Unfinished
by Maya Tawipart two
"If I could keep from fucking up
Just one more day
I think about it and then
I just throw it away"
--Jane Jensen, "Blank Sugar"YESTERDAYBenton looked at the building in front of him, then down at the slip of paper in his hand, and frowned.
Definitely the right address, but instead of the apartment building he'd been expecting, it was a run-down storefront. The sign on the door said HTD INVESTIGATIONS, and a plastic placard gave office hours.
According to the placard, HTD Investigations was open for business.
Benton gave a mental shrug and pushed the door open, stepping inside. He'd been expecting a blast of hot air-- Bostonians, from what he had observed, tended to overheat their buildings during the winter, perhaps out of some sense of overcompensation-- and was pleasantly surprised to find it not much warmer inside than out. The room was dark as well as cold, and he started to wonder if maybe the building had been abandoned.
He felt automatically for the light switch, finding one by the door and flipping it on, and he barely had time to take in the small room, the filing cabinet, the battered metal desk, and the figure slumped over said desk with its face buried in its arms, when a heartfelt groan issued from the figure and one of its arms waved vaguely in the air.
"Lights," came a muffled voice that Benton nevertheless knew all too well. "Lights, lights, lights--"
Benton turned the lights off, and the room plunged back into darkness.
"Oh thank Christ," the voice said, and Benton heard drawers opening and closing, with various objects rattling around in their depths. After a silence, during which Benton started to wonder what, exactly, he had walked into, the voice said abruptly, "Okay, hit 'em."
Benton turned the light back on, more cautiously this time.
Harrison Davies leaned back in the desk chair, his boots propped up on the desk, black plastic sunglasses perched on his nose.
Benton studied him, mentally comparing him to the impish young pickpocket he had met in Chicago several years ago. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses on his face, but Harrison seemed older-- older than he should be, somehow, older than the passage of time could account for. His mouth was tight and lined, and his hair was shorter than Benton remembered, but still looked just as much in need of a good shampoo. There was a shadow like a bruise under one of the black lenses, and an old, healing cut on his lower lip.
"Hey," Harrison began, his brow furrowing, and without thinking, Benton blurted out, "You look like crap."
Oh dear. Ray was starting to rub off on him. Well, it had only been a matter of time.
Harrison frowned, and Benton was certain that he was rolling his eyes behind the glasses. "Nice to see you too, Fraser."
Benton looked around in mild surprise. "You work here?"
"I own here," Harrison said. The ghost of a smile flickered over his lips and vanished. "Well, 'own' might be too strong a word, but it's my name on the lease."
"Ah," Benton said. And then he thought about it-- HTD. Harrison Davies. "Is the T your middle name?"
"No," Harrison said shortly. His face seemed to shut down.
Benton looked around, wondering what he'd said wrong and how to get the conversation back on track. "I must admit," he said finally, "I'm a bit surprised to find you...."
He trailed off, and Harrison cocked an eyebrow. "Gainfully employed?"
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't--"
"Don't be." Harrison swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward with a self-mocking grin. "It's a surprise to me too. But bein' shady's all I'm good at, and this way at least I get some legit income out of it."
"Still," Benton said, "to open your own detective agency shows admirable initiative."
Another shadow passed over Harrison's face. "Yeah, well, I came into some cash." He paused. "Sorry, Fraser, but I'm havin' a hard time believing you just stopped in for a chat. What's up?"
"Well," Benton began, and wet his lips nervously. "This is actually a rather... fortuitous turn of events. I was hoping...." He trailed off again.
Once again, Harrison's eyebrow rose above the rim of his sunglasses. "Good start. Now try and finish it this time."
Somehow his carefully planned speech had completely fled his mind. Well, then, there was no way forward but to ask flat-out.
"Have you seen Ray recently?"
Harrison seemed to blink behind his glasses. "No. Should I?"
Benton ignored the question. "When was the last time you saw him?"
"'Bout five years ago," Harrison said, "same as last time I saw you." He slid his sunglasses down his nose and narrowed his eyes. "So I repeat: What is up?"
Benton hesitated, curling and uncurling his fingers restlessly and wishing he had his hat to hold, or something, anything to do with his hands. "May I sit?"
"Oh, yeah, 'course," Harrison said immediately, rising. "Go ahead." He hovered at the rear door of the office, and Benton could see a darkened kitchen in the room behind him. "Get you something? A drink?"
"Tea, if you have it," Benton said over his shoulder as he sat.
"Got tee-quila," Harrison said with another mocking smile. "But I'm guessing you're not a tequila man."
"I'm afraid not," Benton admitted.
"Water?"
"That's fine."
Harrison banged around in the kitchen for a few minutes, opening and closing cabinets. Benton pretended not to notice when he took a long swig from a glass bottle, but a knot of unease started to grow in his gut.
He shouldn't have come to Harrison. This was a mistake.
"Right," Harrison said loudly, and slammed a cabinet door shut. He loped back into the office and set a grimy glass in front of Benton. Then he leaned against the corner of his desk, slid his sunglasses down his nose again, and fixed Benton with an unwavering bloodshot stare. "Talk to me."
Benton sipped slowly at the water, stalling for time, and made a face at the metallic taste. He looked around with a frown. "Does this building still have lead pipes?"
"That or the asbestos," Harrison said. His lip curled. "Still think I'm doing good?"
Benton set the glass aside carefully and cleared his throat.
"Ah," he began. "Um. Ray is missing."
Harrison cocked his head to the side. "Didja check behind the sofa?"
Benton ignored the question, pressing on. "He left two months ago, saying he had... business... to take care of here. He intimated that it might be dangerous." He paused. "No one has heard from him since."
"So that's a no on the sofa, then?" Harrison hopped off the desk and started to pace without waiting for an answer. "So why come to me? Why aren't the cops out looking for Vecchio?"
"Well," Benton said, and cracked his neck to the side. "That's rather complicated."
"'Course it is," Harrison muttered, not quite under his breath. "Complicated. I live for complicated. Complicated how?" he added more loudly, looking up.
"Well, for one," Benton said, "Ray's last name is not, in fact, Vecchio."
Harrison froze in mid-pace.
After a second, he asked, "Does he know?"
Benton managed to refrain from sighing. "Yes, he's well aware. It was... an undercover mission," he explained. "That was Ray's specialty. The original Ray Vecchio took another undercover assignment with the Mob, and Ray took his place to ease suspicions."
"But," Harrison said, his hands waving vaguely, "his name is Ray."
"Middle name," Benton said. "His full name is Stanley Ray Kowalski."
"Good," Harrison said. "Well, that's good. Least one of his names was real."
Benton hesitated, looking at him as he paced, but there was a minefield of dangerous emotions there and he did not feel up to tiptoeing through them.
Instead, he steeled himself and continued. "That's irrelevant, however, because Ray and I left Chicago soon after you met--"
"We met," Harrison said.
"--yes, as you say, we met, and he is no longer employed by the Chicago Police Department, or indeed even a U.S. citizen."
Harrison stopped again. "Really?"
"We live in Inuvik," Benton said, and told himself firmly not to blush.
Harrison frowned. "Who the where huh?"
"Inuvik. The Northwest Territories. Canada," he elaborated, when Harrison still looked blank.
"Oh," Harrison said, with great significance. "Oh, yeah, that's legal there, isn't it? So you, you guys...."
He trailed off, fidgeting, and stared down at the carpet, scratching at the back of his head.
"Well," he said after a moment, "this is kinda awkward."
Benton cleared his throat. "Yes, well, anyway, I spoke to Lieutenant Welsh, and he too was unaware of any business Ray might have had here. But some of his undercover records have been sealed. The Lieutenant said he would look into it and call me when he has any information." He paused. "I gave him your number. I hope you don't mind."
"Yeah, no, that's--" Harrison broke off, reaching across Benton to the desk, and Benton caught a faint whiff of alcohol and sour sweat. He edged away as Harrison raised the phone to his ear and listened for a moment.
"'Sfine," he said, replacing the receiver. He gave Benton a wry smile. "Phone bill. Believe it or not, they do not actually pay themselves."
Benton found himself standing, clutching the back of his chair as he rose. "This was a bad idea," he said, smoothing a thumb over his eyebrow. "I shouldn't get you involved--"
"Oh, I get it," Harrison interrupted. He whipped off his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes in a bleary glare. "I'm a fuckin' disaster area who can't even pay his bills on time. No way I'm gonna be useful, right?"
Benton kept his mouth shut, neither confirming nor denying, but he felt the corner of his lips twitch.
Harrison stalked towards him, jabbing a finger in his chest; Benton took a step back at the contact. Harrison was a good six inches shorter than him, but he didn't look like that would slow him down.
"I'm good at what I do, Fraser," he growled. "Not much else, yeah, but this I'm good at. And I'll tell you this much, right now: Even if you do walk outta here, I'll still be involved, 'cause I ain't just walking away from this now. I owe Ve-- Kowalski."
Benton stared down at him with some surprise, as he realized that Harrison was, in fact, deadly serious.
Harrison glowered at him a moment longer; whatever he saw in Benton's face must have mollified him, because he stepped back with a grunt and a satisfied nod. "Why'd you look me up anyway?" he asked, leaning back against the desk. "I mean-- if you weren't hip to my current line of work or nothing."
"I thought...." Benton trailed off.
"You thought he was with me," Harrison finished. He folded his arms across his chest, looking dangerous. "Nice relationship you got."
"I thought," Benton said firmly, "that if he were in trouble, he might have contacted you."
Harrison let his arms drop to his sides. "Oh."
"Also, I can attempt to track Ray, but I am... unacquainted... with the vagaries of this city's more colorful elements."
Harrison cocked his head to the side. "Come again?"
Benton sighed. "I need a guide."
"Oh," Harrison said again, with a quick, sheepish grin. "Right. A guide to the bad guys." He held his hands up, framing an imaginary book. "The Spotter's Guide to Native Lowlifes."
"Yes," Benton agreed cautiously, after a moment of confused silence.
"Well," Harrison said, sliding around the side of the desk with a flourish and flopping back down in the chair, "you came to the right guy."
"Okay," Harrison said, "there's two ways we can do this." He grabbed a pen and an open notebook as he spoke, even though his brain was still stuck on the whole not Vecchio thing, stuttering over the revelation like a scratched CD, trying to make sense of it. Trying to morph his mental image of the guy from Ray Vecchio into Stanley Kowalski and not having much luck.
The whole thing had pretty much blindsided him. Fraser just walking in like that, today of all days-- he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to deal with this.
But Fraser was waiting, so pulled the pen cap off with his teeth and left it there, chewing idly when he wasn't talking around it. "We can try to retrace his movements from the airport, or we can ask around town, find out if anyone's seen 'im. Or we could split up and do both." He paused. "So I guess that'd be three ways."
"Whatever you think best," Fraser said, almost primly.
Harrison sighed and recapped the pen, setting it aside unused; the whole pen-paper thing was mostly for show anyway. "Well, let's start easy. You got a recent picture of him?"
"Of course," Fraser said. He leaned over and unzipped the duffel bag on the floor, rooting around inside.
While he looked, Harrison cast about mentally for possible topics of conversation, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "How's Dief doing? You didn't bring him?"
"He chose to stay with his family," Fraser said, without looking up.
Harrison whistled. "Family?"
"He has fathered three litters since we moved north," Fraser explained.
"Big fella," Harrison said admiringly. "Wolf's done good."
"Here we are," Fraser said, and slid a 4-by-6 photo across the desk.
Harrison picked it up and pursed his lips, studying it. It was a candid shot; Ray's-- Sta-- Kowalski's hair was blowing in his face, his eyes were half-closed, and his mouth was open. His hand was outstretched, as if trying to block the camera from taking the shot. He was wearing several layers of flannel, with a huge, puffy parka on top, and his stubble looked like the beginnings of a real beard. He looked older, but leaner under his clothes, and somehow more relaxed than Harrison had ever seen him-- which, granted, hadn't exactly been under the least stressful of circumstances.
Then he stopped analyzing the picture and just looked, and a dizzy wave of desire swept over him, so abruptly that it was all he could do not to slap the photo face-down on the desk. Instead, he flattened it gently in front of him, ignoring the faint trembling in his fingers and the flush of heat that almost made him forget the cold.
"Looking good," he said, and was pleased when his voice didn't crack.
Fraser didn't acknowledge the statement, just looked at him with a pleasant yet steely expression.
Harrison swallowed.
"We'll try the airport," he said, and stood, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of the chair. "If that's a bust, we'll hit the streets."
Fraser nodded and stood as well.
Harrison turned away, under the pretense of fumbling with his jacket zipper, and closed his eyes for a second. He couldn't do this, couldn't make nice with Ray's lover, husband, whatever-the-fuck, just couldn't deal with any of it. Not today.
The phone rang, and he gratefully seized on the distraction. "Yo," he said, wedging the receiver between his chin and his shoulder and zipping up his jacket the rest of the way.
"Very professional, Harrison," came Meredith's tinny, echoey voice.
Harrison froze. His fingers felt numb.
He should've expected the call. Meredith was a big one for the symbolic gesture. She was always a little less generous when it actually meant something.
"Whaddya want?" he asked finally, when he remembered how to speak.
Meredith's voice was dripped sympathy and concern. "How are you, Harry?"
Harrison pulled the phone away and scowled at it, before returning it to his ear. "Peachy, Merry. Cut to the chase."
"I just wanted to talk," she said, though her voice was regaining some of its customary sharpness. "I'm worried about you."
"Oh! Oh, you're worried," Harrison said, fake-sweetly. "Worried, huh?" He held the phone in front of him again. "Worried in Dublin!" he yelled at it.
He pulled the receiver back just in time to catch the tail end of a long, gusty sigh. "Look, we've been through this, okay? I wanted a change. I'm allowed to do that, you know. It's my life, and you're an adult, and I'm sorry if you feel like I abandoned you or something, but excuse me for wanting to leave when two members of my family have died there!"
Harrison rolled his eyes and made chirping gestures with his hand as she spoke. "You done?"
Another sigh traveled across the Atlantic. "What happened to us, Harry?" Meredith asked, sounding plaintive. "God, it wasn't perfect before, but at least we could talk to each other--"
Harrison gripped the phone, staring blindly down at his desk. "Tru died, that's what happened. Look, I gotta go."
He slammed the phone down, then fell forward a little and braced himself against the desk, trying to calm the urge to punch a hole in the wall-- he couldn't afford the drywalling again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fraser looking at him with undisguised shock and dismay.
"Your sister," Fraser said finally. "Tru."
Harrison didn't look up. "Yeah."
"She's dead?"
A humorless smile twitched at his lips. "Yeah."
"HTD. She's the T."
"You're on a roll, Mountie-man," Harrison told his desk.
"She saved my life," Fraser said. It sounded almost like a question.
"That's the one," Harrison said, and then he slammed his fist down on the desk, hard. "Sucks, don't it?" If he could have chosen between his two sisters....
Which was wrong. It was mean and wrong and evil.
But, as he sucked on his stinging knuckles and led Fraser out of the office without a backward glance, he thought maybe the universe would have agreed.
Harrison's car was a blue classic Ford Mustang. Benton, who had spent several years with Ray Kowalski and thus was not immune to the attraction of classic cars, was impressed despite himself, but he didn't say anything. Harrison's reaction to Ray's photograph was still too fresh in his mind.
Harrison only spoke once the whole way to the airport, when they were stopped in traffic. "You know," he said, staring out the windshield with his elbow propped on the door, "drivin' in this town, I could do without. But driving this car, makes it all worth it."
Benton thought about Ray's GTO, now back with his parents in Arizona, and didn't answer.
Harrison lapsed into silence again. Benton took the opportunity to observe him out of the corner of his eye, studying the juxtaposition of Harrison's oddly delicate profile with the stubborn set of his jaw, and felt a sudden, obscure sense of déjà vu.
He had never met the young man's sister; when she had come to Chicago, after Harrison had been shot, Benton had begged off meeting her at the airport with Ray, claiming work to be done, and seething with what he now recognized as resentment and isolation. Fifth-wheel syndrome, Ray called it, once Benton had reminded him that syndrome and symptom were two different words.
He had, incredibly enough, been jealous of Harrison, because Harrison had gotten to Ray first.
But he knew who Tru Davies was, and he knew, in an abstract, intellectual way that he couldn't quite grasp-- but still knew, with bone-deep certainty-- that he owed her his life. The thought that she was gone filled him with an inexplicable sense of loss.
He wondered if Harrison ever saw her ghost, as Benton had with his father, but decided not to ask.
He didn't have much hope for the airport-- anyone who might have seen Ray come in two months ago would surely be gone, or would have forgotten him by now-- but Benton appreciated the necessity of going through the motions. If he couldn't find Ray, he would never forgive himself for not being thorough.
If he couldn't find Ray.
But he would not let that happen. He couldn't.
"Look," Harrison said, leaning closer to the flight attendant, "look, I know it sounds crazy, but could you just take a look? I mean, you never know."
He smiled at her, wishing he'd remembered to shower that morning and hoping she wouldn't notice. But Hello-my-name-is-Jan didn't seem to mind; she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear and returned the smile.
"All right," she said, and pointed a warning finger at him. "But no promises."
"No problem," Harrison said, and grinned wider. "I'm easy."
He handed her the photo, then shoved his hands in his pocket and rocked back on his heels as she studied it, looking around. Across the hallway in the lounge, Fraser was showing a copy of the photo to another flight attendant, a young black man.
Harrison's eyes traveled past them, watching the bartender as he pulled a pint of Killian's, and he swallowed. He was getting thirsty....
After, he scolded himself. Pay attention.
"Do you know," Jan was saying, "I think I do remember," and Harrison's attention snapped back around to her like a laser sight.
She was smiling at the picture. "Kind of distinctive-looking, isn't he?"
"Yeah," Harrison said, and swallowed again. "He is."
Jan gave him a long, slow head-to-toe look. "Is he your brother or something?"
"Just a friend," Harrison said, and realized with some surprise that she was checking him out. He was usually quicker on the uptake. Had it been that long?
"Anything you can remember," he added, when she didn't seem inclined to continue.
Jan pursed her lips, tapping the photo; her index finger went thwack right on top of Ray's face. "He flew in from Toronto," she said finally. "Nice enough. Had a beer."
"He didn't say where he was going, did he?" Harrison asked, without much hope.
She shook her head. "Sorry, no. He was in a rush, though. Went down the jetway like a bat out of hell."
"Well, thanks anyway," Harrison said, and produced a business card between two fingers; he couldn't get over that, he had business cards now, with his name right on them and everything. "You think of anything else, you call me." He waggled his eyebrows. "Any time."
"Will do," Jan promised with a sly smile, and Harrison smiled back weakly and backed away with a wave.
As soon as she was out of sight, he felt his smile fade, and he slumped back against the wall with a sigh and closed his eyes.
Hello-my-name-is-Jan was smoking hot, and she was a stewardess-- sorry, flight attendant-- and he knew she'd call. Probably the night before she left. And they'd go out, or maybe stay in, and then she'd leave, and a few days or weeks later it'd be the same thing, different girl.
Because Harrison hadn't been in a serious relationship for years, not since Lindsay. He could tell himself he was still pining away for the woman of his dreams, still in London with her husband, Mr. I'm-Irish-and-the-chicks-dig-that, Mr. We've-been-dating-a-week-so-let's-get-married, and honestly, he'd given them six months before Lindsay flew back home in tears, and now it was six years later and Harrison was still getting the occasional "Oh my God I'm so happy" phone call that always drove him out to the nearest bar or poker game as soon as he hung up, where he'd stay till he forgot where he even lived, never mind how his legs worked and were they up to the job of getting him there, and even if the calls usually came around ten in the morning, he figured he deserved it.
He could tell himself that, and usually he did, but he knew it wasn't Lindsay. Or at least, she wasn't responsible for the sudden death of his social life. The blame for that lay with one Ray Vec-- Sta-- whatever the fuck his name was. Ray.
Ray, who Harrison had kissed first, and he would've thought that realizing he was bisexual would've increased the dating pool, not dried it up completely; but there you go, there was the universe laughing at him again. Ray, who'd rocked his world and then just walked away, never mind it was Harrison who did the actual walking, and left him uncomfortably aware of other men in a way he'd never been before. Aware of the way Jack looked at him sometimes, and for the first time he'd put the pieces together and wondered if Jack had convinced him to ditch his dinner date with Lindsay on purpose. Aware that Jack was not, in fact, all that bad-looking, and that was the worst realization of all.
But whatever temptation might have been there, temptation that he'd never, ever acted on, and he was damn proud of that because six years was a long time to go without anything but the occasional one-night stand, that temptation was now long gone.
Gone like Jack was. Dead and gone, like Tru.
Maybe it was a good thing that Fraser was here after all. Took his mind off things.
Soon he'd have to face the anniversary of their mother's death as well. He wasn't sure he'd survive it without Tru. Last year had been bad enough.
Fraser's tentative voice roused him from his thoughts. "Harrison?"
He opened one eye and saw Fraser in front of him, looking concerned.
"I'm good," he said, pushing himself off the wall and running a hand through his hair. "Anything?"
Fraser shook his head. "You?"
"She remembered him," Harrison said. "And wherever he was going, he was gettin' there in a hurry. But that's all she knows."
Fraser sighed and looked around. "That's everyone, then."
"Looks like," Harrison agreed.
"Shall we ask at the taxi stand?"
"Here's the thing," Harrison said. "We got no idea if he took a taxi, or a shuttle, or just hopped the T. We can ask, but it'd be a long shot, 'cause there's no way of knowing which cab drivers were here that day, or even which cabs, and there are, like, a billion different shuttle services, so pretty much we could be here all day and not get squat."
"I see," Fraser said. He didn't look happy.
Harrison sighed. "You wanna check, don't you?"
A muscle in Fraser's jaw twitched. "Can you blame me?"
"No," Harrison admitted. "I can't. So here's the other thing, I'm meeting a guy for lunch. You good to get back to the city on your own?"
"Of course," Fraser said, brightening.
"Cool," Harrison said. "Okay, meet me here in a couple hours." He scribbled the address of the Standard Diner on the back of another business card. "Knock yourself out."
Fraser took the card and slid it in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, and then they just stood there for a second, looking at each other.
"I never," Fraser began, and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, I don't even know how much you charge--"
"Forget it," Harrison said. "It's a favor."
Fraser's jaw set stubbornly, and he started digging in his pockets. "I have money, I assure you."
"Yeah? American?"
"Well, no," he said after a second. "But we are at an airport, I'm sure there's a currency exchange somewhere--"
"Forget it," Harrison said again. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't want your stinkin' Canadian money."
Fraser cocked his head, staring at him.
He sighed. "Joke. Jeez."
"I see," Fraser said.
"So," Harrison said. "Um." He backed away, holding up one hand in an awkward wave. "I gotta-- yeah. Go."
He turned and fled, and felt Fraser watching him all the way across the terminal.
TWO HOURS LATER
Benton got off the train at the wrong stop, and a few minutes in front of the map told him that he was a good twenty blocks away from his destination. He wasn't bothered, however; he had remembered why he hated riding the Chicago subway, and was looking forward to the fresh air.
The walk took him through downtown, past a brick-paved shopping area, and into a square surrounded by administrative buildings. He passed the city hall, the courthouse, and the morgue, and arrived at the Standard Diner feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.
He'd needed the walk. Inquiring at the taxi stand had been fruitless, as Harrison had predicted, and the woman behind the glass at the subway station had been somewhat less than helpful as well. He knew they had just started, but he was already despairing of ever finding Ray.
Benton pushed the door open and stepped inside, scanning for a familiar tousled blond head. For a moment he thought he saw Ray, and he blinked; but it was just Harrison, seated at a back booth with his companion, a short, stocky man with dark hair and a beard.
The other man caught his eye and, as Benton inclined his head, leaned across the table and said something to Harrison. Harrison twisted around in his seat, and Benton thought he saw the young man take a deep breath and brace himself before raising his hand with a smile.
Benton apologized his way through the crowd to the back of the diner, then hesitated at the end of Harrison's table, feeling awkward and once again wishing he had a hat to hold.
"Hey, Fraser," Harrison said, and gestured to his companion. "This is Davis. Davis, Fraser."
"A pleasure," Davis said politely, and slid out of his booth. "I should get back to work."
Benton stepped aside to let him pass.
Harrison slumped down in the booth and waved a dismissive hand in Davis's general direction. "Yeah, yeah. Same time next year?"
Davis hesitated, one hand still on the table. "You don't have to wait that long, you know. If you want to talk...." He trailed off.
Harrison propped an elbow on the table and covered his eyes with his hand. "Davis."
"Yes?"
"Go."
"Going," Davis said. He paused, then nodded at Benton. "Nice meeting you."
He left.
"Siddown," Harrison said, squinting up at Benton from beneath his hand. "Yer givin' me vertigo."
Feeling foolish, Benton sat down across from him and folded his hands on the tabletop. After a moment, he pulled a menu towards him; it had been a long time since breakfast, and all his traveling food was at Harrison's office.
"Told you," Harrison said, watching him.
Benton looked up from his contemplation of a grilled chicken sandwich. "Pardon?"
"Waste of time, talking to the hacks. Told you."
"Well, do you have any ideas?" Benton asked, with a burst of irritation.
"A couple," Harrison said, and gestured to the waitress.
While she took Benton's lunch order, Harrison made a call on his cell phone. He didn't say anything, just punched some buttons and listened. By the time the waitress was gone, he was grinning.
"Your lieutenant called," he explained, and Benton resisted the urge to inform him that Lieutenant Welsh did not, in fact, belong to him.
"Did he say anything?"
"Just to call back," Harrison said, and Benton nodded; if the Lieutenant had classified information, he wouldn't want to leave a recording of it.
"Kinda gruff, isn't he?" Harrison continued. "Like, that crime dog, whatsisname--"
"McGruff?" Benton inquired.
Harrison snapped his fingers. "That's the one."
Benton twisted around, searching in vain for the waitress.
When he turned back, Harrison was leaning forward, shoveling the last of his french fries into his mouth. "Might wanna get your food to go," he said through a mouthful of fried potato. "We'll call from the office." He waggled his cell phone in the air. "Insecure."
"Splendid idea," Benton agreed immediately.
When the waitress brought the check, along with his sandwich in a bag, Harrison patted his jacket pockets, then gave Benton a sheepish look. "Hey, you didn't change any of that Canadian money after all, did you?"
Benton sighed and reached for his wallet.
Lunch with Davis had been... unsettling. It was the first time Harrison had seen him since Tru's funeral; they'd talked on the phone since then, usually when Harrison needed help with a case, but they hadn't spoken face to face.
Unsettling, but also nice, in a weird way. For the first time in a year, Harrison could talk about what Tru had done, what she'd meant to him, and the huge gaping hole she'd left in his life.
So maybe nice was the wrong word. But he felt lighter, somehow. More able to deal with Fraser and the missing Ray.
Fraser wanted to make the phone call, but Harrison wouldn't let him-- it was his case, Fraser had come to him, and he wasn't about to let Fraser cut him out of the loop.
"Really," Fraser said, as Harrison punched in the numbers, "I could just--"
"Not listening," Harrison sang. The phone started to ring.
"Twenty-seventh precinct," an unfamiliar, harried female voice answered.
"Lieutenant Welsh, please," Harrison said, watching Fraser's face as he spoke. Fraser had pronounced it Leftenant, but he figured that was just a Canadian thing.
"Just a moment," the woman said, and he heard a few clicks and then that McGruff voice barked, "Welsh."
Harrison grinned-- the crime dog analogy was looking more and more appropriate. "Hey," he said, still watching Fraser. "This is Harrison Davies. You called about Ray?"
There was a pause, and then Welsh said, "Lemme talk to Constable Fraser."
Harrison bit back a sarcastic retort and hit the speakerphone button, replacing the receiver. "Go for it."
"Constable?" Welsh's voice, filtered through the speaker, was tinny and full of static. Harrison frowned and smacked the phone base, but it didn't seem to help.
Fraser cleared his throat. "Corporal, actually. It's good to hear from you, Lieutenant."
"Likewise," Welsh said, and paused. "Is Davies still listening?"
"You betcha," said the Davies in question. "And anything you tell Fraser, I'm gonna hear anyway."
"This is highly unorthodox, Mr. Davies," Welsh said, after another pause.
Harrison drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. "Yeah, yeah. You wanna find Ray or not?"
Welsh's world-weary sigh turned into a burst of static. "Fine. But if word spreads about this, your ass is mine."
"I assure you, sir," Fraser said, leaning forward with a grim expression, "I won't let that happen."
Harrison caught the steely glint in his eyes and gulped.
"Good man," Welsh said dryly. "Okay. So you were right: A couple years before the Vecchio job, Kowalski spent a few months undercover in Boston."
Fraser nodded, looking neither pleased nor upset. "What was his assignment?"
Welsh cleared his throat, accompanied by another burst of static. He lowered his voice when he spoke. "Kowalski was told to get in good with the O'Toole family, and give the FBI enough dirt to take down Colin O'Toole."
Harrison wasted a split second staring at the phone, wondering if he'd heard right. Then he grabbed the receiver, ignoring Fraser's already-open mouth and his affronted glare, and said, "Say that again. Slow."
"Davies--" Welsh began.
Harrison didn't let him finish. "Colin O'Toole? Colin fucking O'Toole?"
"You know him?" That dry, deadpan tone was back.
"Shit," Harrison said.
"I'll take that as a yes." Welsh paused. "Corporal?"
"Hang on," Harrison said, and hit the speakerphone button again. He felt sick. He needed a drink.
"Corporal," Welsh said, once again tinny and staticky. "You there?"
"Yes sir," Fraser said, still staring at Harrison. "Who is Mr. O'Toole?"
"Sounds like Davies can fill you in," Welsh said, and Harrison felt himself pale. "That's all I got, no details. The Feds weren't exactly forthcoming."
"Is that unusual?"
"Unfortunately," Welsh said, "no. But in this case, I got the impression that the file was still active."
Harrison leaned forward. "Meaning?"
"Meaning his cover was never blown. So I suggest you proceed with extreme caution."
"Colin fucking O'Toole," Harrison muttered. "Damn straight I'll proceed with caution."
"Good to hear," Welsh said. "Anything else?"
Fraser cleared his throat. "No sir. Thank you, sir."
"Oh, any time," Welsh said, and hung up.
Harrison stood slowly, his head still spinning, and Fraser gave him a long, narrow look. "Who is Colin O'Toole, Harrison?"
"He's trouble, that's what," Harrison said over his shoulder as he stepped into the kitchen. "Jesus," he added, grabbing a bottle of Jack from the cabinet and pouring himself a generous shot. "Ray don't do things small, does he?"
"No, he doesn't," Fraser agreed, from closer behind him; Harrison turned and saw the Mountie in the kitchen doorway, watching him with his arms crossed. He frowned at the glass in Harrison's hand. "Is that really necessary?"
"Oh yeah," Harrison said, and drained the glass. He slammed it down on the counter and flashed Fraser a weary smirk, feeling the warmth spread through him, stiffening his resolve.
"Harrison--"
"He's Irish mob," Harrison said, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest in a mirror of Fraser's pose. "Big time, or he was. Part of the Winter Hill gang back in the '80s, one of Whitey Bulger's enforcers, who tried making a name for himself when Bulger skipped town. Went down for twenty years not too long ago." He felt his lips curl in another smirk. "About seven years ago, in fact."
"So Ray completed his assignment," Fraser said, sounding pleased.
"Fraser," Harrison said, "this is Irish mob. This is serious."
Fraser regarded him mildly, but with a certain hardness behind his blue eyes. "If you don't wish to help me, I'll understand."
"Oh yeah, I bet," Harrison snapped. Anger welled up in him, making him reckless, dangerous. "You're gonna take on the O'Tooles, all by yourself. I'm sure."
"I assure you, I am quite capable--"
"Yeah, and it's got nothing to do with wanting me out of the way, huh?"
Fraser's mouth snapped shut, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. Harrison waited, his body humming with anticipation.
"Whatever you might have had with Ray," Fraser said finally, tightly, "it's over now. The sooner you realize that--"
Harrison laughed, and he didn't recognize his own voice. "No shit, Sherlock, what was your first clue? The five years since we fucked, or all the times you fucked him since then--"
The punch snapped his head to the side. He tasted blood, and spat in the sink.
"Nice," he muttered, and touched his mouth with a wince. The cut on his lip, a souvenir from a cheating husband, had opened up again.
He glanced back; Fraser stood with his head bowed, his fists clenched at his side.
"I apologize," Fraser said stiffly. "I shouldn't-- I shouldn't have done that."
Harrison sighed and turned on the tap, washing spit and blood down the drain. "Shut up. I was askin' for it."
"Just-- don't--" Fraser's voice sounded strangled. "Don't talk about him like--"
"Message received," Harrison said, and spun around. He stalked towards Fraser, and was vaguely gratified when Fraser backed away, through the door and back into the front office. "Irish mob, Fraser. Irish mob."
Fraser set his jaw. "I don't care."
Harrison rolled his eyes.
"Of course you don't," he said, and pushed past Fraser to the wall safe behind his desk.
It took him a while to remember the combination-- he changed it every few months, whenever he remembered-- but eventually it came to him, and he spun the dial and opened the safe.
There wasn't a lot there; just some emergency money, what little information he'd managed to dig up on Jack and his dad, and his gun and his shoulder holster. He strapped on the holster and grabbed the gun, checking the clip. Fully loaded.
He felt Fraser's eyes on him, and turned around and grinned at the Mountie's dubious look.
"Don't worry," he said, "it's legal. Licensed and everything."
Fraser looked uncomfortable. "I do apologize, I just--"
"Nah," Harrison said, slipping it into the holster with a flourish and shrugging on his jacket. "New experience for me too."
"So you're still... involved with this?" Fraser looked like he wasn't sure what to think about that.
"Hell yes," Harrison said. "But I am not going up against the O'Tooles without packin' heat."
"Understood," Fraser said after a moment. He looked like Harrison felt, dizzy and sick.
Harrison slammed the safe shut and spun the dial to the left. Dizzy and sick, yeah, but there was a weird sense of elation there too, an adrenaline rush, like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff and he really, really wanted to jump.
This was big. This was epic.
Tru would've done it without a second thought.
He wouldn't miss this for the world.
Benton sat at one end of the bar and sipped his club soda, keeping a worried eye on Harrison at the other end.
The beer, he'd claimed, was compulsory; he had to make his informant feel comfortable, and he would look suspicious without a drink. Ray had told Benton as much, several times, exasperated with his refusal to order an alcoholic beverage while on duty; It's not like you're throwin' a kegger, he'd insisted, just a couple sips, get the guy relaxed. But then, if Ray's informants never seemed to relax around him, Benton didn't think was because he refrained from imbibing.
But this-- he did a quick mental calculation-- was Harrison's fourth drink of the day that he'd observed, counting the beer Benton had seen him grab on his way out of the airport, and not counting whatever he might have had at lunch, and it was barely three o'clock. And this, Benton felt, was a cause for true concern.
Harrison hadn't said how long it had been since his sister died; Benton supposed it couldn't have been too long ago. Clearly the young man was not dealing with it as well as one might hope.
For the first time, he found himself wondering how he and Ray might help Harrison, once this was over. Once Ray was found.
Not too long ago, it would have been his first thought. When had he stopped putting others' needs above his own?
And then he realized-- when Ray had become one of his needs, the one he would fight the hardest to protect.
Benton felt his mask slipping, and took a long sip to cover as he calmed his nerves. When he set the glass back down, he saw that Harrison was no longer alone.
His companion was tall and dark, with large, watchful eyes; Harrison slid off his bar stool and greeted the man effusively, his grin showing no trace whatever dark thoughts he might have had. He spoke to the dark man in a low voice, and Benton strained his ears, but he couldn't make out the words.
Then the two of them sat down, and Harrison flagged down the bartender and called, "Two more, Lou!"
Five, Benton thought grimly, and took another sip.
Harrison waited until the bartender set the drinks in front of them and left, then took a long, bracing swallow of the fresh beer.
"So," he said, and slammed the glass back down and wiped his mouth, staring straight ahead all the while. "Talk to me."
Beside him, Isaac sipped slowly at his own beer. "Anything in particular?" he asked.
Harrison leaned in but still didn't look at him. "O'Tooles," he said, in a low voice. "Who's in charge now?"
"You gotta ask?" Isaac sounded amused. "You have been goin' straight."
"Toldja," Harrison said smugly.
"That ain't a compliment."
"Ouch," Harrison said.
Isaac sipped again and licked his lips. "Why you wanna know?"
"For my health, Izzy. Why you wanna know my business?"
"'Cause you're makin' it my business."
"Point," Harrison allowed.
"Come on, Harry," Isaac purred. "We both know you suck at keeping secrets."
Harrison swallowed and stared down at the bar, dragging his fingers through the condensation on the scarred wood and trying not to think about what that particular purr did to him. He couldn't even have a drink with an old friend without checking out said old friend's ass. Ray had a lot to answer for.
Stanley fucking Kowalski.
"Favor for a friend," he said finally. "He did some work with them before, might be comin' back into town. I said I'd get him hooked up with the up-and-comers."
"Fair enough," Isaac said, but Harrison knew him and he knew Isaac wasn't satisfied. "Colin's brother Pete took over when he went down. Been running things ever since."
Harrison hesitated, then turned to face Isaac as though the idea had just occurred to him. "Hey, you know someone who could get me in to see him?"
Isaac snorted. "Peter O'Toole? He's a busy man, Harry."
"Yeah," Harrison said, "but, like, a favor. C'mon, man, you know me, we go back, right?"
Isaac sighed and upended his glass, catching the last trails of beer in his glass; he always sipped, never gulped, but he polished off his drinks with surprising speed. He licked a few stray drops from his lips, and Harrison realized he was staring, fascinated, at the tip of Isaac's tongue.
Jesus. This was Isaac. What the hell was wrong with him?
Isaac, who... wasn't all that bad-looking, actually, tall and slender, with smooth dark skin of indeterminate ethnic origin and those dark, calculating eyes....
"--talk to him," Isaac was saying, and Harrison dug his fingernails into his leg and shook his head, forcing himself to start paying attention.
"Sorry, what?"
Isaac gave him an amused, knowing look. "Jim Kerry, I said. He owes me a favor. He does this for you, we'll be even."
"Awesome. Thanks, man," Harrison said, and meant it.
"Harry." Isaac leaned in close, his dark eyes glittering. "Now you owe me a favor."
Harrison blinked rapidly, and felt his face start to overheat.
"Sure," he said quickly, and jumped off the stool, knocking over his empty pint glass in the process. He righted it, and it tipped over in the other direction. He grabbed it and slammed it down on the bar, pressing his hand flat across the top.
"Stay," he ordered it.
"Don't worry," Isaac said, with a wide grin. "I got the tab."
Harrison knew he should protest; he wanted to protest. Unfortunately, he didn't have the money.
"Sure, thanks, bye," he babbled, and fled.
Fraser's hand shot out and grabbed his arm as he passed, halting his hasty retreat to the men's room. "Well?"
"Well what?" Harrison demanded, tugging fruitlessly at his wrist.
Fraser tightened his grip. "Well, what did he say?"
Harrison sighed and held up his free hand in defeat. "He gave me a name, one of O'Toole's guys. Can I please go take a leak now?"
Fraser released his arm immediately; he looked embarrassed. "Of course."
Harrison didn't take a leak. He locked himself in one of the stalls, jerked off, and tried not to think about dark, knowing eyes, or the hard pressure of a hand around his wrist.
Six days out of seven, from noon to closing time, Jim Kerry was bound to be at the track. That was where Harrison had met him, and they'd gotten along well at first.
It was also where Jim had given Harrison a black eye and two cracked ribs for talking him into betting on a dud, or so Jim had claimed, and then they didn't get on so well after that.
But this was about Ray, so he had to put the past behind him and suck it up. Harrison took a deep breath as he and Fraser walked into the betting room and plastered a wide smile on his face, ignoring the twinge of phantom pain in his ribs. "Jimmy!"
Jim looked up from his betting form; his eyes were wary and shrewd. "Harry," he said, after a moment.
"Long time, huh?" Harrison's face was starting to hurt from the grinning.
Jim nodded slowly. "What's up?"
Harrison leaned in and tried not to think about the shiner he still sported in his P.I. license photo, all because of one little misunderstanding; just his luck, it'd happened the night before he went to Kinko's to get the pictures taken. "Isaac sent me," he said, in a low voice. "Can we maybe talk in private?"
Jim just looked at him, and then his gaze slid past Harrison to Fraser, standing a few feet behind him. "Who's your friend?"
"No one important."
"He looks like a cop."
"He's not," Harrison said, which was true at least in that Fraser couldn't actually arrest anyone. He didn't think.
Finally Jim stood. "I'll talk to you. Your friend stays here."
Harrison snorted. "Like hell, Jimmy. You think I don't remember what happened last time?"
"I think you do," Jim said. "Which is why I think your friend stays here."
"Hey," Harrison said, pointing a warning finger at him. "You owe Isaac, remember? The three of us sit down, have a little chat, you're free and clear, and everyone goes home happy. Don't you wanna go home happy?"
Jim gave him another long, measuring look; Harrison smirked. Without taking his eyes off Harrison, Jim raised his voice. "You."
Silence.
"His name's Fraser," Harrison said, with another smirk.
Jim snapped his fingers. "You. Fraser."
Harrison heard Fraser come up behind him and clear his throat. "Benton Fraser, yes. I'm sorry, I was unaware you were addressing me."
Jim turned and stared at Fraser. "This guy for real?"
"Far as I can tell," Harrison said. "We got a deal?"
Jim ignored him. "Fraser," he said again, pronouncing it Frayjer. "You trying to get me alone so you can kick my ass?"
Harrison rolled his eyes.
Fraser blinked. "Ah," he said, and paused. "I can't say the idea has crossed my mind."
"Means no," Harrison said.
Jim's mouth twisted. "Yeah, I got that. Come on," he said abruptly, and turned on his heel.
They followed him into the restroom, where Harrison checked the stalls and Fraser locked the door. Jim leaned against the sink, watching them. After a few seconds, he said, "You guys are makin' me nervous."
Harrison pushed the last stall door open and saw no one. He nodded at Fraser and pulled Ray's photo out of his pocket.
"You know this guy?" he asked.
Jim studied it, eyes narrowing. Then he handed it back to Harrison and pulled a pack of Winstons out of his pocket.
"Sorry, didn't catch that," Harrison said. "Was that a yes or a no?"
Jim lit up and inhaled deeply. When he spoke, his words were accompanied by a plume of pale smoke. "What if I do?"
Yessss, Harrison thought, and glanced at Fraser. The Mountie was standing against the door like a bodyguard; his eyes were wide and hopeful.
"He's a frienda mine," Harrison said, trying to sound casual. "Mine and Fraser's there, from outta town. I hear you're pretty tight with Pete--" wouldn't hurt to butter him up a bit-- "and I thought you might know where he's staying."
Jim inhaled again and blew out a perfect smoke ring. Harrison wrinkled his nose and ducked out of the way.
"Thing is," Jim said, "maybe you're not really pals. Maybe you got a grudge, you're looking to fuck him up. Pete's pretty protective of his friends, and this guy--" He waggled his eyebrows. "He's a friend, right?"
"We have no intention--" Fraser began.
"Fraser," Harrison interrupted, and smiled sweetly at Jim. "Give us a few?"
In response, Jim blew smoke in his face.
Harrison rolled his eyes and grabbed Fraser's arm, pulling him into one of the stalls. In an urgent undertone, Fraser began, "If he's trying to protect Ray--"
"He's not trying to protect squat," Harrison hissed. "He wants money. Gimme a hundred."
Fraser looked taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"He's bargaining," Harrison said. "You wanna haggle, or you want this done? Either way. I'm cool."
Fraser sighed and pulled his money clip out of his pocket. Harrison eyed it; he had not-so-fond memories of that money clip. "I only have sixty dollars American," he said, after a moment.
Harrison poked his head out of the stall. "Hey, Jim. You take Canadian?"
Jim exhaled another plume of smoke. "You get the exchange rate right, yeah."
Harrison frowned. "How the fuck do I know the exchange rate?"
"It's one-point-two-three-four-two," Fraser said behind him.
Harrison and Jim stared at each other.
"I'm not even gonna ask," Harrison said finally, and ducked back inside.
Fraser handed him the sixty bucks, along with forty-eight brightly colored Canadian dollars, and Harrison sniffed them curiously before shoving them in his pocket.
"Okay," he said, dragging Fraser back out of the stall, "let's do some business."
After some debate, Jim agreed on the hundred, and Harrison handed it over. Then, before Jim could pull his hand back, Harrison grabbed his wrist.
"You screw me," Harrison said, meeting his eyes with the blackest glare he could muster, "and I will come calling for payback."
"You wish," Jim said, yanking his wrist out of Harrison's grip.
"I mean it, Kerry."
"Yeah, yeah," Jim said. "I'll see what I can do."
He paused on his way out the door.
"Hey, Harry," he said. "Third race. Flower of Scotland to place."
The door slammed shut behind him.
Harrison turned slowly. Fraser's eyes were like lasers.
"No money," he explained, with an embarrassed shrug.
Fraser pressed his lips together. "Then I suggest we take our leave."
Harrison cast a wistful glance at the odds on his way out the door. Twelve to one; even betting to place, he'd make good money. He opened his mouth, then eyed Fraser's broad back and shut it again.
He didn't think they'd take Canadian money anyway.
They drove back to Harrison's office in silence, and Benton found himself soothed by the smooth purr of the Mustang's engine. Harrison seemed affected as well; his eyelids were drooping, even more than usual, and Benton hoped he wasn't falling asleep at the wheel.
If it were Ray, he would have said something. In fact, if it were anyone else, he would have said something as well; after all, at least 13% of traffic fatalities were caused by tired drivers. But for some reason he was loath to break the silence, and they reached the office without incident after all.
It was Harrison who finally spoke, as he locked the car doors. "Busy day."
"Indeed."
It wasn't until they walked inside, and Harrison asked where Benton was staying, that he realized he had absolutely no idea.
Ray would laugh, he thought. Mr. Preparation, he'd say, Mr. Organized, we got this new thing in America, you might not have heard of 'em, they're called hotels, you give 'em money and you can actually sleep there....
Harrison said, "That expression on your face is tellin' me you didn't put much thought into this."
A reluctant smile tugged at Benton's lips. "However could you tell?"
"Hey, I'm a detective," Harrison said. "I detect." He tossed his jacket across the desk and ambled into the kitchen, flipping on the light, and Benton cocked his head and watched him go.
He was fascinated by the way the young man walked. Every joint swung as though they had been replaced by roller balls, and his movements had a kind of restless, fluid grace that reminded him of the very few times Ray had danced for him. When Harrison spoke, he spoke with his whole body; when he reacted to people, his body carried on a silent conversation without saying a word. His limbs, Benton thought, took the roundabout journey to their destination, yet always seemed to arrive with surprising speed.
He wondered if Harrison knew what his body did, if he deliberately spoke volumes with a single twitch of his lips; or if he was an unwitting exhibitionist, his every emotion writ large across every inch of skin.
He supposed he'd never ask.
"Well, you can stay here," Harrison called from the depths of the refrigerator. "I mean, I don't actually have a couch, but I think I got a lawn chair somewhere."
"All I need are some blankets, thank you."
"Damn." Harrison straightened and slammed the refrigerator door shut. "No more beer."
Benton bit his lip and managed to refrain from comment.
Harrison tilted his head, staring at Benton, and his eyes lit up with an unsettling gleam.
"No," Benton said immediately.
Harrison grinned, flashing a dimple that only served to make his expression more disturbing. "Oh, come on. You don't even know what I was gonna say."
"No," Benton admitted, "but whatever it is, I highly doubt it will end well."
Harrison smirked and emerged from the kitchen, reaching for his jacket and shrugging it on again. "I was just gonna say, you look like a man who could stand to unwind a bit."
"Oh really," Benton said coolly. "And how do you propose I do that?"
"What, I gotta spell everything out for ya?" Harrison punched him lightly in the arm. "Look, we can't do anything else tonight. Either Jim'll call or he won't. And you look like you been waiting a long time to get good and shitfaced."
Benton's first, instinctive reaction was revulsion; he had spent all day watching Harrison sneak the occasional drink, and the last thing he wanted to do was enable the young man's habit. He opened his mouth to say as much, and then closed it again.
Because Harrison had a point, damn him. For two straight months, Benton had been on edge, waiting for Ray to come home and half-expecting the phone call that would tell him how terribly, horribly wrong things had gone. And now he was so close, Ray was in the city somewhere, he was right there, and Benton couldn't find him.
He'd never lost Ray on the tundra, not once. Dangerous terrain all around, vast stretches of nothingness where a man could easily be lost, and somehow he and Ray had always found their way back to each other. His current helplessness stung, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to blot out the pain.
This wasn't healthy, he knew. It wasn't an impulse he ought to indulge.
"You're right," he said, and set his jaw. "I have been waiting a very long time."
He could tell from Harrison's expression that he hadn't expected that.
Well, that made two of them.
THREE HOURS LATER
"Whoa, okay," Harrison said, "step there, I mean, don't step there, 'cause there's a step there--"
"I am perfectly capable," Fraser said, with great dignity, "of walking unaided," and then his foot went one way and the rest of him went the other, and he fell heavily against Harrison and nearly flattened them both to the ground.
Harrison bit back a giggle, because giggling wasn't manly. "Upsy-daisy," he chirped, righting Fraser with a heroic effort. "'Sall right, we're almost there, it's just down the block."
"Vile," Fraser was muttering, "vicious, vile, evil substance, not fit for human consumption...."
Harrison tuned him out, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. He was drunk, he was rip-roaring, shitfaced drunk, and he hadn't meant to be; just a few drinks, just to take the edge off, but then Fraser had started keeping pace with him, and then he'd started keeping pace with Fraser, and somewhere along the line it all spiraled wildly out of control.
Which was why they were stumbling down the street like any two drunk guys at one in the morning, wrapped around each other for balance. Harrison thought about it, and felt a sudden, unexpected rush of affection for Fraser. Good ol' Fraser, with his wolf, and his... boots... and his Mountie-ness... and his getting drunk with Harrison, which in Harrison's book was grounds for a lifelong friendship. He had lots of lifelong friends. He never actually saw any of them, but he thought of them fondly, usually somewhere around his third tequila.
Fraser had been appalled by the tequila. He'd expected as much.
"Harrison," Fraser was saying, "Harrison, Harrison, Harrison," and Harrison blinked and saw that he was just about to walk past his own door.
"Right," he muttered, squinting at the lock. "Right, keys, I got keys somewhere...."
He patted his pockets, and Fraser patted his pockets, and between the two of them they managed to get the keys in the door.
"Voila," Harrison said, stumbling inside and slapping vaguely at the wall. "Home sweet hovel."
The light came on, and Harrison blinked; he'd been feeling for the switch on the wrong side of the door. Fraser stood on the other side, one hand on the light switch, nodding approvingly at the flickering fluorescent lights.
"Much better," he said.
"You're a genius," Harrison said.
"A simple trick of memory," Fraser said, but he looked pleased.
"You're a genius," Harrison repeated, and wove his way unsteadily across the room. "I gotta shake yer hand."
He held out his hand, and Fraser took it and shook with surprising firmness. The contact sent a miniature shock wave through his body, and Harrison gripped Fraser's hand tighter for balance and put his other hand on Fraser's shoulder, also for balance, because he figured he needed as much balance as he could get.
And then Fraser cocked his head and just looked at him, and Harrison felt the fingers around his hand tighten in turn.
Harrison tilted his head quizzically to the side. His pale eyes narrowed. He looked down, where their hands were still joined, and seemed to consider them.
"Huh," he said.
Benton was transfixed.
It had hit him, all at once, like a ton of bricks dropping directly on his head. One second it had just been Harrison, drunk and glowing with it, his face pink and his eyes feverish, and Benton secretly disapproved because he wasn't drunk, he was just a little unsteady, and if the carpet had any ideas to the contrary, well, it had another think coming, no matter how attractive it might have looked to his tired, drained body.
And the next second he had thought, Dear God.
Harrison looked so very much like Ray.
How could he not have seen it before?
He felt Harrison's grip on his hand tighten, and he returned the squeeze automatically, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Ray, he thought, but that wasn't right; but his body, the same one that had been so tired before, was unconvinced. His body saw unruly blond hair, and quick pale eyes, and stubborn, strangely delicate features, lined with time; it felt the wiry strength in the handshake; and it missed Ray terribly.
Benton noted his free hand with curious detachment, wondering why it was reaching for Harrison's face, pushing a stray shock of hair out of his eyes. He felt removed, no longer in control of his movements. His body had reached the end of its tether. It had finally decided to rebel.
Harrison leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed.
That was it; that was the last straw. Benton curled his fingers around the back of Harrison's head and pulled him in.
Harrison's lips opened under his, but they didn't move at first; his eyes were closed, and he seemed to be holding his breath. Benton dipped his tongue tentatively between those lips, flicking at the very edge of the wet heat within.
Some distant, never-silent part of his mind was analyzing the taste. Bitter. Salty. Tequila. Beer. Ketchup.
And then it was too much, and Benton was kissing him in earnest, and Harrison's mouth welcomed his, giving back as good as it got. Absurdly, their hands were still joined, and he squeezed his fingers to the same rhythm as his tongue, the steady, thrusting rhythm his unruly, disobedient body so wanted to echo. Harrison's other hand was still on his shoulder, and his fingers were gripping hard enough to leave bruises.
Ray, he thought, I'm sorry, but it wasn't enough to make him pull back, and he hated himself for it.
He was doing that a lot lately.
And then Harrison's cell phone rang.
Harrison didn't hear the phone at first; he was busy being distracted by the tongue in his mouth, the Mountie attached to the tongue, and the intense heat emanating from the Mountie-- heat that made him want to plaster himself against Fraser and just hang on and enjoy the ride. And if the kiss were any indication, it'd be one hell of a roller coaster.
Then his brain caught up with his ears, and it was like his conscience smacking him in the back of his head. He tensed, and felt Fraser freeze against him, their lips still pressed together, motionless.
Harrison opened his eyes reluctantly, and found himself gazing deeply into Fraser's wide blue eyes.
The phone rang again.
They sprang apart as though electrocuted. Somehow Harrison's boots got tangled up with each other, or the carpet, or any of the random crap that might have happened to be scattered on the carpet, and he lost his balance and landed hard on his ass. A second later, the back of his skull hit the floor.
Harrison blinked at the ceiling through automatic tears of pain, and wondered if the bruise on his ass counted as a metaphorical spanking.
"I'm so-- I shouldn't-- you--" Across the room, pressed flat against the wall, Fraser was wide-eyed and babbling. He hadn't gotten out a whole sentence yet, but Harrison figured he already knew the gist of it.
"Save it," he said wearily, squirming as he pulled his jacket out from under him and reached for the pocket without bothering to sit up. The floor was actually kind of comfy, once he stopped wondering when was the last time he'd vacuumed. Did he even own a vacuum?
Did he even know how to work a vacuum?
Fraser had fallen silent. "Thank you," Harrison said, and he looked at the call display and groaned.
He flung one arm over his eyes and flipped open the phone. "Yeah, what?"
"You know, Harry, you're a lot friendlier when you want something," Jim said.
"It's the way of my people," Harrison said. "You got something for me or not?"
Jim didn't answer. Harrison frowned and sat up, suddenly feeling a lot more sober, and not liking it one bit.
"Jimmy," he said. "Talk to me. Where's Ra-- where's my friend?"
He could hear Fraser snap to attention, and he rolled his eyes, feeling a surge of irrational jealousy. The Mountie hadn't been so damn gung-ho two minutes ago.
Well, he had, but not about Ray.
Jim was silent a few more seconds. Then, just before Harrison was forced to try and strangle the phone, he said, "You wanna see your friend, get down to the warehouse on 5th."
For a moment, Harrison forgot how to breathe.
"You know the one," Jim added nastily, and Harrison did know. He knew and stayed the hell away from, because word was that was where the pros went when they didn't want anyone to hear anything.
More often than not, that anything was two bullets in the back of the skull.
"Still there?" Jim sounded amused. "You might wanna hurry, Harry. I don't think he's gonna be there for very long."
Harrison stood, spun, and threw the phone against the wall as hard as he could.
"Harrison."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then another. Then he turned and faced Fraser, and felt his lips twist into a tight, humorless smile.
"We gotta go," he said, and was amazed at the steadiness of his voice. "Like, now."
Fraser nodded grimly. "Understood."
It was the longest drive of Harrison's life.
All the way there, faces kept flashing in front of his eyes. His mother, who Tru couldn't save. Tru, who he couldn't save. Luc, who took the bullet meant for him.
Ray Kowalski was not going to become just another casualty in the life of Harrison Davies.
Luckily, it was late enough that most of the traffic was gone. When he swerved the Mustang onto 5th Street and saw the warehouse ahead, he didn't bother parking; he just pulled over to the curb in flagrant defiance of the yellow paint, threw the car into park, and leapt out onto the street.
He ran for the door, and felt Fraser fall in step beside him, then pull a few steps ahead. He didn't bother to look, keeping his eyes fixed on the door: ten feet away, five--
The door, which was padlocked shut.
Fraser was staring at the lock, his jaw set. He looked up as Harrison stumbled to a stop and doubled over, breathing hard. "Do you have your lockpicks?"
"Screw that," Harrison gasped. He braced one hand on his knee and, with the other, pulled the gun from his holster.
"Ah," Fraser said. "Yes, much better."
Harrison straightened slowly and sucked in a lungful of air. Then he exhaled, raised the gun, and fired.
The lock split apart with a deafening crack.
Fraser kicked open the door and ran inside before Harrison could even re-holster his gun. He rolled his eyes as he did, then winced when his finger got pinched between the metal and the leather.
Sucking on the injured digit, he followed Fraser inside at a more leisurely jog. The blind panic was gone, replaced by a gnawing anxiety. Fraser had gone ahead of him; Fraser would take care of things... if they could be taken care of. But if not....
He turned the corner and froze.
Fraser knelt in the middle of the empty warehouse floor, his head bowed. His back was to Harrison, and he was kneeling over... over....
...a slowly growing puddle of blood.
"No," Harrison heard himself say, "no, no, this is not happening," not again, and his legs started moving again, drawn to the blood despite the sickening dread that had settled in his gut. Ray couldn't be dead. He was shot, he was just injured, he couldn't be dead, except if he weren't Fraser would be doing something, he wouldn't just be sitting there--
His boots stopped at the edge of the puddle, and he forced himself to look down.
Ray's slack face stared up at him with open, glassy eyes.
Harrison didn't remember kneeling, but a second later he was on his knees and warm, sticky blood was soaking through his jeans. He didn't care.
Ray wasn't moving. Ray was always moving.
He was vaguely aware of Fraser standing, with slow, deliberate movements that seemed almost robotic. "We did this," he said, in a low, hoarse, terrible voice.
Harrison felt as though he were under water. It took effort to speak. "What?"
"Our questions," Fraser said with difficulty, "must have aroused suspicion. We--" He broke off with a strangled sound, choking on the words.
Harrison closed his eyes. We did this. The truth of it was like a punch in the stomach.
He'd screwed up. Again.
When he opened his eyes, Ray was still staring at nothing. Harrison stared back. Death had softened the ever-present stress lines around his mouth and eyes, making him look not much older than Harrison. His hair was shorter than it had been in the photo, and bleached again, and now it was matted with blood and pale gray brains.
Harrison reached out, wanting to touch Ray's hair, his mouth, the shadows under his cheekbones. His fingers settled on Ray's eyelids, lowering them carefully over pale dead eyes.
Harry....
"What," he muttered, still staring at Ray.
Harry.
"What!" he snapped, and glared up at Fraser.
Fraser blinked down at him. He seemed to have trouble focusing. "Sorry?"
"You said my name," Harrison said, but even as he spoke he realized Fraser had never called him Harry before.
"I did?" Fraser looked lost.
"Someone had to," Harrison retorted, "and there's--" No one else here, he meant to say, but that wasn't true, was it?
"No way," he said, still staring at Fraser. "No fucking way."
Harry.
Harrison looked down slowly, with equal parts hope and dread.
Ray was still silent, his eyes still closed. Harrison shook his head, disgusted with himself. What had he expected? Tru was the miracle worker, not him.
Ray's eyes flew open. His head snapped to the side.
"Harry," he whispered. "Take 'em down."
And then he was falling backwards, and time peeled away in front of him like layers of skin peeling from his flesh, and the thing that surprised him most, as the images flashed rapid-fire before his eyes, was that it didn't hurt at all.
BEFORE | YESTERDAY | TODAY | AFTER E-mail: mayatawi@populli.net