HT100 Flash Fiction Challenge #12: X Marks the Spot - Behind the Curtain, chpt. 1
This is an Oz/dS xover fic, set in the alternate universe created for "One for My Baby," a pastiche in the manner of the Stephanie Plum books by Janet Evanovich. The calendar has been rolled back a couple of years, so this is actually a prequel to that fic and as such should contain no spoilers for it. The timeline for the dS guys is post-"Call of the Wild."
This is my first time writing Fraser and RayK, and I hope this does them justice.
Dedicated to autiger23, for making it possible for me to enjoy S3 of due South, and saying she'd love to see me write some dS fic. Hope this hits the spot for you. :)
Thanks as always to my beta, technical advisor, and nudger, maverick4oz, for both turning me on to dS in the first place, and for talking me into this fic. It's scary territory, but I'm having fun.
Note: The North American Investigation Bureau is a work of fiction. And also, no offense is intended toward Canadian pizza.
And yes, this is a WIP, but as Mav reminds me: NOT AN EPIC. Promise. Four chapters, and we're done. *g*
ETA: Chapters 1 - 8 of "One for My Baby" can be found here Sincerest Form of Flattery
~Behind the Curtain~
an Oz/due South xover
Chapter One
The light turned green but I just sat there for another second. "Beech?"
"Yeah?"
"Did a Mountie and a wolf just go across the street?"
There was a long pause, both of us sitting there with our heads cocked, before he finally said, "Yes," he nodded to himself, "yes they did."
"Huh." Live long enough, you see everything.
"Maybe there's a convention in town," Toby said as impatient drivers leaned on their horns and I put the Jeep in motion.
I shot him a look. "Of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police? In the 'Burg?"
He shrugged. "It could happen."
True, and Adebisi could run off to join the Bolshoi Ballet, but I wasn't putting my life savings on it.
The doc'd given us both a clean bill of health after our dust up with a biker named Jim Burns, and said there were no signs of concussion or anything in that line. Hadn't prescribed anything stronger than aspirin, either, and although Toby and I have shared a lot of things over the years, so far hallucinations haven't been one of them. So conclusion: yes, there really was a Mountie (and a wolf) casing Stanislovsky's Bail Bonds back there. I angled the rear view mirror to keep an eye on them, watched another guy join them, marked this one down as someone likely to be in need of Nikolai's service, and then watched as the Mountie escorted him over to a car parked at the curb.
"What are you doing?"
"Bein' a cop," I said, maintaining surveillance and maneuvering through traffic at the same time. That's one of the things we learn to do at cop school.
"Keller, even you can't suspect a Mountie of being up to something."
Says him. But no, that wasn't the conclusion I was coming to. Since the scraggy-looking guy didn't appear to be in custody -- in fact he and the Mountie had their heads bent over a map right now, trying to read it by the street light -- I was going out on a limb and concluding they simply had some business to conduct with Nikolai. Matter of fact, the way the scraggy one was looking around and getting the lay of the land, gut instinct said he was a cop too. If they wanted to talk to Nikolai, though, they were going to have come back in the morning.
"Looks okay," I told Toby, checking one more time and watching the men and the wolf all pile into the car and take off. "There's probably a departmental memo about them sitting on my desk right about now." Actually I hoped not, 'cause all I wanted to do right now was crawl into bed and sleep for a week.
Well -- I shot a look at Toby, just as bruised and beat up as me, but sexy with it -- once the painkillers kicked in there might be more than sleeping going on.
I turned off to Nappa's Pizzeria, pulling into the parking lot a few minutes later. I'd already called ahead and placed our order, so it was a breeze to leave the Jeep idling while I ran in to pick up our pizza and breadsticks. My step slowed on the way back to the Jeep, though, my stomach doing a flip as I watched Toby sitting there, blond head leaned against the window, looking all done in. Moments like that, all I want to do is pull him into my arms and figure out a way to get us away to some deserted island where nothing can ever hurt him. Sure, I have my share of bumps and bruises, but that's no big deal; I've had a lifetime getting used to that.
He looked around at me then, like he'd sensed me standing there, and gave me a puzzled smile. I smiled back and climbed in the Jeep, handing the food to him.
"Didn't forget the breadsticks?"
"Beech, have I ever forgotten the breadsticks?"
Lips pooched out, he thought that over as I drove out of the parking lot and headed for home -- that being Toby's apartment building these days. Not that we're actually living together yet, but I'm thinking the signs and portents are looking good for that at last.
"So what's next on your schedule?" I asked him to get his mind off the one or two times I might've forgotten the breadsticks. I was hoping his answer would be that he was free as a bird, at least where tracking down armed and dangerous nutjobs was concerned. The words that actually popped out of his mouth took about ten years off my life expectancy.
"I have to bring in Yuri Kosygin," he said, just like that, like that was something simple and ordinary to say.
"What?"
He huffed, quietly; maybe he'd detected the rise in my blood pressure. "You heard me."
Oh yeah, I had. "Let me get this right -- Nikolai's got you tracking the bastard who nearly killed him last year?"
He sniffed. "Actually I volunteered."
No, no, huh-uh. I was hallucinating, I really was. "You volunteered? Because ... you got a death wish I don't know about?" There, see, I was being all calm and collected and stuff.
"It's good money, and Gypsy's busy with Cyril. Someone has to bring him in."
"Yeah, but it don't gotta be you. Not to mention you don't need the money." His trust fund could keep a couple of small countries going.
He huffed again, the kind where I can tell he's starting to get pissed. "It's what I do, Chris. Deal with it or fuck off. Your choice."
Oh yeah, he was pissed. "You want me gone?"
"No," he was skewed around in his seat, looking at me, and out've the corner of my eye I could see he was upset, "you know I don't. But I also don't want you telling me what bounties I can track."
Bounties, like we were in the Old West. Christ. See, he's a lawyer, a fucking damn good one, but this streetfront, legal aid outfit he was working for went belly up a while back and what was his natural response to that turn of events? Did he make his dad's dreams come true and join the family law firm? Did he apply to any of the other firms in town? Did he start up his own practice? Nooooo. One day I'm at his apartment watching the game and waiting for him to get home, and he comes in and says guess what, he's taken a job with Cousin Nicky's bail bonds outfit; he's going to be a bounty hunter and spend his life tracking down desperate desperadoes.
And yeah, I didn't exactly take the news well, if you want to get absolutely technical.
I love him like crazy, but ... Christ.
"Look, Toby," I went on being reasonable, "I just worry. Kosygin's dangerous."
"No, really?" he snarked right back. "And all those perps you tangle with in vice are nothing but sweeeet, innocent angels?"
"Beech, that's a whole different story."
"Why? Because you're the big tough guy and I'm the wussy little law boy?"
It was my turn to let out an aggravated breath. "That I ain't what I said, don't go putting words in my mouth. There is nothing wussy about you, never has been, and you got nothing to prove. Kosygin's not just another perp, that's all."
"And I know that, Chris. I was there when he gunned Nicky down, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember." My hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles showing white. There's nights that memory still keeps me awake. I could've left any NASCAR driver in the dust the way I raced over to Stanislovsky's because of the call that'd come over my radio: shots fired, officer down, civilians injured. Police cars were all over the place, an ambulance just pulling up; the big front windows of the bail bonds agency were shattered, glass all over the sidewalk; a uniform cop was sitting on the curb, holding his left arm and looking pale and shaky. I'd cataloged all of that in a heartbeat, zeroing in on Nikolai sprawled out on the sidewalk, blood pooling around him -- and Toby hunched over him, only just then moving back, and no way for me to tell if any of the blood spattered across his face and clothes was his.
He hadn't taken a bullet, most of the blood was his cousin's; mostly Toby'd been cut by a few pieces of flying glass. Hadn't even left any scars to speak of. It's just, I replay it in my head sometimes, think about what could have happened, and want to book us a flight to that deserted island.
"I remember all right. Kosygin went after Nikolai in broad daylight, didn't hesitate to shoot a cop either. You think he's miraculously changed his ways? He's not going to come quietly." The Russian had fled for parts unknown, no sign of him on the radar for months, but lately there had been sightings, rumors he was back in the area. Confirmation came when the bodies started showing up, Kosygin settling some old scores. Odds were good Nikolai was somewhere on that list and if he wanted to settle things one-on-one, I had no problem -- except with him getting Toby involved.
"Chris, I know that. Will you give me some credit? Trust me not to do anything risky?"
I cut him a look as we turned down the street to his apartment building. "You're kidding me, right?"
"I'm serious as a gunshot, Keller."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
He let out another huff, the kind that signals he's just about had it. "Enough. All right? Enough. You can either drop me off here or come on up, but either way we're done talking about this."
"Toby..."
He gave him a hard, stubborn look.
I gave him a long, deep sigh back and resisted the urge to pound my head on the steering wheel. Things had been going too good, I should have known a bump in the road was coming up. Funny thing about potholes, though, if you know to expect them, sometimes you can navigate around them and save yourself some damage. "Okay, fine, I'll shut up -- but I'm telling you one thing, pal: tonight you're sharing those breadsticks."
He looked back at me, debating how much he believed I was just going to let this drop, but maybe he was inclined to skirt around those potholes too because after a moment he nodded. "Sharing's good."
I nodded back. "Sharing's great."
Agreed on that point, we got out of the Jeep and headed over to his building. None of his crazy neighbors was working the elevator tonight, and it was smooth ride up to his floor. Walking down the hallway you could hear televisions on and it smelled like somebody had cooked cabbage, but I managed to resist the urge to comment. When we do officially start sharing the same roof, it ain't gonna be here -- but that's a discussion for another day.
"Wait a sec," I said as he got his key out and started to open his door. Ever since he went to work for Stanislovsky, along with vehicles spontaneously exploding in his presence, assorted homicidal maniacs have gotten in the habit of entering his apartment at will. Toby'd make a case I was the first maniac who did that, and I won't argue. Me wanting to get in his pants is one thing; Jack the Ripper -- or Yuri Kosygin -- waiting to ambush him is a whole different story. And he could shoot me all the exasperated looks he wanted, I wasn't taking any chances.
"Satisfied?" he asked as I finished looking the door over, finding no signs of tampering.
"No -- but I think it's safe." I stayed close as he swung the door open and flicked on the lights.
"Excuse me, but," he set the food down on the kitchen counter and turned to face me, hands resting at my waist, "who rescued who today?"
I smiled, my own hands kneading the small of his back. "Yeah?" I tilted my head to kiss his cheek, mouth careful against the bruise. "You hear me saying you're not my hero?" Usually the sight of him and Adebisi charging headfirst into a situation gives me gray hairs, but this had been one time they had been a sight for sore eyes. Although we might've both come out with less wear and tear if he'd left Adebisi at the office. "Toby," I gave him a serious look now, done playing, "I know you can take care of yourself. It's just, I don't want you to have to. You know?"
"I know." He was looking at me just as solemn. "I plan on being around for a really long time, Chris." He leaned in to kiss my mouth, lingering over it for a second. "That's a promise," he whispered against my ear.
I wrapped him up in my arms, holding him close. "I'm holdin' you to that one, Beech," I whispered back, one hand buried in his hair.
He let me hold him long as I needed to, quite a concession when Mr. Nappa's breadsticks had his name on them. "Food's going to get cold," he said after a moment, not pushing away from me, though.
I smiled, kissed his forehead. "Yeah, that'd be a crime against humanity," I said and set him back. "Wanna shower first or eat?"
He thought about it, wincing as he rolled his shoulders, and said, "Shower -- a quick one."
The sad thing was, he might be right about that.
~*~
When I was sixteen, I was a star high school quarterback and every Saturday night I spent my share of time getting knocked on my ass. No big whoop back then, always bounced right back by Sunday morning. Twenty years on, though, and my recovery time's slowed down a bit. That's the only reason I could be sharing a nice, hot shower with the sexiest guy I'd ever laid ... eyes on, and all I wanted to do was wash him.
Okay, maybe not all, but ordinarily we'd be pressed up against the tiles, allll over each other right about now. Gotta admit, taking things slow and easy's wasn't so bad. I was careful over his hip where he had to be sore from getting some splinters dug out there. One time I got some in my ass, so I'm extra sympathetic -- and my recovery time's not so slow these days that I won't be expressing that sympathy more directly in a while.
Toby took care of me the same way, soaping me up and rinsing me off like my scrapes and bruises hurt him. It's always been like that. First time he saw me after my old man'd been taking out his disappointments on me, he got all worked up and wouldn't believe I'd just fallen off my bike. By now you'd think it wouldn't be that big a deal to him, but I guess he'd beg to differ. He usually does.
"What are you smiling about?" He gave me this cute, suspicious look as he shut off the water and pushed the shower curtain back.
"Hmm, I'm standing here with you, naked -- I gotta have more reasons?"
If he didn't quite buy that, either, he seemed willing to play along and handed me a towel.
The painkillers were kicking in pretty good by now, but the pizza and breadsticks might be getting cold so we didn't linger over the drying off, either. The way his cock twitched as I patted it dry, though, signaled there could be some action yet -- which is why I'm wasn't thrilled to see him putting on a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt.
Dropping my towel and sprawling out on the bed, both hands hooked behind my head, I watched him run a comb through his hair and check me out in the mirror. "Are you planning on putting some clothes on?"
"Nope. I'd just be taking them off later," I said and smiled, waiting for the huff.
"You're pretty sure of yourself, Keller," he said, standing by the bed.
Reaching for him, pulling him down on top of me, I said, "So, you gonna rain on my parade, Beech?"
"You know I can't eat naked."
"Umm hmm, that's okay, babe," I nuzzled his throat, "I can eat naked for both of us."
He sighed, breath warm against my skin. "You're shameless."
"Thanks," I winked at him, "that is one of my better qualities."
Torn between being exasperated and laughing, he gave into the last one, conceding this round. "Okay, but there better be plenty of napkins, because if you get tomato sauce on you I am not licking it off."
Yeah -- my hand slipped under his t-shirt, stroking bare skin -- we'd just see about that.
<>*<>
We'd spent a really long day chasing our tails around Brighton Beach and only getting hold of one lead, and had hit the road for another long drive to this place called the 'Burg. I was tired and hungry, and about the last thing I needed from Fraser right now was him telling me, "If I had a sextant, Ray--"
"I got your sextant right here, buddy. How about you try the map in the glove box?"
"Or, well, that works too," he said and popped it open to rummage inside.
"Sextant..." I muttered under my breath. I shook my head to try and clear it and kept my eyes peeled for an exit sign as Fraser unfolded the map and took out a pen light, Dief perking up in back and sticking his head over the seat for a consultation. I noticed him smiling -- Fraser, that is -- and asked him, "What are you grinning about over there?"
Turning the map this way and that, Fraser said, "Just thinking it's much easier to read a map when it's not carved on someone's chest."
"You're a freak, Fraser."
"Understood. Take the next exit coming up."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
Long story short, me and the Mountie were out to retrieve these Russian icons that had been stolen from the Canadian Museum of Civilization in Quebec, and we were headed to see this guy named Nikolai Stanislovsky who might know something about it. If it didn't pan out, I figured our next stop would be Timbuktu. There's a longer and complicated Fraser version available, of course.
"Why are you so cranky, Ray?"
"Fraser," we were driving through the outskirts of town now, "we've been on the road since three a.m. I want a shower. I want a nap." Aside from some beard stubble, he looked fresh and sharp as always, whereas I was feeling more beat and scruffy every minute.
"Well then," Fraser indicated one of the fleabag motels beside the road, "shall we stop at one of these fine lodging establishments for the night?"
"Frase, not even the cockroaches would call those places fine," I told him, knowing he was yanking my chain but playing along was fun, reminded me of how it was before. Me and Fraser, we're still partners, in every sense of that word, but most of our time is spent teaching baby mounties and flatfoots about international cooperation. Of course, that has it moments too. Fraser teaches them proper procedure and I show them how to kick 'em in the head.
"Well, you know, Ray," he scratched his ear, "any port in a storm."
"You see a storm, Fraser?"
"Well, no, although metaphorically speaking, one could argue life is composed of a series of storms."
"One could, could one?"
"One could, yes."
"Well, one isn't. No storms, no no-tell motels."
He nodded. "As you wish."
"Thank you. So what's the address of that bail bonds place again?" The place was probably shut down for the night, but Fraser had to see for himself and giving in was easier than arguing.
He gave me the address and did some more navigating, and this 'Burg started to look more inviting as we headed downtown. It wasn't Chicago, or Ottawa, and I'd reserve judgment until daylight, but it was civilization and that was the important thing. I should have remembered that getting from Point A to Point B is not necessarily an easy route when Fraser's in the car, however. There we were two blocks away from our destination and he made me stop and let him and Dief out to help an old lady with groceries cross the street. I turned the corner and pulled up in front of Stanislovsky's place and waited for the Mountie and the wolf to finish their civic duty. Their work is never done.
"See, Fraser, I told you nobody would be at the office this late," I said, joining him as he and Dief peered in the windows.
"It seemed worthwhile to make certain, however," he said, conceding my point at last with one last rattle of the doorknob.
"We could have made certain with a phone call," I said, checking out the surroundings and taking note of anything interesting. Pretty quiet all in all, but there was a blue Jeep idling at the corner and I was getting this hunch somebody inside was checking us out.
"You were the one complaining about roaming charges, Ray."
"Fraser, you know me, I'm always complaining about something. Next time we call."
"Understood."
"So let's find a place to stay tonight and come back here first thing in the morning," I said, letting my guard down a bit as the blue Jeep turned the corner and disappeared from view. Probably nothing; hanging out with Fraser, I've had to get used to strangers slowing down to take a long look, but it never hurts to keep on your toes.
"Well, there's a flyer here for a local bed-and-breakfast," Fraser said, pointing it out, stuck down in a corner of the window and advertising a place called Emerald City, which by itself was enough to put me off.
"Frase, I'm not sure we want to stay at a place advertised at a bail office. Probably makes those rat traps on the highway look like the Ritz-Carlton."
"Well, it says pets welcome," he pointed out. Dief whined something at him then and Fraser told him, "Yes, Dief, I understand you aren't our pet, but most people--"
"Yo, Mutt," I waded in quick, able to think of at least a half dozen things we could be doing besides standing here, reasoning with a dog, "knock it off or no pizza later. And face it, that's the real reason you wanted to come with us."
"There is pizza in Canada, Ray," Fraser said, "we had one just the other night."
"Bad pizza, Fraser. There's bad pizza in Canada. I mean, the pizza here won't be Chicago deep dish, but I bet there's no caribou option as a topping."
Fraser gave me an interested look as we went back over to the car and asked me, "So is the pizza the only reason you came with me?"
"Nah, it's just been a long time since you endangered my life in a wildly bizarre way," I told him. And then I leaned closer to whisper, "Where you go, I go," in his ear, one hand cupped along the side of his neck for a second, fingers stroking just above his collar. Then I got to watch him stand there speechless for a moment. That doesn't happen a lot, so I enjoy it when it comes along. "So how about we go check this place out, and if it isn't like some of the places we looked at for you to live in Chicago, and it has a working shower, we stay there tonight."
"That ... sounds like a most excellent plan."
"So, you got an address for that place?" He was still a little flustered, and I was still enjoying it. What I got a bigger kick out of was how he stayed close to me as he dug out the map again and we both bent our heads over it, close enough for me to feel his body warmth.
"Yes, it's on Sycamore Street. I believe," his shoulder bumped against mine as he traced out the route, "we are only a few blocks away."
I'd take his word for it. "Let's hit the road then." We piled back into the car, Fraser setting his hat down on the dashboard and pointing out the street signs, and I suddenly had this hankering for this trip to be more about fun and less about business. "One of these days you and me are taking a road trip, Frase."
"I was under the impression that's what we did when we set out to search for the Hand of Franklin, Ray."
"No," I was firm about this, "that was not a road trip."
"It wasn't?"
"Fraser, do you know the main thing you have to have for it to be a road trip?"
He rubbed his eyebrow. "What?"
"A road."
"Ah, I see." He nodded and told me to me to make a right.
I slowed up in front of this place, my worst fears beginning to be realized as I caught sight of the pathway leading up to the front porch -- made out of yellow bricks. "Oh, great, that's just great."
Fraser shot me a puzzled look. "What's wrong, Ray?" Dief poked his head over to whine something too, Fraser telling him, "No, I don't see anything amiss, either."
I sighed, leaned my arms on the steering wheel. "Look at the place. I bet every room's got this Oz theme going. They'll stick us in the Ruby Slippers suite."
"Well, there could be a certain charm to that."
"No, there couldn't." I took a deep breath and made my dark confession. "Fraser, I hate that movie."
And yep, there it was, the Mountie turning to give me this look of deep, profound disbelief. "You hate The Wizard of Oz, Ray?"
"Flying Monkeys, Fraser. I had nightmares about Flying Monkeys for years."
"Well, as you are well aware, there are species of monkeys such as the ateles geoffroyi geoffroyi, more commonly known as the spider money, who can propel themselves through the rainforest canopy in a manner that, for all intents and purposes, amounts to being able to fly."
Oh, yeah, I was well aware of that. I gave him a long stare. "Look, buddy, I'm sharing a deep childhood trauma here and you're not helping. I mean really, what kind of movie is that to show to a kid anyway, with tornadoes and creepy old guys hiding behind curtains, witches, those freaky munchkins, and on top of that those damn Flying Monkeys ."
"And do you have a problem with the Lollipop Kids as well, Ray?"
"No, just the monkeys." I thought about it. "And maybe the Scarecrow."
"I won't bring it up again," he said.
A hand to his mouth and a short hiccuped cough only meant one thing where the Mountie was concerned. "Stop laughing at me, Fraser. At least I don't have anything against otters."
"Well, I was actually hit by an otter, Ray."
"So, what, your physical trauma trumps my emotional trauma? Otters are cute, Fraser. Flying monkeys are not cute. They are evil little creatures that haunt kid's dreams"
"If you feel so strongly about this, perhaps we should find another lodging for the night."
I looked at the yellow brick pathway. "Nah, we're here. We might as well check it out," I said and opened the door to get out. "But I see even one flying monkey, we're outta here."
"Understood."
We got up to the front porch with its welcome mat, and rang the bell. The door opened up promptly and a pretty black woman looked out at us, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes as she saw me, but that changed quick enough when she clapped eyes on the Mountie. You could practically hear her thinking, Ooooh, pretty. "Well, my goodness," she primped with her hair, soaking him up, "what can I do for you?" She asked it like she didn't already have plenty of ideas.
Fraser took his hat off, cranking the charm up with a smile. "Well, ma'am, my friend and I have just arrived in town and find ourselves in need of lodging for the night. Your establishment came highly recommended."
And Mounties can't lie. Hah.
She swung the door open wide for us to enter, eyeballing me in a way that said she'd count the spoons any time I was near the silver-ware. "Is that a wolf?" she asked as Dief trotted in after us.
"Half-wolf, ma'am," Fraser said. "I can assure you Diefenbaker's quite harmless."
To back this up, Dief promptly charged across the foyer to drag a stuffed bear off a chair and bring it back, sitting down with it hanging from his mouth. Fraser gave the dog a stern look and I waited for our hostess to order us and our mangy mutt off the premises. Instead she smiled and knelt down to try and wrestle the stuffed bear away from him, saying, "Well, isn't he just the cutest thing? Just like my Marvin."
I rolled my eyes. "Marvin?"
Fraser tapped me on the shoulder and drew my attention to a framed photograph on the wall. "I believe she means her Jack Russell terrier, Ray."
I took a closer look at the photo, at what looked like some kind of luau. Sure enough, not only was this little yapper dog all decked out in a Hawaiian shirt with a lei around his neck and sunglasses, but the banner behind him proclaimed: Happy Birthday, Marvin! Head tilted close, I whispered, "You know what, Fraser?"
"What, Ray?" he whispered back.
"You ever dress up Diefenbaker like that I'll have to punch you in the head."
"Understood."
"That's right," our perky hostess chirped right in, scratching Dief's ear and apparently inducing total ecstasy. "Named him for Mr. Marvin Gaye."
Oh, yeah, I could see the mutt just oozed with Marvin Gaye-ness.
"Ah, yes," Fraser did that thing with his neck, "the great R&B artist. Sexual Healing, Ray."
I stared at him, blinked first, and since I didn't have a comeback handy, switched gears and got down to business. "So -- a room?"
"Oh my, yes, where's my head?" the lady said, leading us along to the front desk. She went on chattering like that, catching us up on her day like we were old friends, and slipping in that her name was Floria Mills.
Fraser introduced us in turn. "Very pleased to meet you. I'm Corporal Benton Fraser, and this is my partner, Sgt. Ray Kowalski."
Floria gave me another hmm look and went back to Fraser, asking what brought him here. I rolled my eyes again and leaned against the desk.
"Well, ma'am, I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killer's of my father, and for reasons that don't need exploring at this junc--"
"Frase, we're not in Chicago now."
He gave me a pained look. "Well, yes, Ray, I was going to get to that."
"Sometime this week?"
Fraser gave me a hmm look too, but wrapped it up with Floria, telling her that we were here on official business and no, we weren't quite sure for how long. She was fine with that, and didn't bat an eye at discovering we didn't want a room with separate beds. Even offered to take Dief out for a walk with Marvin, and you can't beat that for hospitality.
All the checking in settled, Fraser and I headed back out to the car to gather up our gear. Even though we'd left Ottawa hot on the heels of the perp, Fraser'd still managed to bring three uniforms with him. Me, I shoved a few t-shirts and jeans in a dufflebag and I was good to go, but Fraser's uniform is sacred, so all three were hung up neatly in dry-cleaning bags. Back inside, Floria, like most women, couldn't help herself and had to reach out and run her hand along the serge. Although at least she had sense enough to go for the one on the hanger. I understand the urge, sure, but nobody gets to pet the Mountie but me. Of course she knew a good dry cleaners Fraser could use if the need arose, and said she'd be happy to run the uniforms down there herself.
"Yeah, and how about a pizza place?" I asked, lugging the suitcases up the stairs. "You know a good one of those?"
"Only place for pizza is Mr. Nappa's," Floria informed me with total authority as she opened up the door to our room.
I put the bags down and had to admit the Tin Man suite wasn't as bad as I'd expected. If you didn't count the heart-shaped pillows on the bed. And the little hearts on the curtains. But hey, I could deal. It had a roof, the bed had a mattress, and there was running water in the bathroom. "They do deliveries?" I asked her as Fraser came in with the last of our gear.
"They sure do. Want me to give them a call for you?"
"Sounds good to me," I said as I took off my jacket. And that was queer, how she didn't bat an eye when she saw my shoulder rig. Usually civilians get a little ansty when they see a gun. Floria just went on chirping, asking what kind of toppings did we want on the pizza and even cracked a smile my way when I joked about wanting some caribou on mine. Telling us the pizza'd be here in about half an hour, she finally took off with Diefenbaker, and we were alone at last.
"Flip you for the shower?" I offered, digging a quarter out of my pocket.
Fraser waved it away, though, graciously allowing me first dibs. For a minute I was tempted to try and get him in there with me, but the chance of Floria barging in on us put the kibosh on that quick. So, giving that a rain check, I hauled a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from my bag and went to wash away too many hours on the road.
Since I was on my own in there, it didn't take too long, and I was drying my hair when I heard Fraser say, "Thank you kindly," and deduced the pizza was here. Just in time too, since my belly was starting to rumble away.
And yep, sure enough, when I walked out of the bathroom, not only was the pizza here, but Dief was back from his walk with Floria and Marvin. I knew there was no way that wolf was gonna miss out on the pizza. I stood at the doorway for just a second and listened to Fraser talking to Dief. "Yes, well it's different in the far north, here in America dogs are required to be walked on leashes. As you said yourself, Marvin didn't seem to mind. And it was very kind of Ms. Mills to bend the rules for you."
Fraser had the box open on the coffee table over in the cozy sitting area, and was lifting out a slice for Dief. "Hey, save me some," I said, heading on over and trying out the couch. "Looks good." And I didn't only mean the pizza. Fraser had taken off his Mountie coat and, standing there in his henley and suspenders, with the sleeves pushed up to show off his arms, he looked good enough to eat too. Never figured a pair of suspenders would do it for me.
Giving me a puzzled look, Fraser asked, "What are you smiling about, Ray?"
"Just enjoying the moment, Frase."
Fraser smiled back at me, so I guess he was enjoying it too. This theory was shaping up as a good one too, as he came around to sit beside me on the couch, his knee bumping against mine and our hands brushing as we both reached for a slice of pizza.
We polished off the pizza in record time, with help from Dief, of course, and I was feeling a lot more mellow. It had been a crazy couple of days, this mad dash down from Canada, and it was good to finally have a chance to kick back and take a deep breath. Tomorrow -- well, it could wait until tomorrow. Right now there was a bed that looked really comfortable, and my favorite Mountie to share it with, and who could ask for anything more?
I almost hated to get up off the couch, it was pretty comfortable too, but it was only a couple of steps and then I was sitting on the bed and testing the mattress, and didn't even mind having to eat my words. "Man, I was wrong about this place, Frase."
"Yes," he had followed me over to the bed and was still smiling, "no Flying Monkeys in sight."
"Well, yeah," I grinned up at him, "but I was talking about the cockroaches." Okay, and maybe the Flying Monkeys too.
"Well you know, Ray," he said, sitting down beside me, "even most clean places are probably overrun with periplaneta amedcana, also known as the North American cockroach."
They were? I jumped off the bed, pretty sure I'd just felt one crawl up my leg and trying to shake it off. "Way to kill the mood there, buddy. Here I was all ready to seduce you, and you had to give me the heebie jeebies."
He just sat there and went on being reasonable. "Insects are vital to our existence, Ray, not to mention they can be an important source of protein if you're stranded in the wilderness."
"Now you're talking about eating them. Do you want me to horck up dinner?"
"Ray, I was merely pointing out--"
"Fraser," I sat down again, "there is a time for talking and a time for keeping quiet."
"Oh." He gave me a wide-eyed look. "And this would be...?"
I pushed him back against the headboard, one hand cradling the back of his head, and whispered, "A time for keeping quiet," as I headed in for a kiss.
"Understood," he murmured back, one hand cupping the nape of my neck and pulling me closer, both of us stretching out on the bed as things started warming up.
I rubbed his shoulder, started to ease one of those suspender straps down. "Maybe you want to grab a shower, and then we can pick this up?"
"That sounds like an excellent plan, Ray."
I grinned at him, in complete agreement on that score, but didn't want to let him get away quite yet. When he made to get up, I tugged him down again, one hand against his face, stroking his cheek slowly and just taking one of those quiet moments to look at him, appreciate what we had both stumbled into along the way. My fingers brushed along his eyebrow and I kissed him there, then his cheek, and when he turned his face, searching for my mouth, I met him and dug my fingers into hair to keep him right there to kiss his lips until they were swollen and my tongue couldn't taste anything but him. And the best thing? The best thing was how Fraser held onto me just as tight and kissed me back until I was just as breathless.
<>*<>
"So.... " Toby nuzzled my shoulder, his beard scratchy against my chin. "What is a Mountie doing here?"
I cracked an eye open, squinting against the sunlight streaming into the room, and said, "Beech, you got me naked in your bed and you're dreamin' about Mounties?"
"I didn't say I was dreaming about them, Chris. I was just wondering."
I shifted around on top of him, trailing slow kisses along his throat. "Bet I can think of something better to do."
He arched up against me, hands rubbing along my back. "I'm sure you can, but we have to get to work."
"Fuck work," I kissed the corner of his mouth. "We deserve a couple days off."
His hands tightened on my shoulders then and he looked at me like a light bulb'd just gone off. "I am going to work, Chris," he told me, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
I stroked his wrist, smiled down at him. "Mmmm, I could cuff you to the bed."
"Mmmm," he smiled up at me, "or I could kick you in the nuts. You pick."
He'd do it too, fucking maniac. Keeping him safe might almost be worth a set of sore balls. Almost. Another moment and I sighed and rolled off. "You go out've your way to get yourself killed, I ain't cryin' at your funeral."
"No, you'd just throw yourself on my coffin and have to be dragged off."
"You callin' me a drama queen?"
"If the tiara fits..."
Yeah, well, it takes one to know one. "You're just hellbent on doing this, aren't you?"
He let out a sigh and hooked both hands around my neck to look me straight in the eye. "I'm only going to say this one more time, Chris: It's my job. I don't tell you how to do yours and the least you can do is return that courtesy."
My own hands were on his shoulders, kneading, taking a lot of satisfaction in the muscle I could feel, the strength I could sense. It's probably not obvious at first glance, most people underestimate him -- and live to regret it -- but he's my match in every way, tough as nails. Truth is, no, I wouldn't take kindly to him sticking his nose into my work and bossing me around, trying to keep me out of trouble. I just want him there to pick up the pieces when the dust settles, and maybe that's the main thing he needs from me too.
"Okay, I won't say another word, Toby," I gave in graciously as possible. No, I couldn't stop him. I'd tried that before and all it did was push him farther away. I've never met anyone more stubborn, more dogged when he gets his mind set on something. Of course he'd point out that's the pot calling the kettle black, and I had to smile, admitting there was something to that. Leaning forward, I kissed his lips, nuzzled his neck. "Can I at least drop you off at work?"
He kissed me back and gave an inch. "Yes -- since I don't have a car."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him whose fault was that, but I managed to keep that to myself. I'd drop him off, check the place out and maybe see if Murph and Ortalanti could make a few extra drive by passes for me. That wasn't hovering, that wasn't smothering, that was just being practical.
"Oh," he stroked a thumb along my cheek, "and if I find out you've planted a tracking device on me, Keller--"
"Toby," I gave him my best innocent look, "would I do that to you?"
"In a fucking heartbeat."
Yeah, okay, so I'd done that one time, and there were extenuating circumstances. "Where would I plant it?" I asked him, nuzzling his throat again.
"Cousin Nicky's loaning me his car," he reminded me, arching his neck to give me better access, "you could stick something in there when I'm not looking."
"Nah," I took my time kissing his collarbone, "see, I learned that's not too reliable with the way cars you're driving tend to wind up blown to smithereens. I'd have to plant it on you, somewhere only I'd know about," I told him and pulled back to watch him thinking that over and arrive at the only conclusion.
"Keller," suspicion was sharp in his eyes, "you wouldn't."
"Nah," I winked at him, pretty sure he knew I was teasing, "I wouldn't." I kissed his shoulder. "There's only one thing I'm jamming up there. 'Course, if you want me to do a body cavity search, I'm game."
"Didn't you do that last night?"
"Yeah," I kissed the corner of his mouth, brushed my lips across his, "but I'm willing to go back in."
"Wow," he drew that out for about ten syllables, "the hardships you endure, huh?"
Yeah, that's me, a martyr to the cause, and even Toby couldn't keep me from practicing my religion.
~*~
"You know, Chris," Toby was setting our coffee cups in the sink as I ran my hands along his hips and waist, "there's insatiable and then there's obsessive compulsive."
I grinned and brushed my nose against the curls clustered at the nape of his neck. "Where's your gun?"
He huffed and turned to face me. "You're patting me down?"
"Yep. So -- your gun?" The stubborn look on his face told me he'd hidden it somewhere stupid and didn't want me to know. "You are not leaving this apartment without it, Toby, and that is non-negotiable."
He wanted to argue it, I could see that boiling away in his eyes, but he let out another little huff and said, "It's in the cookie jar."
I looked at the cookie jar sitting there on the counter, shaped like a big red apple, and shook my head. "Oh yeah, 'cause no psycho killer'd ever think to look there." I opened it up and took out the S&W .38 Special I'd given him, my old service revolver, and was at least gratified he'd left it in the holster because I'm pretty sure cookie crumbs aren't great for the mechanism. I slid it out to make sure, popped the cylinder, and asked, "Okay, let me guess: and the bullets are in the sugar bowl?"
He gave me another grumpy, defensive look and dutifully forked over a zip-lock baggie stashed back in the junk drawer. "You know I'm not going to use it, so why do we have to through this every time?"
"Because it means I don't spend the day chugging Pepto Bismol, that's why." I loaded it up, popped the cylinder back in place, and watched him clip it to his belt, right hip. "Remember, there's no safety; you just point, aim, and squeeze the trigger." Probably wouldn't hit anything, but at least he'd have six chances to scare the crap out of Kosygin.
When I realized he was serious about this job -- and I'd calmed down a shade -- I saw to it he got licensed to carry, and then hauled him down to the shooting range to show him the ropes. He didn't like it, but it makes me feel a little better about him being out there.
"Ready to roll?" I asked, turning his jacket collar up.
He turned it back down. "Well I don't know, you sure I don't need a suit of armor too?"
I grinned and kissed him again. "Nah, don't want you wearing anything I'd need a can opener to get off." I got him a Kevlar vest for Christmas last year but don't think he's gotten much use out of it. I'd tackle that hurdle tomorrow, though, and just keep my fingers crossed in the meantime.
And fuck, what were the chances he'd tangle with Kosygin today? For all anybody really knew, Yuri was knocking back shots of vodka on a beach in Rio right about now.
<>*<>
"Okay, so if this bounty hunter's a chick, Fraser, we're outta there," I said as we pulled up in front of Stanislovsky's again, the sun shining good and bright and this 'Burg full of hustle and bustle.
Hand on the door, Fraser gave me an amused look. "So you're not worried I might fall for a male bounty hunter? I would think by now you would know I am not averse to a same-sex relationship, Ray."
"Nah, you don't make googly eyes at other guys." And I wasn't worried. It's just when Floria had mentioned she worked part time for Stanislovsky and she'd heard he had this Toby out looking for Kosygin, I had this flashback to that Janet Morris chick Fraser'd taken a shine to. Easy to understand, sure, what with them having so much in common, but that didn't mean I had to like it.
Now Fraser was giving me a stern look. "I most certainly do not make googly eyes at anyone, Ray."
"Yeah, you do, but I don't want to fight about it now. All I'm saying is, if this Toby's some Annie Oakley type, we are not sticking around to get to know her better."
"Well, given his name is Toby, I think we may safely assume he is not an Annie Oakley type. Furthermore, this Toby could be our best chance at finding Yuri Kosygin and retrieving the icons."
I focused on the most important item there. "Toby's a guy? You're sure?"
"I have never met a woman named Tobias."
"Oh, okay then." A guy bounty hunter wouldn't be Fraser's type. A guy bounty hunter would be some steroid-enhanced pinhead with no concept of please and thank you. And again, it wasn't that I had any concerns. It's just, sometimes you get a nutty idea stuck in your head and you don't even know until you hear the words bounty hunter and up it pops. Being exposed to too much perky first thing in the morning can make a guy vulnerable like that.
A really good night had given way to a morning that was way too early and bright, but that I could handle, that I'd almost gotten used to by now. And no mistake, Fraser tends to wake up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but he doesn't turn it on full blast until a guy's had a chance to get some coffee in him. Floria, though, she beats you over the head with it right off the bat.
We'd barely made it downstairs when she started up, firing questions -- like why wasn't Fraser in his pretty red uniform, not that I could detect her having a serious problem with his jeans and black henley. I'd jumped in there, repeating what I'd told Fraser upstairs, that we might want to try and go incognito today. And I'll give her this, she even backed me up on the idea of leaving the hat behind too. Fraser wasn't budging on that point, though, so she'd switched gears and provided us with her schedule for the day, everything interspersed with commentaries on the morning news. Fraser'd replied with a lot of agreeable hmms and oh, reallys, but the only item I'd been able to make out between the scrambled eggs and hash browns was that Floria was up on all things Stanislovsky, with a side dish of Yuri Kosygin. They'd known each other in the old country, Floria had told us, and although she was fuzzy on specifics her guess that there was something personal between them sounded like a good one, because generally speaking you don't try and mow a guy down in broad daylight just because you woke up feeling funky.
So at least we were on the right track and it was looking good for us not having to head for Timbuktu.
Fraser slammed the car door shut and we walked up to the entrance of the bail bonds outfit, Fraser holding it for a guy just coming out -- no doubt just settling up some business; he looked like someone well acquainted with the wrong side of the law. Tall and lanky, with long sideburns and dark hair brushed back off his forehead, he had two rings glinting gold in his ear and was wearing a long, black leather coat, with a cigarette between his lips. He stopped for a second to look us over, didn't seem impressed, nodded and moved on.
We went on inside, catching sight of two guys over by some file cabinets. One of them was a black guy, in white cargo pants and a purple tank top that showed off his muscles; a little knit hat stayed stuck on his head as he danced around to whatever was playing on his headphones. The other guy was average sized, early forties maybe, with dark hair and a neat beard and wearing a suit that looked pricey, and looked like a better bet for being the guy we wanted. I called out, "You Nikolai Stanislovsky?"
The black guy didn't even glance over, but the other gave us a suspicious look. "And if I am?" he asked, accent confirming it.
I hauled out my badge and showed it to him. "We need to talk to you."
Usually people take your word for it, give it a quick glance and that's that. This guy, he took a long look and asked me, "North American Investigation Bureau? What is this?"
While I was thinking how to condense that outfit down into five words or less, Fraser stepped forward, setting his hat on one of the desk. "Ray, if I may?"
I gave him a be my guest gesture, and he told Stanislovsky, "I'm Corporal Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and my partner, Sgt. Kowalski, and I believe you may be in possession of information vital to a current investigation."
"You are a Mountie?"
"I am a Mountie, yes," Fraser confirmed, and tilted his head toward me to whisper, "You see, Ray, I should have worn my uniform."
"He'll take your word for it, Frase," I said and moved in on Stanislovsky. "You're gonna take his word for it?"
It wasn't my most menacing move, but it must have done the trick, because Stanislovsky nodded and said, "Yes, I will take his word for it. What does the RCMP want with me?"
"We understand you're acquainted with a man named Yuri Kosygin," Fraser said.
"What of it?" Stanislovsky shot the question right back and added, "He is no friend of mine." He did sound pretty sure about that.
I didn't like the way he was getting all shifty-eyed, though, and decided to mix things up a little. "Well, yeah, friends don't normally take pot shots at you in broad daylight," I said and watched how he took that.
Defensive, suspicious, he demanded, "And how do you know this?"
"Little birdie whispered."
Eyes narrowed, he asked, "Who is this little birdie?"
Fraser intervened again, getting between me and Stanislovsky, saying, "What Ray is trying to say is that we understand that you would like Mr. Kosygin brought to justice, as do we. Perhaps we could help you with that."
"Again I ask you, what do the Mounties want with Yuri?"
"He is suspected of masterminding a theft from the Canadian Museum of Civilization in Quebec," Fraser told him, and I watched the color drain out Stanislovsky's face. Funny reaction for a guy who didn't know anything. That had to mean we were on the right trail.
"I have no information for you," he said, busying himself with the files again, stuffing a handful in his briefcase. "My cousin Tobias is working the case for the agency. Perhaps he could help you. He will be in shortly, if you would care to wait. But you must excuse me now, I am late for an appointment."
He was giving us the runaround big time, and that made me want to stick close. I signaled Fraser and we followed Stanislovsky outside. When he shot me an irritated, go away, look, I just smiled and stayed on his heels -- and about ten seconds later I figured he had cause to be happy I was there, because the instant I spotted the red dot on his back, I launched myself and hit him and knocked him flat on the sidewalk just as a bullet cracked through the air and shattered the window.
"Where'd it come from?" I asked Fraser, crouching over Stanislovsky with my gun out and fumbling for my glasses.
Fraser'd zeroed in on it, of course, and was already making tracks for the building across the street, Dief at his heels, while I was wrestling around with Stanislovsky who was shoving me off and climbing to his feet, shaking his fist and shouting something in Russia that probably wasn't a love poem. "Hey, you, don't go anywhere," I told him, trying to run after Fraser and hold onto Stanislovsky at the same. When he tore away from me and took off, though, I didn't fight it. Him, we could find again.
I saw Dief's tail disappearing down an alley and raced after him, catching sight of Fraser in hot pursuit of another guy -- and the other guy had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Great, that was great. "Fraser!" Yeah, like he'd just stop and let Kosygin get away. It had to be Kosygin; the build was right, what I could see of his face was right.
I heard tires squealing up ahead and saw a Jeep pull up to the entrance of the alley, a blond guy my size piling out and heading for Fraser and Kosygin, with another guy, bigger with dark hair, chasing after him. I doubled my speed, aiming my gun as I saw Kosygin reaching around for the rifle -- and one of the new guys, the big one, came flying at me, yelling, "Beecher, get down!" as a hundred-and-ninety pounds of solid muscle slammed into me. The impact knocked my glasses off and sent me sliding across the alley, him on top of me.
And sure, maybe the wind was knocked out of me and this guy had me outmuscled, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from covering Fraser. He reared up, gun held in a steady two-handed grip and the barrel pointing between my eyes, that had me thinking up alternatives, though. Dief gave me my chance, wading in, growling and snarling away, sinking his teeth into the guy's jacket. And in the split second the big guy was distracted, I elbowed him in the nose. He yelled, "Motherfucker!" gun flying from his hand as he clamped the other to his bloody nose. I pushed him off me, scrabbling around for my glasses as I got my feet under me, gun pointed in the general direction just as Fraser's knife whizzed through the air and sliced Kosygin's arm, pinning his coat to the wooden fence behind him.
Kosygin snarled something in Russian, let the rifle drop, and yanked out the knife. He dropped it, expression cold as a night in the Yukon, and snagged the rifle again -- aiming it straight at Fraser who was boxed in the alley, nowhere to go but straight up, and even Fraser can't fly. The big guy was still cursing, one fuck after another, as he grabbed up his gun and brought it around. The blond guy, Beecher, moved then, shoving Fraser out of the way and hauling out a revolver. I had my glasses now and slipped them on, sighting on the rifle. Beecher and I fired at the same time; my shot knocked the rifle out of Kosygin's hands, while Beecher's winged him in the leg.
Kosygin howled, a hand clamped to the wound, and fired us a look that said he wouldn't forget us anytime soon, and then he was grabbing the top of the fence and climbing over and hightailing it.
I ran over there, giving Fraser a hand up and making sure he was okay, running my hand along his arm and shoulder and giving him a squeeze, acknowledging the reassuring look he gave me. We both would have followed after Kosygin, but the big guy grabbed my shoulder and hauled me around, his badge out as he growled, "Nobody fuckin' move. Drop the gun."
Yeah, way to get off on the right foot with the local law enforcement. I let my gun drop and raised my hands over my head as he patted me down; I knew he'd find my own badge and ID. "We're on the same side," I said as he looked it over.
He looked like he might debate that, but Fraser stepped up then, offering his handkerchief. "If I may, I'm Corporal Benton Fraser of the RCMP, and as my partner says, we all appear to be in pursuit of the same miscreant."
Beecher piped up then, "What, is miscreant Canadian for bad motherfucker? Put the gun down, Chris, they're on our side."
"Yeah, you never let me shoot anyone," Chris said, holstering the gun and holding Fraser's hanky to his nose.
"That's not true. Didn't I let you shoot that biker the other day?"
"Well, yeah, but only 'cause he had you tied up and gagged. And by the way, Beech, good shooting there."
"Didn't think I had it in me, did you?"
Chris gave him a smile, a really intimate one, and said, "Yeah, I did."
Beecher shook his head and smiled back, and held out his hand to me. "I'm Tobias Beecher, and this is Det. Chris Keller, by the way."
I shook his hand, said, "Sgt. Ray Kowalski, North American Investigations Bureau."
Fraser joined in the handshaking and asked, "Would you be the Tobias Beecher who works for Stanislovsky's Bail Bonds?"
Keller made a face like he'd tasted something sour. "That'd be him all right."
Beecher gave him a look like this was an old argument he'd had enough of. "I am, yes. Why?"
Dief came charging up right then, growling at Keller, but I caught hold of him, let him know everything was good. "It's okay, buddy. He's one of the good guys. He just didn't know who I was."
Cop cars were roaring up by now, uniforms pouring into the alley -- "Keller, everything copacetic?" one of them called out.
"Yeah, Murph, we're okay here. You see Kosygin on your way over?"
"Ah, shit," Murph didn't sound happy, "so he's really back?"
"Yep."
"Dino," Murph barked at another uniform, "call that in, tell 'em to fast-track an APB." He looked at Keller. "Where's Stans?"
"If you mean Stanislovsky," I said, " he went thataway," I threw a thumb over my shoulder.
"Figures," Murph said and told Dino to also get the word out to keep an eye peeled for Stanislovsky.
"Got it," Dino said, running back down the alley, talking into his radio.
I had to admit, being in the middle of all this action was giving me a buzz, made me want to jump on in, but Fraser had other ideas, saying, "Gentlemen, perhaps we should go somewhere and talk?"
"Yes, perhaps we should," Keller said, although I got this feeling he was as ansty as me. "There's a coffee shop around the corner here." He looked at the balled up, bloody handkerchief. "And I can look at my nose."
I smiled. "Sorry about that."
"Don't worry," Beecher told him, "you're still pretty."
Keller gave him a grumpy look, told Murph where we'd be, and he and Beecher led the way, grumbling about how he hoped Beecher was happy now.
"Happy about what?" Beecher said.
"You're the one who wanted to meet the Mountie."
"I never said I wanted to meet the Mountie..."
Fraser reined in Diefenbaker and told me, "They seem like decent fellows, once they stop cursing."
Yeah, or at least no nuttier than the two of us.
...to be continued...
This is my first time writing Fraser and RayK, and I hope this does them justice.
Dedicated to autiger23, for making it possible for me to enjoy S3 of due South, and saying she'd love to see me write some dS fic. Hope this hits the spot for you. :)
Thanks as always to my beta, technical advisor, and nudger, maverick4oz, for both turning me on to dS in the first place, and for talking me into this fic. It's scary territory, but I'm having fun.
Note: The North American Investigation Bureau is a work of fiction. And also, no offense is intended toward Canadian pizza.
And yes, this is a WIP, but as Mav reminds me: NOT AN EPIC. Promise. Four chapters, and we're done. *g*
ETA: Chapters 1 - 8 of "One for My Baby" can be found here Sincerest Form of Flattery
~Behind the Curtain~
an Oz/due South xover
Chapter One
The light turned green but I just sat there for another second. "Beech?"
"Yeah?"
"Did a Mountie and a wolf just go across the street?"
There was a long pause, both of us sitting there with our heads cocked, before he finally said, "Yes," he nodded to himself, "yes they did."
"Huh." Live long enough, you see everything.
"Maybe there's a convention in town," Toby said as impatient drivers leaned on their horns and I put the Jeep in motion.
I shot him a look. "Of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police? In the 'Burg?"
He shrugged. "It could happen."
True, and Adebisi could run off to join the Bolshoi Ballet, but I wasn't putting my life savings on it.
The doc'd given us both a clean bill of health after our dust up with a biker named Jim Burns, and said there were no signs of concussion or anything in that line. Hadn't prescribed anything stronger than aspirin, either, and although Toby and I have shared a lot of things over the years, so far hallucinations haven't been one of them. So conclusion: yes, there really was a Mountie (and a wolf) casing Stanislovsky's Bail Bonds back there. I angled the rear view mirror to keep an eye on them, watched another guy join them, marked this one down as someone likely to be in need of Nikolai's service, and then watched as the Mountie escorted him over to a car parked at the curb.
"What are you doing?"
"Bein' a cop," I said, maintaining surveillance and maneuvering through traffic at the same time. That's one of the things we learn to do at cop school.
"Keller, even you can't suspect a Mountie of being up to something."
Says him. But no, that wasn't the conclusion I was coming to. Since the scraggy-looking guy didn't appear to be in custody -- in fact he and the Mountie had their heads bent over a map right now, trying to read it by the street light -- I was going out on a limb and concluding they simply had some business to conduct with Nikolai. Matter of fact, the way the scraggy one was looking around and getting the lay of the land, gut instinct said he was a cop too. If they wanted to talk to Nikolai, though, they were going to have come back in the morning.
"Looks okay," I told Toby, checking one more time and watching the men and the wolf all pile into the car and take off. "There's probably a departmental memo about them sitting on my desk right about now." Actually I hoped not, 'cause all I wanted to do right now was crawl into bed and sleep for a week.
Well -- I shot a look at Toby, just as bruised and beat up as me, but sexy with it -- once the painkillers kicked in there might be more than sleeping going on.
I turned off to Nappa's Pizzeria, pulling into the parking lot a few minutes later. I'd already called ahead and placed our order, so it was a breeze to leave the Jeep idling while I ran in to pick up our pizza and breadsticks. My step slowed on the way back to the Jeep, though, my stomach doing a flip as I watched Toby sitting there, blond head leaned against the window, looking all done in. Moments like that, all I want to do is pull him into my arms and figure out a way to get us away to some deserted island where nothing can ever hurt him. Sure, I have my share of bumps and bruises, but that's no big deal; I've had a lifetime getting used to that.
He looked around at me then, like he'd sensed me standing there, and gave me a puzzled smile. I smiled back and climbed in the Jeep, handing the food to him.
"Didn't forget the breadsticks?"
"Beech, have I ever forgotten the breadsticks?"
Lips pooched out, he thought that over as I drove out of the parking lot and headed for home -- that being Toby's apartment building these days. Not that we're actually living together yet, but I'm thinking the signs and portents are looking good for that at last.
"So what's next on your schedule?" I asked him to get his mind off the one or two times I might've forgotten the breadsticks. I was hoping his answer would be that he was free as a bird, at least where tracking down armed and dangerous nutjobs was concerned. The words that actually popped out of his mouth took about ten years off my life expectancy.
"I have to bring in Yuri Kosygin," he said, just like that, like that was something simple and ordinary to say.
"What?"
He huffed, quietly; maybe he'd detected the rise in my blood pressure. "You heard me."
Oh yeah, I had. "Let me get this right -- Nikolai's got you tracking the bastard who nearly killed him last year?"
He sniffed. "Actually I volunteered."
No, no, huh-uh. I was hallucinating, I really was. "You volunteered? Because ... you got a death wish I don't know about?" There, see, I was being all calm and collected and stuff.
"It's good money, and Gypsy's busy with Cyril. Someone has to bring him in."
"Yeah, but it don't gotta be you. Not to mention you don't need the money." His trust fund could keep a couple of small countries going.
He huffed again, the kind where I can tell he's starting to get pissed. "It's what I do, Chris. Deal with it or fuck off. Your choice."
Oh yeah, he was pissed. "You want me gone?"
"No," he was skewed around in his seat, looking at me, and out've the corner of my eye I could see he was upset, "you know I don't. But I also don't want you telling me what bounties I can track."
Bounties, like we were in the Old West. Christ. See, he's a lawyer, a fucking damn good one, but this streetfront, legal aid outfit he was working for went belly up a while back and what was his natural response to that turn of events? Did he make his dad's dreams come true and join the family law firm? Did he apply to any of the other firms in town? Did he start up his own practice? Nooooo. One day I'm at his apartment watching the game and waiting for him to get home, and he comes in and says guess what, he's taken a job with Cousin Nicky's bail bonds outfit; he's going to be a bounty hunter and spend his life tracking down desperate desperadoes.
And yeah, I didn't exactly take the news well, if you want to get absolutely technical.
I love him like crazy, but ... Christ.
"Look, Toby," I went on being reasonable, "I just worry. Kosygin's dangerous."
"No, really?" he snarked right back. "And all those perps you tangle with in vice are nothing but sweeeet, innocent angels?"
"Beech, that's a whole different story."
"Why? Because you're the big tough guy and I'm the wussy little law boy?"
It was my turn to let out an aggravated breath. "That I ain't what I said, don't go putting words in my mouth. There is nothing wussy about you, never has been, and you got nothing to prove. Kosygin's not just another perp, that's all."
"And I know that, Chris. I was there when he gunned Nicky down, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember." My hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles showing white. There's nights that memory still keeps me awake. I could've left any NASCAR driver in the dust the way I raced over to Stanislovsky's because of the call that'd come over my radio: shots fired, officer down, civilians injured. Police cars were all over the place, an ambulance just pulling up; the big front windows of the bail bonds agency were shattered, glass all over the sidewalk; a uniform cop was sitting on the curb, holding his left arm and looking pale and shaky. I'd cataloged all of that in a heartbeat, zeroing in on Nikolai sprawled out on the sidewalk, blood pooling around him -- and Toby hunched over him, only just then moving back, and no way for me to tell if any of the blood spattered across his face and clothes was his.
He hadn't taken a bullet, most of the blood was his cousin's; mostly Toby'd been cut by a few pieces of flying glass. Hadn't even left any scars to speak of. It's just, I replay it in my head sometimes, think about what could have happened, and want to book us a flight to that deserted island.
"I remember all right. Kosygin went after Nikolai in broad daylight, didn't hesitate to shoot a cop either. You think he's miraculously changed his ways? He's not going to come quietly." The Russian had fled for parts unknown, no sign of him on the radar for months, but lately there had been sightings, rumors he was back in the area. Confirmation came when the bodies started showing up, Kosygin settling some old scores. Odds were good Nikolai was somewhere on that list and if he wanted to settle things one-on-one, I had no problem -- except with him getting Toby involved.
"Chris, I know that. Will you give me some credit? Trust me not to do anything risky?"
I cut him a look as we turned down the street to his apartment building. "You're kidding me, right?"
"I'm serious as a gunshot, Keller."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
He let out another huff, the kind that signals he's just about had it. "Enough. All right? Enough. You can either drop me off here or come on up, but either way we're done talking about this."
"Toby..."
He gave him a hard, stubborn look.
I gave him a long, deep sigh back and resisted the urge to pound my head on the steering wheel. Things had been going too good, I should have known a bump in the road was coming up. Funny thing about potholes, though, if you know to expect them, sometimes you can navigate around them and save yourself some damage. "Okay, fine, I'll shut up -- but I'm telling you one thing, pal: tonight you're sharing those breadsticks."
He looked back at me, debating how much he believed I was just going to let this drop, but maybe he was inclined to skirt around those potholes too because after a moment he nodded. "Sharing's good."
I nodded back. "Sharing's great."
Agreed on that point, we got out of the Jeep and headed over to his building. None of his crazy neighbors was working the elevator tonight, and it was smooth ride up to his floor. Walking down the hallway you could hear televisions on and it smelled like somebody had cooked cabbage, but I managed to resist the urge to comment. When we do officially start sharing the same roof, it ain't gonna be here -- but that's a discussion for another day.
"Wait a sec," I said as he got his key out and started to open his door. Ever since he went to work for Stanislovsky, along with vehicles spontaneously exploding in his presence, assorted homicidal maniacs have gotten in the habit of entering his apartment at will. Toby'd make a case I was the first maniac who did that, and I won't argue. Me wanting to get in his pants is one thing; Jack the Ripper -- or Yuri Kosygin -- waiting to ambush him is a whole different story. And he could shoot me all the exasperated looks he wanted, I wasn't taking any chances.
"Satisfied?" he asked as I finished looking the door over, finding no signs of tampering.
"No -- but I think it's safe." I stayed close as he swung the door open and flicked on the lights.
"Excuse me, but," he set the food down on the kitchen counter and turned to face me, hands resting at my waist, "who rescued who today?"
I smiled, my own hands kneading the small of his back. "Yeah?" I tilted my head to kiss his cheek, mouth careful against the bruise. "You hear me saying you're not my hero?" Usually the sight of him and Adebisi charging headfirst into a situation gives me gray hairs, but this had been one time they had been a sight for sore eyes. Although we might've both come out with less wear and tear if he'd left Adebisi at the office. "Toby," I gave him a serious look now, done playing, "I know you can take care of yourself. It's just, I don't want you to have to. You know?"
"I know." He was looking at me just as solemn. "I plan on being around for a really long time, Chris." He leaned in to kiss my mouth, lingering over it for a second. "That's a promise," he whispered against my ear.
I wrapped him up in my arms, holding him close. "I'm holdin' you to that one, Beech," I whispered back, one hand buried in his hair.
He let me hold him long as I needed to, quite a concession when Mr. Nappa's breadsticks had his name on them. "Food's going to get cold," he said after a moment, not pushing away from me, though.
I smiled, kissed his forehead. "Yeah, that'd be a crime against humanity," I said and set him back. "Wanna shower first or eat?"
He thought about it, wincing as he rolled his shoulders, and said, "Shower -- a quick one."
The sad thing was, he might be right about that.
~*~
When I was sixteen, I was a star high school quarterback and every Saturday night I spent my share of time getting knocked on my ass. No big whoop back then, always bounced right back by Sunday morning. Twenty years on, though, and my recovery time's slowed down a bit. That's the only reason I could be sharing a nice, hot shower with the sexiest guy I'd ever laid ... eyes on, and all I wanted to do was wash him.
Okay, maybe not all, but ordinarily we'd be pressed up against the tiles, allll over each other right about now. Gotta admit, taking things slow and easy's wasn't so bad. I was careful over his hip where he had to be sore from getting some splinters dug out there. One time I got some in my ass, so I'm extra sympathetic -- and my recovery time's not so slow these days that I won't be expressing that sympathy more directly in a while.
Toby took care of me the same way, soaping me up and rinsing me off like my scrapes and bruises hurt him. It's always been like that. First time he saw me after my old man'd been taking out his disappointments on me, he got all worked up and wouldn't believe I'd just fallen off my bike. By now you'd think it wouldn't be that big a deal to him, but I guess he'd beg to differ. He usually does.
"What are you smiling about?" He gave me this cute, suspicious look as he shut off the water and pushed the shower curtain back.
"Hmm, I'm standing here with you, naked -- I gotta have more reasons?"
If he didn't quite buy that, either, he seemed willing to play along and handed me a towel.
The painkillers were kicking in pretty good by now, but the pizza and breadsticks might be getting cold so we didn't linger over the drying off, either. The way his cock twitched as I patted it dry, though, signaled there could be some action yet -- which is why I'm wasn't thrilled to see him putting on a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt.
Dropping my towel and sprawling out on the bed, both hands hooked behind my head, I watched him run a comb through his hair and check me out in the mirror. "Are you planning on putting some clothes on?"
"Nope. I'd just be taking them off later," I said and smiled, waiting for the huff.
"You're pretty sure of yourself, Keller," he said, standing by the bed.
Reaching for him, pulling him down on top of me, I said, "So, you gonna rain on my parade, Beech?"
"You know I can't eat naked."
"Umm hmm, that's okay, babe," I nuzzled his throat, "I can eat naked for both of us."
He sighed, breath warm against my skin. "You're shameless."
"Thanks," I winked at him, "that is one of my better qualities."
Torn between being exasperated and laughing, he gave into the last one, conceding this round. "Okay, but there better be plenty of napkins, because if you get tomato sauce on you I am not licking it off."
Yeah -- my hand slipped under his t-shirt, stroking bare skin -- we'd just see about that.
<>*<>
We'd spent a really long day chasing our tails around Brighton Beach and only getting hold of one lead, and had hit the road for another long drive to this place called the 'Burg. I was tired and hungry, and about the last thing I needed from Fraser right now was him telling me, "If I had a sextant, Ray--"
"I got your sextant right here, buddy. How about you try the map in the glove box?"
"Or, well, that works too," he said and popped it open to rummage inside.
"Sextant..." I muttered under my breath. I shook my head to try and clear it and kept my eyes peeled for an exit sign as Fraser unfolded the map and took out a pen light, Dief perking up in back and sticking his head over the seat for a consultation. I noticed him smiling -- Fraser, that is -- and asked him, "What are you grinning about over there?"
Turning the map this way and that, Fraser said, "Just thinking it's much easier to read a map when it's not carved on someone's chest."
"You're a freak, Fraser."
"Understood. Take the next exit coming up."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
Long story short, me and the Mountie were out to retrieve these Russian icons that had been stolen from the Canadian Museum of Civilization in Quebec, and we were headed to see this guy named Nikolai Stanislovsky who might know something about it. If it didn't pan out, I figured our next stop would be Timbuktu. There's a longer and complicated Fraser version available, of course.
"Why are you so cranky, Ray?"
"Fraser," we were driving through the outskirts of town now, "we've been on the road since three a.m. I want a shower. I want a nap." Aside from some beard stubble, he looked fresh and sharp as always, whereas I was feeling more beat and scruffy every minute.
"Well then," Fraser indicated one of the fleabag motels beside the road, "shall we stop at one of these fine lodging establishments for the night?"
"Frase, not even the cockroaches would call those places fine," I told him, knowing he was yanking my chain but playing along was fun, reminded me of how it was before. Me and Fraser, we're still partners, in every sense of that word, but most of our time is spent teaching baby mounties and flatfoots about international cooperation. Of course, that has it moments too. Fraser teaches them proper procedure and I show them how to kick 'em in the head.
"Well, you know, Ray," he scratched his ear, "any port in a storm."
"You see a storm, Fraser?"
"Well, no, although metaphorically speaking, one could argue life is composed of a series of storms."
"One could, could one?"
"One could, yes."
"Well, one isn't. No storms, no no-tell motels."
He nodded. "As you wish."
"Thank you. So what's the address of that bail bonds place again?" The place was probably shut down for the night, but Fraser had to see for himself and giving in was easier than arguing.
He gave me the address and did some more navigating, and this 'Burg started to look more inviting as we headed downtown. It wasn't Chicago, or Ottawa, and I'd reserve judgment until daylight, but it was civilization and that was the important thing. I should have remembered that getting from Point A to Point B is not necessarily an easy route when Fraser's in the car, however. There we were two blocks away from our destination and he made me stop and let him and Dief out to help an old lady with groceries cross the street. I turned the corner and pulled up in front of Stanislovsky's place and waited for the Mountie and the wolf to finish their civic duty. Their work is never done.
"See, Fraser, I told you nobody would be at the office this late," I said, joining him as he and Dief peered in the windows.
"It seemed worthwhile to make certain, however," he said, conceding my point at last with one last rattle of the doorknob.
"We could have made certain with a phone call," I said, checking out the surroundings and taking note of anything interesting. Pretty quiet all in all, but there was a blue Jeep idling at the corner and I was getting this hunch somebody inside was checking us out.
"You were the one complaining about roaming charges, Ray."
"Fraser, you know me, I'm always complaining about something. Next time we call."
"Understood."
"So let's find a place to stay tonight and come back here first thing in the morning," I said, letting my guard down a bit as the blue Jeep turned the corner and disappeared from view. Probably nothing; hanging out with Fraser, I've had to get used to strangers slowing down to take a long look, but it never hurts to keep on your toes.
"Well, there's a flyer here for a local bed-and-breakfast," Fraser said, pointing it out, stuck down in a corner of the window and advertising a place called Emerald City, which by itself was enough to put me off.
"Frase, I'm not sure we want to stay at a place advertised at a bail office. Probably makes those rat traps on the highway look like the Ritz-Carlton."
"Well, it says pets welcome," he pointed out. Dief whined something at him then and Fraser told him, "Yes, Dief, I understand you aren't our pet, but most people--"
"Yo, Mutt," I waded in quick, able to think of at least a half dozen things we could be doing besides standing here, reasoning with a dog, "knock it off or no pizza later. And face it, that's the real reason you wanted to come with us."
"There is pizza in Canada, Ray," Fraser said, "we had one just the other night."
"Bad pizza, Fraser. There's bad pizza in Canada. I mean, the pizza here won't be Chicago deep dish, but I bet there's no caribou option as a topping."
Fraser gave me an interested look as we went back over to the car and asked me, "So is the pizza the only reason you came with me?"
"Nah, it's just been a long time since you endangered my life in a wildly bizarre way," I told him. And then I leaned closer to whisper, "Where you go, I go," in his ear, one hand cupped along the side of his neck for a second, fingers stroking just above his collar. Then I got to watch him stand there speechless for a moment. That doesn't happen a lot, so I enjoy it when it comes along. "So how about we go check this place out, and if it isn't like some of the places we looked at for you to live in Chicago, and it has a working shower, we stay there tonight."
"That ... sounds like a most excellent plan."
"So, you got an address for that place?" He was still a little flustered, and I was still enjoying it. What I got a bigger kick out of was how he stayed close to me as he dug out the map again and we both bent our heads over it, close enough for me to feel his body warmth.
"Yes, it's on Sycamore Street. I believe," his shoulder bumped against mine as he traced out the route, "we are only a few blocks away."
I'd take his word for it. "Let's hit the road then." We piled back into the car, Fraser setting his hat down on the dashboard and pointing out the street signs, and I suddenly had this hankering for this trip to be more about fun and less about business. "One of these days you and me are taking a road trip, Frase."
"I was under the impression that's what we did when we set out to search for the Hand of Franklin, Ray."
"No," I was firm about this, "that was not a road trip."
"It wasn't?"
"Fraser, do you know the main thing you have to have for it to be a road trip?"
He rubbed his eyebrow. "What?"
"A road."
"Ah, I see." He nodded and told me to me to make a right.
I slowed up in front of this place, my worst fears beginning to be realized as I caught sight of the pathway leading up to the front porch -- made out of yellow bricks. "Oh, great, that's just great."
Fraser shot me a puzzled look. "What's wrong, Ray?" Dief poked his head over to whine something too, Fraser telling him, "No, I don't see anything amiss, either."
I sighed, leaned my arms on the steering wheel. "Look at the place. I bet every room's got this Oz theme going. They'll stick us in the Ruby Slippers suite."
"Well, there could be a certain charm to that."
"No, there couldn't." I took a deep breath and made my dark confession. "Fraser, I hate that movie."
And yep, there it was, the Mountie turning to give me this look of deep, profound disbelief. "You hate The Wizard of Oz, Ray?"
"Flying Monkeys, Fraser. I had nightmares about Flying Monkeys for years."
"Well, as you are well aware, there are species of monkeys such as the ateles geoffroyi geoffroyi, more commonly known as the spider money, who can propel themselves through the rainforest canopy in a manner that, for all intents and purposes, amounts to being able to fly."
Oh, yeah, I was well aware of that. I gave him a long stare. "Look, buddy, I'm sharing a deep childhood trauma here and you're not helping. I mean really, what kind of movie is that to show to a kid anyway, with tornadoes and creepy old guys hiding behind curtains, witches, those freaky munchkins, and on top of that those damn Flying Monkeys ."
"And do you have a problem with the Lollipop Kids as well, Ray?"
"No, just the monkeys." I thought about it. "And maybe the Scarecrow."
"I won't bring it up again," he said.
A hand to his mouth and a short hiccuped cough only meant one thing where the Mountie was concerned. "Stop laughing at me, Fraser. At least I don't have anything against otters."
"Well, I was actually hit by an otter, Ray."
"So, what, your physical trauma trumps my emotional trauma? Otters are cute, Fraser. Flying monkeys are not cute. They are evil little creatures that haunt kid's dreams"
"If you feel so strongly about this, perhaps we should find another lodging for the night."
I looked at the yellow brick pathway. "Nah, we're here. We might as well check it out," I said and opened the door to get out. "But I see even one flying monkey, we're outta here."
"Understood."
We got up to the front porch with its welcome mat, and rang the bell. The door opened up promptly and a pretty black woman looked out at us, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes as she saw me, but that changed quick enough when she clapped eyes on the Mountie. You could practically hear her thinking, Ooooh, pretty. "Well, my goodness," she primped with her hair, soaking him up, "what can I do for you?" She asked it like she didn't already have plenty of ideas.
Fraser took his hat off, cranking the charm up with a smile. "Well, ma'am, my friend and I have just arrived in town and find ourselves in need of lodging for the night. Your establishment came highly recommended."
And Mounties can't lie. Hah.
She swung the door open wide for us to enter, eyeballing me in a way that said she'd count the spoons any time I was near the silver-ware. "Is that a wolf?" she asked as Dief trotted in after us.
"Half-wolf, ma'am," Fraser said. "I can assure you Diefenbaker's quite harmless."
To back this up, Dief promptly charged across the foyer to drag a stuffed bear off a chair and bring it back, sitting down with it hanging from his mouth. Fraser gave the dog a stern look and I waited for our hostess to order us and our mangy mutt off the premises. Instead she smiled and knelt down to try and wrestle the stuffed bear away from him, saying, "Well, isn't he just the cutest thing? Just like my Marvin."
I rolled my eyes. "Marvin?"
Fraser tapped me on the shoulder and drew my attention to a framed photograph on the wall. "I believe she means her Jack Russell terrier, Ray."
I took a closer look at the photo, at what looked like some kind of luau. Sure enough, not only was this little yapper dog all decked out in a Hawaiian shirt with a lei around his neck and sunglasses, but the banner behind him proclaimed: Happy Birthday, Marvin! Head tilted close, I whispered, "You know what, Fraser?"
"What, Ray?" he whispered back.
"You ever dress up Diefenbaker like that I'll have to punch you in the head."
"Understood."
"That's right," our perky hostess chirped right in, scratching Dief's ear and apparently inducing total ecstasy. "Named him for Mr. Marvin Gaye."
Oh, yeah, I could see the mutt just oozed with Marvin Gaye-ness.
"Ah, yes," Fraser did that thing with his neck, "the great R&B artist. Sexual Healing, Ray."
I stared at him, blinked first, and since I didn't have a comeback handy, switched gears and got down to business. "So -- a room?"
"Oh my, yes, where's my head?" the lady said, leading us along to the front desk. She went on chattering like that, catching us up on her day like we were old friends, and slipping in that her name was Floria Mills.
Fraser introduced us in turn. "Very pleased to meet you. I'm Corporal Benton Fraser, and this is my partner, Sgt. Ray Kowalski."
Floria gave me another hmm look and went back to Fraser, asking what brought him here. I rolled my eyes again and leaned against the desk.
"Well, ma'am, I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killer's of my father, and for reasons that don't need exploring at this junc--"
"Frase, we're not in Chicago now."
He gave me a pained look. "Well, yes, Ray, I was going to get to that."
"Sometime this week?"
Fraser gave me a hmm look too, but wrapped it up with Floria, telling her that we were here on official business and no, we weren't quite sure for how long. She was fine with that, and didn't bat an eye at discovering we didn't want a room with separate beds. Even offered to take Dief out for a walk with Marvin, and you can't beat that for hospitality.
All the checking in settled, Fraser and I headed back out to the car to gather up our gear. Even though we'd left Ottawa hot on the heels of the perp, Fraser'd still managed to bring three uniforms with him. Me, I shoved a few t-shirts and jeans in a dufflebag and I was good to go, but Fraser's uniform is sacred, so all three were hung up neatly in dry-cleaning bags. Back inside, Floria, like most women, couldn't help herself and had to reach out and run her hand along the serge. Although at least she had sense enough to go for the one on the hanger. I understand the urge, sure, but nobody gets to pet the Mountie but me. Of course she knew a good dry cleaners Fraser could use if the need arose, and said she'd be happy to run the uniforms down there herself.
"Yeah, and how about a pizza place?" I asked, lugging the suitcases up the stairs. "You know a good one of those?"
"Only place for pizza is Mr. Nappa's," Floria informed me with total authority as she opened up the door to our room.
I put the bags down and had to admit the Tin Man suite wasn't as bad as I'd expected. If you didn't count the heart-shaped pillows on the bed. And the little hearts on the curtains. But hey, I could deal. It had a roof, the bed had a mattress, and there was running water in the bathroom. "They do deliveries?" I asked her as Fraser came in with the last of our gear.
"They sure do. Want me to give them a call for you?"
"Sounds good to me," I said as I took off my jacket. And that was queer, how she didn't bat an eye when she saw my shoulder rig. Usually civilians get a little ansty when they see a gun. Floria just went on chirping, asking what kind of toppings did we want on the pizza and even cracked a smile my way when I joked about wanting some caribou on mine. Telling us the pizza'd be here in about half an hour, she finally took off with Diefenbaker, and we were alone at last.
"Flip you for the shower?" I offered, digging a quarter out of my pocket.
Fraser waved it away, though, graciously allowing me first dibs. For a minute I was tempted to try and get him in there with me, but the chance of Floria barging in on us put the kibosh on that quick. So, giving that a rain check, I hauled a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from my bag and went to wash away too many hours on the road.
Since I was on my own in there, it didn't take too long, and I was drying my hair when I heard Fraser say, "Thank you kindly," and deduced the pizza was here. Just in time too, since my belly was starting to rumble away.
And yep, sure enough, when I walked out of the bathroom, not only was the pizza here, but Dief was back from his walk with Floria and Marvin. I knew there was no way that wolf was gonna miss out on the pizza. I stood at the doorway for just a second and listened to Fraser talking to Dief. "Yes, well it's different in the far north, here in America dogs are required to be walked on leashes. As you said yourself, Marvin didn't seem to mind. And it was very kind of Ms. Mills to bend the rules for you."
Fraser had the box open on the coffee table over in the cozy sitting area, and was lifting out a slice for Dief. "Hey, save me some," I said, heading on over and trying out the couch. "Looks good." And I didn't only mean the pizza. Fraser had taken off his Mountie coat and, standing there in his henley and suspenders, with the sleeves pushed up to show off his arms, he looked good enough to eat too. Never figured a pair of suspenders would do it for me.
Giving me a puzzled look, Fraser asked, "What are you smiling about, Ray?"
"Just enjoying the moment, Frase."
Fraser smiled back at me, so I guess he was enjoying it too. This theory was shaping up as a good one too, as he came around to sit beside me on the couch, his knee bumping against mine and our hands brushing as we both reached for a slice of pizza.
We polished off the pizza in record time, with help from Dief, of course, and I was feeling a lot more mellow. It had been a crazy couple of days, this mad dash down from Canada, and it was good to finally have a chance to kick back and take a deep breath. Tomorrow -- well, it could wait until tomorrow. Right now there was a bed that looked really comfortable, and my favorite Mountie to share it with, and who could ask for anything more?
I almost hated to get up off the couch, it was pretty comfortable too, but it was only a couple of steps and then I was sitting on the bed and testing the mattress, and didn't even mind having to eat my words. "Man, I was wrong about this place, Frase."
"Yes," he had followed me over to the bed and was still smiling, "no Flying Monkeys in sight."
"Well, yeah," I grinned up at him, "but I was talking about the cockroaches." Okay, and maybe the Flying Monkeys too.
"Well you know, Ray," he said, sitting down beside me, "even most clean places are probably overrun with periplaneta amedcana, also known as the North American cockroach."
They were? I jumped off the bed, pretty sure I'd just felt one crawl up my leg and trying to shake it off. "Way to kill the mood there, buddy. Here I was all ready to seduce you, and you had to give me the heebie jeebies."
He just sat there and went on being reasonable. "Insects are vital to our existence, Ray, not to mention they can be an important source of protein if you're stranded in the wilderness."
"Now you're talking about eating them. Do you want me to horck up dinner?"
"Ray, I was merely pointing out--"
"Fraser," I sat down again, "there is a time for talking and a time for keeping quiet."
"Oh." He gave me a wide-eyed look. "And this would be...?"
I pushed him back against the headboard, one hand cradling the back of his head, and whispered, "A time for keeping quiet," as I headed in for a kiss.
"Understood," he murmured back, one hand cupping the nape of my neck and pulling me closer, both of us stretching out on the bed as things started warming up.
I rubbed his shoulder, started to ease one of those suspender straps down. "Maybe you want to grab a shower, and then we can pick this up?"
"That sounds like an excellent plan, Ray."
I grinned at him, in complete agreement on that score, but didn't want to let him get away quite yet. When he made to get up, I tugged him down again, one hand against his face, stroking his cheek slowly and just taking one of those quiet moments to look at him, appreciate what we had both stumbled into along the way. My fingers brushed along his eyebrow and I kissed him there, then his cheek, and when he turned his face, searching for my mouth, I met him and dug my fingers into hair to keep him right there to kiss his lips until they were swollen and my tongue couldn't taste anything but him. And the best thing? The best thing was how Fraser held onto me just as tight and kissed me back until I was just as breathless.
<>*<>
"So.... " Toby nuzzled my shoulder, his beard scratchy against my chin. "What is a Mountie doing here?"
I cracked an eye open, squinting against the sunlight streaming into the room, and said, "Beech, you got me naked in your bed and you're dreamin' about Mounties?"
"I didn't say I was dreaming about them, Chris. I was just wondering."
I shifted around on top of him, trailing slow kisses along his throat. "Bet I can think of something better to do."
He arched up against me, hands rubbing along my back. "I'm sure you can, but we have to get to work."
"Fuck work," I kissed the corner of his mouth. "We deserve a couple days off."
His hands tightened on my shoulders then and he looked at me like a light bulb'd just gone off. "I am going to work, Chris," he told me, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
I stroked his wrist, smiled down at him. "Mmmm, I could cuff you to the bed."
"Mmmm," he smiled up at me, "or I could kick you in the nuts. You pick."
He'd do it too, fucking maniac. Keeping him safe might almost be worth a set of sore balls. Almost. Another moment and I sighed and rolled off. "You go out've your way to get yourself killed, I ain't cryin' at your funeral."
"No, you'd just throw yourself on my coffin and have to be dragged off."
"You callin' me a drama queen?"
"If the tiara fits..."
Yeah, well, it takes one to know one. "You're just hellbent on doing this, aren't you?"
He let out a sigh and hooked both hands around my neck to look me straight in the eye. "I'm only going to say this one more time, Chris: It's my job. I don't tell you how to do yours and the least you can do is return that courtesy."
My own hands were on his shoulders, kneading, taking a lot of satisfaction in the muscle I could feel, the strength I could sense. It's probably not obvious at first glance, most people underestimate him -- and live to regret it -- but he's my match in every way, tough as nails. Truth is, no, I wouldn't take kindly to him sticking his nose into my work and bossing me around, trying to keep me out of trouble. I just want him there to pick up the pieces when the dust settles, and maybe that's the main thing he needs from me too.
"Okay, I won't say another word, Toby," I gave in graciously as possible. No, I couldn't stop him. I'd tried that before and all it did was push him farther away. I've never met anyone more stubborn, more dogged when he gets his mind set on something. Of course he'd point out that's the pot calling the kettle black, and I had to smile, admitting there was something to that. Leaning forward, I kissed his lips, nuzzled his neck. "Can I at least drop you off at work?"
He kissed me back and gave an inch. "Yes -- since I don't have a car."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him whose fault was that, but I managed to keep that to myself. I'd drop him off, check the place out and maybe see if Murph and Ortalanti could make a few extra drive by passes for me. That wasn't hovering, that wasn't smothering, that was just being practical.
"Oh," he stroked a thumb along my cheek, "and if I find out you've planted a tracking device on me, Keller--"
"Toby," I gave him my best innocent look, "would I do that to you?"
"In a fucking heartbeat."
Yeah, okay, so I'd done that one time, and there were extenuating circumstances. "Where would I plant it?" I asked him, nuzzling his throat again.
"Cousin Nicky's loaning me his car," he reminded me, arching his neck to give me better access, "you could stick something in there when I'm not looking."
"Nah," I took my time kissing his collarbone, "see, I learned that's not too reliable with the way cars you're driving tend to wind up blown to smithereens. I'd have to plant it on you, somewhere only I'd know about," I told him and pulled back to watch him thinking that over and arrive at the only conclusion.
"Keller," suspicion was sharp in his eyes, "you wouldn't."
"Nah," I winked at him, pretty sure he knew I was teasing, "I wouldn't." I kissed his shoulder. "There's only one thing I'm jamming up there. 'Course, if you want me to do a body cavity search, I'm game."
"Didn't you do that last night?"
"Yeah," I kissed the corner of his mouth, brushed my lips across his, "but I'm willing to go back in."
"Wow," he drew that out for about ten syllables, "the hardships you endure, huh?"
Yeah, that's me, a martyr to the cause, and even Toby couldn't keep me from practicing my religion.
~*~
"You know, Chris," Toby was setting our coffee cups in the sink as I ran my hands along his hips and waist, "there's insatiable and then there's obsessive compulsive."
I grinned and brushed my nose against the curls clustered at the nape of his neck. "Where's your gun?"
He huffed and turned to face me. "You're patting me down?"
"Yep. So -- your gun?" The stubborn look on his face told me he'd hidden it somewhere stupid and didn't want me to know. "You are not leaving this apartment without it, Toby, and that is non-negotiable."
He wanted to argue it, I could see that boiling away in his eyes, but he let out another little huff and said, "It's in the cookie jar."
I looked at the cookie jar sitting there on the counter, shaped like a big red apple, and shook my head. "Oh yeah, 'cause no psycho killer'd ever think to look there." I opened it up and took out the S&W .38 Special I'd given him, my old service revolver, and was at least gratified he'd left it in the holster because I'm pretty sure cookie crumbs aren't great for the mechanism. I slid it out to make sure, popped the cylinder, and asked, "Okay, let me guess: and the bullets are in the sugar bowl?"
He gave me another grumpy, defensive look and dutifully forked over a zip-lock baggie stashed back in the junk drawer. "You know I'm not going to use it, so why do we have to through this every time?"
"Because it means I don't spend the day chugging Pepto Bismol, that's why." I loaded it up, popped the cylinder back in place, and watched him clip it to his belt, right hip. "Remember, there's no safety; you just point, aim, and squeeze the trigger." Probably wouldn't hit anything, but at least he'd have six chances to scare the crap out of Kosygin.
When I realized he was serious about this job -- and I'd calmed down a shade -- I saw to it he got licensed to carry, and then hauled him down to the shooting range to show him the ropes. He didn't like it, but it makes me feel a little better about him being out there.
"Ready to roll?" I asked, turning his jacket collar up.
He turned it back down. "Well I don't know, you sure I don't need a suit of armor too?"
I grinned and kissed him again. "Nah, don't want you wearing anything I'd need a can opener to get off." I got him a Kevlar vest for Christmas last year but don't think he's gotten much use out of it. I'd tackle that hurdle tomorrow, though, and just keep my fingers crossed in the meantime.
And fuck, what were the chances he'd tangle with Kosygin today? For all anybody really knew, Yuri was knocking back shots of vodka on a beach in Rio right about now.
<>*<>
"Okay, so if this bounty hunter's a chick, Fraser, we're outta there," I said as we pulled up in front of Stanislovsky's again, the sun shining good and bright and this 'Burg full of hustle and bustle.
Hand on the door, Fraser gave me an amused look. "So you're not worried I might fall for a male bounty hunter? I would think by now you would know I am not averse to a same-sex relationship, Ray."
"Nah, you don't make googly eyes at other guys." And I wasn't worried. It's just when Floria had mentioned she worked part time for Stanislovsky and she'd heard he had this Toby out looking for Kosygin, I had this flashback to that Janet Morris chick Fraser'd taken a shine to. Easy to understand, sure, what with them having so much in common, but that didn't mean I had to like it.
Now Fraser was giving me a stern look. "I most certainly do not make googly eyes at anyone, Ray."
"Yeah, you do, but I don't want to fight about it now. All I'm saying is, if this Toby's some Annie Oakley type, we are not sticking around to get to know her better."
"Well, given his name is Toby, I think we may safely assume he is not an Annie Oakley type. Furthermore, this Toby could be our best chance at finding Yuri Kosygin and retrieving the icons."
I focused on the most important item there. "Toby's a guy? You're sure?"
"I have never met a woman named Tobias."
"Oh, okay then." A guy bounty hunter wouldn't be Fraser's type. A guy bounty hunter would be some steroid-enhanced pinhead with no concept of please and thank you. And again, it wasn't that I had any concerns. It's just, sometimes you get a nutty idea stuck in your head and you don't even know until you hear the words bounty hunter and up it pops. Being exposed to too much perky first thing in the morning can make a guy vulnerable like that.
A really good night had given way to a morning that was way too early and bright, but that I could handle, that I'd almost gotten used to by now. And no mistake, Fraser tends to wake up all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but he doesn't turn it on full blast until a guy's had a chance to get some coffee in him. Floria, though, she beats you over the head with it right off the bat.
We'd barely made it downstairs when she started up, firing questions -- like why wasn't Fraser in his pretty red uniform, not that I could detect her having a serious problem with his jeans and black henley. I'd jumped in there, repeating what I'd told Fraser upstairs, that we might want to try and go incognito today. And I'll give her this, she even backed me up on the idea of leaving the hat behind too. Fraser wasn't budging on that point, though, so she'd switched gears and provided us with her schedule for the day, everything interspersed with commentaries on the morning news. Fraser'd replied with a lot of agreeable hmms and oh, reallys, but the only item I'd been able to make out between the scrambled eggs and hash browns was that Floria was up on all things Stanislovsky, with a side dish of Yuri Kosygin. They'd known each other in the old country, Floria had told us, and although she was fuzzy on specifics her guess that there was something personal between them sounded like a good one, because generally speaking you don't try and mow a guy down in broad daylight just because you woke up feeling funky.
So at least we were on the right track and it was looking good for us not having to head for Timbuktu.
Fraser slammed the car door shut and we walked up to the entrance of the bail bonds outfit, Fraser holding it for a guy just coming out -- no doubt just settling up some business; he looked like someone well acquainted with the wrong side of the law. Tall and lanky, with long sideburns and dark hair brushed back off his forehead, he had two rings glinting gold in his ear and was wearing a long, black leather coat, with a cigarette between his lips. He stopped for a second to look us over, didn't seem impressed, nodded and moved on.
We went on inside, catching sight of two guys over by some file cabinets. One of them was a black guy, in white cargo pants and a purple tank top that showed off his muscles; a little knit hat stayed stuck on his head as he danced around to whatever was playing on his headphones. The other guy was average sized, early forties maybe, with dark hair and a neat beard and wearing a suit that looked pricey, and looked like a better bet for being the guy we wanted. I called out, "You Nikolai Stanislovsky?"
The black guy didn't even glance over, but the other gave us a suspicious look. "And if I am?" he asked, accent confirming it.
I hauled out my badge and showed it to him. "We need to talk to you."
Usually people take your word for it, give it a quick glance and that's that. This guy, he took a long look and asked me, "North American Investigation Bureau? What is this?"
While I was thinking how to condense that outfit down into five words or less, Fraser stepped forward, setting his hat on one of the desk. "Ray, if I may?"
I gave him a be my guest gesture, and he told Stanislovsky, "I'm Corporal Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and my partner, Sgt. Kowalski, and I believe you may be in possession of information vital to a current investigation."
"You are a Mountie?"
"I am a Mountie, yes," Fraser confirmed, and tilted his head toward me to whisper, "You see, Ray, I should have worn my uniform."
"He'll take your word for it, Frase," I said and moved in on Stanislovsky. "You're gonna take his word for it?"
It wasn't my most menacing move, but it must have done the trick, because Stanislovsky nodded and said, "Yes, I will take his word for it. What does the RCMP want with me?"
"We understand you're acquainted with a man named Yuri Kosygin," Fraser said.
"What of it?" Stanislovsky shot the question right back and added, "He is no friend of mine." He did sound pretty sure about that.
I didn't like the way he was getting all shifty-eyed, though, and decided to mix things up a little. "Well, yeah, friends don't normally take pot shots at you in broad daylight," I said and watched how he took that.
Defensive, suspicious, he demanded, "And how do you know this?"
"Little birdie whispered."
Eyes narrowed, he asked, "Who is this little birdie?"
Fraser intervened again, getting between me and Stanislovsky, saying, "What Ray is trying to say is that we understand that you would like Mr. Kosygin brought to justice, as do we. Perhaps we could help you with that."
"Again I ask you, what do the Mounties want with Yuri?"
"He is suspected of masterminding a theft from the Canadian Museum of Civilization in Quebec," Fraser told him, and I watched the color drain out Stanislovsky's face. Funny reaction for a guy who didn't know anything. That had to mean we were on the right trail.
"I have no information for you," he said, busying himself with the files again, stuffing a handful in his briefcase. "My cousin Tobias is working the case for the agency. Perhaps he could help you. He will be in shortly, if you would care to wait. But you must excuse me now, I am late for an appointment."
He was giving us the runaround big time, and that made me want to stick close. I signaled Fraser and we followed Stanislovsky outside. When he shot me an irritated, go away, look, I just smiled and stayed on his heels -- and about ten seconds later I figured he had cause to be happy I was there, because the instant I spotted the red dot on his back, I launched myself and hit him and knocked him flat on the sidewalk just as a bullet cracked through the air and shattered the window.
"Where'd it come from?" I asked Fraser, crouching over Stanislovsky with my gun out and fumbling for my glasses.
Fraser'd zeroed in on it, of course, and was already making tracks for the building across the street, Dief at his heels, while I was wrestling around with Stanislovsky who was shoving me off and climbing to his feet, shaking his fist and shouting something in Russia that probably wasn't a love poem. "Hey, you, don't go anywhere," I told him, trying to run after Fraser and hold onto Stanislovsky at the same. When he tore away from me and took off, though, I didn't fight it. Him, we could find again.
I saw Dief's tail disappearing down an alley and raced after him, catching sight of Fraser in hot pursuit of another guy -- and the other guy had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Great, that was great. "Fraser!" Yeah, like he'd just stop and let Kosygin get away. It had to be Kosygin; the build was right, what I could see of his face was right.
I heard tires squealing up ahead and saw a Jeep pull up to the entrance of the alley, a blond guy my size piling out and heading for Fraser and Kosygin, with another guy, bigger with dark hair, chasing after him. I doubled my speed, aiming my gun as I saw Kosygin reaching around for the rifle -- and one of the new guys, the big one, came flying at me, yelling, "Beecher, get down!" as a hundred-and-ninety pounds of solid muscle slammed into me. The impact knocked my glasses off and sent me sliding across the alley, him on top of me.
And sure, maybe the wind was knocked out of me and this guy had me outmuscled, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from covering Fraser. He reared up, gun held in a steady two-handed grip and the barrel pointing between my eyes, that had me thinking up alternatives, though. Dief gave me my chance, wading in, growling and snarling away, sinking his teeth into the guy's jacket. And in the split second the big guy was distracted, I elbowed him in the nose. He yelled, "Motherfucker!" gun flying from his hand as he clamped the other to his bloody nose. I pushed him off me, scrabbling around for my glasses as I got my feet under me, gun pointed in the general direction just as Fraser's knife whizzed through the air and sliced Kosygin's arm, pinning his coat to the wooden fence behind him.
Kosygin snarled something in Russian, let the rifle drop, and yanked out the knife. He dropped it, expression cold as a night in the Yukon, and snagged the rifle again -- aiming it straight at Fraser who was boxed in the alley, nowhere to go but straight up, and even Fraser can't fly. The big guy was still cursing, one fuck after another, as he grabbed up his gun and brought it around. The blond guy, Beecher, moved then, shoving Fraser out of the way and hauling out a revolver. I had my glasses now and slipped them on, sighting on the rifle. Beecher and I fired at the same time; my shot knocked the rifle out of Kosygin's hands, while Beecher's winged him in the leg.
Kosygin howled, a hand clamped to the wound, and fired us a look that said he wouldn't forget us anytime soon, and then he was grabbing the top of the fence and climbing over and hightailing it.
I ran over there, giving Fraser a hand up and making sure he was okay, running my hand along his arm and shoulder and giving him a squeeze, acknowledging the reassuring look he gave me. We both would have followed after Kosygin, but the big guy grabbed my shoulder and hauled me around, his badge out as he growled, "Nobody fuckin' move. Drop the gun."
Yeah, way to get off on the right foot with the local law enforcement. I let my gun drop and raised my hands over my head as he patted me down; I knew he'd find my own badge and ID. "We're on the same side," I said as he looked it over.
He looked like he might debate that, but Fraser stepped up then, offering his handkerchief. "If I may, I'm Corporal Benton Fraser of the RCMP, and as my partner says, we all appear to be in pursuit of the same miscreant."
Beecher piped up then, "What, is miscreant Canadian for bad motherfucker? Put the gun down, Chris, they're on our side."
"Yeah, you never let me shoot anyone," Chris said, holstering the gun and holding Fraser's hanky to his nose.
"That's not true. Didn't I let you shoot that biker the other day?"
"Well, yeah, but only 'cause he had you tied up and gagged. And by the way, Beech, good shooting there."
"Didn't think I had it in me, did you?"
Chris gave him a smile, a really intimate one, and said, "Yeah, I did."
Beecher shook his head and smiled back, and held out his hand to me. "I'm Tobias Beecher, and this is Det. Chris Keller, by the way."
I shook his hand, said, "Sgt. Ray Kowalski, North American Investigations Bureau."
Fraser joined in the handshaking and asked, "Would you be the Tobias Beecher who works for Stanislovsky's Bail Bonds?"
Keller made a face like he'd tasted something sour. "That'd be him all right."
Beecher gave him a look like this was an old argument he'd had enough of. "I am, yes. Why?"
Dief came charging up right then, growling at Keller, but I caught hold of him, let him know everything was good. "It's okay, buddy. He's one of the good guys. He just didn't know who I was."
Cop cars were roaring up by now, uniforms pouring into the alley -- "Keller, everything copacetic?" one of them called out.
"Yeah, Murph, we're okay here. You see Kosygin on your way over?"
"Ah, shit," Murph didn't sound happy, "so he's really back?"
"Yep."
"Dino," Murph barked at another uniform, "call that in, tell 'em to fast-track an APB." He looked at Keller. "Where's Stans?"
"If you mean Stanislovsky," I said, " he went thataway," I threw a thumb over my shoulder.
"Figures," Murph said and told Dino to also get the word out to keep an eye peeled for Stanislovsky.
"Got it," Dino said, running back down the alley, talking into his radio.
I had to admit, being in the middle of all this action was giving me a buzz, made me want to jump on in, but Fraser had other ideas, saying, "Gentlemen, perhaps we should go somewhere and talk?"
"Yes, perhaps we should," Keller said, although I got this feeling he was as ansty as me. "There's a coffee shop around the corner here." He looked at the balled up, bloody handkerchief. "And I can look at my nose."
I smiled. "Sorry about that."
"Don't worry," Beecher told him, "you're still pretty."
Keller gave him a grumpy look, told Murph where we'd be, and he and Beecher led the way, grumbling about how he hoped Beecher was happy now.
"Happy about what?" Beecher said.
"You're the one who wanted to meet the Mountie."
"I never said I wanted to meet the Mountie..."
Fraser reined in Diefenbaker and told me, "They seem like decent fellows, once they stop cursing."
Yeah, or at least no nuttier than the two of us.
...to be continued...