of wine, but then a second, and so the rest of the night is a little blurry in my memory. I know that at some point Ray put on music, and there was dancing; Ray grabbed Maggie first and spun her around, Dief circling both of them, then Greg and Maggie took a turn while Ray watched and ragged Greg on his steps, and eventually all four of us were out there. I recall moving muzzily to the music, Ray's arms holding me upright, his body guiding me, his voice humming along softly in my ear. I recall whispering to him, "Are you all right with this?" as we swayed together, and his murmured "What the hell. We're good. We're all good here."

And at some point later I remember sitting on the sofa, Maggie beside me. Ray and Greg were in the kitchen, conducting a lively debate on youth gangs and doing the dishes, with much rattling and sloshing. The last light of evening was still glowing in the windows, and I felt aglow myself, with a sense of inner fullness, contentment, a feeling of being lapped in human warmth as in a blanket. Maggie was talking quietly, almost to herself, and she spoke with a freedom we hadn't had between us before; it was as if I were listening to the eddying and rippling of her very thoughts.

"Sometimes I wonder ... it's not that I think I made the wrong decision. All I have to do is see Greg ...the way he looks at me ... and I know it was worth it. I know I'm happy, I know I've been very lucky. But sometimes ... when I'm alone, and he's not around, I start thinking about all the things I gave up. When I resigned." She paused. "I loved my work, you know?"

"Yes," I said.

"I loved it, and I did it really well, it ... it used everything I have in me to give, or that's what I thought. And for a long time I thought it'd be all I'd ever really need. I wanted it to be, I didn't ... I didn't want to be like some—some girl, who thinks she needs a man to make her life complete." She spoke with such robust scorn that I had to smile.

"And then with Casey ... you know, it's funny, my mother always used to say—you never met her, did you?" She looked over at me.

"No, I'm afraid I never did." I let my head roll on the sofa toward her, and watched the room spin unpleasantly for a moment before it resettled.

"Right." Maggie sighed. "I used to ask her if she ever thought about getting married again ... because sometimes I thought how much I'd like to have a dad ... but she'd just laugh and say that a man would only clutter up the place, get in her way, or tell her to go cook his dinner or something." Dief, who was curled up on the sofa on the other side of Maggie, squirmed and mumbled something in his sleep, and she reached over absently to pet him. "She used to say, 'Maggie, a man's like a sheefish. Landing one can be fun, but then you may as well toss 'em back, because they're not good eating, and after a while they stink up the place.' I don't think she'd had such good experiences with men." She started to laugh, and then she abruptly stopped and stared at me. "Oh, lord, Ben, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I mean, I'm sure your dad—that is, our dad—I'm sure he was a fine man, and—"

"Don't worry," I told her. "Robert Fraser was indeed a fine man in many ways, but I don't believe that dealing with matters of the heart was one of his strengths."

She giggled, a very un-Maggie-like giggle. "Right. So ... then ... what was I saying?" She frowned. "Right, so, then, I didn't figure that marriage was in the cards for me. Because I wanted to be like her ... she was such a strong woman ..." She trailed off, lost in thought, and I felt myself drifting, only to jerk awake when she began talking again. "Anyway, so then I met Casey, and I fell for him like a brick down a well, and what I thought made it so perfect was—he didn't want me hanging on his arm, he wanted me to have my own life, he'd—he'd see me off, when I'd go on patrol, and he'd say, 'Don't you worry, you go do your work and I'll see you in a couple of weeks,' and I thought ..." She made an odd gulping sound, and I looked over, startled to see tears welling in her eyes. She coughed, bent her head, rubbed a sleeve briskly across her face, and after a moment went on in a harder voice, "Well, of course what I didn't know then was why he was so happy to have me out of the way. And afterwards—I couldn't help thinking that maybe, if I'd been around more—"

"It's not your fault, Maggie," I said. "He made his choices, and that's in no way your fault."

"I know that." She pushed her hair back. "But even so ... sometimes I wonder if I'd been more willing to compromise right from the start, take a posting that would keep me at home ... he wasn't a bad man, deep down, you know? He fell in with the wrong people. He was weak, and he had time on his hands, and ..."

She coughed again, pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, and I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. After a moment she blew out a breath, sat up straight, and said, "Well—that's the past, and it's beyond helping. But now, with Greg ... I think I'm finally getting it figured out." She shifted wobbily around on the couch, turning to face me and curling a foot up underneath her. "Compromise. That's what I'm starting to get straight. Greg and I—we're so different, in so many ways. There are parts of myself that—well, that I just have to keep a rein on, in order to be with him. And that doesn't come easy for me. I'm pretty bullheaded, you know, and I always thought there was one right way to be, one right way to do things, and all I had to do was figure out that one right way and then stick to it, never give up, and everything would be all right. Not easy, of course, but ... how it had to be."

"Well, I tend rather in that direction myself, Maggie," I said. "And I believe we both come by it honestly."

She nodded, though I wasn't sure she was listening. "But I finally got it straight—I could stay on that path, of course, I could keep on doing things the way I thought was right, but then—I'd be walking that path alone, the rest of my life." Her voice was very soft. "And ... I don't think I'm strong enough to do that. Not as strong as my mother was. Maybe I'm not so much like her as I used to think." She sounded plaintive, bereft. "Sometimes I don't know who I am any more, or what I'm good for."

"Maggie." She looked up at me, eyes swimming again. "I certainly can't speak for your own experience, but I do believe that the compromises demanded by an intimate relationship require more strength than—well, than anything else I've ever done." I paused, and then found myself saying, "To be honest, I'm not always sure that I have that kind of strength." Then I stopped, startled at myself.

"Really?" She was giving me a searching look. "But it seems like you—"

Just then there was an almighty clatter from the kitchen as a pot lid fell to the floor, hoots of laughter, Ray's voice—"And Russo fumbles the catch, plus there was encroachment on the play—" and Greg loudly and simultaneously protesting, "Just because it's shaped like a frisbee does not mean it has the same kind of aerodynamics, Ray, you can't—"

"Boys!" Maggie called. Her voice was sharp, but when I turned to look at her, she was smiling, shaking her head. "Lunatics," she said.

"Compromise," I replied, gravely. She laughed, a small laugh that trailed off, and we sat in silence for a while, Maggie twiddling a strand of hair, I trying to get the room to stop wavering. I thought that perhaps she'd lost the thread of our conversation, and was frankly a little relieved.

But then she said, "Sometimes it just hits me ... I'm never going to be the person I might have been. I'll never get to do the things I might have done, if I hadn't—if I'd never met Casey, if I'd never gone down to Chicago. If I'd stayed a mountie. And ... it makes me angry, sometimes."

I nodded, my head feeling thick and heavy.

"I just—I miss it so much. Like—sometimes, I just want to run away from it all, from Calgary and Greg and everything, and be back out in the woods again, by myself." She dropped her head onto the back of the sofa. "Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," I said. "And Maggie—" I pulled in breath, trying to gather my woolly thoughts, groping for words. I had the sense that there was something terribly important I wanted to tell her, something large and summative that included the jangling of Ray's and Greg's voices in the kitchen, the lingering heavy aromas of dinner, the stuffiness and smallness of the house, the freedom of the open trail, the way that I could almost feel the roof pressing down upon my addled head, the way that I had known, somehow, from the very beginning, that she was kin to me ... well, to be honest, I don't know what all I was trying to say, but when I turned back to her, I saw she had fallen asleep where she sat.

I may have dozed then a bit myself, because my memories are disjointed—Greg helping Maggie to her feet, Ray pushing me back down on the sofa when I tried to struggle up to help—"You're toasted, Fraser, relax—geez, wish I had a camera"—the sound of the door opening, voices, an engine starting up, and then Ray's hands in mine, pulling me up, steering me to the bedroom, helping me undress. I remember rousing momentarily as he slid in beside me under the covers, yawning and curling up against me.

"Ray," I mumbled, "does she seem happy to you?"

"Who, Maggie?" He yawned again. "Sure, I guess, I dunno. She ought to be, Greg seems like a good guy."

"Does she—" I wasn't even sure what I was asking, where this was coming from. "Does she seem happier than me?"

"The hell kind of question is that, Fraser?" He slid an arm around me, nuzzling against my shoulder. "You're both freaks, that's all I know. Now go to sleep."

It was an unconventional opening for the Midnight Sun Slo-Pitch Softball Tournament, to say the least.

I had been at my desk, taking advantage of a quiet Saturday morning to catch up on paperwork, when the emergency call had come in, a near-incoherent message about somebody at the playing field with a gun. I hurried to the scene to find a large crowd, spectators and players alike, crowded into the outfield, milling and babbling, and two figures standing on a makeshift platform that had been erected behind home plate. One was Lynette Iverson, the wife of the bank president; the other, a young Inuit man, had an arm around her shoulder, and a gun jammed against her throat.

"Fraser!" I turned, and saw Sergeant Gammell and several of my fellow constables, standing in a cluster of red, and I jogged over to join them.

"What in the world is going on, sir?"

"We've a hostage situation." Gammell turned back curtly to young Constable Evans, who looked near tears. "Go on, Evans."

"Well, sir, so the Mayor finished his speech, and then Mrs. Iverson was right in the middle of singing the anthem, and suddenly this fellow came running out of the crowd and grabbed her. I was over dealing with some boys who'd been scuffling by the refreshment stand, sir, by the time I realized what was going on it was too late, and—"

"What are his demands?" I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Constables Elston and Lafferty arriving, carrying rifles. The crowd pulled back, murmuring.

"Constable Fraser, if you please, I believe I'm in charge of this operation," Gammell said, and then he turned to Evans. "Well?"

"I'm not sure, sir, he hasn't really—"

Just then the loudspeaker system came crackling to life, with a painful screech of feedback. "Hey! I see you fuckin' Mounties there, with the rifles! You try anything—anything—and she's dead. You understand?" And for emphasis, he briefly pulled the gun away from her neck, and fired a shot randomly into the air, then jammed it back in the angle of her jaw.

As the reverberation and the crowd's shrieks subsided, I heard a familiar voice behind me—"Yo, Fraser!"—and turned to see Ray, striding toward me, squinting out at the infield. "What the fuck is going on here?"

"Well, Ray, we appear to have a hostage situation, and—"

"Yeah, that much I figured out. Who's the—" Ray took a few steps forward, pulled out his glasses and put them on, and then stopped and shook his head violently. "Aw, hell. It's that dumb putz Johnny Innukpuk."

"You know this man?" Gammell barked at him.

"He works with me. Joined the crew about the same time I did. What in the hell's he—"

"Thank you for that information, Mr. Kowalski. Now if you would step back—"

I cut in. "Do you have any idea what his motives might be? Does he have a grievance?"

"Grievance, who knows. Kid's a headcase, he's always reading weird shit during lunch break. I can tell you one thing, what he probably does have is a snootful."

"What do you mean?" Gammell was glaring at him.

"I mean he's hammered, plotzed, shit-faced." Ray barely paused. "Drunk, I guess it'd be in Canadian."

"How can you tell that?"

Ray shrugged. "Figures. Emma sent him home drunk yesterday afternoon, I saw him going into the Silver Dollar at opening time this morning."

I stared out at the figure on the platform. He did, in fact, look unsteady, dangerously so. He also looked very young, no more than nineteen or twenty. I could just make out Lynette's shoulders shuddering, likely with sobs.

"Sergeant," I said, "what's the plan?"

"I've phoned Yellowknife. They're flying in the Emergency Response Team. My orders are to stabilize the situation until they can arrive and take charge."

"What?" Ray spun on him. "From Yellowknife? How the hell many hours is that?"

"Mr. Kowalski, would you kindly—"

"It's approximately two hours, Ray, depending on weather conditions. And perhaps it might be best if you—"