ROGUE
Kat Allison
Written for SA, as part of the 2004 dS Secret Santa
Once I'd finally persuaded Ray to abandon his sofa, his bottle, and his self-recriminations, and gotten him to bed, he fell asleep almost immediately. Exhausted, and more from the emotional strain of the last few days, I thought, than from the rigors of the investigation itself. I found a spare blanket in his closet, settled it gently over him, and then watched him for a minute in the faint glow from the streetlights, noting the reddened puffiness of his eyelids, the way his body curled protectively in on itself, arms hugging his chest.
In the living room, I put on my jacket, and told Dief, "Stay. Stand guard." He whuffed at me skeptically, and I replied, "Well, yes, I admit there's no immediate danger." Even as I said it, the images rose unbidden in my mind—Ray with a knife held to his throat by a lunatic, Ray with a gun held to his head by a man he'd thought his friend. I shook them off; that was over now, past helping, and I had duties still that required a clear brain. "Keep him company, then. Quietly. And stay off the bed."
Dief made his way into the bedroom with a martyred air, and settled in a pile of discarded clothing. I started toward the coffee table, to gather up the half-empty bottle and the glass, and then stopped. This was not a night to be fussing over glassware. Instead I turned off the light, let myself out, and made my way down the stairs on weary legs, in the darkness. I was almost as tired as Ray, but there was one more task I had to complete before I could rest.
The 27th is never dark, and even at 3 a.m. is often busy, but that night the atmosphere held an unusual charge of tension, and the two dark-suited hard-eyed men in the hallway were not the usual late-night habitues. Strangers though they were, I knew their type, and walked past them with a bare nod, toward interrogation room number three.
Lieutenant Welsh stood outside the door, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. From the set of his face, I knew even before I spoke the answer to my question, the one that had had been left hanging when I departed to accompany Ray to Ms. Botrelle's house. "We still have a problem, I take it?"
"You could say." Welsh's voice was a low murmur. "The fibbies—" He jerked his head up the hall, toward the men. "They think he's bluffing. They got their dial stuck on let's-play-hardball, and they're leaving Vecchio in the game. Keep telling me, push comes to shove, they can yank him out in time, which you'll forgive me, Constable, for not entirely trusting their ability to pull that one off." He gestured toward the door. "And this asshole is still ready and eager to sing his little song."
I felt my brows lift; the Lieutenant is not a man given to profanity. He pushed off from the wall and lifted a hand, rubbing his face wearily. "So, yeah, you could say we got a problem."
"Sir." I glanced at the door. "May I speak to him?"
"You want to use moral suasion on him, Constable, be my guest. But it hasn't done much good so far."
I took a breath. "And might I ask that our conversation be private and unobserved?"
Welsh stared at me for a long moment, through narrowed eyes. Then he said, "You'll have to deal with the lawyer. But as far as I'm concerned, see no evil, hear no evil."
I nodded my thanks, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. The stranger in the corner was no doubt the attorney, but I disregarded him, focused only on the other man, seated behind the wooden table. The—what was Ray's phrase? The bent nail I had come to take down.
Ray had held the bottle and glass in shaking hands, staring at them. I could see the painful tears welling up again in his eyes, and the effort it took for him to fight them back. Feeling helpless, I'd again launched on my litany of comfort—"She's alive, Ray, you can't blame yourself, we managed it in time, she's safe now"—but he shook his head violently. "No," he'd whispered, "That's not—I mean, yeah, that's killing me, but on top of that—what I can't get past—" He threw down the drink like it was poison, coughed, set the glass back down, and pressed his hands against his eyes, breathing deeply. When he spoke, his voice was cracked and raw. "Sam."
He looked tired, but his eyes, under heavy lids, were alert, almost amused. "Well, if it isn't the Mountie. Our boy genius from up north. Constable..." He snapped his fingers, miming thought. "Fraser, that's it. You're out of uniform, sonny."
The lazy arrogance in his voice rankled, but I kept my countenance bland. "This isn't an official visit. I merely wished to have a private conversation with you."
"Thought you shot your wad back at the warehouse. But—" He waved a hand negligently. "Fine. Talk."
I turned and gave the attorney a look, and Franklin said, "Right. Lou, go hit the vending machines or something."
"Sam—" The man sounded harried. "I'm trying to do my job here, would you just—"
"Don't worry." And there was that half-smile that I'd seen on his face before, as he'd held his gun to Ray's head, patted Ray's cheek. "It's OK, I'm just in for another lecture about the error of my ways. Trust me, this guy's not a player. Worst he'll do is polite me to death. He's harmless."
I stood, hands clasped behind my back, endeavoring to look as harmless as possible. I had long practice at it.
The lawyer stood, with a long-suffering sigh, and shook out his pants legs. "Jesus. OK, Sam, but keep it zipped, right?"
Franklin drew his thumb and forefinger across his lips, smiling, and in another moment we were alone together.
I seated myself and gave the man a steady look across the table. Handsome, in his own way, I'd grant him that. Intelligent, certainly. Resolute, capable. And, behind those clever arrogant eyes, a monster, willing to let an innocent woman die for his own gain, ready to bring pain and death to those whom I most cherished.
"You gotta understand, Fraser, I knew the guy ever since I walked my first beat." Ray's voice was almost gone, eroded by grief and liquor. "I was this dumb rookie, and Sam, he'd already made detective, and he was — he was smooth, he was cool, he had the all moves —" He made a rough gesture. "I mean—not that, not just that, but—he was smart, total pro. As far as I was concerned, he was the best cop in the fucking city. And ..." A long pause, the room so silent I could hear Ray's ragged breathing. "And—what knocked me over, he liked me. Me, the stupid kid. We'd go out for drinks sometimes, he'd tell me about his cases, teach me stuff. I thought he was—like, God or something."
"Mr. Franklin." I settled my hands on the table. "Because it is difficult for me to relinquish my essential belief that every human soul holds a shred of decency—I will repeat the requests that have been made to you, to abandon the contemptible and vicious course of action you propose."
Franklin shook his head, tsking at me. "Strong words, Constable."
"Not strong enough, I would say, for an officer who proposes to betray a colleague for selfish ends."
"Betray." He rolled his eyes, and then sat forward, speaking briskly. "Look, I said it before, I'll say it again, all I'm doing is offering a deal. Simple. The charges get dropped, I walk ... and in exchange, I don't say anything to anybody about this weird situation I've stumbled across at the 27th." I could hear the undertone of satisfaction in his voice. "The strange fact that a kid I know as Ray Kowalski is going around here under the name of Vecchio, and that the guy who used to be Vecchio has—disappeared."
I kept still and he went on, shaking his head. "They shouldn't have let the feds in this room, you know? I may be dirty, but I'm not stupid, and the minute I saw them I started putting those pieces together. Vecchio's in something deep, and they threw this cockamamie stunt together to cover him." For a moment, he sounded honestly exasperated. "What the hell did they think they were doing, anyway? That story wouldn't hold up in a strong wind."
I opened my mouth to speak, but he went on, and I was grimly pleased to note that apparently his ego trumped his attorney's sound advice. "Really, you know, I'm doing the 27th a favor. Pointing out some pretty obvious holes in this lace doily of a cover they've got. And them? They get to do a fellow officer a favor in return. So. Sounds like a win-win to me."
He sat back, with the air of one making an inassailable case, and nodded dismissively at me. It was my turn to talk, and I took a deep breath.
"Mr. Franklin, I'm fairly sure that the arguments of reason, justice, and honor have been made to you. I won't repeat them. Rather, I'd like to tell you a a couple of stories."
"Stories." He smiled. "Yeah, Ray told me you were a big one for stories. They got caribou in them?"
"Only indirectly, I'm afraid." Against my will, I thought of Ray sitting with this man in friendship, imagined him sharing, with honest trust, stories of his current assignment, his freakish partner. I swallowed down my fury, and went on. "Years ago, when I was a young recruit, there was a senior officer in the RCMP, a friend of my father's, whom I admired a great deal. He seemed to me exemplary of all that a Mountie should be, and I gave him my respect and my friendship." I paused, folding my hands. "Years later, I discovered that that man had been responsible for my father's murder. He told me that if I arrested him, he'd make public some information that would make my father seem a criminal." I felt my jaw clench, and took a moment to compose myself. "He is now serving a life sentence in Kingston Penitentiary, where I helped to put him. His threats and schemes came to nothing. Just as yours shall."
"Really." Franklin sounded uninterested.
"The experience has left me with considerable enmity towards men who betray not only their oath and duty, but also the innocent trust and esteem of their younger colleagues, those who look to them as models." I watched him. "As heroes."
He yawned. "Well, that's a sad story, Constable. But you know something, a cop learns sooner or later that you can't trust everyone. Maybe Ray should've learned that a little sooner."
"I just — I can't get past that, Fraser. He put a gun on me. Sam. I would've taken a bullet for that guy." Ray had sat hunched with hands pressed to his eyes, as though willing himself not to see what he had seen, and his voice was a rough whisper. "I trusted him. I ... I gave him the paper, I watched him tag and bag it, he told me it was fine, he told me Beth was guilty, told me I did a good job. He was gonna let her die, he was gonna let me be the one who did it, and he would've put a bullet in me if it came down to that. And I thought I knew him. I trusted him." He spoke as though to himself, without looking at me; I wasn't sure he even knew I was in the room. "Who the hell am I supposed to trust now?"
"So, constable—it's been fun, but I think our conversation's over." Franklin pushed back his chair, stood. "Tell the boys out there my offer stands until noon. They don't cut the deal by then, I start telling some stories of my own." He sounded well-pleased with himself. "And news travels fast, you know. The wires'll have a field day with that one."
I nodded—no way out but through, then. I stood, gathering myself, taking a breath—and then I shoved the table aside, leapt, and, quicker than he could speak, had him pushed up against the wall, my arm pinning him flat, my hand gripping his throat. The shock in his eyes was gratifying.
"Actually, Mr. Franklin—" He grabbed at my arm, tried to yell, and I increased the pressure on his throat, until his eyes turned glassy and his hands dropped. "The offer does not stand. You shall withdraw it, and your threats as well. There's not going to be any deal."
I watched him for a minute, gauging my pressure, making sure to allow him just enough blood and oxygen. I needed him conscious for this.
"I regret having to employ these crude tactics, but I wanted to make sure you listened to what I have to say, and you're rather too fond of the sound of your own voice. I said that I have enmity toward those who betray the trust of their colleagues, but that feeling pales next to my fury at those who would place the life of a fellow officer in danger. And as you have already deduced, your—news could very well cost Ray Vecchio his life." He had ceased struggling by then for anything but air, and there was fear in his eyes.
"I said I had a couple of stories to tell you. You've heard one. Here's the other." I gave him a look, to make sure he was listening. "In February of 1994, I was out north of Fort Liard, patrolling a territory of open wilderness with a dogsled and a team. One night, under a full moon, my camp was attacked. I heard the screams of the dogs, and leaving my tent, I found another animal setting upon my team, who were staked down in the snow." I paused a moment, remembering the moon on the snow, the way the blood shone black in the moonlight. "He was a full-grown Inuit sled dog, a handsome animal, almost certainly the former pride of a local musher. But he'd escaped, gone wild. Gone rogue."
I watched Franklin to see if he was taking my meaning, but I could read nothing in his face as he stared at me, tongue lolling. "Dogs are social animals, of course, and they honor their instinctual bonds, safeguarding their own, defending the members of their pack. But a dog gone rogue, a dog free of those bonds, is a menace to all around him, not just humans but his own kind as well. Even if I chased him off, I knew he would return to follow us, and that as long as he lived he would remain a threat. So there was only one course of action I could take." I paused a moment, feeling Franklin's pulse throbbing fast under my fingers.
"I'd spent my ammunition in chasing a felon, so there was no way to shoot him. Instead, I made a noose and lassoed him. I managed to bind his jaws. I got ahold of him, straddled him. And then—I snapped his neck. That's not an easy thing to do, given the musculature that any good sled dog has. You have to know angle, and pressure." I moved my grip across Franklin's throat with some care, feeling the larynx shift minutely. "As I do."
I could smell him now, the sweat-stink of fear, and I knew that he took my meaning. I eased my hand back just a little, giving him more air, and he licked his lips, panting.
"So—those are my stories, Mr. Franklin, to which I'll add this conclusion: when you first swore your oath and put on your badge, you took on a bond to the public and to your colleagues—to safeguard their lives, even at risk of your own. Ray Vecchio and Ray Kowalski have each in their own ways honored that bond, giving up their personal lives and identities to serve justice, to protect a fellow officer. That you should attempt to use that sacrifice for your own self-serving ends ... " I was pressing too hard, I realized, his skin was turning a dusky blue, and I pulled my hand back, giving him air but not freeing him. He sucked in breath, gasping and gagging, and I waited a moment, then leaned in, speaking slowly and clearly. "There'll be no deal. You will remain silent."
He had nerve, grant him that. He croaked, "Yeah? And so what if I don't?"
"If you don't —" I paused, and then said what I'd come here ready to say. "I'll kill you."
He pulled in air, opened his mouth as if to yell, and I tightened my grip again, warningly. From somewhere he summoned the strength to wheeze, "You're bluffing."
"Am I? Perhaps. But your life is a great deal to gamble on a bluff."
"Ray told me about you. You're not that kind of guy." He was struggling for breath, yet defiance still flickered in him.
"Perhaps Ray sees in me what he wants to see. As he did with you. But possibly he may have also told you—I never lie. I keep my word."
He understood me. I could tell this, by the way his eyes shifted and quelled. And, as I had trusted, his detective's instinct and experience were with him, even in this extremity. He could tell bluster from truth.
I released him then, and took a step back. He bent over, coughing, and I let him finish before saying, "So. Do we have a deal, Mr. Franklin?"
"You seriously think you can get away with this?" He had straightened, but his head was lowered, weaving back and forth, like the trapped animal he was. "Intimidation? Death threats? You think I'm not going to spill that to everyone out there?" He jerked a hand at the door. "Starting with my lawyer, and moving on from there?"
I lifted a shoulder. "I think it would be unwise. Do you honestly think anyone would believe you? I am, after all, merely the Mountie. At worst, polite, as you pointed out. Harmless, as is universally known." He stared at me. "And you have no friends here, Mr. Franklin, none at all, nor any shred of truth or credibility left. I, on the other hand...."
"You son of a bitch." He was trying for ferocity, but I could hear the whine of defeat in his voice.
"Understood." I pulled the table back between us, set my hands on it, and leaned toward him. "But I trust we also understand each other on this: the only deal remaining here is the one between you and me. You will keep silent, and serve out your sentence. Which is, I might add, a far less onerous punishment than you deserve. In turn—you'll go on living."
He spat on the floor, and I leaned across, grabbed his shirt. "If you were a dog, you'd be dead already. A rogue dog gets no second chance. But as a human, you have the capacity to reason, to judge, and to choose your options. I suggest you start doing so more wisely."
A pause, and then, though he still glared and bristled, I could see the moment when he yielded, just as clearly as if he were a dog baring his throat, grudgingly accepting the dominion of the alpha. I shook him once, warningly, and then let go of him, wiping my hand on my pants.
"I have friends in the correctional system, Mr. Franklin, and will take steps to keep myself informed of your actions. You're aware of the consequences if you break our deal. If you adhere to it—well, as a reward for good behavior, I'll refrain from sharing with Ray Vecchio, when he returns, the details of your original scheme. His temper is rather more volatile than mine, I'm afraid, and he wouldn't take it well."
I waited a moment for any response, and getting none, said, "Good evening," and left him standing there, shutting the door behind me. The lieutenant was still in the same place, arms crossed, and a few feet down the hall the lawyer stood, fiddling with his necktie. I ignored him, standing to attention in front of Welsh, schooling my features to their usual blandness.
"Sir. Mr. Franklin has seen reason, and is withdrawing his previous terms and conditions. I believe you may now take his statement and send him to booking."
The lawyer made a little noise of distress, but Welsh ignored him, staring at me narrow-eyed for a long minute, as though trying to see behind my facade. Then he let out a sigh. "Do I want to know?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"Gotcha. OK." He turned and bellowed down the hallway, "Simmons! Get me a notebook and a pen!" Then, as I made to leave, he put a hand on my arm, and pulled me a few steps aside, lowering his voice. "Look. Constable. I don't think you need to tell Ray about all this, right? He's had a hard enough week."
I nodded. "I certainly don't think it's necessary, sir."
"Good. And — thanks. For whatever it is I don't want to know about." He was studying me again, an odd look on his face. "Sometimes you surprise me, Constable. Sometimes I think you're not the same guy who walked in here three years ago."
"We all change with time and circumstance, Lieutenant. But in essentials I believe I'm very much the same as I've ever been. Good evening." I nodded, turned, and made my way down the corridor, passing a young clerk who was bustling along with a legal tablet clutched in his hand.
Once outside, I paused, taking deep breaths of the chilly night air. I felt shaky, and for a moment I wondered, half-fearing, half-hoping, if my father would appear. Would he reproach or congratulate me?
But I was alone and the night was still, except for the wind swirling litter down the sidewalks, the sound of distant traffic. I buttoned my jacket, and then lifted my hands to held them in front of my face, watching their fine tremor.
Who the hell am I supposed to trust now? Ray's question whispered through my mind, around and around, over and over. Could I still trust myself? How far can a man cross over the line before he loses sight of it, goes wild, turns rogue?
I'd killed before, of course, and not just dogs; there have been men who crossed my path and didn't come back alive. I thought of the charred skeleton, never recovered, that still lay at the bottom of a cliff near my father's cabin, tangled in the wreckage of a snowmobile.
And to remember that was also to remember Ray Vecchio, appearing at the cabin door with a neckbrace and a sackful of weaponry, or sitting in a wheelchair, ducking his head with a grin and a wave. He'd risked his life more than once to save me, and my stained honor was the least I could give up in return. I focused on that, setting my jaw, and tried to ignore the small voice in the back of my mind, the one telling me that I hadn't done this only for Ray Vecchio.
After a moment I put on my hat, and set off down the street. The consulate lay to my right, but instead I turned left, back to Ray Kowalski's apartment, to stand watch over him through the darkness and wait for the light.