Undone
by Maya Tawipart two
"And it takes me back from this place here
From this place here, it takes me over
And it might be lost in this place here
From this place here, it takes me on"
--Moist, "Leave It Alone"TODAY"Asshole!" Harrison Davies yells after the businessman's departing back. The man's only response is an obscene gesture.
Harrison sits heavily on the apartment steps behind him, ignoring a young brunette woman's irritated look as she steps around him to the door. He jingles his paper cup and peers desolately into its depths. Six bucks and change.
This kindness of strangers thing is really overrated.
He leans his head back against the cool brick and closes his eyes. He's going to kill Joe. If he ever sees the guy again. This was supposed to be a simple goddamn deal; pick up the package for Paulie, in exchange for wiping out his debt, which is a pretty sizeable one, and well worth the chance to wipe it all out in one go. His own car was in the shop again, so Joe agreed to drive up to Chicago with him... and then promptly ditched him at the first sign of trouble, leaving Harrison without any money or transportation, running through dark alleys in what was probably not the best neighborhood and stepping in things he really doesn't want to think about.
Now he just wants to go home, grovel a little at Paulie's feet, and maybe give that whole "straight and narrow" thing another shot. The siren song of the Want Ads has never rung so loud in his head as it did last night.
Unfortunately, the way things are going, if he keeps begging for change he won't even get as far as the Illinois border.
Harrison doesn't necessarily believe in fate; after all, his own sister thwarts it on a regular basis. At this very moment, however, the man stepping out of the convenience store across the street looks pretty much like a godsend.
He watches with narrowed eyes as the guy-- tall, good-looking, with that wide-eyed, fish-out-of-water look characteristic of tourists everywhere-- stops and holds the door open for an old lady with a cane. The man leans in politely, cocking his head with an almost deferent air as he speaks.
Oh yeah. Definite mark.
Harrison slides slowly to his feet, watching the mark out of the corner of his eye as he wipes his hands on his jeans. He tucks the six-and-change into his pocket first; no sense in wasting good cash, and that represents a whole morning's work.
Then, as the mark waves a cheerful good-bye and starts off down the sidewalk, he tosses the empty paper cup over his shoulder and slips into the crowd.
His fingers are already tingling.
And then, halfway across the street, his cell phone rings.
Harrison twitches and forces himself to walk past the mark, stopping half a block past him. He leans against the wall, looks at the call display, and sighs.
"Not the best time, Tru," he sing-songs into the phone.
"Not the best idea, Harry," Tru shoots back.
"You gonna elaborate on that?"
"Don't pick the Mountie's pocket."
"Did I mention," Harrison says, "that I hate when you do that?"
"A few times. Listen--"
"He's a Mountie?"
The mark's head snaps up, his eyes wide and expectant, and Harrison's heart skips a beat. Shit. The guy's halfway down the block. There's no way he heard that. Right?
"Yes, Mountie," Tru says. "Boots, horse, hat, et cetera. Listen, that pickup that was supposed to happen last night, this guy Garvey's still out there. You pick the Mountie's pocket, he'll arrest you, and then you'll run into Garvey and he'll try to kill you."
"I died?" Harrison asks, amazed. He pauses. "Again?"
"No, thank God," Tru says, and Harrison feels a brief rush of affection. "But the Mountie did."
"Oh," Harrison says. "So not a good idea, then. Thanks, Tru."
"Whoa, hey," she says, before he can hang up, "not done here."
Harrison sighs. "Don't tell me, please don't tell me it's another two-corpse special."
"Unfortunately, yeah. And there's no way I can leave town today. We're gonna be in lab all day."
"Oh yeah?" Harrison teases. "Cooking up some--" he makes a loud kissy noise-- "with Jenny?"
"His name," Tru says firmly, "is Jensen. And I thought you liked him!"
"Oh, I do, I do," Harrison assures her. "I just think his name is stupid." He pauses. "Oh, hey, say hi to Avery for me."
He can almost hear her eyes rolling. "Whatever. Point is, I need you to take care of this for me."
"Sure," Harrison says, thinking of the six dollars in his pocket. "Not like I'm going anywhere. So who's the stiff?"
She hesitates.
"Tru?"
"That's the thing," she says. "I don't actually know her name. Or how she died."
Harrison gives a short, sardonic laugh. "Oh, okay, that'll work. I'll just make sure no one in Chicago dies today. Got any ideas how to do that?"
"Keep your pants on, Harry," she says, and then makes this weird strangled sound.
He frowns. "Tru?"
"Never mind," she says quickly. "Look, I'll do a sketch of the girl. Get to a fax machine, I'll send it to you. And...." She trails off, and Harrison lets her think, imagines her closing her eyes and trying to recall the details.
"She had a tattoo," Tru says after a moment. "Weird design, kind of, I don't know, Gothic. Like a landscape or something."
"You're not givin' me a lot to go on here, Tru."
"I'll try to draw the tattoo also. Just do what you can, Harry. I trust you."
"Really?" he asks, with a pleased grin.
"Don't sound so surprised. Unless there's something you're not telling me?"
"I don't know," Harrison says, "you tell me."
There's a weird silence, and he frowns again. "Tru? You there?"
"Yeah," she says, after a pause. "Listen, there's a cop at the twenty-seventh precinct, Ray Vecchio. He might help you."
Harrison rolls his eyes. "A cop? Yeah, right."
She ignores him. "He's the Mountie's partner, actually."
"The one I'm not supposed to pickpocket?"
"That's the one."
Harrison stares at the Mountie, who's frowning at the sky. The germ of an idea is developing in the back of his mind, and he's not sure he likes it.
"This guy," he says slowly. "You really think he'll help?"
"He helped us last time," Tru says.
"Fine," Harrison says, and straightens. "You work on those drawings. I'll call you later."
"Harry," Tru begins, and then she doesn't say anything else.
He sighs. "Spit it out, Tru."
"Go for it," she says abruptly.
"Okay," Harrison says, "well, I'm gonna need a little more information here."
She sighs. "With Vecchio. The cop. Go for it."
"That's the plan, Tru," Harrison says, and snaps the phone shut.
Then he takes a deep breath, smooths his shirt-- more out of habit than any desire to straighten it; by now the wrinkles are pretty much ingrained in the fabric-- and braces himself.
Down the block, the Mountie waits.
He would wait five more minutes, he decided, and then he would look for Ray.
That was three minutes ago. Now, Benton is starting to rethink the whole five-minutes plan. He isn't getting antsy exactly; there's just a sense of something wrong in the air, something not quite right....
No. Not something. Someone.
Somebody is watching him.
Benton gives no outward signs of this realization, but lets his eyes lose focus as he attunes his hearing, listening to the footsteps coming and going as people push past him on the sidewalk. There-- someone is moving directly towards him, a deliberately casual gait that sets his nerves on edge. If Ray's meet went wrong somehow, perhaps they realized he has a partner nearby. Perhaps they are coming to kidnap him as well. It wouldn't be the first time.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the figure approaching, a rumpled blur topped with a shock of bleached blond hair. It's the young man with the cell phone, the one who asked He's a Mountie? and then proceeded to have a most bizarre conversation, about corpses and his own death and keeping people in Chicago from dying. Now he's very deliberately not looking at Benton as he nears, and if nothing else, that in itself is suspicious. People don't make a point of not looking at things unless they didn't want other people to catch them looking.
Benton knows he looks relaxed and unwary, but in fact he is waiting, tense with anticipation.
The young man comes closer.
And then, like a bad-tempered sun emerging from behind the clouds, he sees Ray approaching, recognizes the hair and the sunglasses and the familiar loping gait, and feels a huge weight lift from his shoulders. The young man isn't a thug, Ray isn't in danger, and he was just being paranoid.
"Ray!" he calls, breaking into a broad grin.
That's when he feels the fingers dip into his pocket.
Ray Kowalski is starting to suspect it will be a long day.
There's a dealer in the morgue and talk of a gang war on the streets, his head is pounding with the remnants of last night's oblivion and the mother of all caffeine withdrawal headaches, and all Dobbs is saying is Garvey's looking for a scapegoat, which Ray could've figured out all by himself, thank you very much, and even a few rounds of the hard sell didn't get him to budge any. They've got a crime to solve, a city to pacify, and a broken coffee machine in the precinct break room, and Fraser musta hit his head harder than usual this morning, because he's standing there and fucking smiling at Ray, and as far as Ray's concerned there's nothing even remotely worth smiling about in this whole fucked-up mess.
And then, as he opens his mouth to say Fraser, what is wrong with your face, some punk kid pushes past Fraser, jostling him, and if Ray wasn't watching for it he never would've seen the hand sliding into Fraser's jeans pocket.
"Fraser," he calls, breaking into a run, but Fraser's already on it. He grabs the kid and shoves him up against the wall, and as he watches, Ray feels a distinctly odd sense of déjà vu.
"Terribly sorry," he hears Fraser say as he approaches, slowing again to a walk, "but I'm afraid you're wasting your time. I only carry Canadian money."
The kid twists his head around, facing away from Ray, so he can talk unimpeded by the brick. His voice is hopeful when he asks, "Don't suppose you'd be willing to let bygones be bygones, then?"
For once, Fraser isn't swayed. Ray approves; too often Fraser sends pickpockets on their way with a stern talking-to and a brightly colored bill for their trouble. Ray's explained about the relatively low street demand for Canadian dollars-- Pickpockets don't need no confetti paper, Fraser, what're they gonna do with confetti, throw a parade?-- but until now, it hasn't seemed to sink in. "I'm sorry," he's saying now, "but as a liaison with the Chicago Police Department, it is my duty to take you into the station for processing."
"You're a cop?" The kid sounds a little too pleased by this, calculating when he should be shitting his pants. There's something suspicious about it, and Ray frowns and quickens his pace.
"Mountie, actually," Fraser says. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago on--"
"Can it, Fraser," Ray says, grabbing the kid's wrists and snapping the cuffs on. He doesn't struggle, and Ray's hunch intensifies-- the kid's up to something. "We don't got time for the long version. You came, you saw, you stayed."
Fraser cocks his head to the side. "In a nutshell, yes. Ray, you're late."
"Yeah, well," Ray says, "Dobbs ain't too friendly nowadays." He pats the kid down and finds a penknife in his front pocket. "Concealed weapon. You're batting a thousand, kid."
"That's not a weapon," the kid says. "It's a multipurpose tool."
Ray rolls his eyes and smacks the kid on the head, ignoring his muttered "Ouch". "What's up with this, Fraser? You had a pickpocket on your grocery list?"
Fraser looks amused. "Oh no, Ray, this young man was an entirely unexpected bonus."
"Hey," the kid says, twisting around in Ray's grip. "I'm still here, ya know."
"For my sins," Ray mutters.
"I had no idea you were still a practicing Catholic, Ray," Fraser says.
"I am a man of mystery," Ray says.
"Truer words," Fraser murmurs, with an annoying little smile.
"Still still here," the kid says, and Ray snaps, "Whaddya want, a doughnut?"
The kid stops, considering this. "Actually, you got one on you? I'm freakin' starving."
"Okay," Ray says, grabbing his shoulder, "that's it, let's go," and the kid twists out of his grip again.
Ray frowns at him. "You're really starting to piss me off, kid."
"Yeah, well," the kid says, "in about five minutes, you're either gonna like me a lot more, or a lot less."
Ray thinks about this.
"You wanna unpack that one for me, Fraser?" he asks finally.
Fraser just looks confused. "I'm afraid I haven't a clue, Ray."
Ray leans over the kid, resting his hand against the wall over his shoulder. The kid just stares up at him, undaunted, and Ray can't help but admire his style.
"Talk," he says.
The kid tips his head to the side and smiles a little.
He asks, "You know a guy named Garvey?"
Ray stares at Fraser, and sees his own bemusement mirrored in Fraser's eyes.
This just doesn't happen. Cases don't just break themselves. Right?
This time he grabs the kid's elbow, and this time the kid doesn't pull away. Ray jerks his head at the car and says, "Two-seven. Now."
"Cool," the kid says, and Ray wonders if maybe he's brain-damaged.
The car is amazing.
"Wow," Harrison says, gaping at the shiny black GTO and not bothering to hide his drool. "Wow. Is that a-- it's a '67, right?"
The cop, Ray-- the Mountie introduced him as "my partner, Ray Vecchio," and Harrison felt a small thrill of victory when he recognized the name-- gives a snort that could be either annoyance or approval. "Rebuilt this baby from the ground up," he says, making Harrison suspect the latter. "Me an' my dad."
"It's beautiful," Harrison says. He wants to run his hands over the hood, but the handcuffs have other ideas.
"Glad you like," Vecchio says, and yanks the door open. "Wanna inspect the backseat?"
It is not, Harrison understands, a request.
He slides in, and finds himself nose-to-nose with a large white dog. "What the--" he begins, jerking away.
"Dief," Fraser says, opening the passenger side door. "Down."
"He's not listening," Harrison reports, trying not to panic. He squirms away on the seat, and the dog follows, long pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. "He's-- oh, gross-- I think he's trying to make out with me--"
"See, Fraser?" Vecchio slides into the driver's seat and slams his door. "Told you the dog's a perv."
"Wolf, Ray," Fraser says sternly, and Harrison squeaks, "Wolf?"
Tru didn't say anything about a wolf. He's going to have to have a little chat with her about the definition of necessary information when this is done.
Dief barks once in agreement, then returns his slavish attentions to Harrison's jaw.
"Terribly sorry," Fraser says, not sounding very sorry at all. Harrison scowls at the back of his head-- the Mountie sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "I'm afraid Diefenbaker is rather partial to blonds."
Harrison eyes his admirer dubiously. "I thought dogs were colorblind."
"Kid's got a point," Vecchio says, turning the key in the ignition. The GTO springs to life with a deep, throaty purr.
"He's a half-wolf, actually," Fraser says again.
"And what, wolves aren't colorblind?" Having successfully sampled every square inch of skin on Harrison's face, Diefenbaker settles down on the backseat with a huff, fixing him with an avid stare. Harrison wipes his face on his shoulders and glowers back. "Back off, you."
Fraser opens his mouth, then freezes. His expression in the rearview mirror is not unlike that of a deer in headlights.
In the driver's seat, Vecchio snickers. "Oh man, Frase, don't tell me he stumped you. You gonna take that lying down?"
"Nonsense, Ray, I was simply attempting to digest the question." Fraser sounds offended. "Of course wolves are colorblind as well, but there are gradations in the gray scale...."
Harrison tunes him out as he talks, staring at the back of Ray's head and thinking of Tru's enigmatic last words. Go for it-- he thought she was just referring to the plan, but now that he thinks about it again, that doesn't seem to sit quite right. She was trying to tell him something. He just can't figure out what.
He's dragged back to reality by the shrill chirping of a cell phone. Fraser breaks off in mid-sentence, and Ray fumbles with the phone one-handed until he manages to wedge it under his chin. "Vecchio," he snaps.
Harrison almost hates to admit it, but he admires the guy's style. With his jeans, sunglasses, and spiky blond hair, Vecchio looks more like a punk refugee than a cop, and yet he is a cop, every inch of him. He crackles with bad attitude and cynicism, and he was suspicious of Harrison from the start, which means at least he's a good judge of character too.
Ray looks, in fact, like someone who would like very much to punch Harrison in the face.
That shouldn't turn him on, Harrison knows. Not a cop. Not a guy. Not this guy.
He frowns. Is that... but no. That can't be what Tru meant.
Can it?
"No," Vecchio's saying. "No, we-- what? Are you sure? No-- no, Frannie, I am not questioning your professionalism. Know why? 'Cause you don't got any."
He snaps the phone shut and tosses it at Fraser's head. Fraser catches it deftly, and Ray spins the car into a U-turn.
"Hey!" Harrison yelps as he's thrown across the backseat, and receives a mouthful of white fur for his trouble. Diefenbaker seems to take it as an invitation, and starts slurping him again. "Shit! Get off me!"
"Shut up," Ray snaps, and cuts across three lanes of traffic, careening into an alley. "Looks like we might not need you after all, kid."
Harrison struggles upright and stares at him in the rearview. He's getting a bad feeling about this, nothing concrete, but a definite sense of foreboding. It's the same distant warning that made him run last night.
"Whaddya mean?" he asks, and at the same time Fraser asks, "What is it, Ray?"
"Garvey," Ray says. His words are clipped, terse. "Frannie says he's been spotted in the area. Dobbs said he's lookin' for a scapegoat." He hits the brakes, and the GTO skids to a stop, leaving what feels like several feet of rubber on the asphalt.
"Ah," Fraser says, and Harrison's bad feeling intensifies. "You think we won't be needing Mr.--"
He pauses, obviously expecting Harrison to fill in his name. Harrison says, "Harrison, and look, I really don't think this is a good idea."
Ray snorts. "Sure ya don't. You just lost your only bargaining chip. Suck it up."
"No, I mean it," Harrison insists, as Ray throws the door open and gets out. "Garvey's rattled, he's got a piece, he might shoot--"
Ray slams the door shut and yanks open the backseat door. "Yeah, well," he says, grabbing at Harrison's wrists, "that's why we make the big bucks." Harrison hears a click, and then his left wrist is twisted around with frightening efficiency, and the empty loop of the cuffs is snapped around the door handle.
"Break my car," Ray says, "I'll break your head."
Harrison tugs fruitlessly at his wrists. "Vecchio, I'm serious, listen to me-- Fraser!" he yells, hoping for a more sympathetic ear, because Vecchio isn't about to listen.
But Fraser's already gone; the passenger door is shut and locked, and Fraser's waiting halfway down the alley, watching them.
"Look, kid," Ray says, "this was kinda funny before. It's not now."
He slams the door shut.
Harrison closes his eyes in defeat and lets his head fall back against the seat.
Diefenbaker licks his face.
"Not now, Dief," he says wearily.
But Diefenbaker is insistent, and finally Harrison has to push him away with a low growl. Diefenbaker whuffs and curls up at the other end of the backseat with a thump, looking offended.
Harrison ignores him, inspecting the handcuffs. Police-issue, but he could pick them easily, even without his penknife; there has to be something in the car he could use. Ray shouldn't have left his right hand free.
The question is, should he? Last time around, Garvey shot Fraser. Harrison could go after them, try to stop them, but would he make things better or worse?
You'll run into Garvey, Tru said. He'll try to kill you.
You. Meaning him, not Fraser.
Harrison sighs and bangs his head once, gently, against the window.
"Looks like we're waiting," he says aloud.
Diefenbaker's only answer is a disgruntled snort.
Today, Ray decides, officially sucks.
It's a hangover day, a no-clean-socks day, a broken-coffee-machine day. It's the kind of day when he wonders if maybe a nuclear winter wouldn't be a nice change of pace.
These days are happening more and more lately, though he tries not to look too closely at why. It just builds up over time, little by little, like cigarettes, until you'd gone from half a pack to two a day, and trying to rationalize it to yourself, like it's okay, it's just the stress....
God, he wants a smoke. God damn Vecchio and his oh-so-pristine lungs.
Instead, Ray slips the toothpick out of his mouth-- ingrained childhood lessons of "if you trip with that in your mouth you'll choke" taking hold-- and slips his gun from his shoulder, pressing his back against the brick wall and squinting into the alley.
He doesn't hear anything. He thought maybe the kid knew something, but maybe the kid was just being paranoid.
The kid... Harrison. Just another item on Ray's long list of grievances. Skinny, blond, and brash, Fraser's pickpocket is just the type to be more trouble than he's worth, and Ray does not have time for that today. Not when Frannie's hot tip is turning out to be a bust.
Still, the kid does know. Something. And if they don't find Garvey, they can take Mr. Harrison-I-don't-think-this-is-a-good-idea down to the precinct and grill the snot out of him.
The thought is remarkably cheering, and he catches Fraser's eye and nods. Fraser primly places a thumb to the side of his nose, and Ray hides a grin.
Then he steps into the alley and yells, "Chicago PD!"
His only answer is a muffled groan.
Ray inches cautiously into the alley, gun at the ready. When he sees the crumpled figure on the ground, he doesn't relax yet; he does a thorough sweep, poking behind dumpsters and peering around corners, until finally he decrees, "Clear."
As Fraser comes up behind him, he looks at the beaten body at his feet, then pulls out his phone and calls for an ambulance. Whoever Garvey's victim is, if it was in fact Garvey who did this, he's not gonna be talking any time soon.
Ray sighs. "Looks like we're stuck with the kid."
"Perhaps," Fraser says, "we should find out exactly what he knows."
"Yeah, Fraser," Ray says. "Perhaps we should."
Benton leans against the door of the interrogation room and watches Ray work.
Ray in full-on interrogation mode is a sight to behold. He rages, he fumes, he paces; he treats the interrogation room like a stage on which to perform his one-man show. It is not entirely unlike a dance, and Ray is particularly adept at dancing, but perhaps a better metaphor would be a fencing match. Ray feints, parries, and goes in for the kill.
Young Mr. Harrison Davies doesn't stand a chance.
Although, to Benton's surprise, Mr. Davies is being remarkably forthcoming. He explained his part in the previous night's events-- painting his own activities in the best possible light, of course-- and provided an essential first-person narration of said events, and Benton can feel the pieces slotting into place in his brain like clockwork, tick-tick-ticking along toward a solution. It's not there yet, but the picture is coming into sharper focus. Something was wrong even before the deal went down, as Ray would say. This is far more involved than simple bad luck.
However, it is what Harrison said next that has thrown Ray, and consequently Benton, for a loop.
"I don't know who she is, okay?" he is saying now, looking frustrated. "All I know is, there's this girl, she's in danger, and I can give you clues to go on, if you'll just let me use your freakin' fax machine!"
Ray plants his fists on the table and leans across it, his nose inches from the young man's. "And who's she in danger from, Davies?"
"I told you," Mr. Davies says, "I don't know."
"Uh-huh," Ray says, looking none too pleased. "And Garvey's involved how?"
"I don't know!"
Ray ticks off the points on his fingers as he speaks. "So all you know is, one, there's a chick in danger, and B, she's got a tattoo."
"That's what I said." Mr. Davies sounds annoyed.
"Okay," Ray says, and stands. "Book 'im, Fraser."
Mr. Davies stifles a snort.
Ray closes his eyes briefly and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Don't fucking say it, Davies."
Benton looks back and forth between them, at a loss. He's missing the joke, but he's used to it by now.
"Look, you're cops, right?" Mr. Davies demands.
"Last I checked," says Ray.
"You protect people, that's what you do." Mr. Davies pauses. "Okay, you annoy people, that's what you do, but--"
Ray leans in again and lowers his voice to a dangerous level. Benton watches with interest. "You wanna talk about annoying people? Because I am plenty annoyed right now--"
"I am telling you, she's in danger and you can save her--"
"Siddown!" Ray shouts, as Mr. Davies half-rises from the chair.
He sits down again, looking sulky.
"I," Ray says, enunciating carefully for once, "am not having a good day. I got a stiff and maybe a riot on my hands, I got one guy in the hospital and the other whereabouts un-fucking-known, and if you don't give me one good reason to drop all that and chase after your girlfriend--"
"If she were my girlfriend, I'd know who she--"
"Shut up!" Ray yells, and he shuts up. "One good reason, Davies, or I will kick your head into the fucking wall."
Silence.
"Can I talk now?" Mr. Davies asks, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
Oh, dear, Benton thinks. Ray's forehead veins are protruding. This is never a good sign.
"You better hope you can talk," Ray growls. "Or your jaw's gonna be wired shut."
Benton sees Mr. Davies swallow, sees his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Perhaps it is time to speak up.
"Ray," he begins.
Ray jabs a warning finger at him. "Not now, Fraser."
Benton ignores him. "Detectives Huey and Dewey can follow up on our leads in the Garvey case, leaving us free to pursue--"
"Fraser," Ray says, "I am so not in the mood for this."
"If this young woman is truly in danger, we can ill afford to ignore--"
"There is no young woman!" Ray yells, rounding on him. "There is no girl, there is no chick, there's just some punk trying to worm his way out of a pickpocketing charge and that's not gonna happen, Fraser, not on my watch!"
"Damn it true," Mr. Davies mutters obscurely, though he emphasizes the last word as though it were a name-- Damn it, True. "Helpful my ass."
Benton has no hope of deciphering this, so he files it away for future reference and places a hand on Ray's shoulder. "Ray--"
Ray shakes him off. "Hell no, Fraser. He is gonna tell me the whole story, or he's gettin' his prints and his glamour shot and he's going downstairs into the tank." This last is directed at Mr. Davies, with an accompanying glare. "And I will personally kick his ass all around said tank for in-- imp-- impend-- wasting our fucking time."
Mr. Davies' mouth twists, and he leans back in his chair. "You want the whole story?"
"Yeah," Ray snarls, "that'd be nice."
"Fine," Mr. Davies says, "screw you," and he does, indeed, proceed to tell the whole story.
The most disturbing part, Benton reflects when he is done, is that it makes a certain amount of sense.
"You said he'd believe me," Harrison complains into the phone.
"No, I said he did last time." Tru sounds distracted. "I'm-- oh, thanks-- I'm not psychic, Harry, I can't predict how everyone's gonna react."
"Jesus, the Mountie believes me more than he does."
He's watching Vecchio and Fraser across the room, his eyes glued to them even as he speaks. Vecchio is still ranting. He's been at it a while.
"You didn't tell them about me, did you?" Harrison's guilty silence is all the answer she needs. "Damn it, Harry, we agreed--"
"Look, it was the only way, all right? I can't bullshit these guys, I tried." He shrugs. "Sometimes-- only rarely, mind you, but sometimes-- the truth works better than a lie. Especially if the truth is insane."
"Well," Tru says. "That depends. Did it work this time?"
Harrison eyes the duo and grabs a stale doughnut off someone's desk, cramming about half of it in his mouth at once; he's fucking starving, and this is the first thing he's eaten all day. The sugar high will be killer, he knows. "I'll let you know," he mumbles around a mouthful of fried dough.
"Oh, hey, watch out for Jack. I haven't seen him around, and that's unusual for a repeat day. He might be headed your way."
Harrison swallows with a heroic effort. "Or maybe," he says, "he's takin' a personal day at Vinnie's Dancing Girls and Manicure Parlor."
"I doubt it," Tru says, sounding amused. In the background, Harrison can hear the faint whirrs and beeps of the fax machine working.
"Hey, I can dream."
"You can check the fax and see if you got everything."
Harrison licks sugar from his fingers and grabs the papers as they emerge from the machine. "Looks like, yeah." He pauses on Tru's sketch of the tattoo. "Hey, nice."
"Which, the tattoo or the girl?"
"Both," he drawls. "Where was the ink?"
"Left bicep. Listen, Harry, I gotta go, I'm running late."
"Whoa, hey, not so fast," Harrison says. "I gotta ask you something."
"What?" she asks warily.
"What did you mean, go for it? Last time, you know."
"I," Tru says. She pauses. "Um. Uh."
"Tru?"
"I'm really late. Sorry--"
"Tru--"
"--call you later--"
"Tru!"
She hangs up.
Harrison closes his eyes and raps the phone lightly against his forehead. He eats the rest of the doughnut, then sighs and crosses the room, bracing himself for another round with Detective Vecchio.
The detective in question is still yelling at Fraser. "I don't believe this. I don't believe you-- you're buyin' this?"
"I'm simply saying that it doesn't seem outside the bounds of possibility, Ray." Fraser's voice is perfectly mild, though his eyes are darting back and forth.
"It doesn't--" Ray stares at him. "This don't seem outside the bounds of possibility to you, Fraser?"
"I believe that's what I said."
Ray points at him. "Then you got problems," he says, "and should maybe consider talking to a qualified professional. Fraser, this is crazy talk."
Fraser opens his mouth, and then he sees Harrison and stops.
"Oh, hey," Harrison says, "don't let me interrupt." He waves the fax at them. "I just got your clues here, that's all."
"Gimme that." Ray snatches it out of his hand without waiting for an answer, and Harrison makes a sarcastic face behind his back. "Yer sister did this?"
"Yeah," Harrison says, wary-- now that it's too late-- of talking about Tru in public.
"She's okay," Ray decides. "Not great, but decent enough to go on." He hands the papers to Fraser. "You recognize that?"
Fraser frowns at the tattoo sketch for a moment. "Abtei im Eichwald," he says.
"Gesundheit," Ray says.
"No, Ray," Fraser says patiently, "it's a painting. By Caspar David Friedrich."
"Casper, huh?" Ray peers over Fraser's left shoulder, and Harrison sidles up and peers over his right, looking at the sketch again. It's a ramshackle building, maybe a church, surrounded by gravestones and twisted trees. Tru's lines are hurried, uneven, and vague, but there's still something about the image, something haunting that grabs at his gut and twists.
"Frannie!" Ray yells, and Fraser and Harrison wince in unison at the sudden volume.
An attractive brunette woman materializes in front of them, looking irritated. "God, way to yell, Ray."
"Thank you," Ray snaps, and grabs the paper again, this time out of Fraser's hand, and thrusts it at her. "Get me a copy of this, this friendly ghost painting. Whatever."
But the woman, Frannie, isn't looking at him; she's staring at Harrison, and he gives her his most charming grin.
"Whoa," she says. "Who's the mini-me?"
Harrison blinks at her. "What?"
She grins, looking back and forth between him and Ray. "You guys are like bookends. Hi, Frase," she adds, her voice suddenly dropping into an uncomfortably seductive register. "You need something?"
Fraser looks uncomfortable. "Yes, Francesca, we--"
"No, Frannie, I need something," Ray interrupts. "Remember me? Your brother, actually works here?"
Harrison looks at Francesca with new interest. She doesn't look anything like Ray, but then, Tru doesn't look a lot like him either. Actually, she kind of looks a bit like Tru; they have the same coloring, at least.
And then he looks at Ray again and thinks, Oh, and suddenly gets it. Mini-me.
He edges away, trying to look inconspicuous. This is kind of embarrassing.
Francesca's rolling her eyes. "Fine, bro, what do you need?"
"Painting," Ray says, and pauses. "Um. Casper. Fraser?"
"I'll write it down for you," Fraser tells Francesca, and produces a pen.
She gives him a blinding smile. "Thanks, Frase."
"Shouldn't be too hard to track down," Ray decides. "This don't exactly look typical. Frannie, run a search for the tattoo, see if this chick's been booked before."
"So, wait," Harrison says. "You believe me now?"
Ray rolls his eyes, suddenly looking a lot more like Francesca. "No, I do not believe you, because you're a crazy person. Unfortunately, Fraser here does, because he is also a crazy person."
"That's not fair, Ray," Fraser says, bent over Ray's desk.
"Do I care? I do not care." Ray snatches the paper out from under Fraser's pen, and then a thought seems to occur to him. "Hey, Frannie, the coffee machine fixed yet?"
"No," she says flatly, and with one last smile at Fraser, she takes the papers and leaves.
"Swear to God," Ray says, watching her, "she's gonna give me an ulcer someday."
Just inside the door of the tattoo parlor, Ray stops and closes his eyes, breathing in the air. The smells of ink and rubbing alcohol assault his memory, sterilization and underneath it the faint tang of blood, and all of a sudden he's 17 again, with a fake ID in one hand and the label off a Champion box in the other.
Then something solid bumps into him from behind, and as he stumbles, Fraser catches his arms and says, "Terribly sorry, Ray, I didn't notice you'd stopped."
"Yeah, yeah," Ray says, stomping out of the way of the door. The spell is broken, and now he notices how different things look-- fewer naked ladies on the walls and more tribal designs, and a plastic case on the counter with bottles of hippie soap and fancy tattoo-healing goo for sale. He doesn't get it; regular soap and his mom's lotion worked fine for him.
The Davies kid is quiet as he studies the design displays, and Ray eyes him suspiciously. The kid is definitely up to something, but he just can't figure what. And that crazy sister-who-helps-dead-people story isn't helping things; it's just muddling up the facts in his mind, making him wonder if the kid isn't just an escaped mental patient or something.
He's seen the kid's sheet. Harrison Davies, 22-year-old gambler, failed bookie, attempted scam artist, generally shady character. Ray doesn't trust him as far as he can throw the Goat.
Ray makes a mental note to do a deeper check. Maybe he's hiding something.
"Help ya?" The girl behind the counter looks bored, with purple hair and full tattoo sleeves running up her arm. She's got a piercing above her mouth like a mole or something, and Ray keeps getting distracted by the flash of metal.
"Yeah," he says, dragging his eyes away from her mouth long enough to pull out his badge. "We're looking a woman with this design. Left bicep." He slaps Tru's sketch and Frannie's printout of the original painting on the counter.
The girl frowns as she studies it. "What'd she do?"
"None a yours," Ray says.
"She's missing," Fraser says smoothly, coming to stand next to Ray.
The look the girl gives him is unimpressed, and for a moment Ray wonders if he's fallen into a parallel dimension or something-- on what planet are women not impressed by Fraser? But her eyes slide past him to the other side of the room, and Ray realizes with some surprise that she's checking out Davies' ass.
Well. He sneaks a covert look of his own. Not bad.
"I'll get J.J.," the girl says, still not quite looking at Ray and Fraser. "He'd know." And she disappears into the back.
Feeling oddly smug at Fraser's rebuffal-- is that even a word?-- and just as oddly disappointed that he didn't seem to notice, like, at all, Ray gives him a significant look and heads over to Harrison.
Fact-finding mission, he tells himself. That's all.
The kid seems transfixed by one of the posters. Ray looks at it, but there's nothing special there-- a couple dragons, some Chinese, and when did Chinese tattoos become all the rage anyway? It's not like most people who get them can even read 'em. "See something you like?" he asks.
Harrison doesn't look at him. A faint smile curves his lips. "Maybe."
"You got any?" Ray asks, because this is a fact-finding mission, and he's finding facts.
"Nah," Harrison says. "Never really thought about it. You?"
Without a word, Ray pulls up the right sleeve of his Bulls T-shirt. Harrison studies it.
"Why Champion?" he asks.
Ray shrugs. "Depends on the day," he says, and tugs his sleeve back down, suddenly feeling awkward.
Harrison seems about to say something, but then the purple-haired girl comes back with a bald, heavyset man in tow. The man spreads his hands and asks, "What can I do ya for," and the girl immediately corrals Harrison and starts talking to him in a low voice.
Strangely disappointed, Ray turns to the man, leading him back to Fraser at the counter. "You J.J.?" he asks.
"Joseph Bernstein," the man says, holding out his hand. Ray shakes it. "But yeah, call me J.J."
"Yeah, well, we're lookin' for a girl with this tattoo on her arm," he says, pointing. "You know the work?"
J.J. looks at the painting and the sketch and shakes his head. "To shrink this down this much and still keep the detail, that'd be hard. I know a couple people could do that work."
"Names?" Ray asks, elbowing Fraser, who has been curiously silent so far. Maybe this is the one area where he's not an expert. Ray smiles a little at the thought of Fraser deferring to him. It doesn't happen a lot.
J.J. gives them the names, and Ray gives him a card, and they collect Harrison on their way out the door.
"She gave me her number," Harrison says, sounding pleased.
"Yeah?" Ray asks nastily. "You planning on commuting a lot?"
"Now Ray," Fraser says, "long-distance relationships are a perfectly viable--"
"Whoa, hey!" Harrison holds up his hands. "I said she gave me her number, not an engagement ring."
"That's it," Ray snaps, yanking open the backseat door. "Get in."
Harrison gives him a dirty look as he slides inside, and he slams the door with maybe a little more force than necessary.
"Ray," Fraser says, in a low voice. He looks concerned, and Ray mentally kicks himself.
"Nothing," he says, shaking himself. "It's nothing, 'm fine. Just need some caffeine."
"Ah," Fraser says, nodding, as Ray slides behind the steering wheel and leans over to unlock the passenger door. He climbs inside. "Perhaps we should stop at a coffee shop, then."
"That," Ray says sincerely, turning the key in the ignition, "is the best thing I've heard all day."
Harrison stares out the window as Ray drives, not bothering to listen to Ray and Fraser's back-and-forth in the front seat. He's quickly learning that these two snipe at each other pretty much for the sake of sniping, and also that half the time he doesn't know what the hell they're talking about anyway. Diefenbaker is curled up next to him on the seat, and while Harrison is wary, the wolf seems to have gotten all the slurping out of his system that morning.
Ray stops to get a coffee on the way, and Harrison hopes his mood will improve soon. There's something about Vecchio that he can't quite get a read on; the cop just rubs him in a weird way, almost friendly one minute in the tattoo shop, the next ordering Harrison around like a lapdog or something. He'd almost dismiss Vecchio as just another asshole cop, if it weren't for those friendly moments. Or his friendship with the Mountie, which seems to defy all rules of logic. Or the way he looks at Harrison when he thinks Harrison isn't looking, like maybe he's a far-away billboard and if Vecchio squints enough he can make out the words.
Depends on the day. Harrison wants to know the story behind that.
He fingers the slip of paper in his pocket and thinks about the design on the wall. He wonders if he could stand to wear long-sleeved shirts every day, just to cover it up. His dad probably wouldn't approve. Wouldn't be professional.
And then the car pulls up in front of the next tattoo parlor, and Harrison's day goes all to hell, because yeah-- that's Jack Harper, walking out the front door like he hasn't got a care in the world.
Harrison throws himself out of the car before it's even come to a full stop, ignoring Ray's yells, and barrels across the parking lot. He grabs Jack by the collar and slams him down across the hood of a nearby car.
"Harrison!" Jack sounds, absurdly, pleased. "Aren't you a little far from the old stomping grounds?"
"Go home, Jack," Harrison growls. "Leave this one alone."
"Sorry, Harry, can't do that." Jack pushes himself up, and slowly, inexorably, Harrison feels himself being propelled backwards, far enough for Jack to stand. "But hey, as long as we're here together, if you wanna go grab a slice, talk over old times--"
"You and me, we don't got any old times--"
Then Ray's pulling him off the guy, twisting his arms behind his back, and Harrison struggles furiously, straining for Jack like a pit bull at the end of a choke chain.
"Hey!" Ray barks in his ear, trying to get his attention. "Hey! Kid! Cool it!"
"Get off me," Harrison snarls, and elbows Ray in the gut. Ray's grip loosens, and he lunges forward again.
Fraser steps between him and Jack, looking infuriatingly unruffled. "Please, Mr. Davies, calm down. If you have a problem with this man--"
"He tried to kill me!" Harrison yells. "Yeah, I have a problem!"
"Okay," Jack says behind Fraser, holding up a finger, "for one, not true. And for another-- hey, sorry, but nothing personal."
Harrison growls wordlessly, trying to maneuver around Fraser. "I'll nothing personal your face--"
"Hey!" It's Ray, sounding winded, and he grabs Harrison again and this time slams him against a car, and Harrison can't help thinking that the whole situation is terribly unfair.
And also that he shouldn't get hard from feeling Ray's body pressed against his back.
He squirms, suddenly very uncomfortable, and Ray doesn't get the message because he just tightens his grip. Vaguely he can hear Jack asking, "What does that even mean," and Fraser begins, "I'm afraid I don't--"
"Okay?" Ray asks in his ear, as he reluctantly subsides. "You good?"
And suddenly Harrison gets it-- he gets Tru's cryptic message, he gets Vecchio's strange looks, he gets why he actually gives a damn whether Vecchio likes him.
He groans and closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool metal. He is so screwed.
Ray steps away slowly, his body still tense and alert, and Harrison discreetly adjusts himself before turning around, thanking God-- not for the first time-- that untucked shirttails cover a multitude of sins.
Well, just the one, really.
Ray's glowering at him. Fraser looks expectant. Jack just looks amused.
Harrison wonders how much he knows.
"Okay," Ray says, and runs a quick hand through his hair. "Care to explain?"
For just a moment, Harrison is terrified, thinking he means-- the other thing-- but no, he means Jack, and Christ, how the hell is Harrison gonna explain Jack?
"Long story," Jack offers. "We have a... complicated... history."
Harrison glares. "Complicated my ass," he spits. "He's here to make sure that girl gets killed. That's what he does."
Ray looks back and forth between them. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Jack is looking less amused. "Telling tales out of school, are we, Harry?"
Harrison smiles fake-sweetly and narrows his eyes, feeling his neck twitch. "Why, you got something to worry about, Jack?"
"Jesus, do I not have the patience for this," Ray says. "You, in the car. Let's talk."
"Sorry," Jack says, backing away. "I'd love to chat, but I've kind of got a full schedule--"
"Yeah, full of murder," Harrison retorts.
"I don't kill people."
Ray slams his fist down on the car, the same one he shoved Harrison against. This time the alarm goes off. He doesn't seem to notice. "What the hell is going on here?"
"Well," Fraser says, eyeing Jack, "from what I gather, Mr. Davies claims this young man is here to thwart our investigation. Given their conversation, I don't think this is the first time he's done this."
Ray pauses.
"You gather that, Fraser?" he says finally.
"Roughly, yes," Fraser says.
Jack just shakes his head. "I can't believe you went to the cops," he says. "That's low, Harrison, even for you."
The car alarm is still blaring, and it's grating on Harrison's nerves. "Can't you just arrest him?" he demands.
Ray looks like he likes that idea; his hand goes for the cuffs in his pocket. But Fraser says, "I'm afraid not."
"What? Of course you can! He's--" Harrison gestures vaguely. "He's, like, aiding and abetting! A murder!"
"That may be, but without any evidence--"
"Oh, great, Fraser," Ray says. "Why don't you just tell all the bad guys why we can't arrest 'em?"
Harrison is pleased that Ray is on his side. Then he's embarrassed for feeling pleased. Then he has to adjust his shirt again.
"Well, Ray," Fraser says, "it's hardly polite to dissemble."
"We're not goin' for polite, Fraser. If I was goin' for polite, I'da been a bellhop."
"Sorry, Detective," Jack says, with a smile. "It wouldn't have worked anyway. I know my rights."
Harrison stares in disbelief. "You're not-- are you serious? You're just gonna let him walk away?"
Ray doesn't say anything. His lips are thin, like he's holding back words with a great force of effort.
"Seems like," Jack says, with a little wave. He saunters past Harrison, and Ray rests a warning hand on Harrison's shoulder.
Jack leans in and quirks his eyebrows, staring pointedly at the hand. "Harry's got a cru-ush," he sings in a low voice.
Harrison just stares for a second.
Then he shrugs off Ray's hand and slugs Jack in the face.
Ray throws him against the car again, but it's worth it.
Ray handcuffs Harrison again and shoves him unceremoniously into the GTO's backseat, over Harrison's loud protests. Benton watches them with one eye, and keeps the other fixed on the retreating figure of the man Harrison called Jack.
Whoever Jack is, he doesn't walk; he saunters. He seems preternaturally relaxed, always in lazy motion, and faintly amused by his surroundings. He didn't even seem especially perturbed when Harrison had him by the throat.
He is, Benton thinks, a dangerous man.
Ray slams the car door shut and comes to stand next to him, and from the way he, too, watches the disappearing Jack, Benton can tell he feels the same way.
"This sucks, Fraser," Ray says, confirming Benton's guess.
Benton can't resist needling him a little. "I thought you didn't believe Mr. Davies' story?"
"Well," Ray says. "No. I don't. Of course I don't."
"Ah," Benton says. "So...." He trails off expectantly.
"So I don't trust that guy."
"I do believe I must concur," Benton says.
Jack is almost out of sight. As they watch, he turns around and gives them a little wave.
Ray makes a strangled sound in his throat. "Okay, that is it, he is so dead."
"Just one second," Benton says, because suddenly he has an idea. He hurries across the parking lot back to the GTO and opens the door.
Harrison glares up at him. "You gonna uncuff me now?" He rattles his wrists behind his back for emphasis.
"Not yet," Benton says, distracted. He leans in over Harrison, ignoring the young man's surprised squawk, and grabs Diefenbaker's muzzle, turning his head bodily to face him. "Dief. Follow that man." And he points at Jack.
Diefenbaker barks. Benton backs out of the car to let him by, and he vaults over Harrison, paws briefly scrabbling in his lap, before he hits the asphalt and trots away.
Harrison, who turned interesting colors and made emphatic sounds when Diefenbaker landed in his lap, slumps down to an alarming degree and gives Benton a disgruntled look from under his eyelashes.
"Last time I checked," he says, "there was a door on the other side too."
Benton inclines his head. "I do apologize. Time was of the essence, and I was worried--"
"Yeah, yeah," Harrison says, losing interest.
Ray comes up behind Benton and rests his arms on the hood of the car, bending down to lean his head into the backseat. His smile is thin and not at all friendly. "Hi, Harrison."
"Hi," Harrison says after a moment. He shakes his head, looking confused.
"So what the hell was that, huh?"
Harrison leans forward and wiggles his hands. "You mind doin' something about this?"
"Hey, if you were lookin' for the day spa, you shoulda said." Ray shoves at the back of Harrison's head, and he topples over with a muffled yelp.
Benton winces. "That was hardly called for, Ray."
Ray tilts his head to the side, considering. "Yeah, but it was funny."
Harrison manages to right himself, and he scowls at them, visibly seething. His face is pink, and his narrowed blue eyes glitter. "Yeah, you're fucking hilarious, but if Jack Harper's in town it means we got even less time than we thought. And however he did it, he's one step ahead of us. Now you wanna keep hanging out here with me, shootin' the breeze, or you wanna go in there and find out what Jack just learned?"
"Gosh, Fraser," Ray says, glaring. "Aren't you glad we got some snot-nosed punk here to tell us how to do our jobs?"
"Someone oughta," Harrison retorts. He rattles the cuffs again. "What the hell is this? Why am I handcuffed again? You tell me."
"You did attack somebody with little provocation," Benton points out. "That is, unfortunately, a crime."
"Oh, there was provocation," Harrison says. "Believe me. You're arresting me for that?"
"No," Ray says, and straightens. "We're stashing you in the car for a few so you can cool off so we don't have to arrest you for that. Word of advice, kid: if you're gonna try to kill someone, don't do it in front of a pair a cops."
"I wasn't trying to kill him," Harrison says sullenly. "Just bruise him."
Benton glances over his shoulder. Seeing no one, he lowers his voice. "Who is Jack Harper, Mr. Davies?"
Harrison shrugs awkwardly. "You mean, where'd he come from, what his childhood's like, I dunno. But he's the guy who tries to stop Tru when she tries to save people." He snorts. "Says she's thwarting fate, or something. Says, like, God or whoever don't like it."
"Great," Ray says, closing his eyes. "God's involved."
"He would be rather difficult to bring in for interrogation," Benton agrees. "Although I do recall a young man in Tuktayuktuk who--"
Ray cuts him off with an unpleasant look and says, "If this story involves a moose carcass in any way, I don't wanna hear it."
"Well, no," Benton says after a moment. "Not as such. There was a large elk--"
"That counts. Stop talking."
"--but it wasn't the entire carcass, just the skin--"
"Fraser," Ray says, "stop talking before I have to shoot myself."
Benton considers this and decides that, on the whole, he prefers Ray unshot.
"Understood," he says.
Ray jerks his head in the direction of the tattoo parlor door, then shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks off without a word.
"Hey!" Harrison protests, watching him go.
"We won't be but a few minutes," Benton assures him, and closes the door.
He can feel Harrison's glare all the way across the parking lot.
"I've seen this before," says the tattoo artist, whose name is Beck. She has close-shorn blond hair and a hawkish look about her face, and Ray's pretty sure she could break him in two.
"Yeah," he says, tapping the painting, "like five minutes ago." At Beck's confused frown, he elaborates, "Guy just walked outta here? Dark hair, kind of...." He pauses. "Weird?"
"Him?" Beck looks at the painting again. "I thought you said it was a woman."
Ray stares at her, and feels himself start to go cross-eyed.
"What my partner means is," Fraser interjects, before Ray's frustration boils over and he has to break something, "this young man was looking for the same woman." He hesitates. "Wasn't he?"
"Nah," Beck says, shaking her head. "He was looking for a Mountie." She pauses, studying Fraser. "Come to think of it, he was looking for you."
Ray stares at Fraser, who's staring back at him.
Then he turns and runs out the door.
Behind him, he can hear Fraser continuing the interrogation, because that's what partners do.
The first thing Harrison does once the door slams shut is to try to wiggle the lower half of his body backwards through his arms, to get his wrists in front of him. He's done it before, but he had much more room to maneuver then. As he has learned the hard (but usually fun) way, backseats are not very conducive to wriggling.
He gives up finally and sprawls across the seat, panting, and that's when Ray reaches in and grasps him by the collar, hauling him head-first out of the car. He knows it's Ray because he can see Ray's face hovering over him, upside down and not looking very happy.
Not like that's new. He doesn't think he's seen Ray happy all day.
"Hey," he protests, feet scrabbling at the asphalt for balance because he can't use his arms. "Watch it!"
Ray ignores him and shoves him against the next car in the parking lot. Harrison supposes Ray doesn't want to ruin the GTO's paint job, which is understandable; he doesn't want to ruin anybody's paint job either. Especially not with any part of his body.
"You realize," he says, "this is getting kind of old."
Ray sticks his face in Harrison's personal space and demands, "Why's Harper looking for Fraser?"
Harrison gulps.
Ray shakes him; his head bangs against the car, and he sees stars. "Why?" Ray repeats.
"Well," Harrison says, and swallows again. "Um. Here's the thing."
He pauses, and Ray shakes him again. "What thing?"
No way around it.
"Thing is," Harrison admits, "um, that girl? She's not the only one who was supposed to die today."
Ray hauls him up again, then slams him back against the car. Harrison is momentarily relieved that this car doesn't seem to have an alarm.
Then Ray pins Harrison against the car with the full length of his body, and suddenly Harrison has absolutely nothing to be relieved about. He'd even welcome an alarm, because it would distract Ray from noticing that his earlier erection, which never fully subsided, is returning with a vengeance. Ray's yelling at him, but Harrison can't understand the words; he's too busy panicking. This is bad, this is very bad, this is so very bad--
Ray breaks off in mid-yell. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, and Harrison really, really wants to die.
Which is good, 'cause maybe Ray's about to help him with that.
But Ray doesn't hit him or anything, and he doesn't say anything about it. He just gives Harrison a long, measured look, and then releases him and deliberately steps back.
Harrison clears his throat.
"Well," he says, and stops, because he can't think of anywhere to go with that. Blood is careening crazily through his body, pooling in his groin and turning his face what he imagines is a particularly interesting shade of red.
"Right," Ray says after a moment, and he shakes his head as if to clear it. His mouth works briefly, no sound coming out, and Harrison finds himself staring, fascinated by those thin, perfectly shaped pink lips....
He stifles a groan and slides down the side of the car to the asphalt, burying his face in his knees.
"Right," Ray says again, "well," and Harrison has never been so grateful as he is now to hear Fraser's approaching footsteps. He raises his head, hoping for a distraction.
"Ray," Fraser says, looking back and forth between the two of them with a mask of polite confusion. "I have a name."
Ray's head snaps up. "The girl?"
"No, the man who did her tattoo. Orson Whelk."
Ray blinks. "Of course."
Fraser coughs delicately. "Is everything... all right?"
"No," Ray says, and suddenly, just like that, he's pissed again. "'Cause Boy Wonder here didn't tell us the whole story."
Harrison struggles to his feet and wets his lips, willing his hard-on into submission. "It's just," he says, "you know, people don't react too great when you tell 'em they died the first time around. Certain cops, for example, could take it as a threat."
The look Fraser gives him is one he hasn't seen on the Mountie's face all day, cold and hard and searching. It's almost scarier than Vecchio's not infrequent rages. In a low voice, he asks, "And Ray... died?"
His voice almost cracks on the last word, and Harrison winces.
"No," he says quickly, "no, uh, you did."
Fraser blinks, and immediately the coldness is gone, replaced by bemusement. "Ah."
"'Ah'?" Ray echoes in disbelief. "The kid tells you you're gettin' your ticket punched and all you say is 'Ah'? Does that seem right to you, Fraser?"
Fraser leans back on his heels, regarding Ray with something like exasperated fondness. "Is there a standard police protocol for such a situation, Ray?"
"No, but there's a not being a giant freak protocol for maybe saying something besides 'Ah'--"
"No, but wait," Harrison butts in, shaking his head. "It was supposed to happen already, I mean, that's why I didn't mention it, 'cause I thought you were safe, because Garvey--"
He stops, feeling the blood drain from his face.
Garvey shot Fraser in the alley; Harrison confirmed it when he talked to Tru the second time, and relaxed, because the event had come and gone.
But now he's not so sure that's how it works.
"What, already?" Ray demands, when he doesn't continue. His eyes are scanning the parking lot, looking for potential threats.
"I thought you were safe," Harrison says slowly, working it out in his head as he speaks, "'cause Garvey was supposed to shoot you in the alley, and this time we got there too late." He doesn't mention his own part in Fraser's death; Ray's already pissed enough. "But Jack's thing, he's not really concerned about time of death, he just wants to make sure people die the same way. And...." He swallows. "Garvey's still out there. So he can still shoot you."
Dead silence greets this statement. Fraser looks grave. Ray focuses on Harrison again, his eyes blank.
"You're serious," he says finally.
Harrison rolls his eyes. He can't help it. "I've been serious all freakin' day. Where've you been?"
"On Planet Not-a-crazy-person," Ray snaps, but it lacks his usual heat. "You're serious?" he asks again.
Harrison just nods.
Fraser clears his throat. "Ray--"
"Shut up, I'm thinking." Ray closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do. Fraser, you try and track down the tattoo chick, and Fraser-- do not be stupid about this, okay?"
"Stupid?" Fraser asks, looking offended.
Ray glares at him. "Yes, stupid. As in, no charging in without backup-- hell, no charging in period. You find her, you talk to her, you work the Mountie charm, and you stay the fuck out of harm's way." He tosses his cell phone at Fraser, and Fraser catches it one-handed. "Keep that on, and call Harrison's phone as soon as you find something, you get me?"
"And if you see Jack," Harrison adds. "Or Garvey."
"Hell with that," Ray says. "You see Garvey, you run the other way. Then you call. I mean it, Fraser."
Fraser gives a surprisingly subdued nod. "All right. What are you going to do?"
Ray rests a heavy hand on Harrison's shoulder. Harrison wrestles with the twin desires to lean into the touch and shrug away from it.
"I," Ray says, "am gonna track down Garvey and kick his head into his nutsack." He pauses. "Or maybe the other way around."
Harrison snorts.
"Detectives Huey and Dewey--" Fraser begins, and Harrison stares at him, because really. Huey and Dewey?
"Are incompetent, Fraser, you know that." Ray glares down at Harrison. "You. Any other little details you maybe forgot to mention?"
"No," Harrison lies.
It's a good plan, really. Garvey won't shoot Fraser unless Harrison is there, unless Jack gets his claws into the guy, but it's not a bad risk, especially if the wolf is still on Jack's tail.
Harrison just can't figure out where he fits in.
"You okay to walk?" Ray asks. He's looking around again, still on edge.
"Of course, Ray," Fraser says. "When you've hiked across the tundra, a few city blocks--"
"Yeah, okay," Ray says, and waves an impatient hand at Harrison. "Turn around."
Harrison stares at him, his heart suddenly pounding. Ray rolls his eyes and says, "The cuffs, dimwit," and Harrison flushes scarlet and is suddenly very glad to turn his back on Ray.
This is just getting ridiculous.
Harrison gives Fraser his cell phone number as he massages the feeling back into his wrists, and Fraser nods and turns away with a jaunty wave that looks more like a salute. Ray leans against the GTO, watching him go.
"Let's go," he says abruptly, once Fraser is out of sight.
Harrison cocks his head and continues to rub his sore wrists. "You're taking me with you?"
"Damn straight," Ray says. "I ain't lettin' you outta my sight, Davies."
It's supposed to be a threat, he thinks. But for Harrison, it's the best news he's heard all day.
Jack Harper sits and waits, sipping his coffee, peering through the windshield, and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his rented late-model dark Nissan.
He's good at multitasking.
The timing on this one is really improbable, but he's not about to complain; lucky breaks are hard to come by. It's just a happy coincidence that he got to the Ink Shack just minutes after Harrison and his friends left, on the trail of Corpse #1, and learned that one of the other people on said trail was none other than Corpse #2.
Or maybe it's more than coincidence; maybe it's the big guy lending a hand. Jack thinks it's about time he got some help with this gig.
The good folks at the Ink Shack were excessively helpful, which was another lucky break. Joseph "Call Me J.J." Bernstein described the Mountie perfectly, and Liza "Help, My Hair Is Purple" No-last-name waxed equally as rhapsodic on the subject of Harrison Davies. They both agreed that the third member of the little traveling circus had been exceedingly bad-tempered.
Jack's getting bored waiting, so he entertains himself with thoughts of Harrison and the bad-tempered cop. They're not unpleasant thoughts. Harrison is cute, he decides, though not exactly Jack's type, and he gets cuter when he's pissed-- loses that dopey expression, turns harder and more focused. It's a look Jack sees a lot of these days.
He really does like Harrison. His sister, too. Sucks that it has to be like this.
But he's not going to let that distract him. Jack may hate his job, but he's very good at it.
Weird, though, how he knows about them. He didn't see anything during the rewind, which he considers a small mercy-- Harrison's cute, but he's not that cute-- but he just knows, and the knowledge is amorphous and tinged with bitterness.
He considers the two corpses and the brief glimpses he had of their days, turning them over in his mind. Usually he hates two-body days; it's hard to tell whose memories belong to whom. But this time, they were more distinct than most. The Mountie's were duller, more faded, a whisper instead of a shout. Almost like he was ambivalent about the whole "help me" thing. Jack decided to focus on the girl first, thinking at the time that she was the most immediate concern.
Maybe he didn't have to choose between the two after all.
The shiny black GTO pulls out of the parking lot. Jack shakes his head in disapproval-- not exactly inconspicuous, that-- and places his coffee carefully in the holder and starts the car, merging smoothly into the lanes of traffic.
He realizes a moment later that there are now only two figures in the car. He wonders if they finally got fed up with Harrison and left him; but no, both heads in the car are blond.
So where's the Mountie?
It's academic at this point, of course. No way he'll find the Mountie again, barring another stroke of luck-slash-divine intervention. All he can do now is follow Harrison and the cop, and hope they meet up with the Mountie later. And find a way to work the angles with the limited information provided to him.
Plans change, and Jack Harper is very flexible.
Harrison would understand that much, at least, he thinks. Maybe that's why Jack likes him so much.
"Something's queer," Ray says, glancing at the rearview mirror.
Beside him, Harrison starts and gives him an uneasy look, and Ray resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ever since that... thing... in the parking lot, the kid's been jumpy, like he expects to get punched or something. Not like Ray doesn't understand about adrenaline. Hell, he blamed adrenaline for his thing for Fraser at first, figured it was the danger, the whole fight-or-flight thing; took him a long time to realize he wasn't even fooling himself.
Ray's not what one would call in touch with his feelings.
But they don't have time for that now, so he grits his teeth and elaborates, "Weird, I mean. Off."
Harrison twists around in his seat. "Think someone's following us?"
"If they are," Ray says, peering into the mirror again, "they're very good."
Harrison glances at him; his eyes are shining with excitement. "What are you gonna do?"
"This," Ray says, and spins the wheel sharply to the left.
"Aw hell," Jack says, and makes a sharp U-turn.
His coffee spills all over the floor. Well, there goes his deposit.
Diefenbaker huffs an irritated sigh and darts across the street.
He doesn't hear the squealing of brakes or the angry honking of horns, and he wouldn't care if he could. He was told to follow, so he follows.
"It's Jack," Harrison says. "It's gotta be."
This time Ray doesn't bother resisting; he rolls his eyes. "I do have other cases. Could be anyone."
"It's Jack," Harrison repeats stubbornly.
"Fine," Ray says, and spins the wheel again. "Let 'im follow us. At least it'll keep him away from Fraser."
"Where are we going anyway?" Harrison asks, still scanning the cars behind them. Like he's gonna spot the guy if Ray can't.
"To see the witness," Ray says, "to Garvey's last known whereabouts."
"Who," Harrison begins, and Ray pulls into the hospital parking lot.
"C'mon," he says, parking illegally next to the yellow curb and throwing the door open. "Time to do some good old-fashioned detecting."
Garvey's victim is lying in a hospital bed, tubes coming out of every hole in his face, or at least it looks that way to Harrison when he and Ray walk in. His face is swollen and brightly-colored and his arm is in a cast, but he still levers himself up on his good elbow and squints at them.
"Wow," he says. "I'm seein' double. In miniature."
Harrison makes a face. Ray ignores him, flashing his badge. "Detective Vecchio. We got a few questions for you."
"Cops already came," the guy says.
"Just following up."
The guy looks at Harrison again, narrowing his eyes. "Hey, I know you. You were there last night."
"You too?" Harrison asks in surprise. Ray gives him a Look, and he adds, "Hey, it was dark, okay? I didn't recognize the guy."
"You're a snitch," the guy exclaims, struggling into a sitting position.
"Am not," Harrison says, offended. "I was arrested. Right?"
"I can cuff 'im again if you want," Ray agrees.
Harrison turns to him. "Please don't."
The guy in the bed is unimpressed. "So you're cutting a deal. Well, I ain't saying nothing."
"Fine," Ray says. "You're under arrest."
"What? What for?"
Ray leans over him, planting one hand on the bed and the other against the wall; the guy shrinks back. "Well, for one," he says, baring his teeth, "you just admitted to being part of a drug deal. 'Sgood enough for me."
Harrison strolls across the room and flops down in one of the hard plastic chairs to watch. This should be good.
The guy swallows. "Okay, maybe we can deal too."
"Who says I want a deal?" Ray counters, thrusting his chin forward. "I didn't say nothing 'bout a deal."
"You're here, aren't you?"
"I'll tell you what I want," Ray says. "I want Garvey off the streets before he can do any more damage. Anything else is just a bonus. So you help me, maybe I don't dump you on the curb soon as you can walk and put the word out that you're the snitch."
"Big talk," the guy says, but he looks unnerved.
"Talking ain't the only thing I do big," Ray says, with a dangerous grin, and Harrison adjusts himself in his seat.
The guy narrows his eyes again. "You tell me what you wanna know, maybe I can help you."
"And maybe I accidentally hit the 'off' switch on this nice morphine drip here."
"Maybe I don't feel so much like talking after all."
"Maybe you want some bruises on yer bruises."
"You can't do that."
Ray bares his teeth again. "Try me."
The guy reaches for his call button, and Ray slaps his hand away. Harrison squirms and adjusts himself again.
The guy slumps back down. "Okay, okay. Whaddya want?"
"I wanna know everything that happened last night," Ray says. "Blow by blow."
Okay, now he's doing it on purpose. Harrison glares.
The guy seems to shrink down into the bedclothes, but he talks readily enough. "Okay, so, Lou gets word there's this deal going down, he figures maybe he can get in on it. So he, you know, takes the dealer outta the equation--"
"Pops him, you mean."
"I mean what I said," the guy says. "Which I had nothing to do with, by the way."
"I'll be the judge a that," Ray says. "Keep going."
The guy glowers at him. "That's it. He gets the stash, we make the meet, and this guy--" he transfers his glower to Harrison-- "cuts and runs."
Harrison stares back. "The hell did you do that for? I didn't have the cash, Paulie already wired it."
"You're fucking kidding me," the guy says.
"Scout's honor."
The guy lets his head fall back against the pillow and closes his eyes. "Shit," he says. "Lou's a fucking genius."
"Yeah, so Garvey's an idiot, we knew that already," Ray says. "Where is he now?"
"You think I know? I'm not exactly in the loop, case you hadn't noticed."
"Why'd he go after you?"
The guy shrugs, with difficulty. "I dunno, thought I tipped off your friend or something. He's real pissed about it."
"No kidding," Harrison mutters.
"Great," Ray says, and slaps the wall and straightens. "Whereabouts?"
"I told you--"
"Don't bullshit me, Palma, I know you know where he holes up." He leans over again. "Or we can revisit the terms of our deal."
Palma scowls. "What deal?"
"The deal where I don't kick your crippled ass all over this room. Ringing any bells?"
"Oh yeah," Palma says. "That deal. You got a real way with people, Vecchio."
"It's one a my strengths," Ray says. He starts stripping off his jacket, and Harrison blinks, feeling his temperature start to rise. "What's it gonna be, Palma?"
Palma raises his hands in surrender. "Okay! He's stayin' with his sister."
Ray shrugs his jacket back on, glaring. "Name. Address. Freakin' serial number, I don't care, tell me where to find this chick."
"Ali," Palma says sullenly. "Alicia Garvey. She lives in Humboldt Park. I don't know the address, I swear."
Ray reaches for his cell phone, patting his pockets for a few seconds before he shakes his head quickly and turns to Harrison. "Gimme your phone."
Harrison does. "Watch the minutes," he warns.
"Bite me, kid." Ray flips the phone open, and then it rings and he stares at it for a second like he can't figure out what the sound means.
Harrison reaches for the phone, and Ray twists away, holding it over his head.
"Dude," Harrison protests, reaching for it. Ray's got almost half a foot on him. "Not cool."
"Sit down and shut up," Ray says, pushing him away.
"Who is it?"
"Me," Ray says, and punches the button to answer.
Harrison's confused for a second, and then Ray barks, "Fraser, tell me you got good news."
As he listens, his expression changes-- first stunned, then confused, then an odd combination of disbelief and resignation.
"Stay there," he says finally. "We'll pick you up."
"What?" Harrison demands, when Ray hangs up; he's still bristling. "What is it?"
"Fraser got the tattoo girl's name," Ray says, and shakes his head. Something like a smile or a grimace is twisting the corners of his mouth. "You ready for this?"
"Oh, don't tell me."
Ray throws the phone back to him. "Ali Garvey. Pitter-patter, Harry, time's a wastin'."
Jack follows the GTO from the hospital to another tattoo parlor, where the cop relegates Harrison once more to the backseat and the elusive Mountie takes his place, and Jack realizes, a little too late to be helpful, that the Mountie must have crossed town on foot, and that was why he lost him. Jack just wasn't looking for pedestrians. Which was silly, because he's noticed that Tru tends to walk or run pretty much everywhere, but Boston is different; there, you really can get anywhere on foot.
Well, he's never tried walking to the airport. But anywhere else.
From the tattoo parlor, the GTO heads northwest across town, and Jack feels his pulse speed up as he follows. They're on to something, he can tell. It's almost showtime.
A white blur in the rearview mirror catches his attention, and he frowns. It's not the first time he's seen it and not the first time it's made him suspicious, but he still hasn't quite figured out what it is.
Then he stops looking for the source of the blur, because the GTO is slowing down, pulling over in front of a large, run-down apartment building, and Jack recognizes it; this was the last place Corpse #1 saw before she died-- he checks his watch-- two hours from now.
He wouldn't have had a chance of finding the building on his own. Seems the cop came in handy after all.
He passes the building, pulling over two blocks further down the street, and sits and watches the rearview mirror, and before long he sees a large white dog trotting down the sidewalk behind him.
Interesting.
Jack has half a danish left over from breakfast, wrapped in a napkin and tucked in the glove compartment. He reaches over and unwraps it, then gets out of the car and leans against the hood.
The dog sits down about ten feet away, watching him with interest.
"You want this?" Jack asks, holding out the danish at arm's length.
The dog cocks its head and barks.
"Go fetch," Jack says, and throws it as hard as he can across the street.
The dog takes off like a shot. Two seconds later, Jack's back in the car, turning the key in the ignition and burning rubber down the street.
He's got time to kill. Among other things.
Ray hits the buzzer again. No answer.
"What now?" Harrison asks, sounding disappointed.
"Police procedure," Fraser begins, "dictates that we first obtain a warrant, then--"
Ray tunes him out, patting his pockets. He finds his lockpicks and squats down in front of the door.
Behind him, he hears Harrison ask, "And that whole breaking-in thing, where does that fit in?"
"Ah," Fraser says. "Well, Ray tends to follow a different procedure."
"Yeah," Ray says, hearing the lock click, "and my way's more fun. Come on, Fraser, I gotta take a piss." He stands and pushes the vestibule door open.
A. Garvey lives on the sixth floor, according to the mailboxes. Ray looks around without much hope for an elevator.
Fraser pats him on the shoulder. "A brisk climb will do us all some good."
"I hate that word," Ray says.
"Which one?"
"Brisk. Climb. Good. Take yer pick."
Harrison shoves his hands in his pockets and jerks his head in the vague direction of the sidewalk. "I'll just wait here for you guys--"
"The man said 'brisk'," Ray says, and pushes him toward the stairs. "So brisk away."
He doesn't miss Harrison's uneasy look, or the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat.
By the time they get to Garvey's door, Ray's breathing hard and trying not to show it. She's got a deadbolt as well as the usual door lock, and it takes him a little longer to pop than the vestibule door, but not by much. Harrison hangs back in the hall as he works, and says, "Hey, nice. You wanna give me some pointers later?"
"Sure," Ray says, pressing his ear against the door. "Like maybe never, Mr. Six-counts-of-B&E." He raps sharply, and hears nothing.
Fraser clears his throat. "Should I--"
"Don't bother," Ray says, and stands, wincing as his knees crack. "It's clear." Fraser has better hearing than he does, one of those bizarre Mountie superpowers, or maybe just because Fraser never destroyed his eardrums with one too many punk shows in college, but Ray knows empty apartments and this one hasn't got a soul in it.
Garvey's apartment is a mess, strewn with clothes and papers and CDs and chick stuff like makeup and nail polish, including things Ray can't even identify. Like that little metal clampy thing on the coffee table-- it looks like something Stella had, that she'd stand in front of the mirror with and do something to her eyelashes that Ray could never stand to watch because it looked too much like some kind of torture, but for the life of him he can't figure out how the thing's supposed to work.
"Fraser?" he asks, squeezing the clampy thing open and shut-- chicka chicka.
Fraser glances at him. "Ah," he says, sounding approving. "A tea infuser."
Ray blinks and sets the thing back down on the coffee table. Good thing his eyelashes didn't need curling.
Harrison's hovering in the doorway, sending anxious glances over his shoulder into the hall. Ray points at him and says, "Stay there," because it's as good a place as any for him to keep out of trouble, and it's not a bad idea to have a lookout, even though he trusts Fraser and his freakish Mountie hearing to alert him to approaching footsteps.
He stands in the middle of the room and looks around, taking stock. It's a one bedroom, typically small, and the door to the bedroom is plastered with signs in a bunch of different languages; the English one says KEEP OUT and he figures the others say the same thing. Ray recognizes the Polish on one of them but doesn't know enough of the language to, as Fraser would say, confirm his hypotenuse. Hypothesis. Whichever.
Ray's a perverse bastard, so he takes the KEEP OUT room and leaves Fraser to the rest.
The walls of Alicia Garvey's room are plastered with posters-- some for bands he recognizes, some he doesn't, some he doesn't want to-- and photographs. Ray looks, but he doesn't see any pictures of Lou Garvey.
A quick search turns up more CDs and more girly stuff, as well as a couple silicone implements Ray drops like a hot potato. She's got textbooks thrown across the room, and he picks one up and flips through it. Economics. Boring.
He also finds, in the bottom dresser drawer, a glass bowl-- not the cereal kind, the pot kind-- and a cigarette tin filled with marijuana.
"Yo," he says, poking his head out the door and holding up his finds for inspection. "Too bad we don't got a warrant, huh?"
"Ray," Fraser says, standing by the couch. "Look at this."
He points down, and Ray grins. Blankets and a pillow. Someone's been sleeping there.
"Guess we found our dealer," Ray says.
He ducks back into the bedroom to replace the drugs and the bowl, and hears something clink.
Frowning, Ray pulls out a black plastic bag and unwraps it.
Syringe, spoon, and a plastic tube.
Well, shit.
"Fraser," he says, poking his head out again. "Got a possible cause of death here."
He hears the words as he says them, and they feel wrong, talking about cause of death when as far as they know the girl's still alive. He wonders when he started believing Harrison's crazy-ass story, and realizes it must have been when he realized Fraser was in danger too.
The presence of one Jack Harper doesn't hurt, either.
The thought triggers another, and as Fraser comes to look, he pulls out his phone and punches in Frannie's number.
"What now?"
"Nice to hear you too," Ray says. "Run me a check on Jack Harper, last known address in Boston."
Frannie heaves a gusty sigh, and he winces and holds the phone away from his ear. "Right, one Jack Harper in all of Boston. You sure pick the easy ones."
"That's what they pay you for, Frannie," he snaps, losing patience. "Hop to."
"Yes, mein Fuhrer," she mutters, and just as he's about to cut the connection, she adds, "Oh, hey, I found your tattoo girl. Brace yourself, it's--"
"Ali Garvey," Ray cuts in. "Yeah, Frannie, try to keep up."
He can almost hear her eyes rolling. "Yeah, well, here's something you don't know. She's got a sealed juvie record, which is why I couldn't find her at first."
"Lemme guess," Ray says, eyeing Fraser and the illicit dresser drawer. "Drug possession?"
"Actually, no, but thanks for playing." Frannie sounds smug.
"You gonna tell me, or do I get to guess some more?"
"Drive-by," Frannie says. "She was driving. And guess who was doing the shooting?"
Ray closes his eyes. "Brother dear."
"Got it in one." He hears her tapping away at the keyboard. "But she's been clean for a while--"
"Not so clean," Ray says.
"Well, no arrests, anyway. She's in community college now, Wilbur Wright. Hasn't run with her brother in ages."
"Yeah, well," Ray says, "she's running now. Thanks, Frannie."
He hangs up. Fraser's watching him, waiting.
"Come on," Ray says. "She ain't here."
Fraser looks around with a faint smile. "I deduced as much."
Ray lowers his voice. "The kid knows something he ain't telling."
"I deduced that as well," Fraser says, his smile fading.
"Well," Ray decides, looking around, "not much more we can do here." He nods at the black bag in Fraser's hand. "You wanna take that with us?"
"She might notice it's gone."
"Yeah, and she might not shoot up tonight and OD. Tough call, Frase."
"Is this a hunch, Ray?" Fraser asks carefully.
"You got any logic to go on," Ray says, "I'm all ears."
"Actually," Fraser says, "that reminds me--"
"No more ear anecdotes, Fraser."
"You never let me have any fun," Fraser says.
Ray blinks at him, and Fraser just smiles and leaves the room.
Diefenbaker's waiting for them downstairs. He trots over to Benton with an apologetic whuff, and Benton squats down and peers in his mouth.
"Danish," he says grimly, and sniffs. "Cherry-flavored."
"Wolf's got taste, I'll give 'im that much," Ray says.
Diefenbaker whines, and Benton stands and says sternly, "Oh, hush. You have a weakness and he exploited it. The blame rests entirely on you."
"Am I nuts," he hears Harrison ask behind him, "or is the wolf actually listening?"
"Lip-reading," Ray says. "You get used to it."
Diefenbaker whines again and rests his head on his paws. His eyes roll back in his head.
"No, I won't accept any excuses. I'm very disappointed in you."
"This is just sad," Harrison whispers, and Benton suppresses a brief flash of irritation.
"You don't know the half," Ray mutters.
Benton grits his teeth, then composes himself and turns around. "Clearly Mr. Harper is a formidable opponent."
"I coulda told you that," Harrison says.
"Yes," Benton says tightly, "well, now we have no way of tracking his movements. I suggest we keep both eyes open for him."
"Great, Fraser," Ray says, pushing his sunglasses up on his nose. "I drive better with both eyes anyway."
"Well, given that you're nearly blind anyway, I don't really see how one eye more or less is going to--"
"I am not blind," Ray says.
"Near enough."
"I can see good enough to pop you one, how's that?"
And then Harrison has to open his mouth and ruin the moment. "So what now, oh great detectives?"
"Another field trip," Ray says, unlocking the car door. "Hey, Harry, you know what the inside of a college looks like?"
Harrison blinks at him. "What?"
"Thought so," Ray says.
"Oh, that's funny."
"Thought that too."
Benton opens his door and sits down silently, resisting the sudden overwhelming urge to wrap his hands around Harrison Davies' throat.
Stop that, he tells himself sternly. You're being uncharitable. The words bounce back and forth in his head, sounding eerily like his grandmother's voice.
He's pleased, really, that Ray seems comfortable with the young man. It's certainly a nice change from Ray trying to kill him. And Ray ought to enjoy talking with someone to whom he can relate.
Benton's good at convincing himself of things. This one is harder than most.
Wilbur Wright Community College is a far cry from Hudson University, where Harrison often meets Tru in between her classes, but when they get there he gets the same nervous itch on the back of his neck. It's the uneasy feeling that everyone he sees, all those hundreds of overeducated, freshly scrubbed students, are all staring at him, all thinking the same thing:
You don't belong here.
Ever since this whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing started, Harrison's been wondering about what sorts of legal things he could actually do with his life. In the back of his mind, he can't help thinking that while his dad's got him a nice cushy job for now, it can't possibly last. Problem is, he doesn't want to be chief fry cook, or that guy at the corner garage who's always got grease on him somewhere, and he's starting to suspect that anything he does want to do-- whatever the hell that may be-- will require way more education than he's really capable of.
High school was bad enough. Harrison doesn't ever want to see another textbook in his life.
So being at this place kind of makes him twitch.
"This way," Ray says tersely, and Harrison's pleased to see that Ray looks about as uncomfortable as he feels.
Thinking about Ray makes him twitch again, and he drops back a few steps behind the other two so they can't see him. Ray still hasn't said anything about the badness in the parking lot, and now that Fraser's back he probably won't, which is more disappointing than it really should be.
Because Harrison's not gay. He has a crush on Tru's lab partner Avery, and he's still half in love with Lindsay, and Ray shouldn't be able to get him immediately and painfully hard just by slapping around some guy in a hospital bed.
For so many reasons, he shouldn't.
It occurs to Harrison that the gay thing just might not be his biggest problem.
He wants to talk to Tru, because she always gets his head straight-- no pun intended-- and maybe he told her something yesterday that'll make this all make sense, or at least make it less scary. But he hasn't had a moment alone since this morning, and he does not want to have this conversation with Ray in earshot.
Something wet brushes against his hand, and he jerks away with an aborted curse-- but it's just Diefenbaker, looking up at him with wide blue eyes and panting.
"You an' me both, buddy," Harrison tells him, though he's not sure what he's referring to. It just seems like the thing to say.
"Here," Ray says, taking a sharp detour into a building, and Harrison and Fraser and Diefenbaker follow him to a closed door.
Ray opens the door a crack, then closes it again. "Still there."
"We'll wait," Fraser says.
Harrison hangs back against the opposite wall, feeling that nervous itch again, and scratches absently at the back of his head. Then a thought hits him.
"I'm, uh, gonna go use the can," he says, jerking a thumb vaguely over his shoulder.
Ray doesn't look at him. "Don't steal anything."
Harrison manages not to make a smart retort and escapes as quickly as his tattered dignity will let him. Diefenbaker follows. Harrison thinks about telling him to stay, but decides it's not worth the effort. It's not like Dief's gonna be repeating anything to anyone.
He thinks.
Besides, depending on how this conversation goes, he might just end up needing something soft and fluffy to pet.
Ali Garvey is one of the first kids out of the room, barreling out of there like she's got someplace to go. Ray steps in front of her and says, "Whoa, hey, slow down there. Chicago PD."
She glances at him and slows down but keeps walking, so he and Fraser have to walk alongside her to keep up. Ray walks on her left and Fraser on her right, without discussion.
The girl's 19, according to her sheet, with chin-length dark hair and heavily made-up dark eyes. She's thin, maybe a little too thin, wearing a black wifebeater and ripped jeans. Ray suspects that the rips are not artful.
"Nice tat," he says, nodding at the elusive Casper-whatever tattoo.
"Thanks," Ali says. "We done?"
So she's not much for small talk. Ray asks, "Seen your brother lately?"
"Not for ages."
"Your mouth says no," Ray says, "the blankets on your sofa say yes."
"You were in my apartment?" She sounds outraged.
"Completely illegally," Ray agrees. "So we're not gonna bust ya for the half-ounce of pot in your dresser drawer. Not if you can tell us where to find Lou."
Ali falls silent, glowering at the sidewalk in front of her, and Fraser clears his throat.
"Abtei im Eichwald," he says. "Abbey in the forest of oaks. 1809, oil on burlap. Why that painting?"
Ali's head whips to the side. She gives Fraser a long, hard stare. Ray does too. He should be used to Fraser's encyclopedia brain by now, but it still catches him by surprise.
Finally Ali shrugs. "Looks the way I feel," she says.
"Fascinating," Fraser says. "Because, you see, Friedrich considered nature a mirror of human feelings, while his contemporaries in the Klassizisten movement were more focused on realism. Are you interested in art history?"
Ali blinks, looking dazed. "Yeah, sure," she says. "Not much future in it though."
"On the contrary. Museums, art galleries--"
"Are we done?" Ali repeats.
"Not hardly," Ray butts in, because the Mountie charm didn't work and it's his turn again. "Your brother killed someone last night, Ali, and today he put a guy in the hospital. You keep hiding him, that means you're responsible."
She pales a little but doesn't budge. "Look, I told you--"
"Where's the heroin, Ali?"
It's a hunch, a calculated guess, but it hits home; she goes whiter and stops in the middle of the sidewalk.
Ray circles around in front of her. "Where is it?" he repeats.
Fraser nods. He doesn't look surprised. "Mr. Garvey took the heroin from a dealer, after he killed him. He attempted to sell it last night, but it went badly. He still has it, doesn't he?"
"He told me," Ali mutters, looking sick.
Ray seizes on this. "Who? Your brother?"
"No, I--" She breaks off, staring into the distance.
Ray follows her line of sight. Across the street, Jack Harper waves at him.
"Harper," Ray growls, and takes off.
He can hear Fraser's boots pounding behind him. Jack's wave turns into a salute, and then he turns and runs, vanishing into a parking lot. A moment later, an engine starts up, and a late-model dark sedan peels out into traffic.
Ray stops in the middle of the street and pulls his gun, squinting at the car, aiming at the tires. Horns blare as oncoming cars veer around him. Then, with a muttered curse, he reaches for his glasses. By the time he has a shot, the car's too far away.
"Fuck," he spits.
Fraser jogs up to him and pulls him back to the sidewalk. "I got the license plate," he says.
"Greatness," Ray says, and looks around.
Ali's gone. Of course.
He sighs and holsters his gun. "Where the fuck is Harrison?"
Harrison sits on the toilet, staring at his phone. Diefenbaker nudges his knee.
"Yeah, yeah," he says, and calls Tru.
The phone rings four times, and then her voice mail picks up: Hey, it's Tru, I'm busy. Leave a message.
"Damn it," Harrison mutters, running a hand absently through Diefenbaker's fur.
He waits for the beep, then clears his throat and says, "Tru, I gotta talk to you. I mean, we really need to talk. I need--" He swallows and tries again. "I'm confused, okay? I need to talk to someone about this. And, well, something tells me you got something to say about it. So...." He grips the phone tighter. "Screw the lab, Tru, call me."
He waits for ten minutes, staring at the phone and willing her to call. Then Diefenbaker barks and nudges him again.
"Yeah," he says, and sighs and stands. "Come on, let's go."
There's someone else in the bathroom when he opens the stall door, an older, professor-looking guy washing his hands at the sink. He frowns at Harrison in the mirror.
"No dogs allowed in the building," he says.
"He's a wolf," Harrison says, and leaves.
Ray and Fraser find Harrison and the wolf waiting at the car. Ray grabs him by the shoulder and demands, "Where the hell were you?"
"Bathroom," Harrison says, shrugging off his hand. "What happened?"
"Found Ali," Ray says, "lost Ali. Saw Harper, lost Harper. You seeing a pattern here?"
"Oh," Harrison says, looking glum. "Now what?"
Ray's all out of ideas. He glances over his shoulder. "Fraser?"
"I'll tell Francesca to put out an APB on Mr. Harper's car," Fraser says. "Other than that, I suggest we stake out her apartment."
"Right," Ray says, and cracks his neck to the side. "Let's get a move on."
Damn, Jack thinks, the cop's quick. He hunches over the steering wheel and glares at the traffic, trying to catch his breath. Quick in more ways than one; he managed to catch Ali Garvey on her way into class, and told her that the cops were onto her, told her he'd be waiting afterwards to take her someplace safe. He didn't expect Harrison's friends to get there so soon.
Once he's sure they're not following him, he pulls over and flashes his hazard lights, then reaches for his phone and calls Ali.
"You all right?" he asks, when she answers.
"Yeah," she says, sounding breathless. "I got away."
"Where's a safe place to meet?"
She tells him, and Jack hits the gas.
One hour to go. It's getting down to the wire now.
Harrison is bored.
"I'm bored," he announces.
"Shove it," Ray says, glowering at Ali Garvey's apartment building.
"No, really. You got any cards or anything?"
"Shut up, Davies."
"Oh, come on," Harrison says. "You really think she's coming back here? I wouldn't."
"He does have a point," Fraser says, though he sounds reluctant to admit it. "Ms. Garvey knows we were here already. She has no reason to return."
Ray slaps the steering wheel. "Why'd you say so, then?" he demands. "This was your idea, Fraser."
"Yes, and I still think it's the best of all possible options. I'm just saying, it's statistically unlikely--"
"Screw statistics, Fraser, I failed statistics."
"Then you should really consider taking a remedial course, Ray, because I've found that in the course of police work, a basic understanding of statistical probability can be--"
Harrison ignores them, checking his pockets. He thought maybe he had some cards there, but what he thinks is a pack turns out to be Joe's soft pack of Camels. He tosses it aside, and thinks he sees Ray give it a quick, longing look, but Ray doesn't say anything.
"Nothing," he says, and slumps back with a sigh.
After a pause, Fraser says, "I may have some with me."
Ray gives him a piercing stare, but keeps silent.
The cards have Canadian flags on the back, and Harrison stifles a snicker. He shuffles the pack expertly, only slightly hampered by the lack of a flat surface.
"You wanna play?" he asks Fraser, because he's starting to think Fraser doesn't like him, and for some bizarre reason the thought depresses him.
"All right," Fraser says. He looks uncomfortable.
Ray gives a long, explosive sigh and twists around in his seat.
"Deal me in," he says.
Harrison smirks at him.
The kid's good, better than Ray expected, but then he remembers that a couple of his busts were for illegal poker games and he's impressed despite himself. Harrison's no Lady Shoes, but he's beating Ray half the time, and even giving Fraser a run for his money. He seems comfortable, at ease, in his element finally, and something about it's just compelling to watch.
In fact, Harrison's starting to compel him to watch all over the place now.
Ray's not sure how he feels about that. Even apart from the age difference and the whole criminal thing, there's also the whole never-actually-had-gay-sex-before thing, and the homophobic-police-department thing. He'd be willing to risk it for Fraser, but some punk kid who just happened to catch his eye?
Ray's been celibate for far too long to contemplate, and he works with Fraser every day and manages to mostly keep his hands to himself. He's used to denying himself things. This one won't be any different.
Still, he thinks, it's a shame.
Harrison's dealing the sixth hand when a flash of motion catches Ray's eye, and he and Fraser jerk their heads up in unison, staring. Halfway down the block, shuffling towards them with his head down and a hoodie shielding his face, it's....
"Garvey," Ray breathes, and reaches for the door handle.
The cards flip out of Harrison's hands, flying through the air, and Ray has to duck and shield his face to avoid getting a two of clubs in the eye. But he forgets to be pissed about it, because Harrison has just gone fucking white.
He doesn't have time for this. But it has to be done.
Ray leans into the backseat, grips Harrison two-handed by the collars of his rumpled button-down shirt and his leather jacket, and hauls him up to eye level.
"Talk to me, Harry," he says, with a grim smile.
Harrison's screwed, and he knows it.
Still, he tries to bluff at first, meeting Ray's eyes with his best guileless stare. "Look, it's just, he's not too happy with me, all right? I'm not really looking forward to seeing this guy again."
"Like hell," Ray says, and shakes him a little. "There's more to it."
"Ray," Fraser says urgently, "we have to go."
"What he said," Harrison says. "You gotta go. I'll wait here."
Ray shakes him again and growls, "You listen to me, and listen carefully. I am not leaving this car until you tell me everything, and I do mean everything. And if we lose Garvey because of that, you're gonna wish I just ripped you a new one."
Distantly Harrison notes the double entendre, but he's too terrified now to even get turned on. He licks his lips and tries to speak, but Ray's grip around his throat is making it difficult.
"Ray," Fraser says, "we have to go now."
Ray bares his teeth. "You ready to do this, Harry?"
It stings, hearing Ray call him Harry at a time like this. Harrison tugs at the hands on his collar, and this time Ray gets it and loosens his grip a little.
"Yesterday," he begins, and licks his lips again, "or today yesterday, whatever, when Garvey shot Fraser...." He hesitates, then blurts it out, all in a rush: "Hewasaimingatme."
Ray drops him like his fingers are burning. Harrison falls back against the seat, breathing hard.
"Ray," Fraser says.
Ray points a shaking finger at Harrison and fixes him with a white hot glare that makes him go weak all over. "You," he says, in a truly frightening gravelly voice, "stay here. You do not. Fucking. Move."
Harrison nods frantically. "No, yes, right, I don't, I promise--"
"Ray, now," and Ray's out of the car like a shot, slamming the door behind him, and Fraser and Diefenbaker follow.
Harrison slumps down in the backseat, runs a trembling hand through his hair, and tries not to throw up.
Garvey's leaning on the buzzer and getting no answer. He starts hitting the other buzzers, and nothing happens.
Ray nods at Fraser, then jerks his head to the side. Fraser nods back, and Ray pulls his gun and holds it up against his chest.
After a moment's thought, he slips his glasses onto his nose.
Garvey glances over his shoulder, and Ray and Fraser duck out of sight just in time. Seeing nobody, Garvey crouches down in front of the lock.
Ray knows from experience how easy that lock is to pick. They don't have a lot of time. Seconds, maybe.
He circles around, and Fraser approaches Garvey from the near side, giving Ray time to get in position. "Excuse me," he begins, and Garvey leaps up and spins around, dropping the lockpicks.
"Chicago PD!" Ray yells, stepping out from the other side and aiming. "Hands up!"
Garvey turns to face him, slowly raising his hands. Then, lightning-fast, his right hand darts to his hip.
It all seems to happen in slow motion. Ray sees the flash of the gun in his belt. He squints through his glasses, takes aim, and squeezes the trigger.
The bullet rips through Garvey's right hand. A half-second later, a white blur barrels into him and he's on the ground, Diefenbaker's jaws clamped around his throat.
Ray stares at the downed Garvey for a few seconds more, hands still gripping his gun, unable to lower it. It's over, he thinks, that's it; and then, that can't be it, it can't be that easy--
He almost doesn't hear the car coming up the street. But he does hear the squeal of brakes.
Harrison doesn't want to watch. He wants to hide in the backseat and close his eyes, and not open them till Ray and Fraser come back to the car with Garvey in custody.
He frowns at that, and wonders where he will sit when that happens. He has no intention of sharing the backseat with a guy who wants him dead.
Point is, he doesn't want to watch. But curiosity's always been one of his many flaws, so after a few seconds he cautiously raises his head just enough to peek through the back window.
Ray and Fraser are circling around Garvey, some complicated movement that looks like a football play, communicating only in hand motions. Harrison watches as Fraser approaches Garvey from the near side, as Ray pulls his gun, as Garvey reaches for his belt-- Harrison catches his breath-- and then Ray shoots, and holy shit, he hit the guy's hand from, like, twenty feet away, and then Diefenbaker leaps on the guy, and it just can't be this easy, not when Jack's involved--
And just like that, like Harrison conjured him up just by thinking about him, there's a dark car coming down the road, and Jack Harper's behind the wheel.
More to the point, Ali Garvey is in the passenger seat, and she's holding a gun.
Harrison never moved so fast in his life. In one second he's out of the car, in another he's across the street, and he's moving so fast he doesn't have the breath left to yell to Fraser, to warn him; Ali's rolling down the window, leaning out, and he's almost there, almost--
He hears the gunshot just before he leaps. He hits Fraser, and they're falling together, falling, falling, and then pain rips through his body, and the world goes white.
YESTERDAY | TODAY | AFTER E-mail:
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