That's An Incentive
Ray was sorely disappointed. He had hoped that the assignment would have been over by the end of the day, as he had managed to acquire some ice hockey tickets and had planned to surprise Fraser when he went to pick him up from the Canadian consulate that evening. The stakeout had been a last-minute affair and had come down the line from a very reliable snitch, who had sworn on his life about a drug deal that was about to take place, and the whole of Vecchio's division had been drafted in to cover the three places that had been mentioned as possible sites for the deal.
Captain Welch had volunteered Ray to cover one of the sites, and Ray had hoped that Fraser would be available to cover it with him - in fact he had informed his captain that that would be the case, but on reaching the Canadian consulate he had discovered that it was not to be so, as Benny was guarding the front door again, and would not be off duty until after the drug bust went down. So Ray considered his options and, without stopping to talk to Benny, he decided to go on the stakeout on his own. After all, he reasoned, his site was the least suspect... and he had been right, as during the past four hours while he had been sitting in his car, no-one had actually come near the place.
He was just reaching for the radio to inform dispatch that he was giving up the stakeout, when he noticed a car turn into the road ahead and pull into the abandoned scrap-yard that he was watching. He ducked down in case any of its occupants glanced in his direction. When he looked back above the dashboard, the car had vanished from sight.
Opening the door, he slipped from the car and headed towards the entrance where he'd seen the car go. He shot a look back at his own vehicle and wondered if he should call for backup, but then decided against it. He had no real proof that the car entering the yard had actually been the drug dealers; they could just be prospective buyers for the site, for all he knew. With that thought in mind, he decided to just check and see if a deal was actually going down. If it was, he could always return to his car and then call for backup.
Carefully he slipped into the yard, taking care to ensure that he was not seen. Although the junk yard had been closed for several months, it had not been cleared and still afforded him quite a few hiding places. Slowly, inch by inch, he edged his way forward, moving in the direction of the voices that he could hear. Once he saw them, he ducked down and strained his ears to listen. He could not hear a lot of what was being said, but he had been witness to enough illegal activities to realise that these men were not inspecting the site as prospective buyers.
With equal care he began to edge his way from the small group of men, but froze when he heard the sudden deafening sound of gunfire from behind him. He knew instantly that the deal had gone bad. Return fire echoed about the yard, and he dived for cover as he heard someone yell in rage and then run in his direction.
As he attempted to dive behind some wrecked cars, he felt a flash of pain along his leg and knew that he had been seen, and - while the injury only felt like a glancing blow - it was still enough to halt him in his flight as he crumpled to the ground, clutching at his wounded leg.
Then the man who had shot him arched backwards, his feet lifting from the ground as his chest exploded outwards in a shower of red. He was dead before he hit the ground. Ray frantically tried to scramble for cover as the killer strolled casually into view. He was instantly spotted, and watched helplessly as the man aimed, smiled, and pulled the trigger on his gun.
Ray never felt the actual bullet strike, but his body reacted to the impact as he was flung backward hard against the wrecks that were piled up behind him. He lay there, face upwards, arms outstretched, to all intents and purposes dead. The blood pouring down his face only added to the impression of death.
Slowly, silence once more fell upon the site of carnage and the man who had shot Ray sauntered over to check his kills. He stooped down to kneel beside the first man, taking care not to kneel in the blood that now lay spread about the corpse. After thoroughly checking to make sure there were no signs of life, he began rifling the man's pockets and removed his wallet, checking his name and removing the spare cash before dropping it to the floor. He then stood and moved over towards Ray's inert body.
"Samson," called the man who had hired the killer, his anger clearly heard in his tone. The killer paused, a frown marring his features. He hated to leave before he'd had a chance to check his victims. "Samson!" This time the cry was a snarl, and the man in question knew that to anger the crime boss was to court his own demise, so he swiftly reached into Ray's jacket pocket and pulled out the wallet that he found there. He would check on his victim's identity later, and then add him to the macabre database that he had been compiling since he'd started out on his chosen profession. Standing, Samson moved away, his thoughts no longer with the men he had shot, but with the items he would buy with the extra cash he had just acquired.
Several minutes passed as the survivors of the drug deal entered their vehicle and left the yard. Once they had departed, silence once more descended upon the abandoned area. Slowly the afternoon wore on and the sun began its slow descent in the sky. With the coming of dusk a freezing wind began to play across the yard; as if its arrival had heralded the waking of the dead, one of the corpses began to move. It was only a slight motion at first, but this built into a groan, which was followed by a hand attempting to lift itself feebly from the ground.
The corpse came awake with a suddenness that had him sitting up before he realised that it was not a wise thing to do. He tumbled over and threw up repeatedly on the cold hard ground, shivering violently as he did so.
When he had finished, he lay panting for several minutes, wishing that the pain would go away. Finally he looked up and he could see the cars piled up high about him. Taking a breath, he retched as the smell of his own blood almost made him sick again, but he fought against the sensation. He tried to glance about again, but the world was tilting at such a violent angle that he finally gave up and let his head drop back on the ground, forehead resting upon the dusty floor.
As he lay there he tried to place together what had happened, but found that his mind was a blank, just splintered images of time out-of-synch - in fact, the more he thought about recent events, the less he seemed to know. This was followed by the sickening revelation that he couldn't even remember his name.
Slowly, after several abortive attempts, he managed to clamber to his knees and began to crawl towards the other body that he could see. It took several minutes and another bout of sickness before he reached the corpse, as his injured leg and his head wound prevented him from moving very fast.
Reaching out a shaking hand, he felt for a pulse, not sure how he knew how to do it, and not really caring. Getting none, he rested for a moment against the cooling body and gathered what thoughts still remained within his swirling mind. He knew instinctively that he was in danger and that he had to get away.
His leg flared with pain, and he gingerly removed the dead man's tie. Ripping a larger hole in his pants leg, he used the tie to roughly secure his handkerchief over the wound to stop the bleeding. Then he lay panting for several minutes after this action, as the world slowly returned into focus - or as much focus as it seemed able to achieve in his present condition.
Once he could concentrate again, he began a fumbling search of his own clothing. After several frantic seconds he knew that he had no wallet, and therefore no idea of who he was. As he finished the search, he blearily noted a discarded wallet laying alongside the body, just by his own leg, so he reached for it and read the name: Ray Dean.... Ray - the name seemed to fit. The wallet informed him that he was a native of Chicago and gave the address where he lived. He noted with a sour face that there was no money. Suddenly a memory crept forward, and he reached behind him and fumbled in his back pocket. He looked in stunned surprise at the $100 bill he found.
Suddenly the air was split by the sound of police sirens and he felt a moment of utter terror: his father had always warned him about not trusting the police; they were not worth crossing the road to piss on if they were on fire. He could recall his father saying that many times and, shooting a look down at the corpse, he realised that beside the dead man would not be a good place to be found.
With a strength born of fear, he managed to stagger to his feet and half-stumbled, hopped and fumbled further back into the yard, just out of sight of the police car as it erupted into the yard. Within minutes, he had managed to escape through a hole at the back of the junk into the growing darkness of Chicago.
***
Captain Welch looked about in disgust, taking in the sight of the bodies and counting them up; five men in all had died within the junk yard that day, and there was still no sign of Detective Vecchio. The man resettled his jacket and wished that he hadn't decided to give up smoking. It was obvious that it had been quite a few hours since the massacre had taken place, but no one at the station had thought anything was amiss with Vecchio until Fraser had strolled in, asking for Ray's whereabouts as he explained that Ray had not met him after work, as agreed.
When questioned about the stakeout, the Canadian had shown total surprise as Ray had not visited him that day. The surprise had swiftly turned from concern to fear when they had not been able to raise Vecchio on his radio. The other two stakeouts had been wrapped up hours before, with no results, and it had been the general consensus that Ray had done the same and headed home at the end of his shift.
A quick glance of concern passed between the American captain and the Canadian constable before both men rushed from the squad room, Welch shouting orders for backup to be sent to the junk yard straight away, as he left.
They had not been the first officers on the scene, but they had arrived shortly before the coroner's van, which had been summoned to the scrap yard by the first patrol car that had arrived and found the assortment of bodies that lay scattered about.
Captain Welch closely watched Fraser as he carefully paced about the yard. Heading first one way, then the other, stopping to check something, then shaking his head as if not finding what he was looking for, he stood and began to widen his search area. "He's not here, sir," one of his officers reported to Welch, coming to stand by the captain's side. The man in question nodded; he was aware that the police officer who had spoken knew Ray personally. Wiping a hand over his tired face, Welch slowly did a complete turn to look at the destruction that surrounded him.
"All right...." He paused; what else could he say? If Vecchio was not here but his car was, then the man had to have been forcibly taken. There was no way that the Italian detective would leave his beloved car, otherwise. Welch's main concern now was to find his detective, alive if possible or - if he was dead - then retrieve his body and ensure that whoever had killed him would pay.
"Should we not stop him, before he destroys evidence or something?" asked the concerned officer, indicating Fraser as the Canadian slowly expanded his search.
Welch considered the request for a few moments, then slowly shook his head. "Nah," he offered, "he won't touch anything important, and we might just need his help if we are going to find Vecchio."
"Sir?" Patrolman Jefferson said, not really agreeing with the other man but having learned a long time ago that it was not wise to cross captains - especially this one. He decided to let the matter rest and asked instead, "Shall I put out an APB on Detective Vecchio?"
"Yeah," Welch said, his attention still firmly fixed upon the red-suited Canadian. "It can't hurt and you never know, we just might get lucky." Saying that, he dismissed the other man from his thoughts and headed out after Fraser, who had disappeared around one of the many piles of junk that were littered about the yard.
Welch came up behind Fraser as he stood looking down at a corpse; the man's chest was missing and he lay in a drying pool of blood. "This man had been moved," Benny said, quite matter-of-factly. "And this blood here...." he pointed to a smear of blood that looked out of place on the jacket, "is not his... it's too fresh," he finished, tilting his head and closely inspecting the ground.
Suddenly he stood and moved off, heading away from the corpse, his direction clear and his intention plain as he made a bee-line towards an unsteady looking tower of cars. He bent down, closely inspecting the ground a few times along the way as he spoke, "Someone has crossed this space; they are injured - see the trail of blood, and the indentations show that they were unable to gain their feet." As he moved, he continued, "It would appear that they were injured over here; you can see the pool of blood, which trails back to the dead man, but this is nearly dry..." he crouched down and gently touched the mark on the ground, before pointing back over towards the corpse, "whereas the blood on his jacket is fresh...." Standing, he brushed his hand clean of sand and offered, "I would say that whoever this person was, he left only a short while ago."
"Do you think it was Ray?" Welch asked, his hope growing as he moved to stand beside the Canadian.
Fraser drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so, trying to picture the events and the order in which they had happened as he moved about the yard. "I do not believe that the people who committed this atrocity would have any remorse about killing a police officer... I also believe that if Ray was discovered by them, he would be dead... and here... unless he was injured, injured in such a way that they considered him to be dead, then after they had left he awoke and, for some reason I can't explain, he felt the need to escape."
"Maybe they were still here?" Welch ventured, having wandered about behind the other man, totally fascinated by the way his reasoning worked.
Fraser shook his head, then indicated the ground by the corpse again. "No, I believe that Ray spent some time leaning over the body; he would not have been able to do so if the killers were still here...." Slowly Benny did a complete circle, taking in the dead man, the distance that Ray had to travel to reach the corpse and the location of the rest of the bodies. "No... something else caused Ray to leave here... and I think that it was the sound of us arriving that did it."
"Us?" Welch demanded, "that doesn't make sense."
Fraser looked confused and frightened in the same breath as he answered, "No... no, it doesn't, does it? But..." he paused and again looked at the ground under his feet. Seeing the telltale sign of a bloody trail he continued, "but I do believe that finding Ray should be our utmost priority."
***
Ray didn't know how long he had wandered along the streets, but he slowly began to realise that he was getting strange looks from people, and - after glancing down at his appearance - he could see why.
He was limping badly from the leg wound, his clothes were torn, bloody and dirty, and he was staggering from exhaustion. He was conscious enough to know that if he didn't seek shelter soon, some busybody would call the police on him and, for some reason, he was convinced that would be a bad move.
He also realised that the reason why no one had yet called the police on him, was because he was in the seedier part of the city. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he glanced up and saw the half-lit sign of a hotel. He smiled; the building had the appearance of being a slum city candidate in itself and had obviously seen better days, but now half the front sign was missing and there appeared to be more broken windows in the place than glazed, and he thought, with another smile, that it seemed to be just the place that he was looking for.
The old man who sat on the reception desk took one look at Ray's appearance and upped the cost of the room by $20. Ray balked a bit at the cost, but kept his opinion to himself and begrudgingly handed over the money, passing another $20 across to secure a bathroom en-suite.
The chain smoker blew out a puff of acid smoke in Ray's direction, and then pointed a claw-like hand towards the filthy register that looked as if it hadn't seen ink in quite a few years, and watched intently as Ray filled in the name John Smith. He gave his new lodger a toothless, smoke-yellowed grin when Ray looked up at him. Without a backwards glance, Vecchio left the small reception area behind and slowly, painfully climbed up the stairs to the first floor where his room was situated.
As he opened the door that led into the dreary room, the world tilted and he stumbled heavily into the wall. He leaned against it for several minutes while he gathered his bearings and waited for the spinning to subside.
When he felt able to, he slowly moved further into the room, closing and making sure the door was locked before he moved over to the bed. In one motion he pulled back the covers and sprawled upon the hard mattress, unconscious before he hit the bed.
***
Constable Benton Fraser was growing more concerned with each step that he took. He was easily able to follow the minute trail of blood that led out of the junk yard, and soon found himself in the seedier part of the city. Glancing about, he realised that it was even worse than his own living area, which surprised him. Another reason for his concern was why Ray had not stopped at the first public phone booth and called for help. He had passed a few since leaving Captain Welch and, while some of them were beyond repair, he had found two that were working.
Suddenly the trail stopped, but Benny knew that it was not because the injury had stopped bleeding - more because of a mechanical sweeper that had driven along the road, spraying water into the gutter to clean it... that water had spilled over onto the sidewalk and effectively removed any sign of the blood.
Fraser frowned; the trail could lead anywhere, as ahead of him was a major intersection. Moving forward, he spent the next several hours scouring the immediate area to see if the trail resumed. It didn't.
Now as he moved, Fraser stopped and asked people if they had seen an injured man walking along the road. Most people just stared at him, shocked at having been addressed in public, others backed away, totally unwilling to speak to him. His one success was an old man who did recall seeing someone limping along, but he was not sure if he was injured or drunk. Fraser thanked him kindly and continued in his search.
It was now fairly late in the evening, and he had to admit that his chances of finding Ray were getting slimmer with each passing moment. Especially as he witnessed the nightlife of this area crawl out onto the street. He wished that he had Diefenbaker with him, but had left the wolf at home with Willy, as he had been on duty at the consulate's front entrance. He did consider going back to his apartment for him, but then decided that he would be wasting time that he didn't have, so he continued his search.
***
The killer sat casually in the small, secluded restaurant, having just finished a marvellous meal, paid for by the man he had murdered earlier in the junk yard. As he finished up, he leant back and sipped at his coffee, looking down at the wallet that he had stolen from the man he had shot. He then looked at the police identification and shield. The man was a cop, one Ray Vecchio, and now Samson had been informed by a reliable source that a Captain Walsh had put out an APB on the cop - which meant that he was not dead, but had not been found at the junk yard... so he had obviously left the yard under his own steam, but the fact that he had not reported in also implied that he was not thinking straight, and the killer knew that he was injured. But the bottom line was that he might be able to identify Samson, and the killer was too much of a professional to allow that to happen.
Standing abruptly, the man threw some money onto the table and stormed from the restaurant, his meal soured by the knowledge that he had left someone alive who could identify him. He had already spread the word on the street that he was also looking for the missing cop, and was expecting some feedback fairly soon. The money he had offered was substantial, and he had no doubts that the man he had injured that afternoon would soon be dead.
***
Waking was not easy for Ray. His head was a flare of agony and his leg throbbed in time with the pounding behind his eyes. He lay there for a long time, just allowing his body to recover as the room swam about him; he wanted to be sick and yet knew that, if he moved, he would only make his situation worse.
Finally, the cold of the room penetrated his shivering body and he knew that he would have to move. Slowly turning over, he was unable to suppress the groan which this action caused and he lay panting, trying to gather the pain and vertigo back under some sort of control. He gasped a couple of times, then leaning further over the bed he spilled his stomach's contents on the dirty floor, heaving until he had nothing left to bring up.
When he was able to breathe again, he struggled to sit up and feebly attempted to pull the thin blankets over him. He was not sure if he succeeded, as consciousness fled once more.
***
As the hours ticked by, Fraser felt his worry intensify until it was a gnawing, twisting knot in his stomach. He had not found any further sign of the Ray, and now knew that he had totally lost all track of his friend.
Fraser had bumped into Henry Martin, an undercover vice cop who Ray had once introduced him to. Henry specialised at playing a drunk homeless man, so that he could watch and report on the local pimp action on the street. Henry had urgently pulled him aside on the pretext of asking for money, which Fraser had willingly supplied to allow him to keep his cover. While Benny searched for his dollars, the man informed him that there was a rumour on the street that someone had offered a large amount of money to find the cop who had got shot in the junk yard that afternoon.
Henry was unable to discover who had put the word out, or who was footing the bill, but word had come down the line that a hotel over on Main Street was starting to attract some unprecedented attention.
Fraser thanked Henry for his assistance and, moving away, he began to head back towards Main Street. His pace increased with every step, as he realised that only the killer would have a desperate need to find Ray Vecchio, and the ability to lay out such a large amount of money to do so.
***
This time when Ray awoke, he was able to look at the world without feeling sick. He lay for a while just enjoying this fact, before the smell of the room overwhelmed him and thirst drove him from the bed.
Stepping carefully about the mess beside the bed, he staggered into the bathroom and, turning on the tap, dipped his head under the weak stream of water. It was cold enough to cause him to catch his breath, but it felt good against his hot skin.
He stood there for a few minutes, letting the water just flow over him - he didn't care that it was also trickling down his back and dripping onto his trousers leg. He knew that he was in serious trouble, but no amount of concentrating could help him to remember the events that led up to his waking in the junk yard.
He limped back into the bedroom and made his way over to the one chair that stood near the window, which he opened in an effort to get rid of the smell that lingered. He sat taking in deep breaths of the cold night air, and tried to work out what he was going to do next.
His head still throbbed, and at times his vision blurred. The wound in his leg was a continual ache, and he knew that he would have to venture out to get a bandage or something better to secure it with, because - while it had not started bleeding again - he could still see the caked-on blood from before. He was also very aware of the fact that infection could easily set in, and, if he was honest, he knew from the pulsing of the wound that there was an infection already eating at the edges of his injury.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out what remained of his money. Carefully counting it out, he saw that he only had forty dollars left; the room had cost $60, and he knew that he was not going to get very far on what he had left.
Leaning back, he closed his eyes against the pain that flared and tried to think about what had happened earlier that day. He could see flashes of images and people's faces... strangers swam into view. He could see their lips moving as they spoke to him, but he was unable to make out what they were saying.
One face kept reappearing, and Ray felt that he should know who it was, but the name just kept slipping away from him. The man was dressed in a red-breasted uniform, and again, Ray felt that this should mean something important to him.
Sighing, he opened his eyes and let the image fade. He could not waste his time trying to sort out his loss of memory now. He had to find somewhere safe to hold up, as he knew that the hotel was only a temporary stop.
Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the wallet and once again looked at the address on the identification slip. It meant nothing to him, but he considered it to be a safe place to head for - and hopefully it wouldn't cost him any money, and he might have food and supplies there.
He glanced at his watch and realised that it was broken; for some reason this upset him much more than anything else had that night, and he removed it with some force and threw it across the room, gaining slight satisfaction when it hit the wall hard and bounced back onto the floor. He slumped back, shaking. He judged that it must be early morning by the chilled air that entered the room. He also know that, if he was going to make a move, then it had to be soon... but he was so tired, he desperately needed more sleep.
Now that he had decided on a course of action, his body relaxed slightly and, unconsciously, his eyes slipped shut as he drifted off into a troubled sleep, hunched awkwardly in the small chair by the window.
***
Benny knew that time was against him finding Ray; if the killer had placed a price on finding Vecchio, then it would not take the street people long to inform him of where the wounded man was hiding.
He quickly made a tour of the few hotels that existed in this downtrodden part of Chicago and left each building feeling more and more depressed. Finally he entered the reception of the second from last hotel and saw the small man who sat behind the reception desk, smoking deeply from a long cigarette that had a foreign smell to it.
The man looked up, quickly assessed the Canadian Mountie who stood before him and, glancing back down, he smiled. It didn't reach his eyes as he asked, "Room?"
"Not quite," Benny returned with a smile of his own, which was warm and genuine, before he added, "I'm looking for a friend." As he spoke he moved towards the desk and, on reaching it, he glanced down at the registration book and felt a jolt of recognition go through him as he saw Ray's scrawled writing on the page.
The small man, seeing the direction of the Mountie's glance, snapped the book closed and drew it defensively towards him before slipping it firmly under the desk. "No one has booked in here tonight," he offered, knowing what the word on the street was and intending to get the money for himself. He had already dispatched word of his guest, and didn't want any overdressed Canadian cop taking his prize away.
"No one?" Fraser queried as he raised an eyebrow. "But I saw a name on your book..." he began, but the older man cut him off.
"Regular guest, would not be a friend of yours," snapped the small man, his tone very hostile as he glared at the other man.
Fraser considered his options before he nodded slowly, knowing that he was not going to get any further information from this man, who he suspected was holding out for money before he parted with any real information. "Then I would like to take a room, please."
The man licked at his lips, his eyes alight with greed as he answered, "$100 with bathroom." Fraser paused, as he knew that was very expensive, but he could see no other way of getting up the stairs and on with the task of finding Ray without causing a scene. Because he knew that the man would not let him up the stairs otherwise, the bribe was necessary.
He pulled the money out slowly and said a silent goodbye to the jacket he had drawn the money out to buy. The cash was snatched from his grasp at the same time as the registration book reappeared. He took his time and wrote his name on the dirty sheet, making a mental note of Ray's room number, which was scratched into the margin of the book, as he did so.
When the key was handed over, he smiled brightly and offered a "Thank you, kindly," as he quickly made his way upstairs.
A few minutes after Fraser had left the reception, Samson, the killer, entered. He wore a heavy, expensive coat and carried himself with grace. The dirty little man behind the reception desk stood again, carefully watching the man before him, as he took a deep drag of his nearly finished cigarette. Waiting until the stranger finally came to a stop before him, he asked, "How can I help you?" He spoke differently this time; there was respect in his tone, as he could see that the man before him was one who was not to be messed with.
When he had entered, Samson had taken in the dirty lobby, the smell of the place and the walls that looked as if they had not seen a lick of paint in many years, then finally the man who stood before him. He glanced briefly at the register, which the receptionist casually covered with his hands. Reaching into his pocket, Samson slowly pulled out a wad of money and showed it to the man, who smiled broadly and raised both hands to clearly show the register. No words were spoken, as the old man now knew who he faced, and Samson smiled his thanks as he noted the room numbers of the two people who had entered the hotel and registered that night; he knew that the cop - Vecchio - was in one of those rooms.
Just as the dirty man behind the counter sneaked a hand across the wooden surface to snatch up the money, Samson reached out also and pulled him roughly over the counter, pressing a miniature gun with silencer deep into his stomach and pulling the trigger three times, holding the body while it jerked under the impact. On the third shot, he released the man.
The force of the last shot blew the body backwards, where it hit the wall and slid down leaving a dirty red trail, to land out of sight behind the reception desk. The entire set of events, from Samson first entering the hotel to his killing the receptionist, had only taken minutes.
Carefully the killer placed the small gun into his jacket pocket, then picked up the money that the dead man had dropped back onto the counter in his shock. As he strolled towards the stairs, Samson realised that he had not gathered any personal details from the man he had just murdered. He paused and considered going back to rifle the cash register and the corpse's pockets for identification, then dismissed the idea: he could always do it later, if the body was not discovered by the time he had finished.
***
Fraser paused outside the room where he suspected his friend to be staying. He was not sure what he was going to find, but he was very concerned for Ray. He knew that something must be seriously wrong with his friend, for him not to have reported in to his captain after the incident in the junk yard.
Raising his hand, he knocked at the door. He waited for several moments without getting any reply. His fear grew and he tried to open the door. Finding it was locked, he knocked again, this time with more urgency. Still no reply. Knowing that time was against him, as there was every likelihood that Ray might be injured inside the room, he stepped back and, raising a leg, kicked the door open.
The smell of vomit assailed him and he almost gagged. Pushing his own feelings aside, he entered the room and saw that Ray was sitting, slumped in a chair near the window. With four strides he was kneeling beside him. Gently he raised a hand and touched his friend's face. He could see the nasty wound that tore across his forehead and the caked-on blood that covered a large portion of his leg. Further investigation revealed a roughly put together bandage that desperately needed a change.
"Ray... Ray," Fraser said, as he carefully examined the wound again and felt the heat
of fever that rose from the other's skin. "Ray...."
Slowly the injured man began to wake. He groaned as the pain washed over him again, then realised that he was not alone. He attempted to move, but felt himself restrained as a voice insisted, "No... don't try to move... just give yourself a moment...."
He recognised the voice and knew that it was a friend, but he still had trouble placing it. He opened his eyes and glanced at the man kneeling beside him, drawing in a sharp gasp of air: it was the man who kept appearing in his mind's eye. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice a harsh whisper.
The gentle fingers stilled on his wounded leg and the man looked up at him, his expression one of shock. "Ray," he questioned, "don't you know me?"
The man in the chair opened his mouth to say that he had never seen him before, but he paused as a flash of pain seared his head. "I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "I feel that I should... but... I just can't remember."
Fraser, seeing the distress his question was causing, was swift to divert the other man's attention. He looked down at the wounded leg once more, knowing that danger was only a short distance behind him. The word on the street must have spread to the murderer by now, and he could be on his way even as they spoke. "Ray... Ray... we need to get out of here, now... it's not safe."
"Not safe," Ray agreed, "people killed... the police looking for me..." he began, but then slumped back in the chair as the world tilted and he felt sick again. With a tremendous effort, he began to push himself out of the chair, fighting the other man to do so. "We have to move..." he gasped.
"The police...?" Benny began, then stopped as he realised that they had more urgent business to attend to than Ray's confused ramblings. Reaching out, he slipped one of the injured man's arms across his shoulder, and between them they began to stumble towards the door.
Just as they reached it, Fraser heard a noise outside. It seemed to be coming from down the corridor - the sound of breaking wood. Stopping by the opening, he quickly ducked his head out to look down the corridor. He swiftly pulled it back in again when he saw a tall man with a long coat enter the room that had been assigned to him; he noted the flash of a weapon and knew that the killer had found them.
The man had obviously entered Fraser's room to search for Vecchio, and Benny took the few seconds' opportunity to quickly half-carry, half-pull Ray with him as he rushed out and ducked quickly around a corner. It would not take the killer long to discover that there was no one in Fraser's room.
He looked up and saw a large window at the end of the small hall, and beyond it a fire escape ran up the outside of the building. Without thinking, he rushed towards it and man-handled Ray out. He apologised quietly for the pain his rough treatment was causing his friend, but he knew that, if they didn't escape, the killer would finish the job he had started in the junk yard.
Ray stumbled out onto the fire escape and barely managed to maintain his balance as the other man climbed out behind him. Then his arm was taken once more and placed about the other man's shoulder, as he was helped down the fire escape.
Luckily they were only on the second floor, so it did not take long to reach the ground. Ray, unable to support himself, had fallen the last few feet, as he did not possess the strength to hold onto the extension ladder that led to the narrow alleyway behind the hotel.
The Mountie dropped gracefully to the ground beside him and once more whispered his apologies as he pulled Ray up and, without a moment's hesitation, tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and began to jog down the street. It was a very uncomfortable position for Ray, who felt his stomach rebel at such an action. He was spared this embarrassment as he slipped into unconsciousness once more.
Suddenly the sound of gunfire erupted behind them, and the ground surrounding them spat upwards as the bullets struck. Fraser increased his speed and soon dived around a corner, right into the crowd that was walking along the main road. There was a squeal of shock from a woman, who grabbed her companion's arm and skirted the pair, fear clearly showing in her eyes.
Fraser knew that the murderer would soon be on their tail, and he was desperate to get Ray to safety. Seeing a police car approaching along the road, he threw caution to the wind and stepped out into the road directly into its path, using one hand to wave it down and the other to keep Ray up on his shoulder.
The patrolman stopped the car sharply and his partner slowly got out, his gun pointing directly at Fraser as the driver radioed in the situation. Fraser smiled in relief and offered, "Constable Benton Fraser...."
Before he could get any further the officer informed him, slowly placing his weapon back in his holster as recognition flared, "Yeah... yeah... I know." Then he pointed towards the limp figure draped over Fraser's shoulder. It was not until now that Benny realised that Ray was unconscious; a flare of terror ripped into him - had Ray been caught by one of the bullets?
"Detective Ray Vecchio," Fraser supplied as he carefully lowered Ray to the ground on the edge of the pavement.
"Vecchio... Detective Vecchio?" the officer demanded, then continued, "there's an APB out on him."
"There is also a killer after him," snapped Fraser, totally out of character, but his concern for his friend was growing with each passing moment.
"A killer?" snapped the older cop who had left the car. Coming over, he gently placed a blanket over the injured man, then moving back he stood, standing slightly behind his younger partner. "I've called for an ambulance, but you'd better get him in the car if you think there might be trouble." As he spoke, he cast glances about the gathering people, checking with his critical eye to see if any of them were a threat.
Fraser looked his thanks over towards the older man, and with the aid of the younger police officer did as requested. Ray was a limp rag-doll and easily tumbled onto the back seat of the police car, where Fraser replaced the blanket back over his friend. The two police officers were now on their guard and looked up and down the street carefully, ready to react to any threat as they waited for the ambulance to arrive.
This was the sight that awaited Samson as he erupted out of the hotel's front entrance. He fought down a snarl of annoyance and glared at the Canadian policeman who had thwarted his plans, before he turned and faded into the milling crowd. He knew that Vecchio needed medical attention, and he also knew that he would be taken to the nearest hospital, St Vincent's... he planned to be there when they arrived.
***
The trip to the hospital was tense with worry for Fraser, but without incident. Ray was immediately whisked away into the emergency room, and then swiftly transferred to an operating theatre.
Fraser moved into the small waiting room to wait. Captain Welch soon burst into the room and made his way over to the Canadian. "What happened?" he demanded as he sat down beside the other man.
Fraser began to explain the series of events that had led to his being at the hospital, but halted when Welch interrupted, his own tone one of surprise, "He didn't recognise you?"
"Well... yes and no...." Seeing the look this earned him, he continued, "He's got a nasty wound on his forehead - I believe that it's scrambled his thinking for a while - and a bullet has passed through his leg... there looks to be a large amount of blood loss."
"Damn..." Welch exploded before he paused and, after taking a breath to calm himself, he informed Fraser, "I just got a report that the desk clerk at the hotel where you found Ray has been discovered - dead." As he spoke, Welch wiped a hand over his face, trying to ease the sleepless night from his body. It was turning into a long, complicated twenty-four hours. "Three shots to the body... very close range... this killer likes to do things up close and personal, and we still have no idea who this bastard is."
Fraser absorbed what the other man was saying before he answered quietly, "I only caught a quick glimpse of him at the hotel - not enough be able to identify him - but I believe that Ray might have got a better look at him at the junk yard. That would account for his determination to kill Ray."
Welch nodded his head in agreement and offered, "I know, that's what I think - Detective Vecchio is the only lead that we have at the moment. It would appear that everyone else connected with the drug deal has slithered back under their rocks. Even the snitch who told us about it originally has faded back into the woodwork." Then seeing Benny's look of concern, Welch continued, "I've arranged to have a guard posted upstairs outside his door, as soon as Ray's moved into a room." He noted the continued look of anxiety that still rested on Fraser's face and offered, his tone one of firm conviction, "Don't worry, we look after our own."
Fraser nodded but didn't meet the other man's look. He knew that the hitman was a very resourceful and cold-blooded man; the bodies scattered about the junk yard proved that he was good at his profession. Those men who attended the drug deal were not novices themselves, and yet they had been taken out with casual ease... and now that assassin was after his best friend.
"I've contacted Ray's family; they should be on their way here now," Welch said, looking across the room and wondering if the long night was ever going to end. "But it might take them a while to get through the rush hour traffic," he continued when he noted the time - daylight had sneaked up on them.
"Do you think that's wise... with the murderer still at large and after Ray?" Fraser asked, his concern now moving from Ray to his family.
"Don't really have much choice," the captain confessed. "His mother was on the phone an hour after he should have been off shift and wanted to know what was holding her son up." He paused then added, his tone slightly annoyed, "Unfortunately she got through to one of our greener members of staff, who told her the exact situation, and they have been up all night worrying... besides, they have the right to know."
"Of course..." Benny began, feeling slightly sorry for the 'green member of staff,' as he could well imagine the words that Captain Welch had spoken to them once their error had been revealed. Pushing that aside, he added, "I didn't mean to imply that they shouldn't...."
But the other man waved aside his words and said instead, "I know, it's never easy... these types of situation... especially on the family, but I will make every effort to ensure their safety... they will be escorted to and from the hospital and, if necessary, I'll arrange a safe house."
Just as Captain Welch finished, a woman of about forty entered the waiting room and asked, "Captain Welch?" She was dressed in the white coat of her profession, and held herself with calm and ease.
The man in question stood and gave her a smile as he moved towards her, closely followed by Fraser. Welch looked hopeful, as he'd sat in enough emergency waiting rooms to recognise the look that the doctor wore. It was not all bad news then.
The woman smiled at them both as she introduced herself, holding out a finely shaped, almost delicate hand, saying firmly, "I'm Doctor Marlow... and I've been treating your..." she glanced down at the clipboard that she held in the other hand, "Detective Vecchio?"
"Yes?" Welch agreed, by way of breaking the ice before he asked the burning question that was biting at his stomach. "How is he?" The man was a good captain who hated it when one of his officers was injured.
"Well, we are still slightly concerned about the loss of blood, but we're not going to replace it by transfusion." She stopped before she explained pointedly, "I prefer to try to get the count back up naturally." Neither man said anything, as all were aware of the threats that now existed in today's blood transfusions. "He's also caught a slight infection in the leg wound, but we've got him started on our most powerful antibiotics, so that should soon clear up." She paused, looking at the two men who stood before her. Seeing that they were patiently waiting for her to finish, she shrugged slightly and continued, "He has suffered a nasty blow to the head, bullet wound I would surmise, and it, er... appears to have scrambled his brains quite a bit, but he was settling down when I left him - he did know his name, and that he is a police officer." She paused, then added, "He was asking for a Fraser?"
The man standing slightly behind the captain started and, leaning forward, offered, "I'm Fraser...." He stopped, then added his full title, "Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Mounted Police."
Dr Marlow smiled back at him in reply and offered, "Yes, he mentioned that, but he also said that he was quite confused for a while, thought that he was a man called Ray Dean?" The question was clear in her voice, and Welch answered her.
"That was the name of one of the men killed at the junk yard this afternoon, he was a muscle man for...." He slowly came to a halt when he realised that he was giving the doctor more information than she really needed to know. "Sorry."
The doctor nodded, her confused expression clearing. "Well, that at least explains that. Needless to say, Detective Vecchio does have a nasty concussion, but we are monitoring that very carefully; the first scans are very hopeful, and we are planning on running some more tests tomorrow. We will keep him here until the infection clears up totally and to allow us to monitor the concussion closely." She smiled warmly as she added with a certain amount of relish, "That means he's going to get woken up every hour or so by the nurses, but that's a fact of life when you suffer from a concussion." She stopped, trying to judge how much her words had actually been taken in. The captain looked a little lost, but then it was a lot to take in, but the handsome man standing behind him was nodding his head,# and looked like he was totally up to speed on what she was saying.
"I'm having him moved to a private room in intensive care." Seeing the worried look her words drew from the two men, she offered, "I'm putting him in ICU mainly because of the concussion; they can keep a better eye on him in there. Also I understand that there is some concern for his safety, as, er... a police officer will be on guard?" She waited until Welch nodded before she hurried on, "I thought having the end room on the corridor would cut down some of the through traffic, no one should be down that way unless they are specifically going to that room." She paused and looked back down at the clipboard in her hands, mentally checking off everything that she had told the two men before adding, "I think that just about covers it. Is there anything else you need to ask?"
Seeing that the doctor had finished, Welch nodded his thanks and offered, "We appreciate the assistance that you've given us, and the end room would definitely make our job easier." As he spoke, Welch wished that more doctors and hospitals were prepared to offer such understanding in these situations.
"No problem," she smiled back, appreciating the thanks, "just trying to help, and if it cuts down on the disturbance to the other patients, so much the better."
"Can I please see him?" Fraser asked, his tone eager, as was the expression on his face.
It was on Dr Marlow's lips to say family only, but she paused as there was something about the man that she trusted. So she nodded, glancing at her watch. "Sure, he was being taken to the fourth floor when I left." She gave a moment's thought, then added, "Go left as you come out of the elevator; it's at the end of the corridor - you can't miss it as there should be a police officer standing outside." She gave them both a bright smile at her little joke, but seeing that it fell flat with the two men she coughed and offered instead, "He should be settled by now, so you will be able to look in on him - but only for a few minutes, mind you."
"Thank you kindly," Fraser offered, as the doctor nodded once more to the two men and then left.
"I'd better be getting back to the station - this is turning into a right mess," Welch added as he moved towards the elevator with Benny at his side. Glancing at his watch, the captain groaned when he noted that it was now past eight in the morning. The sun was up and many of the people of Chicago would be fighting their way to work. "What about the consulate?" he suddenly asked as they waited for the lift.
"I contacted Inspector Thatcher when we arrived here... she kindly granted me leave until this matter is sorted."
"Understanding woman, your inspector," Welch said, a far-away look entering his eye. Fraser didn't bother to dispel his illusion by adding that she had also informed him that he would be pulling a double shift outside the main entrance of the consulate, once he returned to work.
***
Samson left the elevator, glanced down the corridor and noted the room where the police officer stood patiently outside, his arms folded across his chest as he waited for his shift to end. Samson turned away from him and headed towards the nurse's station that sat to the right of the lift. He was now dressed in the clothes of an orderly, and carried a pile of sheets under which he hid his gun. The safety was off and his finger rested lightly on the trigger. He had learned, at the cost of a hundred dollars, the exact floor and area where Vecchio had been taken. The orderly had been abuzz with the news of the police guard on the door up on the fourth floor. The clothes he now wore had cost him a further two hundred dollars, but the gunman considered it a worthwhile price.
The nurses at the station didn't even bother to glance in his direction, as the three of them were huddled together moaning about their respective boyfriends or husbands - and not, he noted with a smile, even looking at the small array of television screens that showed them the progress of their patients. He smiled as he passed them; it was near the end of their shift and they were tired and careless.
He glanced into the rooms as he passed, until he found a patient who was resting alone and looked to be either asleep or unconscious, surrounded with quietly beeping machines. Moving into the room, he shot a look up at the small camera that blinked in the corner of the room and, moving carefully so that his movements were covered by his own body, he leant forward and started to remove the array of wires that were attached to the man. Within seconds an alarm started to sound, and he moved swiftly out of the room as calmly as he had entered, and was partway down the hall before he was passed by the nurses who rushed into the room in response to the alarms.
That done, Samson knew that the nurses would be occupied for the next several minutes, so he headed towards the lone police officer who stood guard outside the door where his next victim lay.
Moving up towards the unsuspecting man, Samson glanced over his shoulder and noted that everyone's attention was still fixed on the room at the other end of the corridor. Even the young police officer was looking past him at the commotion. Then his attention fixed back on Samson, and his attitude sharpened and his body tensed, but the killer just smiled and, lifting the sheets slightly to show his hands full and that he was no threat, offered, "Gotta put these in the closet." He indicated the door opposite the one where the officer stood. The young man glanced from the orderly towards the door he indicated, then relaxing slightly he nodded his own head in understanding. Once Samson was close enough, he lifted the sheets and fired twice at close range. No sound was made, as the silencer was an expensive make and did its job well. The man gasped, eyes going wide as the bullets struck him, and he tumbled back into the door that he was guarding. But he didn't slip to the ground, as the hitman held him up and manoeuvred him back into the room were Ray lay sleeping.
Carelessly dumping the body on the floor, Samson wiped his bloody hands on the sheets before he tossed them aside. He had to admit to himself that he was quite enjoying the thrill of this particular hunt, and would be sorry once the man in the bed was dead. He paused as he realised that it had been quite a while since he had killed a man with his bare hands. That thought sent a thrill racing through his body, so making up his mind he fired a shot at the camera, totally destroying it. Knowing that he only had a few moments, he put away his gun and flexed his fingers; he was going to make this kill last for as long as he possibly could.
Ray slowly opened his eyes and squinted up at the man above him. Thinking it was a nurse, he groaned and began to moan about being told to get some sleep, only to keep being woken up by the nurses.
Samson smiled at the other's words, enjoying the fact that his victim was conscious and would be aware of this act of killing him. He leant very close, intimately so, and said in a hushed whisper, "Oh, but I'm here to ensure that you get a good sleep from now on." As he spoke he glanced down, along the body of the man who lay on the bed, and noted the raised position of his leg, the heavy bandage about his head, and felt a flash of satisfaction that he had, indeed, done some damage to the man. "How's your head?" he asked, almost pleasantly, still leaning in close.
"It hurts," Ray griped. He had only recently awoken from his operation and was not in the mood to make small talk with a nurse... a male nurse at that, who was seriously invading his personal space - an action he really didn't appreciate either, as he snapped, "Now, do you mind? I'm trying to get some shut-eye here."
"Hey, no sweat, man," the killer said, leaning back and holding out his hand, "that's exactly what I'm here to take care of."
"Yeah, well, no offence, but you're starting to annoy me," Ray sneered, taking his time to look at the other man properly for the first time. What he saw sent a cold chill racing through his body as recognition flared; suddenly he was back in the junk yard, seeing a body wrench forward as blood sprayed in time with its chest exploding outwards - and behind it, holding a gun, was the man who now leant over him.
Without thinking about his actions, Ray reached backwards and grabbed up the water container that rested near his bed, swinging it at the man, but he was slowed by his wounds and his position on the bed. Samson saw the movement and laughed out loud as he swatted the container away, spraying them both with water. Then he reached forward and slapped aside the injured man's feeble attempts to save his life. With two strong hands about the other's throat he slowly began to squeeze, enjoying the feel of the other's body as it struggled weakly against his own.
***
The moment Fraser stepped off the lift, he knew that something was wrong. There were no nurses at the station, although he could hear a commotion coming from down the corridor and, from the sound of it, he could tell that they were dealing with an emergency.
Glancing in the direction that the doctor had told him to go, he noticed that there was not a police officer in the corridor. Before that thought had really registered, he had begun to sprint down the hall towards the last room.
He burst into Ray's room, nearly tripping over the body that lay on the floor, but his attention was draw from that to the image of a man dragging his weakly struggling friend from the bed as he choked him.
Without a thought, Fraser threw himself at the killer, his momentum knocking everyone to the floor. Ray tumbled off the bed and lay gasping and coughing as he desperately tried to drag much-needed air into his tortured lungs, fighting against the desire to pass out.
The killer recovered instantly, leaping to his feet and ramming into the still-rising Mountie, but Fraser prepared for him and they clashed again in the middle of the room. Both were sturdy men, and the fight was vicious and nasty as each tried to gain the advantage of the other. Benny was using every fighting trick he had ever learned, as the killer was proficient in several martial arts.
A kick to the stomach caused Fraser to tumble backwards over the bed, and he lay stunned upon the floor for several moments. It was the break that the assassin needed, as he wrestled to retrieve his gun from his coat pocket.
Benny clambered to his feet, the wind still knocked out of him and his ribs flaring in agony as they protested his further movement, but he knew that if he failed, then both he and Ray were dead. As he rose above the bed, intending to continue his attack, he was brought up short by the long barrel of the gun that the killer held. The man was smiling; it was evil, pure evil - there was no other word to describe it. This man got great pleasure from taking a life.
The sound of the gun's loud retort echoed and ricocheted about the room. It was so loud that Fraser realised that he was going to suffer deafness for a while. This thought struck him as weird, as he had just been shot at close range - he must surely be dead. Even as the thought sped across his mind, he wondered why he was still standing and not feeling any pain.
His question was answered by the killer; a surprised expression slipping across his face, he coughed up a mouthful of blood before he faltered and slumped to the floor. Fraser turned a stunned look from the body towards Ray, who was laying on the floor near the door, where he had dragged himself to rest half-over the body of the man who had guarded his room. In his hand he held the weapon of the downed police officer, his face as white as chalk and his eyes seeming far too large for his face as he gasped from the exertions of his recent attack and actions.
"Next time... you come to... visit... me... Benny," he panted, taking gulps of air as he spoke, unable to resist the snide remarks, "just bring... some flowers.... Leave... the excitement... at home." Then, glancing down with some surprise at the body under him, he added, "Better get a... doctor up... here.... He's... still breathing." Even as he spoke the words, his own body's reaction was catching up with him, and he blinked owlishly a couple of times before fainting.
After checking that his friend had just passed out, Fraser wasted no time in doing as Ray had requested, and within the hour the injured police officer was in surgery and the diagnosis was good - he was expected to live.
Ray Vecchio had been moved to a new room, this time being guarded by his large family who had arrived just as the body of the assassin was being removed. Dr Marlow had put in an appearance and shown her intense displeasure at the situation by tossing everyone out of Ray's room while she did another thorough check-over of her patient. Finally she emerged and informed them all that, while Ray was going to suffer a very sore throat and some bruises when he awoke, he was none the worse for his tryst with the murderer.
Fraser was taken by Dr Marlow, under protests that he was all right, to the emergency room where his ribs were x-rayed. He was informed that he had broken one and cracked another two. After they were firmly strapped, he returned to the Vecchio family, where he was welcomed with open arms while they awaited the injured family member's awakening.
***
Two days later, Ray was definitely feeling better; his headache was now a dull, manageable thud, and the antibiotics had worked wonders on his infection, and his leg now only itched under the bandage that was wrapped about it. He was desperate to get out of the hospital, but Dr Marlow was flatly refusing, stating firmly that he was a guest of the hospital until he could stand, unaided except with the crutches, without falling over. He had not been able to do so yet; his last failed trip to the bathroom had proven her point, and it looked like he was in for another two or three days at the least.
His memory had returned after he had awoken to find the gunman standing over him, and he had been able to give Captain Welch a full report of the events that had led up to the massacre in the junk yard. Several arrests had been made based on the information that he had supplied, and Welch was happy with the final result.
The Vecchio family had departed en masse as soon as Ray had been moved to a normal room - but only until visiting hours, when they would be back in full force. Fraser shuddered as he recalled the mercy food package that Mrs Vecchio had supplied the day before; several nurses and other patients were eagerly awaiting her next visit, as Ray had desperately taken to distributing the food among them in an effort to have empty containers by the time his mother returned, otherwise he was never going to get any peace from the woman.
Ray glanced up as his door opened and smiled broadly when Fraser entered the room. Benny had managed to sweet talk his way by the nurses and into visiting his friend before official hours, as he had informed them that he was due on duty and was having to stand (literately) a fourteen hour shift.
"How are you feeling?" Fraser asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down by Ray's bed, holding out a brown paper bag that held his daily offering of grapes.
"The dragon doctor still won't let me out," Ray griped as he took the bag and carelessly tossed it onto the bedside cabinet, where it landed on top of the other two brown bags that already sat there.
"Couldn't manage the crutches, huh?" Benny sympathised, wincing as he noted that the grapes from two days ago were going bad and starting to leak through the bag.
"The floor is too slippery for them... they clean this place more times than Ma does her lasagne dish."
"It will only be another few days, Ray," Fraser offered, looking at his friend's too-pale features and feeling that another two days' rest would not be a bad idea. "You did lose a lot of blood, and the infection was pretty nasty."
"Thank you, Dr Fraser," Ray sniped, his mood not improved at the enforced bed rest.
"Sorry, Ray," Benny said, looking down at the floor between his boots. His tone was distracted as an unreasonable anger flared, and Vecchio could instantly tell that something was bothering his friend. He felt a moment's flash of guilt for his words.
"Hey," he confided, leaning over slightly, "take no notice of me... you know I just hate this place." He waved his hand about the room to indicate the hospital. Fraser glanced up and smiled at him, but it didn't reach his eyes and Vecchio knew that he was in serious trouble as he asked, "What?" Not getting a response, he demanded, "What... what did I do?" He was unable to hide the hint of fear that laced his tone. Benny was his best friend, but he had lost friends before because of some small action that he had taken. He realised that he dreaded losing this friendship because of something that he had done.
A tense silence ruled for several moments before Fraser lifted his head and, meeting his friend's look dead-on, he demanded, "Why didn't you ask me to go on the stakeout with you...? Captain Welch said that you'd told him that I was going with you... why did you lie?"
Ray was stunned, he had not even given the events that led up to his shooting a thought since he had awoken. He opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut as the words suddenly proved hard to find. Finally he shrugged, knowing that only total honesty would appease his friend, so he said, "When I got to the consulate you were busy, and I... well... I didn't... I didn't think anything was going to happen. It was just some stupid stakeout, on information from a snitch who gave two other addresses.... I just... didn't think...." He stumbled to a stop. He had been so wrong, so very wrong.
"You didn't think." Benny said the words, and there was a nasty taint to them that made Ray wince as he realised just how incensed his friend really was. Benny continued, "You could have been killed." His words were barely above a whisper, and Ray had to strain to hear them. "You could have been butchered in that junk yard, and I would never have known until it was too late." It was a statement of fact, and one that Vecchio was finding hard to deny, so he unwisely turned to humour instead.
"Well, one more piece of junk in that yard wouldn't have made much difference."
Fraser shot up at his words as if they had physically burned him. The chair skidded across the room with the force of his movement as he ground out, his rage very real and flashing in his eyes, "It would have to me... bastard... I would have been the one standing over your grave, knowing that I should have been with you... that I might have been able to save you... but you never even gave me that chance.... You...." He stopped, out of breath. He never swore, and the fact that he did just then showed how truly enraged he was. Now he was fighting to rein his temper back in. It was a fury that had been growing over the past few days, as first he had waited with the Vecchio family for his friend to regain consciousness, and then it had festered and bubbled as he stood silently outside the consulate, with little else to occupy his mind except the images of Ray laying dead in the junk yard, the gunman standing over him as he looked through his pockets for his identification... just another kill to him.
"Hey... hey, it's all right... I didn't die - just bruised, not broken," Ray began, totally surprised by the outburst. He instinctively reached out towards his friend, but his hand was slapped away as Fraser began to pace the room. Seeing that he was in serious trouble with his friend, Vecchio began to babble as he tried to pull the situation back under control. "I honestly believed that this was a milk run, Benny... mine was the last site on the list that the snitch supplied, and everyone agreed that it was considered too... too much open ground for the drug dealer." He watched with growing fear as Fraser seemed to ignore his words and continued to pace about the room, as if trapped in his own world of anger and fury. Ray could see that he was fighting his wrath, which was so alien to him. "Benny," Ray began, his words now calm and sure as he knew that there was only one way to pull this man back to his side, "I'm sorry, I made a terrible mistake. It's one that I'm not going to make again, I promise. If ever I need you and you're busy, I will get someone else to cover with me... or I'll just wait until you're free."
Fraser stopped and closed his eyes, swallowing hard; his rage was still there, still bubbling under the surface. "Ray..." he began, the words not coming easily as he tried to explain. "I nearly... I nearly lost you." He desperately wanted his friend to understand the pain and suffering he had caused him as he continued, his own voice ragged with emotion, "I spent hours walking... looking for you.... I knew that you were hurt... injured somehow, but there was nothing, nothing that I could do. Nothing.... I'm not used to feeling this... this helpless, Ray," he finally confessed, his tone now low as he confessed, "not since... not since my father died."
"Oh Benny, I never meant..." Ray began, then paused. He was unsure how to answer the raw desperation that he heard in the other's voice. Finally he simply said, "I'm so sorry, Benny, I never realised." Ray broke off, he had never really suspected how much his friend depended on him, how precious Fraser considered their friendship to be. If Vecchio was honest, he had to admit that he considered Benny to be the brother that he'd always wanted. The man had never let him down, had never really turned away from him. He was as close, if not closer, than Ray's own flesh and blood, and it was only now becoming apparent that Fraser felt the same way. Honesty was the only option now, Ray realised, as he continued, his tone firm, "I can't promise not to do anything this stupid in the future, but I can promise that, if I do... you will be at my side, or - if you can't make it - then I'll get one of the others to cover my back... no lone Vecchio stunts, no more."
"You promise?" Fraser finally asked, slowing his pace and turning towards the bed.
Both men knew that the words had to carry some weight for them to be believed.
Ray held up his hands and then placed them solemnly over his chest, the action not lowering the intention of the words as he spoke with deadly seriousness, his eyes never breaking contact with those of his friend, "Yes, Fraser... I promise - even if I have to drag Elaine or Welch out from behind their desks to do it."
Fraser accepted the words for what they were. Both men knew that they were only words and that future actions would have to prove that Ray meant them. Until then, Fraser would have to accept them, as the alternative was just too frightening to contemplate. If he didn't, couldn't trust Ray to stay alive, then he might as well walk out of the room now and never look back; the pain of losing his friend would be too much, otherwise.
Moving across the room, Fraser righted his chair and slowly carried it over to its place beside Ray's bed. Sitting carefully down, he offered, his face deadly serious but now with a light of humour shining in his eyes, "If you break that promise Ray, I'm going to tell your mother who's really eating all that food she's bringing in."
It was a deadly threat to make, and Vecchio swallowed hard as he realised the consequences of that action. "That's an incentive to make me keep my word, Benny," he added after a few minutes' silence. "In fact, that's a good incentive."
"We Canadians can get real nasty when we have to," Fraser offered quietly.
After seeing the look in his friend's eyes, and remembering the vicious fight that had taken place between the gunman and his friend, Ray knew that - where his life was concerned - Benny could indeed turn into a very, very nasty Canadian. He shuddered at the thought.
THE END
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